This story has gone years without an update because, frankly, sometimes real life is a little too real. Hopefully, my partner in crime, CharmingNotDarling, won't mind my attempt to wrap this up single-handedly. I won't be able to give Joan the lovely, lyrical voice she's had up to this point, but I hope to at least tie up the loose ends and give the characters (and any remaining interested readers!) closure. I'm guessing it'll run another 2-4 chapters after this one. All mistakes are my own, and all the previous disclaimers still apply. Rated a strong T for descriptions of acts that CBS will never be able to broadcast. ;-)
~handful of sky~
Indelible, Chapter 5
The first autopsy, that of one Michaela Mathers, according to Bell's files, proceeds apace. Sherlock reads over Bell's notes as the examination carries on. The victim was 26 years old, worked as a registered dietician, and lived on Long Island. Not much to go on as of yet. Watson slides off the stool she'd been perched on and pays particular attention as the organs are examined and the appropriate tissue samples taken. She makes a few suggestions, which the coroner willingly accommodates, but the process doesn't result in any revelatory information. As Dr. Bishop closes the body up again, Sherlock's stomach rumbles alarmingly.
"We left in quite a hurry this morning. Might I suggest we have an early lunch and then return for the second autopsy?"
"Sure," she says, seemingly struggling to put on a game face. "That sounds fine."
They walk to the nearest deli, and she chats nonstop about the details of the autopsy and what she expects to see in the blood and tissue samples as well as in the toxicology report. By the time they get their meals, there's nothing more to be said on the matter and she applies herself rigorously to her turkey and avocado sandwich, only rarely venturing a glance in his direction. Her discomfiture with their situation is writ plain on her face, and he's entirely unsure of what to do aside from removing himself from it entirely.
"Do you have any reason to believe the autopsy of the second victim, Isaac Jeffries, will be substantially different from the first?" he asks.
"No, not really."
"In that case, I propose that you view the autopsy and report preliminary findings to Detective Bell while I look into the personal and work histories of these victims as well as the Battery Park couple in an effort to find any similarities. We can meet back at the brownstone later."
"Works for me," she agrees readily, seemingly relieved to find a way to avoid being alone with him any longer.
They part ways outside the deli and he watches her as she heads back toward the precinct. She doesn't look back.
It's nearly dark by the time she makes it back to the brownstone, Indian takeout in hand. "Looks like you've been a busy boy," she quips as she takes in the files and photos he's placed on the drawing room walls. The last several hours of separation seem to have done her nothing but good. Her stride is confident and her eyes light firmly on his own after she finishes surveying his handiwork. She's clearly regained some sense of equilibrium concerning their working relationship.
"Our two couples each had quite a presence on social media," he explains. "I've been cross referencing those that they followed as well as people that followed them, but haven't run across anything significant yet."
"If it's there, we'll find it," she says, taking the foil-wrapped packet of naan from the bag and tossing it at him before fetching them silverware from the kitchen. They compare notes as they eat and trade theories well into the night. It's so comfortingly familiar, and yet, it feels as though it's part of a charade that they're both desperately playing at in order to maintain the status quo.
After a time, she falls silent, and when he looks up from the file in his lap, her eyes have drifted shut and her breathing is slow and even. He can't help but be reminded of the last time he watched her sleep, albeit from an altogether different vantage point. He gets to his feet, takes the throw from the back of his chair, and drapes it over her, but she stirs at the touch of the wool.
"You dozed off," he says gently. "I didn't mean to wake you."
"I'm glad you did." She blinks a few times. "My neck hurt for days the last time I slept on this thing..."
Her voice trails off, but they both know that the last time she slept on the couch was immediately after his relapse and the bad business with Oscar. When they got home that night, he'd parked himself at the foot of the sofa and wallowed in introspection and she'd refused to leave his side, even though her head had begun to bob alarmingly as the hours passed. Pity that the only thing he's ever done to drive her away from him, even if only for a short while, was to attempt to be closer to her.
She stands abruptly and stretches. "I guess it's time for bed, then. What about you?" He jerks his head around sharply at that, but she immediately adds awkwardly, "I mean, you should get some rest too, don't you think?"
