Sam woke feeling odd – light and hollow. His mouth was dry and he licked his parched lips, wondering why he was dehydrated. His muscles felt slack and strangely tense at the same time, as though he'd been doing something demanding the day before. He didn't feel sore exactly, but wrung out.
Their bedroom was dark, the navy blue drapes that matched the duvet and linens were drawn over the windows. There was almost no light filtering in around the edges, so it was still early. He moved his eyes so he could just see the clock past Sandra's sleeping form. It was 4:57; the sun would not be up for another two hours.
He lay still, wondering why he felt so peculiar. He was stiff, as if he'd been sleeping in the same position too long. He was on his left side, knees drawn up somewhat, hands folded in front of his chest. Sandra was sleeping on her back, her blond hair a splash of contrasting lightness against the dark colours in the dimness, her face turned slightly away from him, her breathing deep and rhythmic. Her right arm was stretched toward him, her hand resting on his pillow palm up, as if she'd been touching him before falling asleep. Or in her sleep.
His eyes adjusted enough to make out the faintest gleam from his wedding ring, a simple gold band incised with a Celtic knot pattern. That had been Sandra's idea – she'd said it went well with the Scottish theme in their wedding. He'd agreed happily. He hadn't cared what the rings looked like. He would have worn anything she'd asked. He still would. He'd do anything for her – most days he was still stunned that she was his wife, that she came home to him, that she'd chosen him and not someone else. Sometimes, he was certain he was dreaming the whole thing.
Sam watched her sleeping and frowned slightly. He didn't want to move and wake her but he wasn't certain why. Normally she slept through him getting up and getting ready for work. She really only woke up for him if he woke her deliberately – which she generally did not mind – or if he was having particularly bad nightmares.
Sam's frown twitched and deepened. Something about nightmares tugged at his memory – had he had one? If so, it would explain the sleeping pill he must have taken. It was the only reason he'd feel so dehydrated and lethargic. But that would mean he'd have taken it yesterday evening and why would he have had a nightmare then?
Noise. Sherlock. John. Salt water. Music. Cold. Grey.
Oh, he thought vaguely, still watching Sandra, listening to her deep breathing. He remembered suddenly, a jumble of images, sounds, impressions. He'd had a flashback to the Waterloo Bridge the previous day at the Yard. Sam closed his eyes and the memories came back, but everything was confused, muddled. The order of the events made no sense and there were still blank spots so that the memories were jumpy and half formed. He did not remember actually falling and hoped he never would. He thought about the Welsh MP who had died falling from the Westminster Bridge in August and knew that recalling that would be intolerable.
But had he been frightened when that happened? Sam couldn't remember. But he could remember wanting to die. Had he been relieved when he'd tipped over the edge, Jim Moriarty's dead hand still caught in his hair? Had he been scared?
Does it matter? he asked himself. He felt curiously detached from everything. The memories were right there, behind closed eyelids, and he could feel Moriarty's hand in his hair and the gun against his neck and the cold air almost as much as he could feel the cotton of the sheets and his pyjamas against his skin, the scratch of stubble against the pillowcase, the warmth of the air in the bedroom.
He watched Sandra sleeping, unconsciously matching his breathing to hers, feeling himself relax somewhat. He frowned again – he had a memory of Sherlock catching him in the moment before he fell but that could not be right. Sherlock hadn't been close enough. Sam had fallen – he still bore scars and aches in his joints from that – but he could feel Sherlock's arms around his chest, feel his own weight being caught and held up.
Maybe it had happened yesterday. He remembered the day as a blur of panic – he had no idea why he'd been at the Yard nor why Sherlock and John had been there. Had that been coincidental? Did he have a case that overlapped with one of Sherlock's? He was mildly surprised that he didn't care – about any of it. He wondered if he should care, but found he couldn't be bothered.
He had no memory of going to bed the previous day, no memory of changing out of his suit into his pyjamas. He could recall Sandra being at home but not her actual arrival. He remembered her arms around him, holding him tightly as he cried. Sam touched his face and was surprised that it was wet again, tears tracking small salty trails down his cheeks. He didn't feel like he was crying. He brushed the droplets away with his fingertips then reached up and wrapped his right hand around Sandra's. She turned her head toward him but didn't wake. Her fingers tightened around his instinctively. They were warm, soft. He smiled slightly then let go and sat up carefully, not wanting to disturb her. Sandra stirred, her features pinching into a frown. Sam eased himself out of bed carefully and then waited until she relaxed again.
