Sherlock and Jane pretend everything's fine. Of course it is. Why wouldn't it be?
AN: This one is a bit short, and not much goes on, but I am trying to break up the ending scenes and this is the way it all landed on paper so to speak. And honestly, you guys are so great. I can't believe all the comments and follows I've been getting. You guys are the best. Enjoy!
After Inspector Dimmock finishes hauling up the last remaining crates of books, the uncomfortable tension that was created by the entrance of one ill-timed landlady became fiercely noticeable in the silent flat. Jane decides to be the one to break it.
"Lukis and Van Coon…?" she says inspecting one of the labels stuck to a crate.
"Yes. These are all the books from their respective flats," Sherlock says and opens the crate closest to him. He still doesn't look at her.
So they were going to pretend like nothing happened, then. Which was fine. Jane could do that. She was a master at sweeping things under the rug and forgetting about them. What had she even been thinking anyway? Kissing Sherlock Holmes? What a way to absolutely ruin everything. Sherlock didn't even do these things. He disdained sentiment, and most forms of human contact, and she knew very well what he thought of love —
Her mind stutters to a halt, and it feels as if she's plunged into a vat of ice water.
Love?
That's not what she meant at all. Where did that even come from?
Jane is so wrapped up in the tumult of her thoughts that she nearly jumps right out of her skin at the return of Inspector Dimmock barging back in.
"Oh I almost forgot. We found these, at the Museum," he says handing Sherlock a plastic evidence bag with the pictures of the graffiti Jane took with her phone. "Is this your writing?"
"We had hoped Soo Lin would be able to decipher it for us," Sherlock says, and takes it out so he could stick it back on the mirror with sello tape. There's a gap filled with awkward silence, and the Inspector shifts on his feet.
"Anything else I can do to assist you?" he asks, and Jane arches an eyebrow.
Sherlock doesn't even look up from the book he's pulled out and is currently rifling through. "Some silence would be marvellous."
"Right…" Dimmock says and looks at her. She gives a half-hearted shrug. "Well. I'll be going then."
"La'ters," Sherlock says, and Jane blinks at him. How he managed to make that particular colloquialism sound aloof yet supercilious at the same time Jane didn't know, but it was probably the most ridiculous thing she's ever heard.
"I'm sorry, what?" she blurts when Dimmock leaves.
"What?" Sherlock asks, finally looking up at her. "I can be current." He gives her a challenging look, but the effect is undermined due to the smirk tugging at his lips.
"You're such a dick," she laughs and he can't help but chuckle as well, and just like that the ice between them has thawed.
"Might do with some tea," he says after their laughter has subsided.
"Yeah I'll put the kettle on," she says and makes her way to the kitchen. "So the numbers, then. What are they?"
"They're references to books. Specifically, certain pages and certain words on those pages."
She comes back out into the sitting room to stand in front of the mirror with Sherlock. "…Okay, so fifteen and one…"
"Page fifteen, and the first word on that page. The trick is finding which book the Black Lotus are referencing. Soo Lin said all the smugglers know it, so it's based off a fairly common book; one that most people would own or have easy access to."
Jane looks at the dozens of crates littering their sitting room, her heart beginning to sink as she puts two and two together. "And so we —?"
"— are going to catalog each and every book from Lukis and Van Coon, correct," Sherlock finishes, confirming her worst suspicions.
"We're gonna need a lot more tea," she says, and goes back into the kitchen to fetch the boiled kettle.
Hours later, she's not sure how many, Jane's head is swimming with book titles and random words nearly filling three whole pages of yellow legal paper. She rubs the back of her sore neck, and jumps when the tinny alarm of her watch goes off right by her ear. She looks down at it disorientated. It reads 07:00. Christ. They had been at it all night, and now she had an hour before she had to leave for work.
"That's just marvellous," she groans and thumps her head down on her arm. It was going to be a long day.
…
Her first 'official' day at the surgery was to be expected. That is: equal parts boring and tedious. She dealt mostly with people with the 'Flu, prescribing decongestants, lots of rest, fluids, and in one uninspiring case, antibiotics. It was the most excitement she got all day, so it was no surprise, really that she nodded off during her shift, her head aching.
"Jane? Jane?"
Jane startles awake to the feeling of a hand on her shoulder. Her head shoots up from where it was nestled on top of her forearms, and she is met with Stephen's concerned gaze peering at her through his metal rimmed glasses.
"Oh! God, I'm sorry," she says, and surreptitiously wipes a spot of drool from her cheek.
"I said you could take another day if you still felt poorly?" he says but not unkindly. He tilts her chin up gently and takes a look into her eyes. His hands are cool against her skin, and she didn't realise it before, but her head does feel rather swimmy.
"No I'm — I'm all right…" she trails off. His hand is still cupping her chin, and it feels really nice all of a sudden to be touched this way. She leans in a bit, and something in Stephen's gaze softens. He moves his hand up to her cheek and the tips of his fingers trace her skin.