"Perhaps later. I've got something on my mind."
"Don't you always?" she adds, not unkindly, as she makes her way to her room.
She's right, and try as he might to stop, he can't help but envision what he knows is happening overhead. He closes his eyes tightly at the thought of her releasing her hair from its confines and brushing it out, presses semicircles into his palms with his fingernails in anticipation of her stripping off her clothes and then climbing into her bed alone. It's frustrating, and counterproductive, and it doesn't stop until he walks back to the wall and begins scanning the pictures and documents again, searching desperately for some detail that they missed earlier.
It's an almost-physical relief when his phone chirps with a link from Bell to surveillance footage from the park. He spends the next few hours watching the videos several times, and from several different angles, as the couple strolls through the park. The woman, Michaela, sits at the edge of the fountain, but not before rubbing at her midsection a few times as they approach it. And she grimaces as they take their seats, obviously already feeling unwell at that point. Isaac takes his phone out, presumably to call for help, just as she pitches forward and lands heavily on the concrete. He's at her side immediately, yelling at onlookers to summon help, and then administering CPR for a short time before collapsing himself. Any poison already in his system at that point would have had the onset of its effects hastened by adrenaline and physical exertion.
The crowd disperses rapidly at that point. Sherlock had hoped that the murderer might have lingered for a few precious seconds to gloat, but that doesn't seem to have been the case. The camera views remain inexorably on the couple sprawled together on the cold concrete until the arrival of fully suited hazmat teams to assess the risk to others.
He returns to the wall and finds a picture of the couple from better days: one taken from Isaac's Instagram account taken on Halloween, where they were both suited up as boxes of candy, emblazoned with the names "Mike" and "Ike". His attention is drawn to another photo just above it, of the Battery Park couple, Bret James and Susan Vincent, hugging one another and grinning maniacally in free fall during a joint sky dive. It's just as he'd said earlier in the morgue. So much promise. So much wasted potential. His eyes drift toward the ceiling, toward where Watson lies sleeping just overhead. Before he can second guess himself, he makes a beeline for the stairs.
Sherlock glides into her room carefully, easily avoiding the floorboards that he knows will creak beneath his weight and betray his presence before he's ready. She will likely consider this visit to be an intrusion, but he ceases fretting about it when he sees her slim form tucked neatly into the space in her bed that he occupied a scant 26 hours ago. She may deny her feelings, to both herself and to him, but her body betrays her by curling possessively around the pillow that likely still retains his scent.
He takes his place in her chair, intent on giving himself a few minutes to compose his thoughts before waking her. There's a lump under his thigh, and he shifts uncomfortably before managing to dislodge it and hold it aloft for closer inspection. It's his sock—the one he couldn't find earlier—and he huffs softly in amusement.
"Did you find what you were looking for?" Her eyes are open, brows wrinkled in surprise (or perhaps consternation) at his presence.
He chooses his words with the utmost care, unwilling to allow her to maintain the distance she's imposed between them.
"On the contrary, I found something that I wasn't looking for. Or at least, I thought I had. Perhaps I was dreaming; or perhaps I was simply mistaken."
Watson yawns and closes her eyes again. "You're not making any sense, Sherlock."
"I have allowed you to believe that I don't place the same importance on what's transpired between us that you do, and for that I apologize, because nothing could be further from the truth."
Her lids flicker open once more and her gaze fixes on his face as he continues.
"Last night, you let me see you stripped."
She reflexively pulls the sheets up a little and he winces inwardly at the motion. He had hoped to encourage her to open up to him, not close herself off even further.
"That's the way it usually works," she says drolly.
"That's not what I meant," he clarifies gently. "You allowed yourself to be vulnerable with me: no excuses, no defenses, no more partnership barriers for either of us to cling to."
