Wow another fic punched out in less than a month? Does it seem too good to be true? That's because it is! No joke I began writing this story in February and it sat abandoned in my "I don't know what the fuck I'm doing with this" folder for two months before I finally dusted it off and decided to finish it. This is the super-fucking-long-one-shot I alluded to in descriptions of other stories so enjoy this heavy dose of joanlock!
For the fourth time that day Watson's incessant ringtone echoes through the Brownstone. Sherlock begins counting as the thirty seconds go by of I Want It That Way. He wonders partially if he's done something as of recent to receive this as a punishment. When the last note ceases he pushes himself up from the carefully disassembled "Operation" game to source out the woman behind the phone.
Watson, much like he suspected, remains seated at the dining room table where he left her. Her glasses are perched on her nose and she's reading up on the newest Schalge deadbolt for their lock picking challenge this weekend. He'd left her there after making coffee. He sees her mug next to her hand half empty and her phone next to the other. So she is purposefully ignoring her phone.
"Did I do something wrong to evoke this torture from you?" He asks, half jokingly. It'd hardly interrupted his own process, rather Everyone seemed almost entertained by the song, sending the next lyrics in the chat as they watched him dismantle the game as their latest "payment". The song was grating, however, as he picked apart the small pieces.
"Torture?" She pushes her glasses to the tip of her nose as she looks up at him confused.
"Your ringer. That is the fourth time that it has gone off and it is only 9:32 a.m." He bounces on his toes with a frown. "Now are you going to tell me what I did wrong or must I deduce?"
"Nothing." She says curtly.
"Nothing." He repeats, shocked. Already he begins forming retaliations in his head for how to get back at her for this. Perhaps some good natured competition in this annoyance brigade was necessary.
"I'm not ignoring my phone because of you. It's a scam caller. They started yesterday and this is the fifth time they called me."
He frowns, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion. "When you were out with Emily I presume?" He doesn't bring up the fact that he's modified both of their phones to send scam callers into loops of tiresome questioning. Nor does he bring up the fact that since the Michael Rowan case they both always answer their phone, no matter who is on the other end.
"Yeah. That's when they started." He scans her face searching for any signs of mirth. He found none, in fact, she looked rather annoyed herself. It was fitting with her story and he'd be inclined to believe her if it weren't for the two points he still didn't mention. Still, he drops the matter. For now that is.
He takes the coffee pot refilling his cup and hers as he passes. She barely acknowledges him with a nod when her phone starts ringing again. He gets the chance to watch her expression in the act and in all truth she still looks annoyed. At least, she did until she checks the screen.
She answers it quickly, the expression disappearing with a look of professionalism taking over. "Hey Captain," She puts the phone on speaker so that Sherlock can hear him too as he relays details of the case.
"We've got a case. Five bodies with no IDs or cell phones on any of them, all found in an abandoned truck."
"All five?" She asks. "How'd they die?"
"Initial guess looks like asphyxiation but you and your partner better get here and check this out yourselves." He nods to Watson pulling out their thermoses instead to pour their coffee into on the go. "I'll text you the location."
"Thanks Captain. We'll be there as soon as we can." She pushes herself to a stance, their earlier conversation already forgotten. "I'll call a cab, you gather our stuff?"
He nods once again. Yet the events of the morning still plague his mind. Hopefully he can get some answers soon enough.
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Police tape greets their sights as they step up to the scene, employees crowd around the outside dismissed from their services for the day while the crime is investigated. He guides Watson underneath the tape nodding to Gregson as he passes. They round the back of the truck together, eyes landing on the bodies strewn in the back of the shipping truck.
He pulls on his glove hoisting himself into the truck first, then turning and offering his hand to Watson. As far as he could tell, she was unaffected by their conversation this morning. No signs of uneasiness or discomfort. It was as if she'd forgotten it entirely. Well he wouldn't let it go so easily, no, he's biding his time for the perfect moment to bring it up again. For now the case must take precedence.