"You've got marks there from your sleeves," he says softly, grinning his boyish grin before he lowers his hand.
"Brilliant," she remarks wryly. "God this is hardly professional. Falling asleep the first day on the job. Lines on my face. Drooling."
Stephen chuckles. "Well it's better than my first day. Intern fresh out of med school: I mixed up the blood samples, and dropped three jars of urine."
"Yikes," Jane says through her laughter.
"Yeah. Not one of my proudest moments," he says and steps back as she gets to her feet a little more unsteady than she wished. She presses her finger tips into her temple, and tries to shake out the cobwebs. "You sure you're okay?"
"Yes. I just had a bit of a late one last night."
"What were you up doing?" Stephen asks with mild curiosity.
"I was attending a sort of book…event. Thing."
"Oh. So Sherlock likes books, then?" he ventures. He tries to remain casual by folding his hands into his trouser pockets, but the faint blush gives him away. She's oddly…flattered.
"Sherlock…he's my…we're flatmates," she clarifies.
"Flatmates?" he says trying to cover up his relief. "Good. That's good," he nods to himself. "Can I…walk you home?"
She regards him for a moment taking note of his easy but hopeful expression. "Yeah. I'd like that," she says, and she's surprised she actually means it.
-oOo-
Sherlock is running out of time. The day is nearly gone, and he's still no closer to cracking the cipher. He drags his fingers through his hair, and lets out a wordless roar of frustration.
"A book that everyone would own. A book that everyone would own," he repeats pacing in short angry circles.
He whips around to the book case and snatches the Oxford English Dictionary, an NHS manual, and the Holy Bible. He flips to page fifteen in the dictionary and slams it shut when the entry is 'ADD.' He chucks the useless thing aside, grabbing the health manual. The word is 'NOSTRILS,' and he lobs it across the room as hard as he can as if it insulted him personally. At the end of his fuse, he reaches for the Bible.
Page fifteen, entry one: …'I.' (Damn! Damn it all right down to the furthest pits of Hell.)
He wants to hurtle this across the room as well, but he stops short. This one was Jane's, and even though he'd never known her as an overly religious person, it was clear by the cracked binding and tattered leather edges this was a book she frequently poured over. He'd never actually seen her read it, but he knew that it was special to her given the fact it was on the shelf at eye-level for easy access and not tucked up high and out of sight. He opens the first page, and finds what he is looking for.
To my dearest Janette.
May this protect you in the darkest valleys of death and be a lamp onto thy feet and bring you back home.
Love Da.
Sherlock closes the book and holds it in his hands a bit more carefully than before. This token traveled with Jane to Afghanistan and back, and was among the scant few possessions she truly treasured. More importantly, it was a vestige that Jane had a whole life before she met him. The thought comes as a shock to him, although he doesn't know why that is. What's even more of a shock is when he remembers how his own life was before he met Jane. He didn't like to think about those days. (And it wasn't like it was even that long ago. Why is that? Why is he sopossessed by her? And consequently, why doesn't he mind?)
He tucks the Bible back onto the shelf with care, and sinks into his armchair with his fingers steepled under his chin. He lets his mind drift back to the events of last night, and closes his eyes.
Jane's distress stands out to him foremost. The tight downward crest of her lips and the pleats of her brow as she attempted to keep Soo Lin alive are not things he likes to linger over too long. He files the image away in a drawer that's labeled 'Expressions' and figuratively slides it back in place in the wall with dozens of other drawers filled with nuances and facts about Jane. Instead, he pulls out the drawer marked 'Untitled' and pulls out the memory of her leaning over his shoulder as they both looked at the Ming Vases on the computer screen.
He pauses the image, and with his hands pantomimes clearing away the dross and leaving more salient details that he could manipulate at will. First he rids the tableau before his mind's-eye of all sight and sound leaving only the feeling of her warm body pressed against him and the airy smell of her apple-blossom hand crème. When had she reapplied it, he wonders? It had been faded most likely from earlier in the day, but it still clung strongly to the under side of her wrists when she reached across him to point at something on the screen. The scent is subtly different on her own skin than it is in the bottle, he notices, the floral notes leaving behind a citrus undertone mingling with Jane's own scent that permeated her hair and clothes. This recalls the other (pleasant) olfactory memory of his nose pressed against the crown of her head as she slept against him, smelling for once purely like herself. He folds the unique smell of tea leaves and cotton and gun oil like a paper lotus and tucks it away.
Sherlock then brings the scene into crystal clarity once more, and they are suddenly bent towards one another as if attracted by polarity, noses almost touching. Her intense gaze enthralled him, and her lips slightly parted in surprise, reminded him of the warm skin of a peach: supple and lush. He remembers the sudden desire to want to sample those lips for no other reason than to taste. To catalog the sensation of his sliding against hers, and the dewy scent of her breath as it mingled with his own. He can imagine, oh sure he can. But he wouldn't be a very good scientist if he was simply left to his imagination. (He needed data. Cold hard facts.)
