It was a full week before Thatcher found herself in Sherlock's company again. She wasn't surprised when she returned home after her run and found that he was gone. For the few days following, Thatcher had ended up going in early to work as well as staying late so by the time she returned home she was too tired to venture upstairs and sink the last of her energy into putting on a poker face. So her evenings had consisted mostly of long hot showers and falling asleep in bed while reading and his absence went mostly unnoticed. Her new advisors had literally thrown her back into her work, for which she was endlessly thankful. Before coming, she wasn't sure that she would ever want to finish her thesis but this move had so far proved to be the right one. As the weekend approached and Sherlock was still been gone from his flat, she began to get worried. On that Friday night she listened carefully for the door, hoping to catch him as he came in. However, the only person who entered the building that night was Mrs. Hudson.
"Oh, don't worry about Sherlock," she reassured Thatcher. "He often goes off for days on end. Keep your eyes on the paper. I'm sure as soon as something pops up he'll find his way home."
She didn't have to wait long. The sound of the front door opening and shutting woke Thatcher from her light sleep the next night. Her copy of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland rested on her chest and a copy of Friday's paper laid next to her in bed. She blinked a few times, attempting to wake herself a bit more. The next sound that met her ears was that of footsteps up the stairs. She scrambled quickly out of bed and hurried up her own. "Sherlock?" she called when she reached the top.
The wood on the landing creaked under his feet as he took a step back to look over the rail. He was surprised that she had come after him. "Hello," he replied flatly before turning away again and walking into his own flat. He removed his long overcoat, scarf, and suit jacket and laid the articles across the arm of his couch.
"Where have you been?" she demanded, standing in his doorway. It was clear that she had been awoken by his arrival, not waiting. Her tone and expression suggested worry on his behalf but he couldn't imagine why.
"Country," he answered in the same tone, practically ignoring her existence. Frustrated, Thatcher stepped into the flat and approached him.
"Next time can you let me know when you plan on disappearing for a couple days? Especially after the last thing we speak about ends up in the papers along with the report of a murder-suicide!"
"You didn't ask," he replied with a shrug while taking a seat in the leather armchair. He observed her carefully as she obviously ran through a dialogue in her mind, attempting to figure out what to say next. She was wearing an oversized t-shirt and pink running shorts. 'She's not dating anyone. No one would dress so comfortably to bed when they are in a new relationship, still trying to impress each other.'
Thatcher shook her head, already tired of their conversation. "I'm going back to bed."
"You were right," he told her quietly.
"I know," she said, continuing on her way back downstairs.
Though the two did not go out of their way to avoid each other, it just so happened that their paths did not often cross. Sherlock kept very strange hours and Thatcher did not. From Monday to Friday she had a specific routine and was very cross when she couldn't keep to it. After only one confrontation, Sherlock had decided that it would be much better that when he was leaving or coming back in the wee hours of the morning to take a little extra care not to wake her. He was not surprised by her confrontation and outburst of anger: this response was not a new one for Sherlock to receive though her threat was.
"Sherlock, you realize that I am a scientist right? I could do incredibly terrible things to you and hide the crime so well that only you could figure it out but you'd be dead so it'd be too late." He laughed lightly under his breath, remembering that night. He had gone out in search of distraction as he had a couple weeks before but thought that by returning that night instead of staying away until the morning, he could avoid running into her. However, that had obviously not been the case.
"Do you want to go get a drink with me?"
The question jolted Sherlock from his previous train of thought. He glanced up from his laptop screen, his mind running through all the various responses he could give. Thatcher had changed from her work clothes into a pair of well-fitting jeans and a navy blue shirt that was hanging off her right shoulder. As she invited him along she was pulling on her peacoat and buttoning it.
"I don't drink," he lied easily.
"Bullshit," she called, finishing the buttons on her jacket. "Look, we both know that you go out and I need a drink. You don't have to stay all night and you by no means have to buy. Please just show me where I can get a drink."
When he didn't move, she shrugged. "Fine. American girl wondering around London alone and trying to find alcohol…I'm sure I can find someone to accompany me."
Sherlock sighed and shut his laptop. She was already at the bottom of the stairs when he called out to her. "Wait."
They walked side by side on the sidewalk, both with their hands hidden in coat pockets. "Are you dating anyone?" she asked after a minute or so of silence. Thatcher was fairly certain she knew the answer to her own question but felt compelled to inquire anyway.
"No," he replied shortly.
"Ah."
"Are you?"
"Am I what?" She smirked as she spoke but did not dare to look up at him.
"Dating anyone," Sherlock finished. As they approached a cross street, he pulled his left hand out of his coat and brought it to rest on the small of her back, steering her to the right to continue on their path.