He padded silently from their room and stopped in the corridor; the door to the office and guest bedroom was closed. That meant someone was there. He stared at it a moment, wondering who their guest was, then decided it was probably Joanna. Sandra had friends she could call in an emergency, but she'd call her sister before any of them.
Sam wondered if she'd rung Marian to let his sister know what had happened. Or his mum. Somehow, the thought of having to tell either of them made him exhausted.
He realized with a jolt he'd have to call Veronique. She'd find out anyway and if she didn't hear it from him, she'd be upset. The idea didn't seem as tiring, though. He trusted her with his life, more than anyone except Sandra. When he'd been in the hospital, she had been the only person who was safe. The only person he could stand to have touch him at the worst of times, the only person he trusted to tell him the truth. She would want to know and he wanted her to know. He missed her suddenly and wondered what she was doing in Lyon, if she was awake and at work or at home and fast asleep. He'd call her later in the morning – it was too early.
Sam went into the bathroom and winced when he turned the light on, blinking in the harsh and sudden brightness. He reached for the glass next to the sink then stopped, momentarily startled by his appearance. Then he closed his eyes and shook his head – no, he hadn't had dark hair in five years, not since they'd shaved off in the hospital following the fall. He'd been unconscious. He'd been mostly unconscious for a long time.
He ran his hands through his lighter brown hair. This was his hair, not Sam Waters'. He frowned at himself – was there really a line? He was always surprised whenever he realized he never thought of himself as Gabriel anymore. Only his mother and sister called him that. He had his reasons for it.
He stared at his reflection in the mirror. Behind him was the towel rack with its two dark brown towels contrasting against the pale yellow wall. Sandra had painted it when they'd moved in. He liked it – it reminded him of her. Light, sunny, warm. A long way from the dull grey he could picture now with too much ease. Grey sky, grey water, grey concrete, grey eyes.
Sam filled the glass with water and downed in one go. He refilled it and sat down on the edge of the tub, pushing the curtain out of the way. He sipped the water more slowly, feeling somewhat better for the hydration. He looked around the bathroom as if seeing it for the first time. The bath towels and flannels were dark brown, the hand towels were white for contrast. Sandra had hung a small painting she'd bought at a market above the towel rack. It was of a small red bird on a brown tree branch against a pale blue sky. Her bathrobe, a light blue terrycloth, hung from a hook on the back of the door. She'd bought a ceramic soap dish with tiny gold leaves painted on it and a matching toothbrush holder. Part of the counter next to the sink was taken up by her creams and make up. There was an extra toothbrush in the holder, probably Joanna's. The shower curtain matched the towels: white with dark brown leaves and vines.
He was faintly amazed that this was his life, that he lived in this flat with an astonishing woman who had turned it into a proper home. That he felt safe here, that he went through most of his days not really thinking about what had happened to him five years ago, instead considering the work he had to do, the small daily chores that needed to be completed, the shopping that needed to be done. That he even had a life at all.
By rights he should have died. He almost had. It had been years before he'd felt himself again, because it had been years before Interpol had let him be himself again – not until he'd put his foot down and started demanding it.
He put the now empty cup aside and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, once again vaguely surprised to feel tears against his skin. He wiped them again and let his hands fall to rest between his knees, fingers interlaced.
A small sound in the corridor made him look up and Sandra was standing in the doorway a moment later, blinking sleep from her features, watching him with concern. He tried to give her a smile but the expression felt tight and his muscles felt tired. She crouched in front of him, searching his face, resting her hands very lightly on his knees. Sam moved his own hands to cover hers.
She didn't ask if he was all right and he was grateful. He wasn't sure what to say. He probably wasn't. He probably should have been feeling something more than the vague numbness and detachment. It was probably not a good sign. But it was difficult to be bothered by that.
"Let me make you some breakfast," she said gently. "You haven't eaten since lunch yesterday."
Sam nodded and she rose then bent down to press a kiss against his forehead. He closed his eyes, relishing the sensation of her warm lips on his skin. He wondered again if he were dreaming, but he could never remember his dreams when he took his strongest sleeping pills. That was why he had them.
Sandra straightened again but instead of letting her move away, Sam wrapped his arms around her waist and pressed his face against her stomach. He felt her hesitate a moment, then wind one arm around his shoulders and lace her other hand into his hair. He inhaled deeply, breathing in her scent, and just stayed there holding her for awhile.
