Hearts are torn.
AN: Hello all. Sorry this has taken me a little bit. Been super busy! This one is short but packed with a lot of stuff, so hopefully that makes up for it. The next chapter should be longer. When writing this I was listening to Say Something by Great Big World, and I must say it is so perfect for what's happening between Jane and Sherlock. I recommend listening to it because you all know me and how much I love music. Ha. Okay. Love you all!
xxHoney
Sherlock sits at his microscope, pretending not to notice the battered green suitcase sitting by the front door. He adjusts the fine focus, and can feel the object of his hatred mocking him from across the room. He grits his teeth, eyes flashing upwards as the threads of Jane's voice can be heard through the ceiling. She's on the phone with her sister discussing the train schedule.
It's horribly, horribly unfair. Especially when he tried so hard to prevent this exact thing from happening. (Which he should get some credit for all things considering.) He sniffs and straightens his spine when he hears her lopsided tread descending the stairs. He pretends once again, nonchalantly peering into the eyepieces, his brow furrowing so hard he's giving himself a headache, but he won't let on the fact. In his peripheral he sees her drape her jacket over the suitcase. She heaves a sigh and makes her way into the kitchen. He can feel her gaze lingering over him as she hovers between the kitchen and the sitting room, and he doesn't acknowledge her even though every fibre of his being is attuned to her presence. He pleads silently that she suddenly informs him she's changed her mind and is going to unpack, but his hope is dashed when she flicks on the electric kettle with an air of grim determination.
"So that's it, then?" Sherlock says after a few minutes, shaking Jane from her stoic reverie.
She clears her throat and idly steeps her cup of tea.
"Yes. Cab will be here in a few minutes."
"Mm."
A thick silence falls over them. Sherlock doesn't even know what he's looking at through the scope anymore. He just grabbed one of his old slides with a dubious smear of what might be beetroot in a bid to distract himself. Instead, Sherlock is acutely aware of the traffic outside and the steady drip of water in the sink. Just when he thinks he can't stand it any more, he looks up at the same time Jane opens her mouth to speak.
Before either of them gets a chance to say anything, the dull buzz of her mobile chatters on the worktop behind her, breaking the spell.
"That'll be them, then," she says, not bothering to answer the phone.
"Right. Best get going," Sherlock says, lowering his gaze and jotting down some nonsensical formula on the scrap piece of paper in front of him. The quadratic equation really has no relevance to what he's working on, but it was the first thing that popped into his mind, and he clings to the familiar arithmetic as Jane sighs and gathers her things.
"I'll…" she says, and he tilts his head in her direction, unable to meet her eyes. He waits, but she doesn't say anything else, and after a moment Sherlock hears the sound of the street door closing followed by the rumble of the cab.
He lets out a breath, inhaling the second the air is out of his lungs as if he were holding his breath the whole time. Maybe he was, because a bright spot appears before him, and his head feels light.
If he thought it was quiet before, the silence in Jane's absence is crushing.
He sucks in another breath, and then another, vaguely aware that he might be hyperventilating.
Jane was gone. She left. Just now, and what did he bloody do? Absolutely fucking nothing. He just bloody sat there as she walked out the door. Who knows if she's even coming back? And what's worse is he didn't say anything. What could he say? Was there even anything that could keep her? She was his to keep, he felt the veracity of this within his very marrow. It was like everything within him knew he was waiting for something grand, balanced on the razor edge of all of this potential. He knew he was built for great things, but never in a million years did he think it was to be found in another person. She brought everything into focus, and in her absence he suddenly realises how achingly alone he's been all this time.
His palms sweat, and his heart hammers, and the roiling in his gut isn't unlike withdrawal. He leaps to his feet, knocking over some test tubes and a beaker in the process, a base solution spilling over the table and onto the floor. He can hardly be arsed to care. Perhaps if he ran fast enough he could catch up with her cab.
Without another second of hesitation, he bangs out of the flat, his shoes pounding hard on the pavement as he takes off in the direction the taxi went on its way to the station. He pulls out his mental map of London's streets, and banks left, nearly taking out a person on a bicycle, and forces himself to run faster. His thighs burn, and his breath comes harsh and ragged, but he doesn't let up even for a second.
He's in the middle of calculating the quickest shortcut through a nondescript alley with the probability of Jane's taxi being stalled by at least three different traffic lights, when the very thing he was after races by him headed back to Baker Street. He does a double take, the flash of Jane's pale and bewildered face through the window burning into him, and he grinds to a halt just as the cab pulls over.
