The log in the fireplace crackled and hissed sending the scent of resin out into the barely lit library. The soft orange light of the fire fell on and around Sherlock and Watson as they sat in companionable silence. She sat in his worn leather armchair, feet tucked up under her, mug in hand and watched the flicker of the flames. He sat on the ottoman, occasionally poking at the embers, setting off a flurry of sparks, making note of the patterns they created before they turned to ash and drifted downwards.
The sound of far off thunder was followed by the light patter of rain on the window.
"The rain is beginning ..."
"Mmmm ..." He looked at her. "You know you're welcome to stay. Your bed is made up. Ms Hudson keeps your room as if you still lived here."
"I thought Kitty used ... "
"Nooo. She wasn't allowed to cross the threshold. Ever." He made a face at her. She hid a smile behind her mug.
"... I'll make you breakfast," his voice held a certain wistfulness.
"Will you serve it to me in bed?" she teased.
He widened his eyes and nodded seriously in mock sincerity, "I will even let you sleep in."
"Hmm..."
Sherlock poked at the embers and flames flared once more. He felt as if they'd both finally made their way home. The evening had been one of amiable camaraderie, but he had words he needed to say to her that might change things between them once again.
He summoned the courage and spoke softly, into the fire, his eyes never leaving the flames. "I missed you, you know ... very much."
He stole a quick look in her direction and found her staring at him. He hesitated for a second and then turned back to the fire.
"The last night, the night before I left ... the uhm ... the closeness we shared ... It sustained me, kept me moving, so I could come back ... to you."
Joan looked away into the fire and said nothing, not able to verbalize her feelings.
"Leaving was a mistake. I know that now ... But I convinced myself my staying would hurt you. I'd rather hurt myself than you ..." His voice trailed off.
His words were met by an impassive silence. Sherlock sat in discomfort, berating himself for ruining the evening, saying too much, leaving himself vulnerable, making her uncomfortable.
The poker in his hand was carefully set aside. Not knowing what else to say or do, he slowly got up and crossed to leave the room.
As he walked past her, Joan's hand took hold of his lower arm, and slid down the shirt material to meet his hand. Her fingers found his and interlaced loosely. Sherlock stood not looking at her but allowing himself to enjoy the sensation of her fingers against his.
"I was angry ... really angry with you for a long time. I felt abandoned, betrayed, uncared for ..." she took a breath. "I didn't understand, still don't really, why you left. I needed you and you weren't here ..." her voice trailed off.
"I was wrong, I shouldn't have ..." his voice was raspy, "I understand why you can't forgive me..." He looked at her, holding her hand tighter and bringing it closer to him afraid she might let go. "As I'm sure you are aware, I'm not emotionally ..." He sighed and looked away, "Please don't give up on me, on us. My intention was never to hurt you." Sherlock looked back at her, " ... I'm sorry ..."
Joan studied his face, his eyes. She knew how difficult this had been, and was, for both of them. "Maybe it did both of us some good ... the time apart. Gave us time to think. To realize what truly matters. I am stronger now ... I didn't have my crutch ..." she looked into his eyes. "I learned to walk on my own."
He stared down at her. "You are the strong one, always have been."
"For you I have ... but not for me." She looked away, fearing to admit her feelings to him. "I ... I kept the memory of that night as well ... of you, of us ..." Her lips were strained into a thin smile and her eyes locked on to his.
The look in her eyes gave him hope. His heart pounding, he leaned down and gave her the softest of kisses on her cheek, "Please, stay?" he murmured.
Her face relaxed, her tone lightened. "It is pretty nasty out there... perhaps ... just for tonight."
Sherlock was pleased; his whole demeanor changed. A charge of energy ran through him.
"Just don't wake me up before nine."
"Of course." He dutifully nodded his agreement. "I'll go light a fire to warm the room up for you, hmm?"
Joan looked at him with concern.
"It's alright. Ms. Hudson had it cleared while I was away. You have a fully functional fireplace now." He practically bounced out of the room to attend to the task.
Picking up the mugs and heading towards the kitchen, Joan caught herself thinking that having her own fireplace would be so cosy this winter. If this was part of his ploy to have her move back in permanently then it just might work.