"It has its costs."
There were times when it came over her suddenly: "This is what I'm doing now." It wasn't always when they were out on a case. She might be washing dishes (just hers), or pulling a storage box from under her bed, or walking down the street to the coffee shop where she liked to sit and nurse a latte and read something that had nothing to do with work that week. She was usually alone when the thought came to her and made her grin. She was usually alone when it came and made her want to cry.
The image that flared when he first heard the sound was of her, sobbing and screaming in his room, reaching for him one moment and pushing him away the next. The still-active guilt reflex was quickly neutralized now by new bursts of anger and shame that he had been so weak, so stupid. But this sound continued, and it was nothing like that memory, and he shifted back to the present, confused and then concerned. It was Watson, obviously. The water was running in the shower and perhaps she thought one sound would mask the other. Or perhaps there was no premeditation involved.
He stood at the base of the stairs, head tilted to catch the fine distinction between fluid and breath in the rush from above, uncertain how to proceed. Then the harsh squeak of the faucet and silence. The squeal of the metal shower curtain rings as she pushed the curtain aside, possibly accompanied by a shuddering breath. A faint thud of footfall out of the clawfoot tub, not an insignificant step for someone of her height. He considered whether he had reason to go upstairs, something to review on multiple screens, or perhaps an apiary task, that would take him past the closed door of the bathroom, or her own room if she's quicker than that, and so catch some other auditory clue on his way.
He shook his head and walked into the library instead. Those tricks were not ones he wanted to employ here, in their home. It was either none of his business, or it was; if the latter, he'd be informed. Or if not exactly informed, additional information would come to light over time and deduction would occur. Right now there was insufficient data to proceed, and he had not been assigned the case. Move on.
When she came downstairs 15 minutes later, there was no indication of undue stress or strain. Perhaps it had simply been a pressure release. For all he knew, she cried every time she took a shower. Well, no, he did know that was not the case. But no matter. Let it go.
And yet despite repeated efforts to dispel it from his mind, he found his thoughts continuing to return to the sound. After she went to bed, he gave up and tried instead to understand why it bothered him. Clearly, not knowing the cause or context was vexing, but there were any number of things about Watson's emotions and demeanor that made no sense and yet never distracted him like this.
When Irene— When that woman had cried out, his first instinct was immediate and unquestioned; old intimacy and new responsibility intertwined to produce a single impulse to embrace her, with no question or hesitation until she pushed him away. Watson, however. There was a kind of intimacy between them and he certainly felt responsibility for her, but the nature of that intimacy and responsibility was so far removed from the meaning of those words in relation to— well, they might as well be entirely separate concepts. He supposed that's what they were.
His intimacy with Watson was accepting that if he didn't let her fall asleep by 2am for at least three hours, she'd be useless the next day. Knowing how many layers and what length of sleeve she found comfortable at different temperatures. Trusting that she recognized the tone of his voice belying his disparaging words about keeping up with him at a crime scene when he was in fact so very energized by having her there sharing the discovery with him.
His responsibility for, or to, her was currently under negotiation. His inclination and her preferences were not in full alignment. He had a strong suspicion he would be ceding considerable ground once the boundaries were redrawn.
The intoxication of that time before, in London, was yet another layer of his addiction, he saw now, and one she had used to control him, but that was not the whole of it. The emotional and physical intimacy he had felt then had opened a door to a private sanctuary where he found a form of sexual expression he hadn't known existed. A singular experience and something set apart.
What he shared with Watson was everything else.
He didn't discount what he'd learned in that little room (and conceivably it could be revisited in time), but compared to all the rest, it was little. His relationship with Watson was in and of the whole world, not a retreat from it. If he had to make the trade, as it appeared he did, or had, it was worth it. He had to wonder, though, if coming to terms with a similar exchange was behind the sound he'd heard beneath the shower spray.
She finally agreed to self-defense training, not because she thought he was right (she knew he was) or even because of Moriarty's gunman, but because she needed to spend time with other people. Something else she'd learned in medical school: her studies improved when she spent time with people who were not medical students. Now she needed to find people who were not involved in law enforcement or investigation. Sherlock had wanted her to take private lessons with one of his contacts, but she insisted on choosing from the replies he received according to who taught groups.
"You can invite people over here, you know, " he said one afternoon as they sorted through a suspect's marble collection looking for ceramic bullets they suspected were hidden among the glass baubles.
She had three marbles in each palm, eyes closed as she balanced them to discern whether one hand was heavier than the other. "Invite people over for what?"
"Socializing. Dinner. Sex. Whatever you like. I can make myself scarce for a few hours."
"Because you don't want to meet my friends?"
"If you wanted me to meet your friends, surely that would have happened by now, hmm?"
She looked at him, nonplussed. "You're making some assumptions."
"You made them first."
"I don't— No. It has nothing to do with you. I prefer to combine socializing with leaving the house. I like going out, being some place different for a little while. This is not new; I never had people over when I had my own place."
"No one? Not even your former paramours."
"That's a little different. Anyway, that's a moot point at the moment."
"By choice?"
"Do you even want to meet my friends? Or would this be just another data expedition?"
"Those are not mutually exclusive motivations."
"True." She wasn't sure what to think about this. They lived together and worked together. They rarely did anything together outside of those contexts, but those contexts frequently filled all day, every day. She did want time away, with other people, and she liked being exposed to other views, both geographic and intellectual. But she could see that did not preclude him coming along, some of the time, and she found she was curious to know what that would be like. Spending time with him unrelated to work and home. She couldn't even remember the last time they ate at a restaurant instead of ordering take out. Who knows what sort of data she might acquire about him in the company of others.
