The space between.
AN: Hello you wonderful readers! I am so sorry this took for ever, so I have two chapters back to back. The site was updating or something and wouldn't let me post for a while. Anyway here is the conclusion of this interim part of the story. xxHoney.
"This is nice," Jane remarks banally, setting her suitcase in the small foyer of her sister's trendy flat. It's empty and cold with clean lines and generic art on the walls, but at least she's out of the house Clara and her used to live in. It smells light and airy as well; a good change form the stale stench of alcohol and depression that hovered around Harry since the divorce.
"Don't lie. Its shit," Harry scoffs running a hand through her short blonde hair. She had it cut recently, giving her a clean look accentuating her lovely bone structure and taking some of the shadows out from under her eyes.
"No it's not!" Jane defends. "It's wizard," she says using the banter from their childhood in order to dispel some of the awkward tension that had cropped up ever since the car ride.
It has the desired effect when her sister's mouth quirks in a familiar almost-smile.
"Bull. I can always tell when you're fibbing. But I don't blame you. This place is nothing like me."
"I did wonder about that giant moth sculpture, but I didn't want to sound like an uncultured naff."
Harry cocks her head and observes said sculpture on the small sideboard before breaking out in a genuine laugh.
"Oh god. It is a bit pretentious, innit?"
"Just a little."
"Come on. Leave your shit; we're going to the pub."
And Jane is too relieved to argue.
…
"So tell me about this bloke you've been living with all this time," Harry says taking a sip of her rum and coke, deciding to jump right in.
"There's not much to tell," Jane says, averting her eyes. She traces her finger through the water rings on the table.
"Don't give me that, Janey," Harry says. "Why of course he's the reason you came back to Surrey."
"He's not!" Jane retorts. Harry snorts through her nose, giving her a disbelieving look. She touches her tongue to her top lip and clasps her hands in front of her, tilting her head and giving her a narrow look. Jane rolls her eyes as she is given the big sister 'once over.'
"I've read your blog, Jane," she says pointedly.
"So have loads of other people," Jane mumbles, her cheeks heating. If she ever thought it was hard hiding something from Sherlock, she would only have to remember her sister's penetrating gaze.
"You are a terrible liar," Harry says, laughing a little and sipping once more from her drink. "Have you actually read back what you wrote?"
"Well, yes I've read —"
"Out loud?"
"Don't be ridicu —"
"In front of a mirror?"
"Fuck off," Jane says, through a burgeoning grin. "You're an arse."
"Oh, I try to be," Harry sighs as if she's terribly put-upon. "No, but seriously. Anyone with a brain can see what this Sherlock Holmes does to you. He gives you something no one else can," she says, the last dropping off with a modicum of hurt that she hastily tries to cover with taking another drink.
Jane doesn't really know what to say to that. Part of her wants to be defensive, and she raises her chin combatively, but the other part of her knows that if she does she will only be affirming Harry's suspicions. Before she can thoroughly stick her foot in her mouth either way, Harry pipes up with:
"So have you shagged him yet?" causing Jane to nearly spit her own drink out of her mouth.
"Harry! God, no. We're just…we…" she flounders, eyes skittering back and away.
"Oh my god," Harry says, tone full of revelation. "I didn't think — oh but it makes so much sense now, of course!"
"Stoppit," Jane warns, spine stiffening.
"You do! Holy shit, you're in love with the man!" Harry needles. Jane downs her drink clearly avoiding the question, and her sister crows as if this were a blatant confirmation of the fact.
"I don't want to talk about this," she says.
"Sod that, I do!" Harry says and motions for the barkeep to bring them another round. "Why haven't you shagged him, then? You're not a prude, that much I know. Is he gay? Oh no, he's gay isn't he?"
"No he's not gay, will you shut it?" Jane says tiredly.
"Then for chrissakes, why are you here?" Harry says, exasperated.
Jane looks away, the feeling of emptiness and the renewed rawness of her loss bubbling to the surface. Her breath hitches, and her heart hammers, and with the barest touch she presses a palm to her abdomen as if she could physically feel how vacuous she is.
"I said I didn't want to talk about it, Harry, so leave it," Jane bites.
Stung, Harry snaps her mouth closed and sniffs. "Fine."
Jane glares down at the table, nodding sharply and taking a large swallow of her drink. It tastes sour, so she pushes it away from her.
