"The boy with the thorn in his side: behind the hatred there lies a murderous desire for love."
"All it would have taken was a proper valediction. No; no, that's not quite true. I'd have said something indefinite: something along the lines of, "Until the next time, Mr. Holmes," and I would've kissed you on the cheek and let you go. Also, fuck you. Eva." His voice is almost mocking, lending no emotions to the words he reads. He turns to another page.
"I've been thinking about you a lot lately – about where you are and where you've been. I've been wondering if you've had any luck with whatever you set out to do. I've been wondering how your wounds have healed, if you're taking proper care of yourself, and mostly, I've been wondering if you've put that violin to good use. I really hope you have." And again, he flips the page. At this point, Eva's throat is firmly lodged in her stomach, tears creeping up under her eyelids, threatening to ruin her makeup.
"I'd like to know: how did it feel, before you hit the pavement? Was there an overwhelming sense of dread or fear? Did your life flash before your eyes? Did you have a monumental revelation in midair, as gravity took its claim? Did you feel? Did you pray? Did you wish you'd grow a pair of wings before you hit the ground?" Eva wishes there was a better word for mortified to express her emotions at the present moment.
"I'm hoping that if I keep telling myself that I've given up hope of your return, I'll eventually believe it. This theory hasn't rang true as of yet. Here's to hoping that it may, some day. Eva." On the inside, she begs him to stop. She pleads that he won't speak the words that were never meant to be said out loud.
"It's so fucking stupid of me to miss you. I was with you for what, three days? Why can't I fucking forget you? The reason – it's so childish. I just can't bear to admit it. Eva." She can't keep the tears from welling up anymore.
"I realize that this has all become a bit melodramatic. If you could see me now, you'd probably roll your eyes at me. I can see it in my head all too clearly. Eva."
No, no – please don't go any further. Please, please stop. He goes to recite another passage, but stops himself. "No – I'll leave that one be for now." She knows exactly which part he's talking about. Then, he continues. "Please know that I don't think I'll ever be able to have feelings for anyone that will even begin to compare my feelings for you. No, I know you can't know that, because I can't actually tell you how I feel. How much I feel. I feel a lot. Eva." His tone is still casual – noncommittal, even.
"Do you sleep at night? Do you dream? Am I ever there, in your dreams? Do you keep me in mind? Or have you stored all knowledge of me away, to save for a rainy day? P.S. It 's raining today in London. Eva." He smiles softly at that one.
He takes a steady breath before flipping to the last page, and with only the most somber notes in his repertoire, he reads the last few lines aloud. "I still don't know whether you were complimenting me or insulting me on the last night we saw each other. I still can't tell if you actually knew why I played that song for you. I think I always knew why; I was just afraid to admit it, even to myself. I did it because I meant it. With all of my heart. Eva."
With that, he closes the book in one hand with a dramatic force and places it next to his plate on the table. He folds his hands and bores into her again. Why can't he just be direct? "Must you..." A single tear falls, and her words catch in her throat. She quickly wipes the tear away, and finishes her sentence. "Must you humiliate me?" She bows her head and closes her eyes, trying so hard not to cry. She bites down hard on her lower lip, effectively smudging her lipstick, and buries her face in her hands.
"I want to apologize."
"You're doing kind of a shit job." Both of them laugh uncomfortably, and when Eva removes her hands from her face, Sherlock is standing in front of her holding out his hand.
She takes it and he leads her inside, and he puts some classical music on her record player. "Dance with me."
"I don't dance." He cocks an eyebrow at her. "Really, I don't."
"Tonight – with me – you do." He swiftly takes her hands and pulls her close, putting her arms over his shoulder and placing his hands on her waist. She can't hold back the look of shock on her face at this gesture. HOLY OH MY FUCKING GOD -
He smiles down at her; even with her height with the added heels, he still has a few inches on her. He guides her, and she slowly relaxes into it. It's hardly even dancing; swaying would be a better word for it. "I'll note that this is strange and rather uncharacteristic of me, but I suppose I owe it to you to confess my motives apropos of my return." He takes a steady breath. "I came back because I couldn't help but feel remorse in abandoning you, after all that you did for me; you never deserved to be taken advantage of."
As she internally screams, she can't help but feel impressed with herself for being so coherent. "I helped you on my own accord, Sherlock. It wasn't because you showed up on my doorstep, begging to be let in; I chose to help you, and I could never blame you for that."
"But you should, you know."
"Don't put yourself down like that."
"Says the Queen of Self-Deprecation."
"...a very valid point."
"I'll be honest: I was prepared for you to hit me when you came home. Oddly enough, I still find myself wishing you had."
"Couldn't let you off that easy, now, could I?" They share a smirk, and Eva feels a blush creeping up her neck before Sherlock's expression drops suddenly into something cold and blank.
He stops moving, holding her still by the waist, and in a low, breathy tone, he asks, "Have you forgiven me?"
