As if reflecting the turmoil between them, the sky opened up with a vengeance, thoroughly soaking Tessa and Sherlock before they had exited the garden walls. Sherlock remained determined not to let the weather get the better of him, reminding himself they were leaving at Tessa's insistence. He was made of stronger stuff than to let such conditions be any more than a passing inconvenience.
It was several minutes until a taxi finally came in view, pulling up to the curb when Sherlock waved it down. Tessa remained silent at his side, meekly boarding the cab when he opened the door for her. Once on their way, he spared her a glance; she had left an icy distance between them, her hands in her lap, her head bowed slightly, clearly avoiding any interaction with him. So be it, he resolved. If she chose to behave as a child, then he would treat her as such, although he had never expected such juvenile conduct on her part. He took out his phone, eager for a distraction from the uncomfortable silence between them, checking for unopened texts (there were none), then scanning headlines on several news sites that he followed.
Failing finding anything of significance, Sherlock snuck a peek in Tessa's direction. She was shivering, but appeared to be trying to conceal that fact. It occurred to him that if she were to slip her hand in his—as she so often did when they sat in the backseat of the dozens of cabs they had taken together—he'd find an unfamiliar chill in her skin. It made him think that perhaps—just perhaps—he had not fully appreciated her level of discomfort as the afternoon had passed, absorbed as he had been in the enthusiasm to share his unique view of the city's eclectic offerings, and of his particular accomplishments.
It was feasible that the conditions of the day had pushed Tessa past a breaking point, and some minor magnanimity was called for in response. Sherlock cleared his throat, prefatory to breaking the uneasy silence that gripped the air. She looked at him, tearful and mute, chin quivering as she bit her lip to try and still it, and then turned to share those quiet tears with the window, rather than allow a word to pass between them.
Well, that's damnable, he thought, his irritation growing again, at her rebuff. Was Tessa actually attempting to play upon his sympathies? If so, she would find he gave no quarter in that regard. As pretty and endearing as her silly games and subtle maneuverings usually were, he would surely resist so blatant a ploy. Before this, Sherlock would have believed she was above such an act of outright guile; rather, he began to think that Tessa may, at last, have fallen prey to a general weakness of her sex. If so, she would find he was unlike others of his, and not the man to blithely fall for such a gambit.
Her quiet tears felt to him like an indictment, accusing him of selfishness, when he had only planned the day to please her. If Tessa was expecting an apology, she best prepare for disappointment. Sherlock was adamant on this at least: he was not the one that was obligated to mend what Tessa had so childishly broken. If the afternoon and evening were to be saved at all, the act of contrition must come from her.
His resolution firm, he turned to keep watch out of his own window, as the cab drew ever closer to her front door.
The question remained, as the taxi idled along the curb before the brownstone where Tessa lived; neither had spoken the entire journey, so who would break the silence now? Sherlock was ready to depart, if that was what she wished. He was relieved when Tessa finally asked plaintively, "Will you be coming in?"
His answer was curt, even as he tried to blunt the edge of gruffness from his tone, "Certainly. If that's what you want."
Tessa nodded, widening her eyes, with what he hoped was a small show of gratitude. She proceeded to the door, without turning back to see if he had followed.
Once inside, Sherlock hung up his damp Belstaff, resignedly, his annoyance banked but not forgotten. Tessa had draped her own wet coat on one of the high stools in the kitchen, and then moved to leave her handbag on the armchair in her small living room. She turned to him at last, her expression still clearly downcast, telling him, "Just let me get changed, and then I'll put a kettle on." She waited for his reply; he merely nodded his assent. Tessa pursed her lips, looking as though she had something to say, than shook her head, more to herself than to Sherlock.
He tried to sound even-toned, but his answer came out a bit touchy regardless, "If you've something to say, you best say it now. I have no patience for a histrionic pantomime."
His comment clearly cut her, and her forehead knit crossly. Tessa took a deep breath, raising her chin in defiance, and told him, "I wonder if I'd have been better off facing that storm full on, than to face the storminess of your brow…" She left the statement dangling between them, allowing her posture to soften, as though she was rethinking the wisdom of even having said it. Sherlock made a scoffing sound; this was not the apology he was looking for.
Tessa shrugged, and then started towards her bedroom, turning back at the edge of the hallway, "Look, you should dry off as well," she told him, sounding more reasonable with each word as she tried to break through his testiness, "There are some spare bath towels on the shelf in the loo. By the time you're done, I'll have the tea ready, and I'll bet we'll both be feeling better and more like ourselves." He made no response, but Tessa waited still, obviously hoping he might relent from his sour mood. Seeing he would not, she shook her head again, sadly, and went into her room to change. She left the door open a crack, so Sherlock would know she was listening for him, ready to reconcile if he was so inclined.