"No. Remember, I just broke up with someone." she answered somewhat testily. He was momentarily unsure of whether his physical contact or the question was the cause but quickly settled on the mention of her relationship considering she had not flinched whatsoever or reacted adversely to his touch. "Besides, I don't really have time for dating."
"You've stayed very busy."
"Keen observation. That's how I like it."
As they continued their trek, Sherlock did not remove his hand from her back until he was holding the door to the pub open for her. He told her to find a table and that he would take care of their first round. Though he was not gone long, by the time he made his way through the crowd over to her, he could tell something was making her uncomfortable. His pace quickened slightly and when he reached the table, she retrieved her drink from him eagerly. Once he had a free hand, Thatcher grabbed it with her own and tugged it lightly.
He furrowed his eyebrows at her, utterly baffled. "Sit down," she whispered, her mouth barely moving.
Sherlock did as he was requested and claimed the seat immediately to her left instead of choosing the one directly across from her like he had planned. Once he was seated, her hand met his again and when his gaze moved to meet her own, she was leaning in. Her lips almost resting on his right ear, she muttered, "Kiss me."
She moved back far enough so their eyes could meet and as soon as they did, her own darted to the left. He followed the direction and very quickly saw what she was focused on. A young man, standing in a group of approximately six individuals, was staring at her. He was younger than Sherlock, around Thatcher's age. His appearance was well-kept and suggested he was successful in his career.
"No," Sherlock replied observing her once more. Panic flashed briefly across her face but he continued speaking. "Consulting detective is my title, not boyfriend-for-hire."
"You owe me," she replied through clenched teeth.
Sherlock was well aware of what she was referring to. He sighed and made a mental note to refrain from asking her for help the next time his brain was blocked. From the corner of his eyes he could see the man was still eyeing them. He moved closer to her, their face only inches apart now. "Bite your lip," he directed as he stroked her cheek gently with his thumb.
Thatcher did as she was told, capturing her bottom lip between her teeth. When she released it, Sherlock found himself unable to keep from staring at her now slightly swollen lip and tracing it lightly with his thumb. "Anyone can kiss," he spoke into her ear. "Intimacy is much more infuriating than lust."
He let his lips brush hers ever so slightly as he moved to sit back. By all accounts, anyone observing them would notice their bodies angled toward one another, his arm draped across the back of her chair and her hand resting on his knee. "He's coming over," Sherlock informed her as he took a drink of his scotch. Thatcher resisted the urge to down her own in one gulp and enjoyed the burn in her throat.
"Thatcher Greene...how in the world did you get out of the country?" He was American, though his accent suggested a different region than Thatcher. Judging by the brightness of his teeth, darkened pigment of his skin, and apparently designer clothes, Sherlock would guess Southern California.
"Blake! It's lovely to see you. And speak for yourself! I thought Berkley had you for another two years?" She greeted, standing a bit to return a polite kiss on the cheek.
"They did. But what can I say? Oxford made me an offer I couldn't refuse. You're at Bart's, right?" Sherlock, apparently going completely unnoticed by Blake took the opportunity to gather more information. Thatcher was clenching her jaw and her smile was forced. Then it dawned on him. Was this the man that drove her to London?
"Yeah, just a couple weeks now. Where in the world have my manners gone...Blake, this is Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, this is Blake Williams."
Sherlock stood to shake Blake's hand, not to be polite but rather to remind the man that he was taller. "Pleasure," Blake greeted with a firm shake. "So how do you two know each other?"
"Neighbors," Thatcher replied as Sherlock sat again, his right arm moving back into position across the back of her chair. Her mind blanked momentarily when she realized his fingers were stroking the bare skin of her shoulder. "Sherlock lives in the flat above me."
"Ah, well then I trust you've been keeping an eye on her," Blake said, his eyes barely moving from Thatcher as he spoke.
"Both," Sherlock replied coolly. When the man looked at him in surprise he smirked, relishing the response. People generally were much too easy for him to poke and prod but that didn't make it any less of an enjoyable activity.
"Well, I'll let you get back to your drinks. I'll see you around, Thatch." Blake said, his gaze once more lingering on her. She nodded in response and offered a small smile.
"What is your ex doing here?" Sherlock inquired once Blake had returned back to his group of friends.
"Why must you assume that he is my ex?" Thatcher asked after knocking back the rest of her drink.
"Isn't he?"
"Yes," she replied sullenly.
"He still has feelings for you," Sherlock admitted, watching her closely.
"I doubt that."
"Why? You should have seen the way he was staring. He can't keep his eyes off you. Clearly indicative of an emotional attachment."