"I've already told you that you don't owe me an explanation. And I don't owe you one." She props herself up on one elbow before continuing, "We're good together, Sherlock. Yeah, things were a little weird earlier today, but we're finding our groove again. Last night doesn't have to change anything—"
"You're wrong," he says, a bit too sharply, but he will not be deterred, not this time. "It already has. My life is something of a series of seminal moments," he explains. "When I was just a boy, I was privileged to attend an exquisite rendition of Menselssohn's violin concerto in E minor. It was Itzhak Perlman, at the very height of his abilities." His eyes drift shut at the memory and the fingertips of his left hand twitch at the recollection of his favorite passage. "That was the day that I resolved to take up the violin in the hope that I could one day recreate, in some small measure, the splendor and vitality of that performance."
His energy is suddenly too much to contain, and he launches himself out of the chair as he begins to pace across her floor. "I consulted on a case in Pisa a number of years ago. My first impression of its famed leaning tower was that it was rather squat and dumpy and wholly unimpressive, but, while I was there, the area gradually fell into a partial solar eclipse. Within minutes, the tower was bathed in gold and orange light." His feet stop of their own accord and he rests his hands on the windowsill, noting the pale pinkish hue beginning to suffuse the horizon before turning back to face her. She's curious—her soft eyes are full of unasked questions—but she allows him to finish. "It glowed, in all its crooked glory, and it was transformed into a scene of such transcendent beauty that I wondered how I could ever have thought it homely."
He crosses back to the chair and places his hands on its high back, subconsciously shielding himself from he knows not what. "There are many others, of course, but I cannot unsee that eclipse, Watson. I cannot unhear the concerto, nor can I unknow the most profoundly intimate experience that I have ever shared with another. More to the point, I would never wish to."
"Sherlock?" His name is a surprised, breathy exhalation. "It never occurred to me that you might feel this way."
"Your composure grounds me," he adds softly. "It stabilizes me, helps me focus on our work, on improving my abilities and encouraging your own. To see you allow yourself to give that up, even for just a little while, to entrust it to my care..." He trails off at the surge of unfamiliar emotion threatening to overwhelm him before moving to her bedside and standing just out of her reach. "Some time ago, you told me that you thought I had something to offer. Is that still the case?"
"Yes." Her eyes shimmer as she lowers her feet to the floor and stands before him.
He draws himself up to his full height and squares his shoulders. "In that case, I should very much like to offer myself to you."
"Oh, Sherlock." This time, his name is less question and more benediction as it falls from her lips and she falls into his arms.
They didn't kiss enough last night; the momentum that built up over the course of their relationship created an urgency too powerful to accommodate much in the way of gradual, gentle exploration. He corrects that oversight now, taking her face between his hands and tilting it up toward his, stroking his thumbs lightly against the lines of her full cheekbones. She gifts him with a gentle, knowing smile, and he takes a moment to glory in it before dropping his mouth to join hers.
Her lips are soft and yielding, and her mouth tastes of peppermint and the beeswax lip balm he gifted her with after collecting his most recent crop of honey. She opens beneath his touch, inviting him to explore deeper as her fingertips caress the nape of his neck, but he moves his lips to the line of her jaw instead, following the curve up and around to her ear and taking the lobe lightly between his teeth. She gasps and bucks against him, so he does it again, enthralled with the way she responds to his touch. He moves slowly back to her mouth, tracing the outline of her lower lip with the tip of his tongue, retreating again when she begins to reciprocate. This time, he begins at her other ear, planting tiny kisses in a continuous line down her neck, culminating in a long, opened-mouth caress just below her collarbone.
"Oh my god." Her voice is soft and husky, and when he raises his face to hers again, her eyes are wild and luminous. Her breath is coming much faster, lips parted in anticipation as she tangles her hands in his hair and draws him firmly down into another full kiss. She teases and touches and experiments with him every bit as thoroughly as he did with her, and when her lips reach the juncture of his neck and shoulder, he groans softly and reaches for the hem of her tank top. She lifts her arms obligingly as he pulls it from her body. It doesn't take long for his clothes and the rest of hers to join the growing pile at the foot of her bed.