"You know what? No, it's not fine," Harry says, the two shots, a lager, and her rum and coke beginning to take its effect. Her eyes shine with indignation, and her voice cracks with emotion. "You can't just shut people out all the time. I mean, I gave you my phone to keep in touch, but it's like pulling teeth to get you to answer back."
"I've been busy," Jane says.
"I've barely seen you since Christmas! And mum —"
"Oh no. Don't bring her into this."
"Have you even called her?"
"You're joking, right?" Jane snorts. "Harry, she kicked me out on Christmas Eve because I happened to be defending you, in case you've forgotten."
"Don't pretend like you're the martyr here. You can't just hide your pettiness behind your oppressed lesbian sister all the time."
"Pettiness? What are you on about?" Jane says, hackles rising.
"You're really just pissed about that quilt," Harry says. Jane gives her an affronted look.
"That's not — that has nothing to do with —" she sputters, and Harry scoffs.
"Oh yes it does," Harry guffaws. "It has everything to do with it. Jesus, you're so hotheaded. But I supposed you get that from her. Stubborn arses, the both of you," Harry says, the alcohol loosening her inhibitions. "Besides, what do you care if she gave that quilt to cousin Lacey, anyhow? She's the one with scads of kids. She's had her third by the way. A boy apparently. Named Joey or Jason or something with a J." She waves her hand dismissively. Jane balls her left hand into a fist even though her bruised knuckles throb with pain. "It's not like you're ever having kids, anyway. You're already in your thirties."
An icy spike lodges itself in her gut, and she straightens her spine. "Right," she says, and drains her glass. She pulls out her wallet and throws some notes onto the table to cover her tab.
"What? Don't tell me you're leaving! There's no need to get tetchy. It's just a dusty old blanket. Meant to be passed along the generations anyway; given to daughters, and their daughters, and their daughters' daughters et cetera —"
Jane slams her fist onto the table, cutting her sister off. "It's not about the damn quilt!" she says, her voice growing in volume until she was practically shouting. A few people look their way, but Jane is beyond caring. She snatches the keys off the table with one hand while clutching her cane with the other. "I'm taking the Pinto back. You can get a cab," Jane says, marching out of the pub, and locating Harry's car parked just around the corner.
Her heart pounds, equal parts enraged and anxiety ridden, and she gets in the car and drives back to the flat.
She immediately feels guilty when she gets inside the dark apartment, worried about leaving Harry to her own devices. At least I took the car,she thinks to herself, and another lash of guilt coils about her at her lack of faith. Harry assured her she was getting better, and she owed it to her to at least attempt to believe it.
She shakes her head, shoulders slumping and flicks on the light in the foyer. She gathers her things from the floor and deposits them in the guest room, and turns on a pot of coffee.
She's on her second cup, and sitting on the suede sofa when her sister lets herself in. She clears her throat contritely, and Jane looks up somewhat relieved to see her looking a little more sober.
"I made coffee," Jane supplies into the awkward silence. Harry nods, tension ebbing slightly.
"Is it good?" she asks and makes herself a cup. "I've switched brands."
"It's all right," Jane shrugs, holding the warm mug between her palms. She wants to go home already, back to their funny little flat with its awful wallpaper and test tubes on the kitchen table — and it's sad really because she just got here and all she can think about is Sherlock, what he's doing, if he's getting sleep, if he staying out of trouble. The ache in her chest is gnarled and potent, threatening to steal her breath on ever other exhalation. So wrapped up is she, that she doesn't notice Harry sitting next to her until a furtive hand rests on her knee.
Startled, Jane looks at her and Harry looks pointedly down at her cast with a dark expression.
"What happened, Janey?" She goes to open her mouth, but Harry cuts her off with a sharp gesture. "And don't tell me that bollocks about you falling down the stairs again, because I know that's a goddam lie."
Jane sighs. "I really can't tell you due to…legal issues," she says haltingly. Lestrade had warned them both on the importance of discretion while the clusterfuck of Moriarty's 'little game' was being handled.
"You have to tell me something," Harry whispers, her eyes although not as sharp with the remnants of alcohol still present, scan her with a wisdom that only comes with being her older sister.