Although Emily had apologized, they hadn't gotten together again since the night she got arrested, and inviting her over to prove Sherlock's point seemed a bad idea. "Occasionally other friends of the folks in my kickboxing class come along when we go eat, after. Do you want to do that?" She didn't specify that it was usually spouses or significant others joining them. He could do that math on his own.
"Do you want me to?"
"I am not going around this loop again. If you would like to meet some of the people I know whom you haven't already met, you're welcome to come by Sallie's Deli around 8:30 on Monday or Thursday. If something comes up or you don't feel like it, that's good too. You have a standing invitation with no obligation. Okay?" She stuck her hand in the box and pulled out another handful of marbles as he frowned at the ones in his palm.
On Thursday after class she dug her phone out of her bag afterwards and found a text, "Sry 3 more boxes stn home L8."
The following Monday the text said, "Ms H nds hlp w piano."
She had to miss the next class for a case that had them hiking two miles through not-quite unused subway tunnels. She hadn't seen him that gleeful about creative criminal activity since he discovered the bee assassins.
The week after that, as she got ready to leave, he was sitting on the floor in front of the media closet sorting cables. "You don't have to text me," she said. "Come or don't come. No explanation needed. It's fine."
He nodded but didn't look up, his hands stilled, three black cords pulled taut between them. After a moment he lowered them to his lap, then jerked one cord to drop into the pile on his right. He usually looked at ease and comfortable sitting on the floor but from this angle he seemed stiff, tense. As if waiting for a blow.
She'd had to fight him over and over again not to leave her behind when he thought it wouldn't be safe for her, but he never complained when she left him out to protect him from boredom. Perhaps she should allow him make that call for himself.
"Do you want to come with me now, observe the class, and then go eat with us after?"
He looked at her, appraising, as if suspicious he was being managed. Then he dropped the remaining cords and hopped up to his feet in one of those quicksilver motions she'd never been able to emulate when she tried to do it herself behind her closed bedroom door.
"Just do me a favor and save your critique of my form and your disdain for kickboxing as a martial art—"
"It is not," he grumbled under her ready glare.
"—until after we're home again."
"Any other stipulations?"
"I hope not."
She wasn't sure who would accompany them to dinner, the Sherlock who charmed her family, the one who pointed out that her friends' opinions weren't particularly worth notice, or the one who interrogated people to figure out what makes them tick. Once the introductions were made, she told the story of the currency heist during the blizzard. He interrupted only to give her credit for Pam's continued help. After that example of their work, she redirected conversation to focus on other classmates. He answered a few questions about London and the differences between the NYPD and Scotland Yard when Oscar laughed that everything he knew about them came from TV shows. She observed him observing, a bit more reticent than she expected, but apparently relaxed in his introversion, if the lack of bouncing knee was any measure.
He'd been startled to realize the group did not know what their previous relationship had been. At first he was irritated that she would continue to let external factors dictate her behavior, but over the course of the meal, the complexity of her position became more apparent. The unrelenting pressure that she must be partnered romantically, in conjunction with assumptions about her personality based on her ethnic origins, created a mire of spoken and unspoken expectations. And this among a group of friendly acquaintances who themselves presented a variety of ethnic backgrounds and sexual orientations. Their partnership only confused the situation, and a stray remark at the table about a junkie's girlfriend that made her stiffen slightly revealed what he'd overlooked, that she would be as judged by his history as he was, pestered by questions and assumptions about why she would stoop or belittle herself by continuing to associate with him. Add in her likely concern that he might think she believed those things, and no wonder she strictly limited her social outings.
She was quiet in the cab on the way home, head turned to the window so he couldn't see her expression.
"I know you're going to blow this off, but thank you," he said, and he saw the smile spread to the side of her face as she shook her head.
"You're welcome."
"That's not how it goes."
"That's how it's supposed to go. Someone thanks you, you say you're welcome. Conventionality is not always a bad thing."
"It is for people like us."
"People who what, ah, love everything bizarre and outside the humdrum routine of ordinary life?"
He blinked in surprise. He recalled saying those words to her, at the time only just realizing he wanted something impossible — impossible for him and certainly impossible for her — and not knowing how to proceed.
"Yes, exactly," he said.
This time she was in her room, folding laundry, when it came over her. There was a crash from the main floor, and before she could call to him, he'd shouted, 'Watson— Oh, never mind, I've got it," followed by heavy footfall and another crash. Best guess given the sounds, he'd tried to pull a box off the top shelf of the media closet by balancing on one of the lower shelves, which were not designed for such strain. She started to laugh as she turned back to the laundry basket when the tears came.
"It has its costs," he'd said, but they were not what she'd imagined back then, at the beginning.
It was overwhelming. The strangeness, and the joy, and the terror and horror of the things they learned people could do to each other, and somehow not being alone with all of that. She suspected that was as odd for him as for her, not feeling put out by having the other's constant company. More than that, feeling better in that company. That was the frightening part, the implied loss of self-sufficiency. Belonging here meant she had something new to lose.
She'd told him that partnership meant they'd never both give up at the same time, but that was as impossible a promise as the ones she'd chided him for making. Instead, she had to have faith, in herself, that she wouldn't let go, and in him, that if he did, he'd come back.
That night after he fled with Irene, she had asked herself if she still had a partner and believed immediately when the answer was "Yes." That's the voice she would trust. She wiped her eyes and finished putting her clothes away before going to see what sort of mess he'd gotten into.
When he heard her coming down the stairs, he called out, "You'll never guess what I found in here, Watson," and she grinned, guessing.