Chapter Text
Chapter Ten: But He Told Us Where We Stand
A rift opens between them after Liam's sudden passing – Liam, meaning "resolute protection" was the name they'd chosen, after they were told they had to choose a name for the death certificate. She becomes distant, withdrawn to her room for the largest part of her days, and he, as per usual, avoids his own feelings by burying them in work.
He nearly relapses the day they bury their child inside one of those macabre baby-sized coffins, but opts instead for a fight with a gigantic tattooed bloke outside a pub west of the river, spending the night in jail, carefully tucked away from any triggers.
The very next morning he hails a cab back to the brownstone, with every intention to apologise profusely for his misdemeanour, but she doesn't say anything about it, doesn't confront him at all, so he lets it go.
Later that same day, he trots up the stairs with a steaming mug of tea to offer her, hoping – with every fibre in his body – that she'll speak to him. Not exchange pleasantries or obscenities, as they've been doing for the past month – four weeks and two days, to be precise – but to actually talk. She's the cornerstone to his foundation, and he can feel her crumbling beneath his body, and he knows – oh how he knows – he can't stand without her support.
He knocks softly on her door, and from where he stands, he can hear the muffled sounds of sniffing.
"Watson? May I come in?" He asks, shifting his weight on his heels.
"Just a minute." She chirps, her voice stuffy and synthetic.
"Watson, I'm coming in." He yells back, pushing the door open.
She has her face buried in a pillow when he comes in, her left hand firmly clutching a piece of paper with an official government symbol on it.
She's not herself. She hasn't been herself in a while. But lying there, wearing an old tee-shirt with the words WELCOME TO BALTIMORE – TRY THE CRACK printed on the yellow cotton, black capris hugging her slender legs, her auburn hair sprawled across the pillows, he knows she's still in there somewhere.
"Watson, what is that?" he asks, setting the mug on the nightstand
"Nothing, it's nothing." She spits, sliding the piece of paper under the covers.
"Watson, let me see." He pleads, offering her his open palm.
"Sherlock, forget about it."
"Joan" he breathes "please."
She passes him the sheet, sitting up on the bed and turning her back on him.
"Watson…" he whispers, upon identifying the document as Liam's death certificate.
Liam Scott Holmes
Mount Sinai Beth Israel
March 12, 2015
9:51 PM
Male
He had never seen it before. It was shipped to their brownstone by captain Gregson, who they relied upon when it came to the legal matters of the situation. It's a fucking tragedy, he thinks, that this is a thing that happens.
He knows there's no-one to blame, no-one to scream at, no-one to guilt-trip, but shit, does he wish there was.
He also knows she'd be disgusted at the thoughts roaming around his mind right then, thoughts about having to save her, to restore her livelihood, her very spirit, but he has to – has to – find a way to do all of these things.
He lies heavy besides her, placing the certificate next to the mug, and brings her hot body to his cold one.
"I will fix this, Watson, I promise you I will."
He calls Seamus O'Connor, his contact at the Gardaí, that same night. He was quick, straight to the point, asked for a position as a consultant detective and informed him that he would be taking a partner – sharp, talented, and with a knack for diplomacy. O'Connor said he couldn't promptly offer a paid position, but that he was more than welcome to come and help out, and he'd grill his superiors on permanently hiring him a little further along the road.
Sherlock was thrilled – well, not thrilled, Sherlock Holmes was never "thrilled", but thrilled-ish. He made the arrangements quickly, two tickets to Dublin three days away, a small flat on the outskirts of Dublin city centre, a well-thought out speech to convince her to board a transatlantic flight to Ireland and he's set. They need this, he knows they do, a fresh start somewhere their past can't find them. He prints out the tickets, finds his passport and faxes the landlord his signed lease, and gathers enough courage to walk to Watson's bedroom and talk her into going, carrying the printed tickets with him.
"Watson, I need to speak to you." He barks, from behind her closed door.
"Come in." She says, just loud enough for him to hear.
"I'm here to ask you," he begins "if you think you can trust me."
"Of course I trust you." She answers, staring at him.
"Then please hear what I have to say, and let me know what you think after I'm done." He explains, dropping on the armchair beneath her window. "This" he says, motioning around himself and the room "has been scarring for us both. We lost a child, Watson, and we can't get him back." He hears her suck in a deep breath "I want to restore the bits of our lives we are - realistically - able to. I highly regard you, Watson, more than anyone, and I have no desire to lose you." she lets it out "I have every intention to smooth this transition, and I have come up with a plan I judge fit."
She rises to her feet and walks to the window, beside him, and gazes at the city. It's gorgeous, bare, infinitely mysterious and remarkably honest.
She loves it, but Joan Watson wants a home.
They say home is where you hang your hat.
Hers has never left her head.
"What do you reckon?" She hears him ask.
"Mmm?"
"Would you come to Ireland with me? Work as a consultant detective for the Gardaí?"
She reflects for a moment, and it strikes as the most perfect of plans.
A blank sheet of paper.
A bloodless history.
"Yes."