"Emotional attachment doesn't mean that they are good emotions." Thatcher knew the conversation would not stop until Sherlock got the confirmation he wanted. "I'm sure he's found out what happened and was going to rub it in my face…"
"What happened?"
"Blake and I dated throughout college. When I started graduate school, he began medical school. We broke up. Not much to tell, really."
Sherlock tucked Thatcher's blonde locks behind her ear, letting his hand linger on her neck. She felt a shiver run down her spine. "You don't have to play along anymore, he's gone," she told him breathlessly.
"I'm not playing," he lied easily. "Besides, he's still watching. Tell me what happened."
She wasn't sure if it was the burn from the scotch, the tingle from his cool fingers on her neck, or the look in his eyes, but it was working on her. "I fell in love with someone else."
His fingers dug lightly into the back of her neck as he pulled her toward him. Sherlock thought that she might have at least put up some resistance but there was none. They both completely met one another's expectations: Sherlock's kiss was insistent but gentle; Thatcher's lips were soft and eager. As the kiss ended, they rested their foreheads against each other's. She wanted to kiss him again, feeling a pull growing deep in her body. It had been a feeling that had been absent for quite a while and he was reminding her of how much she enjoyed it.
"Let's get out of here," he suggested, his eyes moving towards the door.
"Good idea," she answered. They stood together and Sherlock pulled her coat off the back of her chair, offering it to her. She smiled and turned her back, slipping first her left arm and then her right into the garment. She buttoned it while he pulled on his own overcoat and reached for his scarf. Standing on tiptoe, she wrapped the scarf around the back of his neck and pulled the free ends through the opposite loop as she had watched him do earlier.
"After you." He motioned for her to lead the way and once she was in front of him, his hand found the small of her back as he followed closely behind. The cold night breeze stung their alcohol- and hormone-driven flushes as they stepped out onto the street. They hadn't gone far when he snaked his hand around her waist, pulling her close against his own body and kissing her softly on her temple. They walked in sync and silence, neither quite sure what to do with the other.
Thatcher rested her head on his arm as they got closer to their building. Though she felt sure that this was still some sort of act, it didn't mean that she wasn't enjoying it. The walk home seemed to be much shorter than she remembered. Sherlock turned the knob and held the door open for her. They stood at the foot of the stairs that led up to Sherlock's flat, neither one able to meet the other's eyes. He ran his fingers lightly across her forehead, moving her bangs out of her face. "Do you want to come up?" he asked, his fingers finding the back of her neck again. He wanted nothing more than to pull her close and kiss her again. If he was being truly honest to himself, he wanted to do much more than just kiss her.
"I would love to…but I think it would be better if I didn't." Thatcher answered, biting her lower lip. Sherlock felt his heart pounding a little harder in his chest, staring at her lips. He leaned down and kissed her before she could stop him. "Sherlock, we can't." She muttered in protest but could not stop from kissing him back.
"You're right," he said, breaking their kiss. He shoved his hands back into the pockets of his coat and took a step back from her.
"I know," she replied, sighing audibly. "Goodnight Sherlock."
Thatcher turned from him, pulling her keys out of her pocket to unlock her door. She knew that if she didn't walk away now that they could end up doing something they would both regret. 'Well, I'm not sure that he would regret it…' she thought, looking back at him before shutting the door behind her and going downstairs.
"Goodnight Thatcher." Once her door had shut, Sherlock began up to his own flat. After removing his coat, he walked through the kitchen to his bedroom to change into something more comfortable. When he re-entered the living room a few minutes later, he was disappointed fleetingly that she was not there. Deciding that she had made the right decision to not join him, he picked up his violin and bow and paced through the sitting room for a few moments. He usually could not care less about his relationships but there was something different. The more he pondered on it the more he came to realize that he cared for her much in the way that he cared for Mrs. Hudson or DI Lestrade. These people were fixtures in his life and he wanted it to stay that way. Sherlock took a deep breath and let it out slowly as he played his first note.
Thatcher had decided to just slip off her jeans and coat before crawling into her cold bed. She was both angry and proud but mostly lonely as a tune drifted down, lulling her to sleep. "You need a friend much more than you need a fuck," she reminded herself sternly. Still, as she turned to lay on her side and curl her knees up toward her chest, she could still feel where he had touched her neck…where he had kissed her. Try as hard as she might, they would not go away and her mind decided instead to replay the night's events. 'Perhaps it will end differently in my dream,' she thought as she drifted off, sleeping finally claiming her.
A/N: Sorry this chapter took a while but I ended up re-writing it like three different times! Hope you all enjoyed. :)