Years of their childhood flash before Jane; moments of being afraid in the dark and seeking out her bigger sister in the middle of the night; of Harry pushing Donnie Parker in the mud for ripping up her dress coming home from school; Harry taking the smack across the face from their mother when in fact it was Jane who had broken the screen door. And then the more unpleasant memories when their dynamic began to shift; Harry coming out to the disdain of their parents; Harry sneaking off; quitting school; falling into debt by gambling and refusing to take money from Jane; phone calls at all hours asking for a ride after getting beaten and left in an alley; the countless whispered, 'Don't tell mum and dad, okay?' Periods of her simply dropping off the face of the earth, and their mother begging Jane to track her down. Harry showing up at her dorm in Uni on more than one occasion utterly pissed.
And then the sharp pain of their father's sudden death and their respective spirals. Jane, furling in on herself, and Harry destroying everything in her path.
Harry incensed, and hating their mother, and Jane trying to hold them all together at the funeral because, goddammit who else was going to keep their family in tact?
But it had been hard, so hard, and Harry was never present, and their mum had so many expectations, and she just wanted all of it off her bleeding shoulders for a change.
It's how she feels right now, and as much as she wanted to erect those walls and simply shrug off her sister's concern like she has before, something in her concerned gaze prevents her from doing so.
Instead, she inhales shakily, tears prickling her eyes.
"It's not about the quilt, Harry," she breathes, the air tattered and heavy in her chest, and so, so vast with things unsaid.
Harry frowns, searching her face for a moment before the realisation dawns, and her tawny eyes grow wide. Her mouth drops open slightly, and a soft 'oh' falls from her lips, and before Jane knows she's being gathered in a strong embrace.
"Oh, honey. Oh, Jane," she murmurs into her hair. "Why didn't you tell me? You shouldn't have had to go through that alone."
She closes her eyes, refusing to cry, a weight sliding off her as she lets herself be held by her older sister for the first time in years.
She doesn't know how long they sit there on the couch, but after a while Harry takes a tentative breath. Jane moves back a little, tilting her head in an unsaid grant of permission.
Harry bites her lip before voicing her obvious concern.
"I know…this sort of thing didn't go over so well for you last time, but have you considered talking to someone? A professional, I mean."
Jane gives a rueful smile remembering her last attempt at therapy. And how the pretentious bastard tried to take advantage of her. That ended quite badly — Bit Not Good indeed. Not for her, of course. She wasn't the one who walked away with the broken arm.
She licks her dry lips, however. Harry's face was open and honest; a pleading type of look. She wanted to help — looked desperate to.
"I've not out ruled all of my options. In fact, it's something I've thought about going back to recently," she admits.
"I know someone you can talk to. She was my therapist after me and Clara…" she falters, shaking off the weary memories, and smiles a little. "It was really good for me."
"Oh? Are you still seeing her?" Jane asks. Harry's smile turns into a little grin.
"Not professionally. Conflict of interest."
Jane laughs at this, shaking her head. "Naturally."
"Her name is Dr. Thompson. Will you go?" Harry asks, eyes bright.
"What, tomorrow?" Jane says, a little startled.
"You're not doing anything else, so what's the problem?" she says arching a challenging eyebrow.
Jane stubbornly holds her gaze before capitulating. "Fine," she huffs, but can't help the soft smile the blooms on her face when Harry beams at her.
"Good."
…
Dr. Thompson is a tall, slender woman with skin the colour of mocha and a beguiling smile, and the first thing she says, is 'fuck it, it's too nice to sit in my office, lets go to a café,' and Jane likes her immediately.
"I'm not a very conventional therapist," she says, licking some foam off her thumb from her latte. "So I apologise in advance."
"Not at all. I appreciate you seeing me without an appointment, Dr. Thompson."
"Call me Bella. Dr. Thompson is my father." Jane lilts her eyebrows in polite interest, and Bella smirks knowingly. "I know, I know. I followed my father into his profession. I'm sure Freud would have loads to say on that."
"Well I wouldn't trust you if there obviously wasn't something off-kilter about you," she says good-naturedly, feeling more at ease than she's ever been around a shrink before.
"Oh? You think I'm barmy, is that it?"
"You're dating my sister, so yeah."
"Touché!" Bella laughs, and takes another sip. She sets down her drink, and her brown eyes sweep over Jane. For the first time, she feels as if she's being properly analysed, and she can't help but shift nervously in her seat. Bella notices, and she gives her an apologetic look. "Sorry. No, I know what you're thinking. You're thinking: 'This is the part where she tries to psychoanalyse me just like every other two-bit therapist. Well I'm not going to do that. Nope."
