Sherlock droops. He runs his hand over his hair, which is now dry. "Nothing," he says. "We do nothing right now. Our best plan is in fact the same best plan as for the populace in general: stay safe, conserve light, and hope that things look better in the morning." He stretches, and stands, holding out his hand to her.
She takes it and lets him pull her to her feet. He damps down the fire while she clears away the evidence of their supper, and then they head for the stairs.
Joan finds she can see her home just as well without light, now that she is used to it. The darkness is a guest she has invited in. She does not need a hand to hold.
Sherlock is behind her with a tray of his own candles.
She pushes open her bedroom door, and stops.
Sherlock stops too. "What is it, Watson? Do you want me to check the room?"
"No. Yes. Come in."
Joan sees the bright circle around his tray wobble. He enters her bedroom ahead of her. She follows him, then stands between the window and the bed.
He lifts the candles, casts brightness all around the room. "It's fine, Watson. There's nobody here and nobody has been here. This is just an irrational fear arising from the burden of unusual stresses from the last twenty four hours. "
Joan frowns. Sherlock sets the candle tray on the chest of drawers. There is a pause.
Sherlock takes a step towards her. Stops with the corner of the bedstead between them. "I know that I have been responsible for some of those stresses and I apologise," he says. His hand hovers over the bedframe, lands on it, clutches.
"What? No. I walked out into the city with you of my own free will," she says. "It's not your fault things happened out there."
He goes on: "I am concerned that I may have contributed ... personally."
He is flicking his fingers against the bedframe.
Joan looks at him. As usual his gaze is on anything but her face. She knows, though, that the instant she looks away, his eyes will be on her, searching. "Do you mean, in bed last night?" she asks steadily. One of them has to be able to refer to it.
He tilts his head left and right.
How did he ever meet girls, she wonders, with this inability to face facts? Then she thinks: he doesn't. He had this one girlfriend, maybe ever, who knows, and since then he's closed himself off completely.
Sex as pure physical maintenance; attachment as a thing to be avoided.
She relents a little. "You did not add to the stress," she tells him. "If anything, I think last night helped us deal with it. And, you know – "
She stops herself. Her mouth was about to run on and say something like, it was driving me crazy wanting to touch you after all this time.
He is looking at her directly now, with narrowed eyes.
She clams up and stands looking back with as bland a face as she can manage.
"I knew," he says then. "I knew all day that you wanted to be ... intimate with me."
His voice is low. There is a rumble through it which her lizard brain translates directly into desire. She fights it back so that she can listen properly. "How?" she asks.
"Several things actually. But most noticeable was when you took a glow stick out of my coat pocket. "
She spreads her hands.
He sighs lightly. "When you had a pocket full of them yourself."
Oh.
"So... you could have avoided it," she says slowly. Instead of which he'd found the most expensive empty bed in the city and invited her into it. That puts rather a different complexion on events.
He is open mouthed in surprise. "Why would I want to avoid it?"
"Um ..." She does not want to suggest reasons.
He still has the bedframe under his hand. "I was surprised," he says. "But." He shakes his head as if ridding himself of something clinging. "Glad."
"It was fun," she says. "And you were ..."
She can only think of clichéd words which don't fit.
"You saw me," she says at last. "You saw me with touch, and you absorbed me with your mind, you memorised me."
He lets go the bedstead. "Not entirely," he says. His voice shows his ragged breath.
He reaches and pinches out the nearest candle on the tray. She flinches. That has to hurt. He maintains eye contact and snuffs the next one between finger and thumb.
He is still gazing at her, and a dark look is gathering in his eye.
The next one. Only the last candle, on the corner of the tray, is left.
He twitches an eyebrow at her and gives that lopsided smile.
-And she understands what's going on.
He is making darkness. Making a moment for them.
His hand hovers beside the flame. He looks at her. His hand drops away. "Perhaps it would be better to leave this one," he says, turning away at last. "As a precaution."
He glances up. She sees hope on his face.
Joan steps forward and lifts the candle. She looks into his eyes in its ultimate glow and sees desire, can hear his breathing speed up. "I can still see you in the dark," she says, and blows out the candle.
He gives her no time for her eyes to adjust. His hands are on her arms, his lips on her neck then under her jaw, beside her ear, across her cheek bone and back down to her throat. His fingers open and close on her arms one two three four.
She slides her arms around his waist and pulls him against her body. He smells of soap and candlesmoke, and his hair is soft and fine against her ear.
"Desire is a natural state," she says. "A human urge to make connections and form new alliances."
"Procreation," he corrects her automatically, his mouth still on her skin.
She shakes her head and presses her fingers against his shoulder blades. "The societal urges are the more powerful in the long term."
"I am not really a society sort of person," he says. "Those things mean nothing to me." But he moves his hands from her arms, placing the heel of his left hand into the small of her back as his right hand finds her left and he slips his fingers between hers, holds them, warm hand, strong grip.
She smiles and strokes the back of his neck. "I know." She feels a rush of affection for his mix of confidence and nerves, and stands on tiptoe and kisses his lips. He sighs against her mouth, and she expects passion, intensity, but he surprises her with gentleness, soft mouth, everything held in restraint, stroking her hair, his hand still in hers.
She pulls him towards the bed, and they lie with arms and legs around each other, kissing slowly and easily. "You kiss as if every time is the first kiss," Joan says. It is rather wonderful and she could tolerate a great deal more of it.
He does not reply, just inches away a little so that he can rest his hand on her hip.
"It's good," she tells him.
"Hundred and forty seventh," he says. "Give or take."
"No." He has been counting. She should not be surprised. Is not surprised. Of course he counts. He cannot help it.
"An estimate."
"You and data," she says.
"You and me," he says. "Joan –"
She waits, invisible in the dark as he is to her.
"We should sleep," he says.
"Yes."
They kick off shoes and climb under the comforter. He arranges himself around her with possessive familiarity.
"Sherlock," she says, aware that sleep is not a likely early outcome, "when you have gathered all the data, once you know me, is that it?"
She expects him to fidget and demur but he just says "No," and then stops further questions by kissing her. "People," he adds after a moment. "Data on people is never fixed, never finished. It's what fascinates me the most."
She finds his hand, sneaking around her rib cage, and presses his knuckles against her lips. "Here's to new data," she says, and he laughs, and takes off his sweater, nothing underneath, and her t shirt, and they giggle and kiss and wrestle under the covers trying to take everything off and there are too many arms and legs and it is hilarious and then serious.
Sherlock's mouth is on her belly her hands in his hair tugging at him, her words almost gone and his just starting, when there is a crack and a clunk and the lights come on.