Just as described on the phone, five bodies lay across one another. All women, appearing around the same age, no superficial wounds. Other than the disarray likely caused by the distress, they appeared to be dressed up for a night out. However, judging by the mascara streaks down the cheeks of the women it appeared they were aware of their impending fate.
"They died in here." Watson announces before he could deduce it. His head turns to where she is kneeling beside the wall of the truck. Carefully she pushes away one of the bodies to reveal a device secured to the wall. "This contained a toxin that was activated by the killer and," She gestures to the bodies with a frown. "They died shortly after exposure due to the confined space."
"Carbon monoxide?" He asks more for confirmation than curiosity.
"I'd say so. There is a blue tinge on her lips and I'd guess once we get the bodies in good lighting we'll see redness from pockets of the carbon trapped under the skin." He leads them out hopping down with a slight nod before turning to help Watson down as well.
"No ID on any of the women. No cell phones or wallets. My guess is if we check the truck the only fingerprints we'll find are theirs." Marcus reports tiredly. For a moment Sherlock wonders how long the detective had been on sight before they showed up.
"Any APBs fitting the description?"
"Not yet but someone has to know them. Hopefully something turns up soon."
"We can get Mason to run a facial recognition software, see if we can pick up any matches for the women." He nods in agreement with his partner already whipping out his phone to text the teenager.
"He'll be at the Brownstone once he gets out of class. Is there anything else worth noting Detective?"
"Not that I can see. Whoever put these ladies here, they wanted it to be difficult to figure this thing out."
"Ready Watson?" He turns to his partner who's staring into the crowd of people with an odd look on her face. "Watson?"
"Hm?" Her eyes snap back to him betraying that she hadn't been listening to the conversation in a while. His own eyes narrow at her for a brief second. "Yeah, yeah I'm ready."
"Well come along then. We can fetch sustenance on the way back to the Brownstone. We'll call you if we get any leads Bell." He nods to the detective before leading Watson away with a hand on her back.
"So where are we eating?" He looks at her perplexed; how could she maintain a semblance of normalcy after all of her strange behavior today? Between the phone call and being distracted at an active crime scene. He wonders if he should wait for the third strike or break the barrier now and ask what on earth is going on. "Gina's it is."
"Joan! Wait up!" Watson halts dead in her tracks. With his fingers splayed across her back he can practically see her posture go rigid even through her heavy coat. Her face only betrays her feelings for a second, a mixture of emotions flashing across her features: defensive, confused, apprehensive. His jaw clenches as he turns toward the shouter. By the time Watson turns as well her mask has slid on, politeness servith well. Yet he himself fails to mask his immediate disdain for the man.
The man is dressed in a suit and tie, only a light unzipped fleece coat protecting him from the New York chill. His pale cheeks are flush, likely from the run to catch up with the two of them. He almost wishes the man would slip on a patch of ice… almost. "Mark." Her voice has the breathy politedness that he's only heard when they don't want a killer to know he's been caught.
"Hey, I didn't know if it was you or not." He combs a hand through his mess of curls. "Where are you headed?"
"Home, actually." Sherlock is semi-unnerved by the fact that the man doesn't even seem to register his presence, not even a mere flick of the eyes to potentially size up his competition. No rather he questions if he's a spectre in this conversation with nothing to do but watch. "We've got work to do." Watson nudges him, so not a spectre after all.
"You're a detective right?" Still not even a passing glance from the man. He'd be offended if he gave a damn about this man.
"Yeah." Watson's lips move as if trying to form a sentence. She holds herself back though, an awkward silence falling over the three of them.
"Hey, uh." The man, Mark, shifts his weight from one foot to the other. "You didn't happen to get my calls did you?"
"Yeah, sorry." Sherlock's head snaps to Watson. So the mystery unravels. "We were working this case all morning. It's classified and all."
"Well can I call you later?" His tone is pitiful. The damn man is pleading for attention from a woman that very obviously doesn't want to give it.
