NOTES: Of course I do not own Sherlock Holmes, and stand in marvel at the creation of all the Artists that have made the BBC Sherlock so wondrous, compelling, and downright addictive. All credit to them, and to Sir Authur Conan Doyle to begin with. They have conceived in me an undeniable need to write-fancifully and pleasingly, I can only pray.
The idea for this piece came about from having lots of little bits & pieces of prose, written on whim or in the dead of night when sleep eludes me. I've stored them away, wondering if the opportunity might ever come to incorporate them into the larger narrative I've been telling. Honestly, they are like children to me, and who wants to keep a child forever in the dark? I know it's also vanity that makes me publish them now, and I will beg pardon of you, Kind Reader, for that's a character trait I have not yet been able to escape. Take them as you will, with patience I beg, as in this I shall attempt to show the unspoken thoughts and feelings of two people falling in love.
Ultimately, its a Love Story, pure & simple. Because I truly believe that only a gentle, kindly, hopeful Soul would have the patience to plumb the depths of Sherlock's lonely, beautiful heart. That it would have to be Someone unafraid of both living fully in the moment & of embracing their emotions—joys & sorrows alike—that could teach him it is okay to express the things he'd locked away. I know there's only a wee corner of the fandom that can allow for such a way of thinking, but it's the only story I know how to tell right now.
Matters of Perspective
We all have thoughts we fear revealing to the ones we love. Sometimes we worry that expressing the depth of our feelings might frighten our beloved, and even drive them away. Tessa DeMauro lived in that shadow for a time—until her natural inclinations made clear what she was hesitant to speak aloud.
Sometimes we believe even acknowledging such feelings to ourselves (let alone to the one we find—to our great surprise—we love) would make us appear weak, vulnerable and merely ordinary. Such was the way of it for Sherlock Holmes, a man completely unaccustomed to feeling love, let alone allowing himself to be the object of someone's keenest affections.
Sherlock POV
(late May)
"People say there's no such thing as coincidence. What dull lives they must lead." -Sherlock Holmes
Like his brother Mycroft, Sherlock believed—no, he knew—that the Universe provided little opportunity for coincidence. It was in his preteen years that he realized his own unique gifts allowed him to discern the patterns within patterns all around him, and the rich, astounding symmetry that played out across the physical world. Or course, that particular gift came with a steep price—a well-disciplined mind, coolness of thought in observation, detachment from the unpredictability of emotions—but he had chosen early on to pay that price, eager to sacrifice "normalcy" for the chance to go through life as extraordinary.
True, there had been times in his life, when regret nagged at him. Regret for the things he'd missed out on, regret that he was continually the outsider, and occasionally, regret of his almost constant solitude. Thankfully, that regret only came in his darkest hours, when his mind was left to wander without the incessant stimulus he craved; those were the times that had led to the addiction that lived beneath his flesh, ready to assert itself if he found himself in an emotionally compromised state. That escape, though, was no longer as necessary as it once had been. A man—a good, decent, honorable man—had seen past the many flaws that Sherlock's necessary detachment created in him. Not only seen past, but understood that they were part and parcel of what made him so brilliant, and enabled him to do good in the world, even when his motivation was far from altruistic. John Watson had befriended him, he who once had no friends, only acquaintances and adversaries. For that grace, Sherlock was forever grateful—to John, and to the Universe itself.
But why this avenue of thought, at this particular time? Why was he pondering the question of coincidence? Because a lifetime of believing in the rarity of coincidence advised him now that he was where he was meant to be, the corollary then being: Tessa was meant to be part of his life. It was a stunning thought, especially when he considered the path it took to get him here, to this moment in time when she lay sleeping at his side, sated from their lovemaking. He never could have envisioned this, never even dreamed he'd want this. Yet here he was, and happy was too inadequate a word to describe how he felt.
His mind scrolled through the events of the past several weeks. How unlikely it was that they had even met, for if John had booked the tickets to Twelfth Night for even the day before or after, she would have been part of the Ensemble, unnoticed in the background, rather than fulfilling her role as understudy to the lead. Sherlock would not have vaguely recognized her from a boring afternoon spent shopping with John, nor would John (reading her biography in the programme) have realized he knew Tessa from some years back, when he had met her through a friend. Such an unlikely series of events that caused them to actually meet—Sherlock could not believe was mere coincidence. And that a woman of such patience (enduring patience, he reminded himself) and a kind and loving heart could look upon him with such favor—it boggled the mind to think it might not have happened at all, but for Mrs. Hudson's birthday falling on the calendar when it did. Indeed, he felt he had the Universe to thank for his great fortune.
Sherlock knew, that in her way, Tessa would agree. She'd likely call it Fate, or an answer to some prayer or other she might have muttered in her own loneliness. He knew she believed in a Higher Power; she called herself a lapsed Catholic, yet at times still wore a tiny cross of gold about her neck. But she had educated herself in philosophy and world religions, and her eclectic belief system was well-grounded, even if he couldn't entirely agree with her findings. She believed in the gentle hand of a loving Creator, and maintained that when she trusted such, the things she needed most were provided for. He found her honest faith refreshing and quite dear.
