Katierosefun aka Caroline here! Whoo, first Elementary fic. That's a bit stressful. Anyways. Wrote this little thing as soon as 3x12 ended because I was in tears. Was anyone else crying a little? (I'm glad that Joan and Sherlock might have more interaction, though.)
Enjoy!
Love.
What was it, exactly? Sherlock Holmes certainly didn't know – or at least, he didn't understand it. He might have felt it once or twice – that he knew, though he was well aware that he couldn't grasp the concept or the complexity behind it. The only thing he did know was that it certainly hurt – and it left people either in shambles or utter bliss. Sometimes – and most of the time – both.
"I love you."
How was Sherlock supposed to decipher that? How was he supposed to respond? "I love you, too," certainly wasn't appropriate – it would cheapen the moment, something that Sherlock would loathe himself for. So he chose the next best choice – silence. Silence associated with everything that had happened, was supposed to happen, and should have happened. It wasn't, if anything, an enjoyable feeling. Rather, a feeling of loss – of discomfort – of complete grievance, which bewildered Sherlock, especially since Kitty Winters wasn't dying; she was leaving. It felt the same.
Sherlock heard Kitty take a quick breath – and he could envision her perfectly. Her eyes would be tearing – he knew that much of her – but she wouldn't actually cry out. Not ever. Although, judging by the sound of her voice, Kitty was certainly coming close to it.
"Isn't that the saddest thing?"
There was a click – the sound of the phone call ending – but Sherlock kept the phone to his ear. He was feeling heat warm considerably behind his eyes as well, finding it difficult to breathe and even more so to move. I agree with you, he thought to himself, numbly inching his thumb away from the phone.
It really is the saddest thing.
xXx
"You okay?" Sherlock heard Joan ask from behind him as he ducked into the sitting room. He started by tearing the photos off the walls – of the pictures of the clues that he and Joan had collected over the course of the last few days. Of the clues that he had gathered to keep everyone busy and out-of-focus from Kitty. "Sherlock?"
When the man didn't respond, Joan said in a softer, more patient tone, "Hey. At least give me some of the photos – I'll move them and…" Her voice drifted as Sherlock wordlessly handed a group of photographs to her. Sherlock heard a shift – one of the boxes – and Joan gently placing the pictures inside.
The two worked like that in unison – both in quiet; both in an automatic, rhythmic, even pace. A fwip of a photo being pulled roughly out of its pin and another fwap of the material being passed to Joan – a pssh of a box moving forward – a soft series of ruffling sounds as Joan searched for the proper place to put the photo. In some ways, it was calming.
In other ways, it was painful. Each photo being taken down – a reminder of what Sherlock was trying to prevent. Each push of a box – a reminder of the case being put away; of it being finally closed, and of the reason why this case had been opened in the first place. Each moment of too-loud silence – a reminder that someone else used to wander around the room, hoping to be of help. So when the entire process was done, Sherlock was almost relieved. Almost.
"I can put these away for you if you want," Joan said, firmly shutting the lids over the boxes. She looked up. "Or would you rather have them here?"
"I'll put them away myself," Sherlock replied. He straightened himself – brushed away invisible and imagined groups of dust on the table – and moved swiftly past Joan and into the kitchen. It took only a few seconds for Sherlock to get the kettle on – grab some cups – and pretend that he was interested with the patterns on the surface of the cups by the time Joan walked in.
"Is she safe?" she asked, resting her palms on the table. At Sherlock's continuing silence, Joan added, "You know as well as I do that I'm not going to do anything, Sherlock. Kitty is our friend – I wouldn't sell her out to the police, even if she was behind Gruner's incident with the acid." She hesitated. "I cared about her, too, Sherlock – we both did. I just want to know if she'll be fine."
Sherlock placed the cup back down on the counter. He turned to Joan and as softly as he could, he replied, "Let's put you into her shoes, Watson. You have committed a wrong to achieve vengeance for what someone had done to you." He lifted a hand, going on, "You have let that person go. He's still breathing, still living – only this time, he can no longer walk the earth without feeling the scorn and shame from others. You should feel rejoice from that, yes? You should be overjoyed that you have done something right – or, at the very least, feel accomplished and satisfied." Joan was quiet as Sherlock continued, "But you can't. Instead of feeling satisfied, you're frightened and numbed and in pain and you have every right to be. What can you do? You're now a suspect of wronging this person – you can't stay in this place, you can't do anything except leave. Leave the country; go accomplish something else – something good. Only that also means leaving the life – and people – who have made you…accomplish and achieve in the first place."
Sherlock dropped his hand. "How would you be feeling under such circumstances? Certainly not fine." He said, looking back at the kettle and started pouring out the tea. Not bothering to turn for Joan, Sherlock added, "Now, safe. You asked if she was safe." He placed the kettle back down and letting his arms drop to his sides, murmured, "That, I'm afraid, will be only up to the hopes of the mind. No one is ever really safe, Watson." He turned. Joan still hadn't moved from her spot. "But might she be safe? Might she be safe from the NYPD and whatever past she established with Gruner? I would say so." Sherlock finished.
He picked up the cups – put one on the space in front of Joan – and stood back. Joan took the cup and fingering the rim, said, "Good. That's all I wanted to know." She looked up at Sherlock and asked, "But are you okay? You haven't told me that so far."
"I love you."
Sherlock pressed his lips into a dry smile. "A friend of mine has just left the country and might potentially be safe, Watson," he replied. "I would think I am…stable."
"Stable isn't the same thing as being fine," Joan pointed out. "But it's awfully close," Sherlock responded.
"Isn't that the saddest thing?"
It was a while before Joan spoke again. "Listen," she said slowly. "I can move back for a few days –"
"We've already established that you have built your own life, Joan," Sherlock interrupted. "I am not your responsibility nor your –"
"Friend?" Joan challenged with an eyebrow-lift. She pushed herself back and crossing her arms, said, "Whether you like it or not, Sherlock, I'm not going to drop everything just because Kitty left." Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the woman, though at the movement, Joan continued, "Don't look at me like that. You know it as well as I do." She walked around the table and up to Sherlock until they were inches away from each other.
"A few days," Joan whispered. "That's enough." As she started to walk out of the kitchen, Sherlock called after her, "Kitty said that she might occasionally call back once in a while." Joan stopped in her tracks and turning around, asked, "Really?" Sherlock nodded his head once. "She's using the skills that I – we – have taught her to shape something greater. I believe…" He blinked, ignoring the overwhelming pang of reminiscence slapping at his chest. Sherlock regained himself the best he could – and forcing on another brief smile, added, "I believe she will make good work – but it seems that once in a while, she will…alert me if she ever needs assistance."
"Wow," Joan said softly. "That's good. It seems that she's –"
"Going to establish a life around herself? I agree," Sherlock responded.
Joan smiled – a small one. "Then I'll leave you to it," she murmured. "I'm going to go grab some things at my apartment – I'll be back."
Sherlock bobbed his head again. "Fine."
xXx
Joan did return a few minutes later. Carrying only a bag, – which she later explained only contained some clothes and bathroom necessities and her laptop – she walked in and started to head up the stairs when Sherlock stopped her. "Joan," he called, standing at the bottom of the steps.
With some difficulty, the woman shifted backwards. "Yes?"
Sherlock made a halfhearted gesture towards Joan – towards his friend. "Thank you," he said. "For this."
Joan's face softened. She re-shouldered her bag and with a beam, responded, "Welcome."
A/N - I'm sorry if Sherlock and Joan were OOC - I'm trying to get used to writing their characters.
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