"I can't make any promises, I'm sorry." She gives her best apologetic smile. "But I promise once we get out of the thick of it I'll call you and we can catch up okay?" Sherlock tenses when he sees the man reach up his arms for a hug. Immediately Sherlock snatches Watson with a huff.
"Come Watson we've wasted enough time." With that he tugs her away making her match his brisk pace away from the creep. His blood boils beneath his skin and food is all but forgotten in those moments.
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At their pace they make it back to the Brownstone relatively quick. Watson must have had the hindsight to order food despite the disturbing encounter because Mason is standing at their doorway with two hands full of takeout.
"I would've let myself in but it was locked."
"Do you often leave your home open to any stranger privy to stroll inside?" He asks the teenager as he unlocks the door and leads the three of them inside. In a routine fashion the three of them strip themselves of their winter garb hanging them on respective hooks before differing right to business.
"Alright so I began running face recognition as soon as I got the pictures you sent me." The teenager stops on Watson's disapproving look, "It's not like I need a computer science class. I've already finished the work for the entire semester." He scoffs. "Anyways, I picked up a hit for four out of the five girls." He pulls up photos matching the ones of the Jane Does Sherlock had taken at the crime scene. "Meet Laurel Ambrose, Scarlett Ness, Marianna Dunbury, and Amy Shepherd."
"Good work. Any idea where they each were last spotted?" Watson asks and the boy beams at the praise.
"Actually even better. They were all together." Mason pulls up video footage of the women all walking out of a liquor store wearing the same outfits that they were when they were found. However, the purses the women were carrying were distinctly absent.
As the girls pile into the car and drive out of view of the street cam, the video abruptly ends. No sign of anyone watching the women or even any sort of fear from them. "That's it?" The question comes from his partner before he can utter it himself.
"That's where it gets weird. After that there's no trace of the car they were in or even them getting out of it. All the cameras were wiped."
"Someone was already tracking them."
"But where's the fifth girl?"
"I got no video hits for her but I did get her social media. Evangeline Harper, the last CCTV footage of her anywhere was three days ago."
"So it's safe to assume Evangeline was the target." He nods in agreement looking over Mason's shoulder at the images displayed on his screen. The previous women occupied a majority of the photos that weren't gratuitous selfies. However, there is a sixth woman that reappears in the photos.
"Who's that?"
Typing fills the room, "Caroline Romo." More typing, "Evangeline's roommate."
"Perfect." Sherlock types a quick message to the Captain alerting him of the names of the victims as well as their first potential suspect in the murder of the girls. "Thank you Mason I believe that's all we need."
"Dope." Mason gathers his things before turning back to them. "I'll go call a cab."
"Do you mind taking it into the kitchen I have something I wish to speak with Watson about inprivate." Out of the corner of his eye he sees her tense. She had to have known she was not going to escape questioning. Especially not after the encounter they had earlier. They sit in a stalemate silence with his eyebrow raised at her detailing his every query.
"I met Mark when I was in medical school. We had a few classes together but it wasn't anything more than that."
"It didn't seem like nothing more than that." Even he's taken aback by the seriousness in his own tone. Possessiveness wasn't something they did. They were partners, nothing more. Before he can apologize she continues brushing off the odd interjection.
"That's what I thought. But last night when Emily and I went to the bar I ran into him again. He was way too drunk and kept on insisting to Emily how flirtatious we were 'back in the day'." She frowns, "It wasn't ever like that."
"I believe you." Again he's startled by how much he means those words.
"Emily left us alone and he was very insistent about getting my number. I gave him a variant. One number off so they can't sense the lie," He nods at the trick he taught her shifting his feet. "But then he called it right in front of me. He didn't let me leave until I'd given him my number. I just thought he was drunk but-"
"Hey," Mason calls out cutting off the tense moment between the two of them. "My ride's here. I'll see you guys later?" They wave awkwardly to the teen and by the time the front door is closed Watson's wall of imperviousness is back up once more. Any questions will be met with impasse. He'll have to wait for another time to seek more answers from her.