And so she had led him forward, a little at a time. In the beginning, he had told himself it was curiosity alone that spurred him to meet with her for dinner, or drinks, or visits to museums or parks. Intellectual stimulation and observing a new (and very feminine) perspective, so opposite his own. Along the way, though, as she made no attempt to conceal how she cared for him, it was her kindness and softness that he looked forward to, and finally her charming kisses had disarmed him enough to make him miss her when they were apart. Looking back, it seemed to him he hadn't so much as made the choices that got him here, as he had allowed a compelling new pattern to assert itself in his life.
Tessa, still slumbering, moved onto her back. The light of early dawn was coming through the window blinds, and illuminated the room enough to allow Sherlock to study her face in quiet repose. He found himself focusing on a smattering of freckles that ran across the bridge of her nose, fanning out upon her skin as though an artist had stippled it with the lightest touches of a brush. Sherlock had noted them before, a pleasant sort of constellation, that was easily covered with the makeup Tessa favored for everyday wear (so much lighter than that which she wore onstage), but he'd failed to notice before now how sweetly they complimented her fair complexion. Wrapped as Tessa was in quiet, satisfied sleep, he was realizing the small details of her face and form made for a dearer inventory than he ever would have expected.
This was a woolgathering of sorts that Sherlock did not normally engage in, but in light of their intimacy, left him marveling, seeing her casual beauty with eyes unfiltered by his usual detachment. It was both dizzying and divine and it made him a bit greedy for her to open her eyes and see he wanted her again. He reminded himself that patience was a virtue he should practice for Tessa's sake, and so laid his head next to hers upon the pillow, closing his eyes, relishing the thought of the hours and hours ahead that lay in store for them.
His last conscious thought before he fell to sleep—she was lovely, yes indeed, by any standard, but he had never placed much stock in physical appearances; so when he called her beautiful it was as much for her gentle spirit, the things she taught him (and was teaching still), and the way she made him feel. In short, she made him feel loved, a gift he might have gone a lifetime without experiencing otherwise. And if that turned out to be the result of "coincidence", he wished never to live in a world where coincidence didn't rule the day.
Tessa POV
(early June)
Tessa DeMauro was deeply, hopelessly in love—and the one person she had vowed not to tell was the man who owned her heart—Sherlock Holmes.
After weeks and weeks of waiting, he had finally taken her to bed, and it had been gloriously worth the wait. Now each day, each moment, spent with him, Tessa found herself falling deeper and deeper, so that now she was so immersed in him, she couldn't see daylight if she wanted to.
In her natural state, Tessa was profoundly emotional, easily moved and fearless in expression. This condition ideally suited her in the career she'd chosen (or that had chosen her—the line between them had never been clearly defined), but might be a keen disadvantage in her relationship with one so seemingly aloof and dispassionate. Yet she believed she saw how Sherlock's heart actually was, and that he felt things strongly but chose not to let them rule him. There was passion there, no doubt, and she had seen and experienced its muster; those first few nights alone had thrown hazy shadows across the memories of any lovers she'd ever had, including Hal.
Tessa felt the key with Sherlock was to be balanced. Not to give in to the desire to text him at random moments, just to see if he would send a witty or flirtatious response back. Not to dote on him so very much at dinner, while he recounted his brilliance in solving an elusive case. And by any power on earth, not to tell him she adored him every other sentence, even though that was exactly what she felt in his presence. For his sake—and for the sake of keeping him interested in her—she must temper her emotions and expressions every day. Now that required Acting!
Tessa was certain Sherlock was completely unaware of the grace with which he moved through the world. She yearned, at times, to point it out to him, but if she did she was sure he wouldn't understand—or even believe it possible—and then she'd have tipped her hand.
For his part, there were signs his feelings ran deeper than he would ever care to admit. First, Tessa noticed very quickly that the sharp wit and acerbic tongue he often turned on the foolish or incompetent that crossed his path—and even, at times, upon his best friend and their motherly landlady—had not once been used against her. That surely accounted her some distinction in his mind.
Then there was the fact that, if she allowed too much time to elapse before she called or texted him, he would eventually contact her. In the beginning it was on some pretext, saying he was in the neighborhood on a case for example; but since becoming intimate, it was more like to be him inquiring—in a roundabout way—as to why he hadn't heard from her, "Lost service for a bit today. Were you trying to reach me?" Or "Extremely busy day—think I might've missed your text." She always played it as though she believed his every reason as stated, when inside she dared to be thrilled that he might be missing her.
There was, of course, his mighty pride, an awesome thing to behold. He wore it like his greatcoat, aloof and seemingly unassailable. While others saw this as haughty, Tessa saw an armor that he'd built layer by layer to protect his insecurities; armor to hide a lifetime of the scars of being misunderstood, misinterpreted, or simply left behind as an outsider unable to understand the nuances of emotion.
And the way he wore those scars…..that was perhaps the single most thing that had plucked at her heartstrings. The quiet dignity with which he carried on, the strength of purpose with which he met each day, these were a denial of any pain of loss and disappointment. It was as if Sherlock thought to admit to such human frailty would make the world think he was less than what he truly was. And so to the world he said it mattered not a whit, nor had it ever mattered, for he was above such trivial things.
But Tessa knew better. She already knew his heart better than Sherlock himself, and all she wanted was to be the balm for those scars, in some small way at least.
Quite simply, Sherlock was entirely unused to being loved. Tessa felt a deep well inside herself, filled with all the things she longed to give him, if only the small cracks in his armor would let her in. She knew she had to be patient, but at times the waiting ached so bad.
(to be continued)