Thanks so much for the warm response to the first chapter! Things are progressing more slowly than we'd like, but the story is still moving forward and we're committed to seeing it through to the conclusion. Enjoy!
Disclaimer: Elementary doesn't belong to us and no infringement is intended.
Indelible, Chapter 2
She wakes to a silence to still to be shared: to an empty bed, an empty chair, and the achy, empty chambers of her heart—a heart that, only hours before, was filled with passion and the prospect of affection. She takes a moment to wonder if the night was real, if the memories are only fragments of a dream, fantasies never meant to come true.
But as the sleep fades from her mind, she remembers finding herself teetering on the edge of consciousness throughout the night, each time the inky air nearly humming with his presence. Just the whispering of the sheets as he breathed or the gentle press of his skin to hers as he shifted in sleep set the night aflame with sensation. She runs her fingers along her ribs, swears she still feels the warmth of his palm and press of his fingers. The fact that he was content enough, felt safe enough to sleep beside her, stirs something in her too great to name.
But that's all gone now.
The shadows are thick with the lack of light. Dawn has yet to show its face, but she knows morning is all but on its way. She shifts to sit, feels the sheets tug where he'd tucked them around her before he'd left the room. She draws her palms across her face, presses the tips of her fingers to her eyes as the chilled air draws goose bumps along her exposed skin.
How could she think this would end any differently?
She throws herself back down, her hair spilling and pooling across the pillows and sheets. She catches his scent on the pillow and instinctively turns towards it. She thinks back to the moments that brought her here: to the opened trunk of cold cases, the papers and glossy photos spilled across the library floor, to the sound of Tchaikovsky's Violin Concerto in D major bleeding through the mortar and brick of the brownstones walls. It seemed to be one of his favorites of late. (Or maybe he'd become overly aware of what the melody did to her inside, how the notes flowed like a potion in her veins.) The exaggerated and broken sounds appeared to be a metaphorical mirror to the spectrum of their moods; she only wishes she'd understood what his heart longed to say with the gorgeous sounds drifting down the hall. She's become all too well versed in what hers would voice in return.
She had been so engulfed in her reading that at first the quieting of the house did not register: his footfalls, the kettle's cry, the groans of wooden protests as he treaded stairs to prepare their tea. In the end she can't be sure who had truly initiated the kiss. They'd startled each other; he'd set her mug down as she'd reared up from the floor, one nearly throwing the other off balance. She'd held her findings out with victory set in her stance, and, once she'd seen the pride in his eyes, she'd thrown her arms around him and engulfed him in an impromptu hug. Not her usual reactions to such accomplishments, but their lives have been anything but usual.
All she can remember from then on was the press of her lips to his skin and the sharp intake of breath in her ear. He's never outwardly calm or gentle with much of anyone or anything but Clyde (and that's just occasional) so when he'd gripped her hip, cupped her cheek, she'd been taken completely by surprise.
It could very well be her imagination, but she would swear the sheets are still warm. She longs for the brush of those talented fingers, the taste of him, the sounds of proof that she possessed the ability to do to him what he's done to her.
This shift in the angle of their world is immeasurable.
She knows well enough he's not one for all the emotional attachment sex can demand when there's a mutual, fathomless respect involved. That his desires do not run deep enough to form attachments to those rooted in devotion. She knew this going in, reminded herself only moments before falling into bed with him, leaving everything else behind.
She'd spent so much time wondering what last night would be like, she'd forgotten to dedicate any thought to what the consequences might be on the morning after. She'd always assumed they'd go about their daily lives, nothing too great or significant for him to derail his dedication to justice, but the bitter taste of rejection seems to overpower the sweetness of acceptance. She laughs bitterly at herself for the truly female reaction to waking up alone after falling asleep with his fingers tangled in her hair and her heartstrings tangled in the tossed sheets. She's never been that woman; never been the one to make madness out of methods.
The chime of the doorbell, followed by the demanding knocking, forces her to realize why she's awake. It would appear someone's come looking for them in the middle of the night. It's then that she realizes she has no phone. She's pretty sure it's downstairs with her forgotten tea and her triumph.
Obviously, sleep is no longer an option. She tosses the covers back and throws on some pajamas before heading downstairs.
She heads back upstairs to her room and dresses quickly and with little fuss. The last year and a half have her very well-versed in unexpected and urgent calls. She hears a far-off roll of thunder and reaches for her boots at the last minute.
When she takes the stairs down moments later, Officer Kirkpatrick has gone back to his marked car at the curb and only Sherlock remains. He's got a phone in each hand and her raincoat tossed over his arm as he taps furiously at his own device. His eyes meet hers repeatedly in the shadows cast by the cruiser's red and blue light and between his rapid typing.
"Ah, wonderful, you're ready."
She watches him slip the phone away again and hold her slicker out as if nothing has changed. It isn't until she's standing right beside him, before she turns to slip her arms into the waiting sleeves, that she sees the concentration tightly laced within his features. His brow furrowed, lips tight, shoulders rigid; it empties her already-barren heart to know how hard he's fighting to continue on with their norm. She wants to shake him, or better yet kiss him senseless, but she knows better than most that he's already buried deep beneath the heavy blanket of mystery this midnight case has cast upon them.
He slips the coat in place as he's done a thousand times before, and, just as his hands would normally fall away, she feels his fingers at the base of her neck, pulling gently until her hair is free from the coat's collar. The contact is startling and reassuring at the same time, and he turns for the door as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened.
So she does as she has always done, and follows him out into the night.
end of chapter 2