For now he submits, grabbing his food from the takeout bag and taking a seat on his armchair. He allows a moment of gratefulness to pass between the two of them. It's silent but she accepts it all the same. She didn't need to be truthful about this Mark. Nonetheless he allows his mind to be preoccupied with the case in hand, her encounter with the man lingering like a pest in the back of his mind threatening to break his focus.
She takes her place beside him pulling out her laptop to print out better pictures of the women prior to their deaths.
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The call from Gregson doesn't come in until late that night. Their "wall of crazy" is already assembled above the mantel, photos of ex-boyfriends and their first suspect taking center stage. Watson, other than helping with the case, has been elusive all night. She never let him peek behind her curtains again after their discussion earlier. He's thankful when the cell phone ringing breaks the heavy atmosphere.
"You've got Watson and I," Sherlock announces as he answers placing the phone on speaker in between the two of them.
"No sign of Caroline Romo. Bell checked out the apartment earlier but there was no sign of a hasty exit."
"Could she be staying with a friend?"
"It's possible but from what we found on their accounts the six girls were each other's main confidants. Other family lives hours away or in Romo's case, in Iowa." Sherlock explains.
"We're bringing in the workers from the sight tomorrow for questioning but it's not likely any of them saw something."
"None of them have a connection to the girls, we already checked." She leans back against the couch tucking her bare feet underneath her.
"Regardless I want you two to be here for the questionings. Maybe you can pick up on something we didn't earlier."
"Has the news of the girls hit the broadcast yet?"
"Almost as soon as the family was notified." Gregson's voice sounds strained. "The phones have been ringing nonstop with more questions than answers."
"Anything noteworthy?"
"Not yet but you two will be the first to know if there is." The line goes dead sending an echoing silence through the room once more. A missing lead suspect and five dead women are on the line. There's no time to muck things up with personal agendas and complications.
Yet his mind can't help but linger on the odd interactions. Watson's behavior has certainly come into question but he can't help but address his own issues with the matter as well. He's become possessive in a sense when it comes to her. Flames laced through his veins when that man attempted to approach her, his desire to get her as far away from this man as physically possible, his uncertainty around her that he's never held before. He imagines this must be what insanity feels like.
The pressure inside his skull feels full to bursting when a repeated sharp knocks call their attention. He shares a startled look with his partner before rushing to the door. Nobody knocks in such a manner if not an emergency, yet they should have received a call if that were the case.
He swings open the door coming face to face with a teary eyed young man. He doesn't appear older than sixteen and due to muscular nature, a rather unnatural sight in the American mindset for such a boy to be crying. Wordlessly, he steps aside; an open invitation to enter their home. He takes it with a grateful sob and Sherlock locks the door behind him. Watson perches in the doorway, understandably cautious but concern etches across her features as well being a natural caretaker.
The boy leans against the bannister taking in heaving breaths. There's reasonable certainty that he ran all the way here. He's got his phone out in the hand that's not still holding the doorknob ready to text Gregson.
The remain like that for a solid few seconds while the boy catches his breath. He wipes his tears muttering an explanation that neither of them can make out through hiccups and sobs.
"Stop." Watson commands pulling the boys attention to her. "Are you hurt?" He shakes his head. "Did someone follow you?" He looks unsure but shakes his head again. "Come on. Let's go to the living room, Sherlock get him some water." He does as she says making sure to listen in from across the Brownstone. "What's your name?" He hears her ask in a gentle tone.
"James Mitchell."
"Okay James," She pauses taking the water from Sherlock and handing it to the boy. She settles back on her heels kneeling in front of his spot on the couch. A subconscious effort, if she makes herself look smaller she can make him feel as if he has control of the conversation. "Why are you here?"
"I know those girls, the ones on the news."
"James," Watson sighs. It's not explanatory on how he knew to come here or why. "It's okay to be in mourning. Do you need me to call family, your parents?"