The charged air between them made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, and as he remembered the excitement coiling around his frame he pauses the image once more, savouring the all-encompassing thrill of the moment at its peak just before Mrs. Hudson barged in and shattered the gossamer tension binding them together.
It is before this gut wrenching occurrence that he decides to tuck the memory away in its neat little box and slides the drawer shut.
He emerges from his MindPalace much the same way he entered: conflicted.
Agitated, Sherlock gets to his feet and plants both hands squarely on the mantle piece, glaring at the collage of papers, and photographs. One scrap catches his eye, a torn off edge of a poster that he found when they were at the railway. He stabs it definitively with his forefinger, and his eyes flick over the bold lettering of the advert: ONE NIGHT ONLY, YELLOW DRAGON CIRCUS FROM SHANGHAI – DON'T MISS THE WORLD FAMOUS CHINESE BIRD-SPIDER AERIAL ACT.
(Coincidence? Hardly.)
If the Black Lotus was planning something, the easiest way to find out would be to infiltrate the circus. He had already called the box office in advance and requested two tickets for this evening for Jane and him.
As if on cue, Sherlock hears the street door open signaling Jane's return, and he snatches the paper from the mirror.
However, he stops half way to the door to the lounge when he hears two sets of feet on the stairs followed by two different voices. (Jane's: affable but strained – nervous maybe? – she laughs at something the other person says, male, about 5'9" due to his gait. The timbre sounds familiar – ah yes that colleague of hers, Samuel was it?) (Why is he here?) He hastily shoves the scrap of paper into his pocket and leans against the mantle assuming an air of disinterest.
"— make you some tea. It's the least I can do," Jane says leading the way into the flat.
"Well thank you. Tea sounds lovely," comes the reply, and Sherlock rolls his eyes. The awkward useless banter sets his teeth on edge.
"Oh Sherlock," Jane says only just noticing him. "I thought you'd be at Bart's or something."
"Doing what exactly?" he snipes, turning away. "I'm not putting you out am I? You and Simon? I only live here, but if you need me to leave I suppose I can entertain myself somehow."
"Take it easy," Jane says hanging her coat up on the hook. "I don't want you to leave. I just can't believe you've been at those books all day that's all. I suppose you haven't eaten as well?" He doesn't deign a response even though he can feel her concerned gaze as she no doubt deduces the answer for herself. "I'll make you a cuppa too then, you great sod. Stephen, er, sorry about the mess, and my obnoxious flatmate. Ignore both if you can and make yourself comfortable." (Oh so they're back to flatmates, are they? Not colleagues. Not friends. Not —)
"So this is what you and Jane do? Solve puzzles?" Stephen says coming up behind him and staring at the clutter taped to the mirror. He unbuttons his jacket and stuffs his hands in his trouser pockets. Sherlock has to physically tamp down his frisson of irritation.
"They're not puzzles," he says through his teeth. "we — I consult for the police."
"Consult…?" he says, confused.
"Yes. Murders. Crimes. The like. And Jane comes with to shed some light on the medical aspect of things."
The other man's eyebrows inch towards his hairline. "So she wasn't joking about the whole crime-solving thing?"
"No." He says and begins to jot a few notes down on the small pad he has on the mantle. An awkward silence stretches out between them, the scritching of pen and paper the only sound. Stephen shifts on his feet.
"What, um, what are all these squiggles?" he asks pointing to the photo of the graffiti.
"They're numbers. An ancient Chinese dialect," Sherlock says sparing him a condescending glance in the mirror.
"Of course they are. Should have known that one," Stephen remarks sarcastically. Sherlock puts down his pen and turns to face him. He arches and eyebrow after giving him a once over. (He looks ridiculously confident even though his taste in attire is atrocious — tweed jacket, brown leather elbow patches, black pea coat slung over Jane's armchair along with a scarf the colour of rag weed, honestly thank goodness Jane was partially colour blind — with an easy smile, and self-assured slope to his shoulders.)
"Don't take her to the cinema," he says abruptly, eyeing Jane as she bustles about in the kitchen.
"Sorry?"
"When you ask her out tonight, and when she says yes as she undoubtedly will do, don't take her to the cinema. It's boring and predictable. You obviously want to impress her. You should take her here," Sherlock says and pulls the scrap of poster out of his pocket, slightly crumpled.
"I…you really think so?" Stephen says lowering his voice and reaching for the paper.
"Show starts at eight. The tickets are reserved under the name, Holmes," Sherlock says by way of an answer. He crosses the living room and dons his coat just as Jane comes in with three steaming mugs of tea.
"Where are you going?" she says.
"Bart's," he says sharply, and winds his scarf under his chin. "Have a nice date," he says snapping the t off at the end. He gives a false, fractured smile before heading down the stairs without another word.
(He pretends he's not jealous. Not at all.)