"You're not?" Jane blinks in surprise.
Bella shakes her head sagely. "No. Instead…you are going to tell me all about this blog I keep hearing about," she says with a bright smile.
-oOo-
"No, no, no! He's not the boy's father!" Sherlock yells at the television, flinging out a hand in indignation. "Look at the turn-ups on his jeans!"
"What the hell are you watching?" Lestrade asks from the doorway, causing Sherlock to start. He didn't even hear the door, and with a grimace he remembers why this is.
"You know I could change the locks, and then your little key would be useless," he snipes, wrapping his coat tighter about himself. He never took it off when he came inside, and now he's glad as it is currently acting as some type of battle armour. He clasps his hands around his knees, and doesn't deign to look in Lestrade's direction.
"Yeah you could, but you know Hudders would just give me another one," Lestrade says coming further into the flat.
"Don't call her that; she doesn't like it," Sherlock sniffs.
"Yes she does. It's my nickname for her. Just like she calls me Greggy," Lestrade says. He drops into the chair across from him (Jane's chair) with caviler grace, resting an ankle atop his knee as if he belonged there. It was vastly irritating. He observes the telly over his shoulder for a moment. "I didn't know you were into crap telly."
"Passes the time," Sherlock says shortly. "The Connie Prince case," he says by means of explanation.
"Right," Lestrade says, smugly amused.
"What do you want? If it's a case, I've told you I'm not taking any right now."
"Yeah. That's why I'm here," Lestrade says, and Sherlock rolls his eyes and turns up the volume. Lestrade ignores this and simply talks louder. "You can't just mope about the flat until Jane gets back. I mean, for chrissakes, it's only been three weeks."
"I'm not moping," Sherlock says trying to keep the whine out of his voice.
"You're practically in mourning."
"Please."
"Look at you, all shroud-like."
"It's cold."
"It's really not."
"I might go back out later," Sherlock argues, voice taking on a petulant edge.
"Sure," Lestrade drawls.
"What are you doing here?" he snaps.
"Me? Oh nothing. Might make some tea later."
Sherlock narrows his eyes. "Mycroft sent you." (Of course he bloody did, the meddling bastard.)
"Maybe I just missed arguing with you," Lestrade says. He picks up an old copy of the Sun and begins reading.
"Don't lie. It's that stupid…code thing you both have. As if by getting you to check up on me isn't a dead give away that he's been spying on me through the CCTV cameras again."
"I have no idea what you're talking about," Lestrade says, eyes skimming the sports section, no doubt.
Sherlock scoffs at this. "Please. 'Danger Night' is hardly covert. It's overblown and dramatic just like Mycroft."
"Fair enough," Lestrade says, not bothering to look up from the paper.
"So you admit it?" Sherlock says, eyes snapping to him.
Lestrade lowers the paper. "Will you just shut up and watch your telly so we can both go on pretending you actually don't need my company?"
"I don't need your company," Sherlock grumbles, hunching further into his coat. He picks up the remote and flicks through the channels at a pace designed more to annoy Lestrade than to pick something to watch, and he smirks when he notices it's working when a muscle in the other man's jaw tics, a tell of his irritation. He turns up the volume on some foreign channel.
Lestrade gives a disgruntled sigh. "You know, Jane's updated her blog. Have you checked it out yet?"
Sherlock pauses for a second, his thumb over the channel button, his breath catching. (What? How was he not aware of this? Impossible.) The corner of Lestrade's mouth tilts up in a grin, but he steadfastly keeps his eyes on the paper. Sherlock glares at him, and ignoring his minute chuckle, he whips out his laptop sitting wedged in between his thigh and the armrest.
He pulls up Jane's blog immediately and notices she's been busy in the past few weeks. He clicks on the one titled 'The Blind Banker', eyes skimming over the events of the Chinese smuggling ring, snorting derisively.
"What a terrible title!" Sherlock says.
"Mmhm."
"God, she makes it sound so romanticised. 'And then we ran here!' 'And then we did this!' 'And then there was a mysterious code!' Rubbish."
"Yeah," Lestrade flips a page.
"Where's the analysis? The break down of how I knew where to go, and who was behind it all. Good grief she makes me sound like a character in a children's story."
Lestrade sighs.
