Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.
Note: Legit haven't written anything Harry Potter in years. But hey, here's a Sherlock fic I wrote a while back. Cross-posted on Archive of Our Own under my pen name HanAlister. Enjoy.
He fell. She became an asset. He was dead. She did his autopsy. He was off saving the world. She was left to pick up the pieces.
She would/did/will do anything for him. His home came from being the morgue, to being 221b, to being nowhere. In one night, her flat became his safety net. Her bed was his bed; her shower, his shower.
He went chasing down Moriarty's web and she began putting their friends together again.
"Have you met John Watson, Mary? I think you'd get on quite nicely."
"Tea was lovely, Mrs. Hudson, same time next week?"
"Hello, Greg! It's Molly Hooper, from St Bart's? I'm just calling to see if you'd like to catch up over coffee one of these days. Call me when you can!"
The months flew by and life without the consulting detective was becoming manageable. Greg was back to work. Mary was mending John. Mrs. Hudson found people to mother in her inherited homeless network.
Everyone was recovering. Everyone, that is, except the man that matters the most.
She hasn't seen him. He comes when she's out but he leaves gentle whispers only meant for her (sugar bits scattered about her coffee maker, a damp towel hanging in the bathroom, ruffled bed sheets). His messages caress her cheek with warmth and joy explodes in her heart. He's still alive.
The pathologist keeps his caresses close as the weeks passed by in a flurry of late nights full of cold coffee and research at St. Bart's. Her workload slows and his stalls.
She comes home to the sound of a running shower, but it's late, and she knows he can't stay. She gathers a small meal together and sets it out for him. She knows he'll get her message. Be careful. I'll be here.
She doesn't expect him to stay. She knows he can't.
She doesn't expect her door to creak open or the long shadow casting itself over her.
"Can I?" his voice reverberates softly but hesitantly. She's half asleep but she scoots over. He settles on the opposite end of her bed.
His body is stiff with tension and she knows.
His mission is getting to him. His walls are starting to come down.
She gathers him into her arms and rests her face into his neck. His hands clutch her forearm and she feels his body relax.
Everything changes.
His visits are rare but his presence becomes more profound.
He feeds the cat. He does the dishes. He preps the tea kettle for her.
He stays longer. He watches the telly with her. She talks about work. They talk about differences in ash. They fall asleep in each other's arms.
Her flat was his bolt hole but soon it wasn't 'her' flat anymore. It was 'theirs'.
Their cat, their dishes, their bed, theirs.
She still works. He's still dead.
He's hurting, but she's picking up the pieces. He's getting caught up in Moriarty's web. She brings him back down.
He's falling apart but she's sewing him back together.
He's going deeper, he's getting closer, his visits get shorter but they get closer.
He stops coming.
His brother doesn't return her call.
She tries not to worry; she knows it's almost finished.
Her days fill back up with endless parades of late nights in the research lab. She forces her thoughts away from him.
He's the man that matters most. He has to come home.