To Keep or Share
A/N: a little bit of randomness… Some hurt/comfort, a conversation (and some action) on self defense, and proof that actions speak loader than words… Thanks as always to the wonderfully talented Handful of Sky… her time, patience and attention to detail are worth their weight in chocolate:)… I hope you enjoy
(…)
I step out into the night air with Alfredo by my side. Our weekly meeting complete, the night is mine to keep or share. Watson has made herself scarce of late on these evenings: dinner with friends, shopping with her mother. It's become our own little ritual of keeping separate company that always ends the same, with each of us returning home to the other. On this night in particular, I find myself faced with a newly surfaced need to see her.
"Let's call Joan. See if she's worked up an appetite." Alfredo's voice interrupts my thoughts; he's read me so well. I shrug as if to suggest that the notion is neutral territory in my mind and dig my phone free from my pocket. It comes to life and lights up as I bring it to eye level.
A message from Watson herself:
OMWH. STRVNG. TI?
"It would appear Watson has other plans for us." I find myself speaking without thought. I look up quickly to see how Alfredo plans to take this news. I realize I do not want to share her company this evening. Whatever the reason, I do not question my reliance on her of late. This summer has shown me that isolation from the world is all well and good as long as she is beside me.
"Okay. Next time." He pats my shoulder in a farewell gesture and steps down off the church stairs towards his car. He indicates with a hand that a ride is something he wouldn't mind providing me with. I take leave of his offer in the same manner and turn toward home. I tap out a text, tell her Thai would be fine, to order as she wishes (it's not like she won't be sticking her chopsticks in everything she can reach).
(…)
The moment I round the corner of our street, I immediately know something is not right.
It begins as an uneasy feeling in my chest and continues to build as I approach the front gate. The door is ajar, and the porch light is out. As I step gingerly across the threshold, I pull my phone out again. I connect with the authorities, speak in whispers, and nearly trip over Watson's boots-the pair she wore when she left the brownstone earlier this evening. They lie off to the side of the interior door; her shopping bag and purse are thrown down beside them.
The rooms are quiet, dark, and placid. If she is still here, I cannot tell.
The panic is like a poison in my veins. It takes my heart in a vice-like grip and I can think of nothing but Watson. I call her name endlessly; the need to protect, to find, to save takes over every instinct that I've ever known. I do not know how many times I shout or how desperate I sound until I finally find her.
She's nearly wedged under the kitchen table, tugging her already haphazard ponytail free from its tie with one hand. The other is still wrapped firmly around my single stick. Her eyes are glued to the figures on the floor: the practice dummy, lying on its side, and there's another form, this one human, sprawled alongside it.
I do not know how it is that I come to crouch beside her; I feel as if I've materialized here the moment I found her.
"Watson." It comes out on a wave of relief. I struggle to find something to say, and I'm altogether at a loss. It's as if everything I feel is tangled within the syllables of her name.
"Sherlock." Her voice sounds strong and certain. As I lift her up off the floor by the elbows I instantly feel her tremble, not in fear but her body's subconscious attempt to run off excess adrenaline. Watson is rarely afraid. When it does manage to maneuver its way into her system, it is usually with my well being in question.
I take in the ripped neckline of her cashmere sweater and the torn seam of her stockings along her inner right thigh. The smooth skin along her collar bone has turned an angry pink, and there is a smattering of violet and navy starting to bloom there. I grip her arms and she grips mine back, a somewhat mutual attempt to assure each other that the worst is over.
I can hear sirens in the backdrop of Brooklyn's ebb and flow and know help will arrive before Mr. Randazzo regains consciousness. I exert a gentle pressure along the back of her arms, an attempt to guide her toward one of the kitchen chairs that managed to remain upright through her entire ordeal. But she leaves her feet firmly planted on the floor and allows only her shoulders to follow my lead. Her forehead drops to my chest and I instantly freeze. She's never been so close for so long or by choice.
Could I have misjudged her reactions? Is she indeed afraid? Hurt worse than she's let on?
"Watson?" I enquire in as gentle a whisper as I can as my hands move to brace against the curve of her shoulders, to push her back so I can see her face and free myself of the feeling of warm, soft, Joan pressed against my heart.
"I'm sorry," she says, fingers instantly taking a stronger hold of my shirt sleeves. "Please, just give me a minute, okay?"
"Do not apologize." Is all I can manage. Watson in need is altogether new to me, and if I am not mistaken, new to her as well. We stand together and I wonder if I am capable of offering the comfort that she requires. I'm overcome with the need to run a hand through her hair, to rub my palms along the blades of her back or down the planes of her forearms.
I do not want to offer what would be unwanted and what cannot be taken back.
I've never wished so hard for the ability to be something I've never been. To give something I've never had the courage to own and offer.
I feel her breath, strong and even and know she's battling to bring the Watson I know forward. Does she do it for me, or for herself?
"Watson, it's all right," I tell her, and before I can stop to think, my fingers are smoothing her tussled hair.
She nods, words still buried beneath an overload of adrenalin. "Please, sit." I try again to usher her down to a chair, but she shakes her head in the negative and simply stands upright again, eyes steady and strong and defiant as she takes in everything around us. She removes her hands from my arms and steps away; I pull my own fingers back as though burned. If she notices, she says nothing.
I take in her appearance again, torn sweater, bare feet. The kitchen floor is freezing and the air cool. I disappear into my room and return with thick warm socks and a cardigan I rarely wear.
"I'm all right." Her gaze meets mine as I hand her the sweater and she instantly throws it across her shoulders. We instinctively look upward as footsteps can be heard overhead. It would appear the calvary has arrived. To my surprise she sits and pulls the socks on without a fuss.