He takes a moment to open the shades and then worships her again in the growing light of day, drinking her in with his eyes for as long as he can keep them open. He's not just drowning in sensation—that seems far too passive a term. He wallows in it, absorbing as much as he possibly can, gasping for breath as she takes him under, under, deeper and deeper still, until she is all he feels and all he knows and all he can envision ever wanting.
Afterward, he rests his cheek on her belly as her breathing gradually slows, and she wriggles deliciously beneath him. "That tickles. If we're going to continue to spend our nights this way, I'd appreciate it if you shaved a little more often."
He hums as his lips graze her navel. "Consider it done. It will be the very smallest of the changes you have wrought in me."
"I never set out to change you, Sherlock." She follows the lines of the tattoos on his back with the tips of her fingers. "I hope you know that."
"I'm well aware. Nevertheless, no one who knows me would argue against the fact that I am a better person for knowing you— a better son, a better friend, even a better detective."
At that, her phone begins to make the most dreadful racket.
"I wanted to make sure I didn't sleep through anything important again," she explains as she takes it from her nightstand. "It's Marcus. I'd better take this. I think he's more than a little suspicious already."
Sherlock picks out an outfit for her while she discusses preliminary lab results with the detective, grinning as he searches for the dark green skirt that emphasizes the delightful curves of her hips—curves that he now has free rein to appreciate.
After she hangs up, she eyes him suspiciously. "If you're picking out something slutty for me to wear, I will make you regret it."
He reluctantly pulls out a pair of leggings to go with the skirt and Watson nods approvingly. She tilts her head and pauses for a moment before asking, "We can do this, can't we? Mix work and play?"
He deliberates carefully before answering. "I agree with the sentiment, but not the verbiage."
"Right," she says. "I'd forgotten your preference for the formal nomenclature." She climbs out of her bed and takes her clothing from him, tossing it atop the rumpled sheets before swirling her fingertips idly through the hair on his chest. "Our work is still our key priority, though. And we won't let ourselves get too distracted by coitus, or fellatio, or..."
She's blushing, just a little, and though he finds the sight of a physician discomfited by the description of natural sexual acts delightfully perverse, he stops her with another kiss, feels the warm threads of desire begin to branch outward from his spine to his extremities before finally pulling away from her with a pang of regret. "Not incorrect, but not what I meant. I take umbrage at characterizing this," and he brushes a thumb across one of her nipples for emphasis, relishing her sigh as her eyes close reflexively, "as 'play'. That was a term I previously found myself using with prostitutes."
She looks somewhat put out at the reminder of his patronage of purveyors of the oldest profession, but he forges ahead anyway. "I'm neither proud nor ashamed of it, but you'll have noticed my use of the past tense—I'm quite happy to leave that part of my life behind. You are no mere dalliance, Watson, and I have absolutely no intention whatsoever of toying with you."
She takes a deep breath before venturing unsteadily, "Then—is this love?"
His heart thumps almost painfully against his sternum, and he accepts that visceral reaction as sufficient confirmation.
"Oh, I should think so." He studies her face, so overwhelmingly dear to him now, and her lower lip trembles as she becomes fully aware of what he's been struggling to convey to her. She used the word first; it makes it easier for him to echo it back. "I cannot love lightly, Watson; it's not in my nature, nor, I believe, in yours. But I would not have you crushed by the weight of my feelings for you—"
This time, she initiates the kiss: hot and greedy and insistent, but for the space of only a few seconds before she lets him go. "What I feel for you, Sherlock, what we feel for each other..." she pauses and he nods reassuringly before lifting her hand to his mouth and brushing his lips across her knuckles, "...it hasn't always been easy, but the most rewarding things in life never are."
"No regrets, then?" he says hopefully.
"Just one," she smiles suggestively. "I promised Marcus we'd meet him at ten o'clock to go over the new evidence. That leaves us just enough time for a shower and breakfast before we go, and that means we definitely won't have time for anything else."
"We'll eat something on the way." He grabs her clothing, whisks her about, and guides her into the shower, where she happily lets him prove her wrong twice before they get underway. As far as a working relationship goes, it's a more auspicious beginning than he could have ever imagined.
End of chapter 5