"No." Sherlock tenses at the sudden aggression. He sees her nostrils flare for a brief second before a more impassive look settles over her face. Gone is the warm sympathy, replaced by the cold detective. "I'm sorry. No, that's not what I meant. I saw the girls last night."
Now this peaks his interest, he takes his spot in his chair leaning forwards in interest. "The last anyone saw the girls was Friday in class."
"I know," He sighs rubbing his eyes. "I heard the reports and I know it sounds bad but I did." He shakes his head as tears gather in his eyes once again. "Look," A deep breath "You two helped my grandma. It was a while ago but I don't forget faces. I didn't forget their faces either so will you please hear me out?"
"We need to get you to the police station so we can make an official report."
"No! There's not enough time!"
"Why?"
"He's going to tear everything down. Everything that's there will be gone. They said it was closed for maintenance. Please you have to believe me."
"James," Watson commands the attention in the room once more shifting to sit beside the boy. "I believe you. But I need you to calm down and explain what happened."
James nods taking a deep breath. "A couple weeks ago I posted on Twitter asking if anyone knew any job opportunities cause I'm looking to buy a car." Sherlock rolls his eyes but listens nonetheless. "This guy DMs me and tells me he'll pay me $500 to work just a weekend shift for him. I thought it was pretty shady so I met with him a few times and he seemed super chill." The kid adjusts facing Watson more now, likely uncomfortable by his rigid posture in his direct vision. "His nephew was out of town and he normally worked the desk at this escape room place. So he showed me the ropes and told me to call him when the hour is up. These girls come in Saturday night, all six of them."
"Six?" Watson stops him midway sharing a look with him. "There were only five victims on the news."
"That's why I came here. Six girls came in and before the hour was up the dude dismisses me. He says he'll take care of it 'cause they're family friends. The one girl, her" He points to the photo of Romo hanging on the wall "they were celebrating her birthday. She had a tiara and all. I saw the news after class and-" He takes a hiccuping breath again. "I know it had to be him."
Watson rubs a hand across the boy's back nodding to Sherlock to dial Bell. "We're going to call our friend he's a detective. Once he gets here can you take us to where you worked?" He nods sniffling and she wordlessly passes him a tissue waiting until he calms himself again. Sherlock is struck by the gentleness of her touch, her hand barely placed on the boy's back but still offering the comfort of its presence.
While he loathes the lack of opportunity to discuss Watson's personal issues, he can recognize when she is needed. He still sees her own inner conflict waging a war behind her eyes. The distant look she gets when one discusses how her mother is doing or bringing up Andrew. She's disconnected but offering comfort to another, it's remarkable.
He only wishes it weren't at her own expense.
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Rolling up on the building housing the escape room, Sherlock notes hardly anything out of the ordinary. Watson sits in the back softly discussing normal day to day life with the boy in the back. From what he could catch of the conversation the boy, James, plays baseball. A large majority of the conversation made up discussions of the sport as Watson is an avid fan herself. It helps him to relax as they get closer to the location. Other than that it was small bits of facts like age, his school, and college options.
Marcus parks the car turning the ignition off. "I'll clear the building. You guys wait here until I give the all clear." He shares a glance with Watson who appears exhausted. The days events drained her rather quickly from her encounter with Mark to comforting James. He doubts once they clear this building he'll have her for much longer before she falls asleep. Any discussions of crime or otherwise will have to wait until tomorrow.
Three flashes indicates that it's safe for them to get out of the car. He opens the door for Watson helping her gain footing on the slick ground. James leads the way in front of him and he offers his partner his arm. It's clearly for safety purposes as her footwear isn't appropriate for the inclement conditions that had settled over since night fell. Her hands burn holes through his coat and he finds himself questioning why the closeness made his heart quicken.
He has to push it to the back of his mind for now. They need to focus on the matter at hand.
