Three months passed before Natasha could return to London. Clint's farm had been her first stop upon returning to the U.S., but soon she'd moved on to the newly christened Avengers Tower to reconvene with the rest of the group. Steve put his search for Bucky on hold; Bruce and Tony did the same with their work, and soon they were storming Hydra outposts around the world searching for Loki's Chitauri scepter.
It took them two months to track it down, but they finally found it in Sokovia; a small war-torn country in Eastern Europe. Tony had taken possession of it, and for three days used it to breathe life into what he was calling the Ultron program; his answer to world peace. The contrary proved true, and in a matter of days the world was overrun with robots hellbent on extinguishing the human race. Natasha almost lost her life and her sanity in that struggle, but in the end the whole team came together to save the day.
Everything appeared to go back to normal after that. Clint's wife, Laura, gave birth to a beautiful baby boy she'd chosen to name Nathaniel. Steve assumed his role as leader and mentor at the New Avengers facility in upstate New York, with Natasha as his second in command. They weren't called in for committee hearings. They weren't brought to trial.
The world moved on from Ultron the same way it moved on from S.H.I.E.L.D. and Hydra before, or so it seemed.
Natasha didn't find moving on quite so easy. Despite Wanda Maximoff's apologies, her tampering had already wreaked havoc on Natasha's stability. Her nightmares became frequent and vivid, assaulting her with every splatter of red on her ledger whenever she closed her eyes. Her sleep became uneasy and erratic, rarely allowing her body proper rest.
For the first time since her time on the run, Natasha felt the furthest she ever had from her humanity.
Over the course of those three months, Sherlock had been in her thoughts even more than usual. She worried for his safety, but more than that, she missed him and she missed his company. She'd texted him a short while after the ordeal with Ultron was over to let him know she was alive, but that had been the extent of their interactions. She wanted to see him with an intensity that scared her, but she was still needed and she took that seriously. Sherlock, she knew, would understand.
Eventually, her patience paid off and she was able to take a few days off. Clint suggested she fly over to London when she'd visited his farm to meet the newest addition to the Barton clan, after she'd mentioned her arrangement with Sherlock. Natasha took the advice.
She arrived in London at four in the morning exhausted and worn out, but feeling an odd mixture of excitement and uncertainty at the prospect of seeing Sherlock again after such a long time. She crept into 221B and slipped off her boots so she could tiptoe her way into his room, and slowly climbed underneath the covers. She studied his face for a few seconds in the dim light, re-memorizing his features and taking comfort in the fact that he was very much alive. Smiling just a little, she leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to his lips.
Sherlock Holmes had spent three months being extremely busy. The favor for his brother had actually turned into a worthwhile endeavor and opened a new doors for him. John had just been happy that they'd gotten paid for their time with that.
Busy was good, busy kept his mind occupied. But in the quiet times, between cases especially while he was playing the violin, his thoughts drifted to Natasha. She now had a room in his mind palace, and he went over it frequently. Reevaluation of course, but he nearly always came to the same conclusion. He wanted to have this time with Natasha, when it wouldn't interfere with his work, and she was enough of an enigma to keep his mind occupied during their time together.
But the work always came first. In the three months he'd apprehended a serial killer, among many other murderers, thieves, and criminals. A few close calls, one such that had thrown him in the hospital, but he was still alive and causing damage like the East Wind that he was.
It was the global events of the last month that had him thinking about Natasha more often. It wasn't a difficult deduction to know Natasha was neck deep in this as soon as the news footage started. He wasn't terribly sure he liked anyone on her little team. But they did end up saving the world, so he had to give them a bit of credit.
Sherlock had spent the time after the global crisis anxious and pacing the flat. He hadn't heard from her, and while the death toll had a number, they weren't giving out names just yet. Even Mycroft couldn't tell him for sure if she'd survived or not. Her simple text had been a relief and he let himself relax in the knowledge that she'd be back in London eventually. He'd sent her something just as simple back and then they were silent again.
In the week following, Sherlock got tangled up in an extensive and amazingly engaging case involving a gang, two bulldozers, a night of going undercover as a mercenary, and the arrest of four high profile leaders of the London gang operation. It had been a long exhausting case, and when he finally let himself be a human again, he'd shed his suit, pulled on his old pajamas, and crashed into bed.
And it was then, in the wee hours of the morning that Natasha came back to London.
Being as tired as he was, the kiss had barely drawn him out of sleep. It certainly wasn't the first time he'd dreamed about her, but this one felt different. He pinched his features and blinked his eyes open. "Hmm?"
Natasha pulled back just enough to meet the tiny bit of blue peeking out from beneath his eyelids. "Hey you," she said quietly. "You can go back to sleep, I was just saying hello."
"As long…as you aren't a dream, I'm going back to sleep." Sherlock mumbled, reaching out to wrap an arm around her and bring her closer.
"I'm very real," she assured him with a soft chuckle. "And all yours for the next few days," she added once she'd tucked herself close to him, still fully clothed in the jeans, blouse and trench coat she'd worn for the flight. Her eyes closed and for the first time in three months, she allowed herself to relax.
Sherlock fell asleep again almost immediately, but Natasha barely managed two hours before the nightmares began anew. Shabby hospital walls. Girls in braids with smooth skin where their mouths should be. A hand over her face shoving her backwards on a gurney. Bindings cutting into her wrists to keep still. Her hands closed into tight fists against Sherlock's chest and she opened her eyes with a sharp intake of breath, scrambling out from his embrace.
We have no place in the world. The words rattled painfully inside Natasha's head. "Stop. Stop. Stop." She closed her eyes, slapping her hands over ears like a scared little girl. She grit her teeth and pulled her legs up. "Stop."
Sherlock was awake in a flash as the woman in his arms scrambled away from him. He'd taken a knee to his stomach along the way and put his hands out to protect himself from further injury. But she was gone, curled up away from him. He didn't touch her, more than aware of the reaction and fear that might accompany it. Instead he knelt on the bed a few feet away from her. "Natasha." He said calmly, but firmly. "I'm here…you're in London. You're safe."
Slowly but surely, Natasha's ragged breathing slowed and evened out. Breathe. Safe. In London. Breath. Just breathe. Her eyes opened halfway, watery and red-rimmed, and very slowly, she removed her hands from her ears. We have no place in the world. It was nothing but a whisper now.
"Sorry about that." Natasha sniffled noisily and turned her face away, attempting to calm herself down before she faced him again. "I'm fine, just go back to sleep."
"I'm already wide awake." Sherlock said gently, sitting further back on his heels and putting his hands on his pajama bottom covered knees. He hesitated, trying to figure out what to do. John used to have nightmares, and there were ways they dealt with that. Might as well start with the obvious English thing to do. "How about some tea?"
"Tea?" Natasha wiped her eyes with more force than was necessary, angry at her outburst. Still not looking his way, she threw her legs over the side of the bed. "Yeah, okay. I'll be right out. I'm just going to change."
"Okay." Sherlock climbed off of the bed after her and headed for the door to give her privacy. He'd always been under the impression that women were capricious and difficult to understand. The fairer sex was John's division. But she wasn't just another woman, she was different, that's what drew him in. But she was also hurting, and fighting something he didn't completely understand. Perhaps he should just be himself. He started the kettle and then moved over to pick up his violin.
