Tea
Irene is standing in the kitchen in the middle of the night, staring at the inside of a near-empty fridge, holding open the door with one hand. Cold air billows through her pyjamas. She isn't there for a late night snack. She's trying to shake off an image, a voice. Sound and colour magnified, reverberating around her in potent waves of memory.
He stands before an open refrigerator, one hand on the door. Red hair backlit so the tips are singed orange. A milk carton sits by his thigh.
"Go back downstairs."
She snaps herself out of it, shivering and sweating all at once. Breathe. Breathe. Just stand here, and look at the foil-wrapped casserole, at the plate of neatly stacked scones. Mrs Hudson must have baked yesterday. How nice of her. Close the fridge.
Irene turns around, and slides down the cool metal to sit on the tile floor, running an absentminded hand down the bandages on her arm. She feels trapped in here, trapped in the sitting room, trapped in her own bedroom.
It's been two days since she and Sherlock came home, two days of heightened emotion, people bustling in and out of the flat, everyone wired. Lestrade overjoyed; John still furious and thankful and teary; Mrs Hudson weepy, hugging her and Sherlock every ten minutes; Molly glowing and relieved, her secret finally out.
Irene attempting to blend into the background. Sherlock trying so hard to make everyone happy, to keep up appearances.
But she's seen the cracks. He's not doing nearly as well as everyone believes.
Soft footsteps on the stairs. Someone's awake and coming down to the sitting room. Irene springs to her feet, unsure if it's John or Sherlock, what to do. She feels like a fool, standing in the kitchen in the dark, her back against the fridge.
You're not trapped. Walk forward. You know these men. If it's John you can tell him you were going to boil some water for tea –
Sherlock comes around the corner, sees her, and stops.
They stare at each other. His hair is mussed into quills; his jaw is rough with stubble. He's empty-eyed. Irene can only imagine she looks the same.
Do you think I'm pretty, Sherlock? I know how you look: but there are no words for your alabaster shine.
(Oh, don't even start that. Not now.)
Are you sleeping at all?
(Say something.)
"I couldn't sleep." She pushes strands of hair out of her face. The stupid flush is creeping up her neck again; she clenches her other hand behind her back. "But I'm feeling better now." Why is she telling him this?
"Well, goodnight."
Sherlock holds up one long hand to stop her. The scar on his palm flashes. "Tea might help."
"What?" She's watching that unfamiliar scar.
Sherlock sees it: he lets his hand fall.
Then he seems to corral himself. "Decaffeinated, of course."
The phrase seems like a non sequitur until she remembers they're talking about tea.
He's slipping past her to the kettle. Sherlock looks down at it, brushing his fingertips along the clear sides. He tilts his head back to examine the open cabinets, selects two cups.
His voice is quiet. "I – am finding it difficult to sleep, as well."
You've changed.
He never would have said that to her, before. But perhaps he trusts her more now, perhaps he thinks of her as a good friend, maybe even on par with John. Or, maybe – but no. She sits down at the table and watches him pour water into the kettle, press down the tab to boil the water. It lights up in a blue shimmer.
Sherlock leans back against the counter, his hands in the loose pockets of his dressing gown. He turns his head, finds her looking at him. Some sort of quick flashing emotion crosses his angular face. Irene realizes she should look away, give him privacy, but she can't.
It's just – he's here. He's still here. Not dead. He never was.
"I'm not going to vanish, Irene. You don't have to pin me to the wall with your eyes."
He's stolen the words from her head; she tightens her lips and looks away. But had his tone been gentle, softer than usual? More like teasing, not malicious. There's no way to be sure.
"Of course not," she offers, after a moment. I have no intention of letting you vanish again.
The kettle begins to whistle, and Sherlock switches it off. The clink of cups, spoons, splashing of tea against porcelain. Tapping as he sets the cups on a tray. Irene leans her head against her hand.
He brings the tray over, places it in the centre of the table, and to her surprise, pulls out a chair and sits opposite her. Irene glances up, about to reach for her cup, and sees his fingers fold together before his mouth. It's his thinking pose.
Scalding tears fill her eyes and spill over before she can look away. One spatters on the table, glossing the wood in water. The rest catch under her chin. Irene snatches up a napkin from the tray and dabs hurriedly at her eyes, trying to swallow the hot lump in her throat.