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Sherlock can't help but feel disdain in the small room. Escape rooms are meant to give the average man a peek into what it is like to be in danger. Locked in a place with no access to the internet, no service, and only an hour or so to escape. It would be a novel concept if all the bloody places weren't so painfully straightforward. Within the first fifteen minutes they'd already discovered the "secret room" behind a bookcase.
He eyes her as she flips through textbooks searching for their next clue. They opted to actually participate in the activity to mimic the actions of the girls rather than to simply pick all of the locks. Still he can't help but feel a pull to ask her questions whilst in their seclusion.
"Is he dangerous?"
"Are you serious? The man killed five women of course he's-" Realization flashes over her face accompanied by a roll of her eyes. "You're talking about Mark." He simply tilts his head in confirmation. "No. He's not dangerous."
"How do you know?"
"We're really doing this right now." She scoffs slamming the book in her hands down on the table. He's almost certain it could be heard in another room. "He was a mathlete. Pales in comparison to this guy which, by the way, should be our focus."
"You saw him at the crime scene didn't you? There was no record of a Mark Zeig working in the area."
"He was on his way to work. Pedestrians get curious when they see police tape."
"He works at a tech company on the other side of town." Watson flashes him a look of disbelief as his fingers find a wayward cord and tugging on it. In the blink of an eye a painting by Watson bottoms out to reveal an open doorway leading to the outside. Her eyes flash to him before inspecting the exit. "Tire tracks. This must have been where he lured the girls into the truck."
"It would've taken an accomplice to assure the women were all in the truck and to drive them away. Perhaps we should be questioning Mr. Zeig."
Joan chuckles for a second before she turns to him. "You're not kidding."
"The circumstances of his appearances are suspicious. He appears at the crime scene and has called you numerous times. Surely your detective instincts are buzzing."
"You know what? You're right. I think there is an accomplice. Maybe we're looking in the wrong direction. Maybe we should be questioning Marcus or maybe even Mrs. Hudson." He rolls his eyes at her outburst.
"Watson."
"I told you Mark isn't dangerous."
"You're letting your preconceptions blind you to the oddities Watson. It's unprofessional."
"Unprof-" She scoffs in disbelief stepping away before she could do something stupid like throw a book at him. "I don't know what's going on with you right now but I can't deal with it. I am going to go investigate your alibi theory at home. You and Marcus go to Francis Reynolds, who was the lead architect of this trap mind you, and question him.
"Watson." He calls after her but the door is already slamming shut in his face. A voice in the back of his mind scolds him for his own jumping to conclusions. Despite the logical side of his brain yelling about alibis and lack of motive he'd accused anyways. He'd let careless feelings cloud his judgement much like he'd accused Watson of.
Perhaps this warrants a visit to her favorite bakery after the first round of questioning. He huffs and sets out to deliver the news to Detective Bell.
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Watson lets out an aggravated sigh sifting through the papers on her desk. Sending Sherlock off to question Francis Reynolds on his own was petty, perhaps, but she couldn't take any more of his questions. She gets he's concerned but the way he looks at her, like he's the one thing he can't bare to lose. God, she can't think like this.
She pushes the file too roughly and it spreads across the floor dramatically. A heaving sigh escapes her chest as she kneels to pick them up. It took her forty five minutes to organize her thoughts and it all goes to hell because of this.
As if comedic irony wasn't fine enough her phone begins chiming just as she drops to her knees. Barely a glance tells her that it's Mark calling… again. The bad part of her wants to hit the deny right away, the worse part wants her to pick the phone up and give him a piece of her mind. Why men can't just take no for an answer, she'll never understand. So she waits, frozen in time until the ringer ends sending the receiver into voicemail.
"I knew it." She jumps at the voice smacking her head against the corner of her table. She spins on the floor finding herself staring up at Mark, memories of standing in this same place with Michael lingering above her nail her to the floor. "You've been ignoring my calls."
"I haven't."
"Don't lie to me!" He shouts causing her to snap her jaw shut. Determination settles in her bones as she reaches for anything she could defend herself with. "You can't stop lying can you?"
"Mark."