He gasps for air, his lungs seizing, the break lights of the cab glaring at him through the blur of his sweaty lashes.
The door pops open a second later, and Jane awkwardly gets out with her cast, cane forgotten. She's about as wild-eyed as he feels, and after a tense beat where they can do nothing but stare at each other, she lurches forward trying to run.
It's enough incentive for him and he follows suit, desperately lessening the distance between them tender and swollen like a bruise. They collide in a frantic tangle of arms, and Sherlock crushes Jane to him, ignoring the creaking of his battered ribs as she clings to him. It doesn't hurt half as bad as the thought of her leaving for good, and he holds her even tighter, breathing in the all-familiar scent of lemon, roses, and apple blossom.
"What are you doing here?" she says into his chest, trembling.
"I could ask you the same thing." She pulls away from him at this and looks into his face, the edges of panic fading slightly.
"God, Sherlock," she nearly sobs, and then her lips are on his, practically devouring him. She runs her hands through his tangled hair and grips hard. He bares his teeth when she tugs and a feeling of satisfaction blooms in his gut. He dives in with abandon, nipping her lips, and licking into her hot mouth tasting tea and peppermint toothpaste. His hand comes up to her face, and he feels the wetness of her tears, and he dips his head into the lee of her shoulder, pressing his trembling lips to the flutter of her pulse. "I didn't want to leave like that. Without - without saying -"
"Shh, Jane. I know," Sherlock says drawing back so he could assess her. Her bright eyes brim with tears causing a supernova to implode in his chest.
"We need to be better for each other. You get that right?" she asks him desperately. He scowls, closing his eyes for a moment.
"I know," he says, angrily conceding the truth.
She reaches up and clasps his wrist where his hand is still cradling her face. She rests her forehead against his jaw, shuddering.
"I am coming back. Don't you doubt me, Sherlock Holmes. Don't you dare doubt me. Not when I already doubt myself."
"Don't go," Sherlock blurts, shards of glass filling his chest. "We'll fix this another way."
She gives him a watery smile, and leans in slowly. She shakes her head and kisses the base of his throat. He shivers and gathers her even closer in the early spring air, burying his nose in the soft crown of her head.
"I need to be a whole person for you," she says against his skin.
He inhales sharply, his mouth tasting bitter and ferrous. (It wasn't bloody fair.) He wants to argue, demand she stop this foolishness this instant.
He looks down into her pleading expression armed with half a dozen possible solutions, but his protests dry up in his mouth as the potency of her grief strikes him. She needed to find…what ever it was she needed to find, and he couldn't stop her from doing that. So instead, he swallows back his words and feigns a small smile.
"But who will make my tea?" he asks, and a weak laugh falls from Jane's lips. She kisses him again, and Sherlock tastes the salt from her tears.
"Lazy git," she whispers fondly, breath hitching. Sherlock gives her another crushing embrace, wanting to imprint her shape into his very own flesh as if by doing so he would have something tangible with him always.
The cabbie honks the horn, causing Jane to start. She looks over her shoulder at the taxi, and swipes a tear away from her cheek.
"I'll let you know when I make it back to Weybridge," Jane says taking a careful step away from him.
"All right," Sherlock says, irritated that his voice shakes ever so subtly. He crams his hands into his pockets to prevent him from grabbing onto her again, not sure if he will be able to let go a second time. He's only in his suit jacket, and the sudden absence of Jane's body leaves him feeling cold in more ways than one. He walks her back to the cab and opens the door for her. She lingers for a moment, running her fingers through the hair at his temple one last time. He can't help but close his eyes and lean into the touch even though it's rather cruel of her.
"I'm coming back," she says again, and he nods. She gets in, and he shuts the door after her. She mouths something, but he isn't quick enough to catch it, too preoccupied by her palm pressing against the window. He hesitates, but finally reaches out with his own hand to bridge the connection through the glass, but just before his finger tips join hers, the taxi is already pulling away.
His arm falls back to his side, and his clenches his fist. His hands feel like corpses attached to the ends of his wrists, purposeless and devoid of warmth. He tucks them back in his pockets so he won't have to look at them.
The taxi rounds the corner, leaving his sight.
He stands rooted to the spot until the wind picks up, and it beings to drizzle.
With heavy strides and lead in his stomach, Sherlock takes the long way home.
After reading this again to myself I just realised that Let Her Go by Passenger is another song that fits well with this.