Don't be an idiot. Stop crying. He's just sitting there, being Sherlock; you're freaking him out. Come on. Act sensibly. Pull yourself together.
"Sorry," she says, trying to control her voice, "I'm just having a moment. I'm fine." She swipes the napkin under her chin, crumples it in her hands. The tea cups shimmer on the white tray.
"No, it's fine."
"I just –" she tries.
"You can't –"
"What?"
Both of them have spoken the question at the same time, and Irene looks up.
Sherlock is looking steadily back at her, his greyish eyes piercing. He nods at the cup of tea closest to her. She reaches out and takes it, her fingers slick on the heated ceramic.
"You first," she says. She puts her lips to the brim. The tea is strong and sweet, just the way she likes it.
"You can't expect to have everything back to normal in just a few days," he says.
Irene knows he's not just talking about his return, but also about Moran. She stares into the milky-brown tea, then puts it down.
"I know."
They look at each other. His eyes flicker back and forth, between her and the window, her and the wall; one of his bare feet is bouncing, tum tum pop on the wooden floor. She realizes that Sherlock wants to suggest a course of action to correct their current stagnation, but he's afraid that if he does so, he'll have to follow it as well.
"Sherlock," she says, steeling herself, "we need to do something." She doesn't need to clarify. He knows what she means.
Sherlock curves his lips into a sardonic pixie smile. "You think we should have some sort of sharing time, where we talk about our feelings and past actions, and how nothing that happened to us was our fault."
The words are flippant, but his tone is not. It wavers somewhere between petulance and agreement.
Irene fidgets with her cup. "Something like that. Maybe. Or we could just – sit here, and drink tea. Like you said, we shouldn't expect normality immediately."
Sherlock relaxes, his shoulders falling, and his gaze returns to her.
She props her chin up with both hands. Her eyelids dropping to the condensation on her teacup. Shimmery glaze over the porcelain.
"Go to bed," Sherlock says. "You're not even drinking your tea."
Irene sits up. "Neither are you." She looks him square in the face. "You go to bed."
He shakes his head, a swift snap of neck muscles.
They aren't talking about going to bed, not at all. Tingling races up and down her arms. She swallows and makes to look away, but she can't.
There is a moment's indecision in his whole body, a halt. As though invisible chains have snapped from his wrists and he can't decide if he is free to move or not. Irene lets her eyes remain on him: a question.
Welcome.
He reaches across the tray and brushes two knuckles against her cheek and the corner of her mouth. A lingering feathery touch that reaches almost to her lip.
Oh. You are touching me. Sherlock. Sherlock…
She blinks, unable to do anything, knowing her eyes are full of her thoughts, laid open like a painting. Written along the softening incline of her head, the black rounding of her eyes. Her hands collapsing like open blooms around the teacup.
Sherlock draws his hand back. Quite suddenly he is all cold again, his face closing down, his hands flattening on the hard table. In a moment he will act as though it has never happened. She cannot allow him to do this.
Her face flames where he has touched her. She finds herself rising to her feet, pushing the chair back.
"I'll see you tomorrow," she says, her voice as gentle as she can make it, seeing the realization of what he's done move through his frame, the beginning of a horrified paralysis. "I think I'll go to bed now. Sleep well."
As she passes him she lays a hand on his shoulder to reassure him, to tell him his touch wasn't unwanted, her fingers closing for a heartbeat on the warmth of his dressing gown. Then she snatches her hand away and hurries out, up the stairs on quick feet, away from the kitchen. As far as she can go without leaving the flat. She tumbles into her room and shuts the door.
For a moment she stares at the wallpaper: black on beige, thin tendrils and flowers curling upwards towards the ceiling.
She doesn't know what to think.
She closes her eyes and sees Sherlock's hand, reaching towards her face, curled in a tentative knot of fingers. The brush of his hand against her cheek. Cool skin. His green-grey eyes, wide open, black pupils huge. Her flower-face reflected in them.
Downstairs there's movement, the sound of a chair scraping back. Then silence.
She imagines Sherlock looking up at the ceiling, at where she stands. Where she stands, looking down at him in the kitchen. Separated by a single floor as wide as her hand. So few feet between them.