"You lied to him about me, about us!" She stands slowly making sure he doesn't charge at her. "Why did you lie?" His voice breaks at the end. Her eyes search his for any threat he may be to her.
"How did you get in here?"
"You left your door unlocked. I knocked a few times but when you didn't answer I got worried."
"Maybe I wasn't home." She frowns.
"I knew you were home." A sickly smile spread across his face. "I know everything about you Joanie." He offers her a hand, dark eyes settling over her oblivious to her pounding heart. She swallows heavily placing her hand in his. He pulls her closer sending ice traveling through her veins. She takes a controlled breath as he places his forehead against hers. She shuts her eyes tightly as a rebel tear escapes sliding down her cheek. She just needs to keep him distracted a little longer. Before her fingers can reach her singlestick on the desk behind him he presses his lips against his.
The instinct to fight grips her lungs and she bites down hard on his lower lip. He yanks away with a pained yelp, fingers moving to where his lip was now bleeding. She could taste his blood on her tongue and still feel his hand in hers. While he's still shocked she makes a break for the weapon barely getting it into her hand before his arms wrap around her from behind.
She's only airborne for a second before her body comes crashing to the hardwood floors. She holds onto her single stick as tightly as she can allowing her body to follow the movement to minimize the damage done. "Why won't you just listen to me?" The chair comes crashing down right beside her as he pushes it over in his rage. "It's because of him isn't it!" He barks getting low in her face as she regathers herself. "He's blinded you to this! To us!" She doesn't have time to register the pain in her wrist as she picks herself up again, however one swift kick to her shoulder sends her back to the ground. "He won't be a problem for long. Then you'll be able to see."
She waits until he's turned to go on her attack. She strikes the side of his neck first, temporarily disabling him. Then she goes for his knee knocking him down below her height. With all of the energy left in her body she delivers a final blow to his temple and he falls to the ground unconscious.
She shuffles over to her phone fingers hovering over the dial button, eyes never leaving the still figure of Mark crumpled on her floor. With her heartbeat thumping in her ears all she can hear is Sherlock's voice.
"Is he dangerous?"
She was so sure he wasn't. The Mark she knew… The Mark she knew was a little strange but he was always kind. She thought he couldn't hurt a fly. God, she couldn't have been more wrong about him. She swallows the fear that was still lingering dialing the first number she could think of. It rings three times before a friendly voice answers her.
"Sherlock."
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His heart pounds in his ears louder than the sirens. A mix of police and paramedics assault his senses but he can't focus farther than the pounding in his ears. He shouldn't have left her alone. It was a mistake. He knew there was something she wasn't telling him. He could feel it but he let her push him away.
The car is barely stopped before he's bolting through the street. A paramedic is walking backwards out of his door. A stretcher, his mind connects, she's pulling a stretcher. His world comes to a screeching halt. He can't hear anything, not even his own heart. Bile tugs at the back of his throat and his breath escapes him.
A little more and he can see the large shoe, a little more and he can make out an elongated figure on the bed, a little more and he notices short dark hair. Slowly the sounds come back as Marcus tugs on his arm directing him to one of the ambulances. His eyes catch her, red and blue lights shining on her pale complexion. Her arm is held against her body by a sling, delicate fingers wrapped in gauze but other than that she looks okay.
Good god, she's okay.
Long steps brings him to her and he almost stops again when dark eyes recognize his figure. He has no time for his own reservations or the fact that they're in public as he wraps her tightly in his arms. Her bound one presses between them but he's careful to keep it from hurting. Her other clings to his shoulder, nails digging into the material as they breathe each other in.
Any thoughts of scolding her for her incorrect observations slip his mind. For now all he does is sob into her shoulder as he slowly familiarizes himself with the signs that she's, indeed, alive and in his arms once again.
"Sherlock." She breathes against his skin. On their own volition his fingers comb through her hair letting the raven locks slip through. They brush her pulse feeling her heart strong against his fingertips. "I lost my shoe." She chuckles and as he pulls away he can see that she truly is standing on the street balanced on one heel. His laughter rumbles deep from his chest surprising even himself.