"My 'adventures'. Ridiculous," Sherlock huffs. He goes quiet, reading it again, and then a third time. He's so absorbed in the words that he doesn't notice Lestrade looking at him from over the top of the paper. "She uses the exclamation point an appalling number of times for her rhetoric to be taken seriously."
"It's okay, you know," Lestrade finally says.
"What?"
"To admit that you miss her. I won't tell anybody."
Sherlock rolls his eyes shutting the laptop. "I'm leaving. I'm sure you can show yourself out," he says curtly, and makes it to the door before Lestrade can protest. He could honestly care less if the man follows or not.
When he gets out onto the pavement, he wraps his coat firmly about himself, breath misting faintly under the streetlights. He makes sure to flip off the security camera for good measure before setting off in an aimless direction for the second time that evening.
He doesn't know where he's going; he just knows he can't stand sitting in the flat with the knowledge that something is missing no matter how he tries to distract himself. It's there in the empty chair sitting across from his; in the unused mugs and cutlery; in the oppressive silence that comes in the form of Jane's absence. It's utterly maddening. How did he ever manage to live alone for so long without going out of his mind, left like he is to his own devices? For god's sake he actually counted the tiles on the kitchen wall just to blot out the infernal ticking of the clock on the mantle. (There are three hundred and forty seven.) In the end it was just easier to get rid of the clock, and the sheer simplicity of this solution mocked him for not having thought of it sooner. His brain was cannabalising itself, but at the same time, he couldn't bring himself to accept any cases.
The knowledge that Moriarty was out there somewhere waiting for god knows what, causes his heart rate to pick up slightly.
He wasn't afraid, of course he wasn't.
He just felt…ill-footed when it came to Moriarty's manic unpredictability. And with Jane so far away…
He balls his fists up tightly within his pockets, and turns into Regent's Park.
Coming to his favourite park bench, Sherlock sits and pulls out his mobile. He stares at the blank screen for a moment before opening the most recent text interface.
Jane Watson — 7:02 AMApr. 23
good morning.
Jane Watson — 10:30 AMApr. 24
morning. harry's out, and I am incredibly bored.
Jane Watson — 7:24 AMApr. 25
watched a documentary on bees. thought you'd be interested.
Jane Watson — 11:48 PMApr. 25
good night, sherlock.
Jane Watson — 8:15 AMApr. 26
morning.
Jane Watson — 8:21 AMApr. 27
having toast this morning, which reminds me you need to get us a new toaster.
And they went on like that, a least one text a day, for the past three weeks she's been gone. (Three weeks, four days, and fifteen hours.) He couldn't even describe the relief he had felt when the first one came in, and even though he couldn't find the wherewithal to respond to any of them, he clung to her daily texts like air.
He's just in the middle of scrolling through them all again, when his phone buzzes in his hand, a new message from her popping up. He jumps to the bottom of the thread.
Jane Watson — 11:36 PM
good night, sherlock.
It was simple, just like it always was, however it causes Sherlock's heart to somersault in his chest.
The distance between them, it was unsettling, almost a tangible sensation making his palms itch and the back of his neck sweat. There had to be a way of lessening this absurd torture his transport insisted on inflicting on him in lieu of Jane's presence.
Even as he was attempting to think of a way around this problem for what had to be the thousandth time, his subconscious made his mind up for him, and before he knew it, the mechanical blare was ringing in his ear as he dialed Jane on autopilot.
She picks up on the second ring.
"Sherlock?"
Her voice, though distorted and tinny, is like a balm to his fractious mind, and he drags the crisp air through his nose in a deep cleansing breath.
"Sherlock?" she says again, voice tight and worried. "What is it? What's wrong?"
"Nothing I'm —" he cuts himself off not sure what really to say.
"You never call."
"Well, obviously not never," Sherlock responds, but the comment is lacking its usual asperity. The awkward silence reigns between them, and Sherlock curses inwardly. (This is why he prefers to text.)
"So…"
"Jane —"
They both stop again, and Jane huffs a small laugh.
"Everything's okay then?" she says tentatively.
(No.)
"Yes. I just called to say…" when are you coming home? He takes a deep breath pinching the bridge of his nose, "goodnight."
There is a beat of silence on the other end, and Sherlock can hear her holding back a sigh. It is painful, the aeons stretching between them, but at last Jane says, "Goodnight, Sherlock."
It is a long while before either of them rings off, content to listen to the other breathe, and for the first time in this long estrangement, Sherlock finds solace.