All of the thanks to my beloved beta ArtsyChick. All characters belong to Moffat/Gattis/Doyle.
It was a typical night in Baker Street. Joanna was catching up on rest from her hours at the clinic and the last case with Sherlock. The detective himself was in the midst of the application portion of his research. Lucky for Joanna, the more volatile (read: explosive) portion of this research was conducted at Barts.
Surprised? In all fairness, 221B did have quiet nights on those rare occasions when Sherlock had better things to do than dwell on his boredom.
Bent in half over the kitchen table, Sherlock ignored the futile protests of his back in favor of poring over his experiment. So absorbed was he in his task he almost missed the disruption: a pitchy, staccato sound. A sound he had never before heard in the confines of his flat.
A whimper? He removed his latex gloves and pulled the goggles from his face. The emulsion needed to separate in any case. He stepped out of the kitchen and took in his surroundings.
The flat was undisturbed, with his books still stacked precariously on his chair and Jo's closed laptop on her chair opposite. The woman herself lay stretched out on the couch at the far wall, fast asleep. Her feet were bare and she had no blanket. Only the Union Jack pillow, supporting her arm and half squashed beneath her.
At first glance the scene seemed rather ordinary, but that sound… Sherlock stepped closer to his flatmate and took a harder look. Her position on the couch appeared stiff and uncomfortable—her body looked like living concrete. Her leg jerked, knees bent like a runner. One hand was fisted in the Union Jack pillow, while the other trembled faintly where it rested on her ribs.
His eyes widened slightly in realization. Nightmare. Jo was trapped in a dream and he had absolutely no idea what to do with that information.
He was loath to wake her. Jo would be mortified and flustered, which would only complicate her current state and the delicate balance they had achieved upon his return. Reestablishing their equilibrium in the aftermath of his "resurrection" was proving to be a rather complex endeavor. There were days they circled each other warily, and the next they were ribbing each other and laughing like first years.
But she was in obvious distress. With little of his own experience to draw from, Sherlock combed the many rooms of his mind for ideas. We've been here before, but in reverse. Then it was there—her hand on his, his at her pulse, her simple invitation to rest from the grip of his own nightmares.
He quietly padded over and settled himself on the coffee table beside her, gently placing his hand atop her trembling fingers. "It's all right," he whispered. "You're okay now."
The last time he had uttered those words to her she was being terrorized, by his own hand, deep in the bowels of Baskerville. He did not mean them any less now than he did then.
Slowly, her form lost its rigidness, her leg ceased jerking, and her fingers loosened their grip on the pillow.
She shifted and he removed his hand lest he wake her. He didn't leave immediately; he waited, in case she slid back into the hold of the nightmare.
She didn't. Instead Jo moved, adjusting her limbs and her eyes slid open briefly. They met his. She blinked, staring through a half-lidded gaze, before nestling further into the cushions. She closed her eyes.
"'ullo Shrlck," she murmured.
"Joanna," he said softly.
She sighed. "I miss you."
He frowned at this. We live together. What was she on about—
He snapped to awareness. She was still asleep. But she used present tense. Could she really be thinking…?
She shifted again and his eyes were drawn to her face. Jo's brows were pulled together and her mouth was turned down. Her lips trembled—once, twice—then:
"Why? Why'd you leave?" Her eyelashes were wet.
The human brain is an extraordinary organ. Joanna knew, in great detail, the mechanics of his "death," the visceral motivations Moriarty forced upon him, Sherlock's long efforts to make sure it would never happen again. She knew, but here they sat in a limbo of Joanna's own making. How might he bring her out of it?
"Sleep, Joanna." He cleared his throat lightly to relieve the sudden, inexplicable tightness. "I will be here when you wake."
Joanna hummed softly. "Liar…" Her voice was faint as she slipped back into sleep properly.
He covered her hand once more with his. "No, Joanna. Not this time."
Fin