His world slowly expands beyond Watson and he reluctantly parts from her.
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Long after the last sirens pass from their home he guides her gently back into their home. He got the rundown of her injuries from the paramedic, much to her annoyance, so that he may take care of her. She had a separated shoulder and a suspected wrist fracture but other than that all bumps and bruises. She'll complain of being sore in the morning and try to resist going to the hospital. For now, however, he abides by her wishes for a quiet night in.
She brushes her teeth first washing the blood she says wasn't hers from her mouth. He fixes them both tea as his mind wracks with what would have happened hadn't he left her. The back window had been shattered, likely the point of entry. How Watson hadn't heard it was a topic he'd pull apart another day. For now he wants only to take his designated seat by her bedside and listen to her even breaths as she sleeps. Any work, especially interrogating Francis Reynolds, may wait until tomorrow. Caroline Romo is safe in her home. Watson is safe in their home.
"Sherlock?" Watson's voice calls to him. He is overwhelmed by the urge to feel her close to him all over again. Assuring that she is alive, that she is not a hallucination made of unfathomable grief. He switches the boiler off turning to her.
She's changed from her clothes she wore to the escape room. From her blood stained blouse and dress pants torn by being thrown on the ground like she were merely paper. Wrapped in her red cardigan and shorts, feet bare on the floor he's taken by how small she truly is. In her good hand is the wrap for her wrist, briefly he realizes she has showered as well. Not long, just long enough to get the events washed away. He didn't even hear the water running. Her hair isn't even damp.
Wordlessly he comes to her, taking the wrap from her fingers. They settle in chairs opposite of each other saying nothing as he gently rewraps her wrist. She doesn't mention how his fingers linger on her pulse, nor does he when her fingers reach for his brushing with each pass. Right now they need each other, without question or judgement.
He helps her back into the sling, though he's almost certain she doesn't need the assistance. He simply wants to know she's here, with him, for a few seconds longer. An apology lingers on his tongue, for how they'd parted earlier. How those words could've been his last to her. His head tips forwards in shame. She moves next, slowly, as if afraid one wrong move would spook him like a deer. Her head bows, forehead coming to rest against his. Her good hand reaches for his, calloused fingers brushing his skin. Both of their eyes intensely watch the movement. A tendril of loose hair slips from it's binding brushing against his cheek. His hand hovers for a second, unsure, before he tucks it behind her ear again. Her eyes flicker up to his, dark irises searching his face. A sigh leaves her lips as his fingers touch her cheek, a shaky breath that fans across his face.
He pulls her to him, their lips barely touching. Hers are softer than he could've imagined. He's struck by how right this feels, her hand sliding up his arm holding him to her. It's her that deepens the kiss drawing him in. Once again he feels the once sharp edges of the world growing fuzzy. Sounds fade except for their quick breaths stealing air when they can. His fingers sweep through her damp hair and cup the edge of her jaw. She pulls from him first, he's terrified to open his eyes. They had promised not to cross that line long ago but he's almost lost her one too many times. He needed to know.
Her fingers skim his temple, tracing from his nose, his cheekbone, his chin. "Sherlock," His name is barely a whisper. "Look at me." Her voice is gentle, pleading almost. His eyes meet hers but he doesn't see rejection or shame. Her thumb swipes across his stubble, a smile playing at her lips. "It's okay. We're okay."
He nods jerkily still reeling from the kiss. Reeling from how much he wants, no needs, to kiss her again. The line had been crossed and there's no looking back. As if able to read his mind her lips touch his again, a whisper of the previous kiss.
"We're okay." This time he can feel the vibration of her words shaking him to his core. His fingers brush the bruising on her cheek with a sad sigh. He hates that this home has become tarnished to her once again. Time and time again her safety had been at risk in their own home.
"We're okay." He repeats back to her.
They have to be.