She sighs. "Are you kidding? Of course not. I mean, you insulted me and broke my stupid little heart, and now you're here, almost a year later, breaking into my flat, invading my privacy, making me wear this ridiculous dress, cooking me a sentimental dinner, and making me dance with you, and I -"
"Wait, you don't like the dress? I think it looks quite nice on you." He punctuates his statement by tucking a lock of hair behind her ear.
She blushes. No, stop that, you idiot. You're angry at him. Don't let him walk all over you again. "Maybe ridiculous was the wrong word. I should've said 'ridiculously extravagant,' or something along those lines."
In a quiet tone, he mutters, "I thought you'd quite enjoy a fairy-tale evening."
"I am enjoying it, but -"
"But what? How am I to make it up to you?"
"Why the hell do you suddenly care so much about repentance?"
He huffs and says through gritted teeth, "Because I can't stand living with myself knowing that I've hurt you so deeply."
He's talking about what I said in the letters. She sighs. "You can't mend scars, Sherlock."
He closes his eyes and grumbles, "I know that, but there must be something -"
"All it would take is for you to apologize with a little less apathy and calculation and a little more conviction. It's not about forgiving the act itself; it's about believing you when you say that you're genuinely sorry."
He looks into her eyes, and for once, she lets him. It lasts a long time, and she watches as Sherlock slowly thaws; his cold demeanor melting into a mix of realization and remorse. The intensity in his gaze never falters, which is something she's come to envy about him. He pulls away, releasing his grip on her waist, taking a few tentative steps back before turning to shut off the music. He returns immediately, to Eva's surprise, and takes both of her hands in his own.
"I need you to know, before I proceed, that I can't help that I'm so exceedingly oblivious with regard to romanticism. I say awful things – or so I've been told – and the results of what I say are often times the opposite of my intent. If I offend you, please do tell me, because I'm not intending to hurt your feelings. Have I made myself quite clear?"
"Sherlock, you don't have to -"
He hushes her, placing his index finger over her lips. "No, please – this is something I need to do." The look in his eyes is pleading. She nods in response, and his finger leaves her lips. Looking deeply into her eyes, in a low, pained tone, he says, "Eva, I've been cruel and insensitive. I left for my own selfish reasons, disregarding your feelings, and I won't even attempt to justify that. I had no right to barge in and demand so much of you, after having hurt you so deeply and letting you feel that pain for so long. And you – you've suffered so much, clearly illustrated by the conviction in your letters. I've known that you've felt something for me for a long while now, but I disregarded it, not realizing the full extent of your feelings. Then, I read your letters, and even after learning how much weight each of my actions carry – how much you really feel for me – I still manipulated you in a twisted attempt at redemption.
"I can't even begin to make excuses for my previous actions, and I won't waste my time trying to do so. I know that I've been a coward, an arsehole, and an unrelenting, vindictive egomaniac. It's likely that I won't ever be able to look upon this chapter of my life without feeling such excruciating guilt for all of the torment and suffering that I've caused for everyone that I've ever cared about. All I can do is hope that, one day, you'll no longer bear any malice toward me, and maybe, you'll be able to look back and think of me fondly. Forgive me, love."
He kisses her on the cheek, takes his coat from the back of the door, and puts it on over his suit. He salutes Pluto, who's glaring at him from the futon. He turns toward the door, but before he has the chance to say, 'good night, Eva,' she grabs him by the forearm and says, in a choked, pleading tone, "Don't – please." He halts, and is suddenly very close – he holds her face in his hands, analyzing her expression. She tentatively places her hands over his and whispers, "You are forgiven. I may be livid, or upset, or hurt – and with good reason, mind you. But no matter how battered or bruised I may be, by the time I crawl in bed at night, I will always be free of resentment and bitterness. God, that that must make me sound so foolish and naïve – which, granted, is pretty true. Sherlock, please know that, in my eyes, you are completely forgiven. You are always forgiven."
She isn't expecting to be backed into the wall, with Sherlock's arms braced against the wall on either side of her head. He's so close to her that she can hear his breathing and she can feel the intensity in his gaze. He pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes away Eva's smudged red lipstick, not showing even the smallest sign of nerves at the intimate gesture, and Eva just lets him. After tossing the handkerchief to the side, he runs one hand down her side, from her rib cage to her waist, and places two fingers over her wrist. Then, slowly, he takes her index and middle finger and guides them to press into the pulse point on his throat. She realizes what he's trying to do: he's showing her the effect she has on him.
She has a less-than-adequate amount of time to process all of this before Sherlock is pressing his lips to hers in a soft, tentative kiss.
A/N: I know I'm terrible for leaving it hanging there. But I will surely make up for it in the next chapter with sexytimes and a satisfying ending; I promise.
(Please don't hate me.)
The preliminary quote is from the song titled "The Boy With The Thorn In His Side" by The Smiths.