He was most decidedly not so inclined, but she was right that he needed to dry off. Sherlock knew he was being obstinate, but sometimes the situation called for it. He made his way to the bathroom, grumbling to himself, pausing outside her door to listen if she had begun to cry, and was relieved that Tessa at least had the sense not to give in to further tears. He was certain there would be no salvaging the afternoon if she had, as at this point it would only serve to irritate him further.
Sherlock grabbed a towel from the bathroom shelf, rubbing it roughly against his hair to absorb the excess moisture, then tossed it over the shower curtain rod, not even really caring if it landed there or on the floor. Drying off that little bit actually did make him feel a tad better, though he was not ready to admit such to Tessa.
Instead, he ruminated upon the expectations he had held for the day-the satisfaction he had expected to experience when Tessa's bright eyes and admiring glance should have been the reward for his well-planned efforts; certainly not the opposite, when she had lashed out at him so peevishly. It dawned on Sherlock that his failed hopes of Tessa sending a bit of hero worship his way was as much to blame for their row, as her actual outburst in the Chelsea garden. That being the case, he knew he did bear some blame for it after all.
Sherlock stood before the mirror over the sink, intent on straightening his collar and seeing that the lines of his suit sat properly, as he considered his culpability in the affair, beginning to formulate a better response than the haughtiness he had displayed since they'd entered the flat. His mulish pride—which he knew could at times lead him to foolish, defensive behavior-was the key impediment to putting things right with Tessa. To his astonishment, Sherlock realized he valued her happiness more than the image he sought to project to the world. This was very rare indeed; there were so few that meant that much to him, so when he found such a soul, it always surprised him.
Thus enlightened, the scales dropped from his mind's eye. It was that which allowed him to notice a few, unobtrusive additions to her toiletries. There were now two brushes in the toothbrush holder, the one clearly fresh and meant for him. Set slightly apart from Tessa's cosmetics, there was a brand of deodorant for men, and a can of shaving cream, with a new razor beside it. It was a good quality item, and Sherlock knew with certainty that Tessa had taken great care in selecting it. He closed his eyes, a sudden warmth growing in his chest, for he also knew, that should he check the drawers of her dresser, he'd find several pairs of socks, and boxers in the brand and style he preferred.
All bitter thoughts of blame and disappointment, over the events of their disastrous outing, were driven from his mind, replaced with tender amazement. Sherlock smiled in genuine wonder and appreciation for these unexpected, modest offerings, left for him without a word, proof of Tessa's sweet nature and constancy. Proof he did not need, but gladly accepted. He had never imagined having his needs anticipated and fulfilled so quietly, and as though it was the most natural thing in the world. He wondered if Tessa even realized how very dear these unbidden kindnesses were, and that this was exactly the sort of thing that was slowly but surely making it impossible for him to consider a future without her in his life.
Leaving the bathroom, calling himself a fool under his breath, Sherlock recognized he had a fence or two to mend. He walked past Tessa's bedroom; the door was wide open, so he knew he'd find her now, in the kitchenette, preparing the tea as promised.
Her back was to him, and he watched as she set teacups on a tray, humming to herself, placing several biscuits on a plate beside the cups. He noted with no surprise, that they were his favorite kind. Sherlock felt a quiet shame replace the ire he had carried into the flat.
What further demonstration could he possibly need of how she cared for him? As if in answer, Tessa moved to the fridge and filled a small creamer, for his convenience surely, as he knew she preferred her tea with lemon. He closed his eyes, committing these ordinary moments of domesticity to memory, for they held a beauty far beyond the physical. Truly, he wondered, how did I come to deserve this gentle woman?
Tessa had braided her rain dampened hair into a single plait, which lay across her shoulder as her hands busied themselves with preparations. She had changed out of her wet clothes into a light pink, sleeveless blouse and denim capris, the pastel a fine compliment to the tan of her skin; he realized she must've spent some free time in the sun this week, although she'd not mentioned it to him. It was just a small surprise, as was the dark pink polish on the toenails of her bare feet. The easy casualness of her appearance made her all the more appealing, standing as she was, unaware he was watching her. Tessa looked the epitome of a carefree Saturday afternoon; what should be a trouble free afternoon, that could be all his to enjoy if he had the sense to do so.
The kettle appeared about to whistle, so Sherlock went to the stove, turning off the heat, and then placed it on a back burner. His movement broke Tessa's reverie. She looked at him, puzzled but smiling, starting to ask why he had stopped the kettle, but Sherlock shushed her with a finger across his lips and a nearly silent 'sssh', as he proceeded to stand before her. The question was still clear in her eyes; his answer started with a gentle motion, as he lifted her chin with a light touch of his fingers, moving in to kiss her. A kiss he hoped would convey both the awe he felt for the unasked for generosities she gave him at every turn, and the apology he knew she rightly deserved.
"Oh, Sherlock," she whispered, her lips still close to his, "what…why…" Tessa trailed off, still unsure what had brought about his abrupt change of mood.
He smiled slowly and then kissed her cheek, his voice serene, "Toothbrush." Tessa's eyes widened, and Sherlock kissed her other cheek, and told her, "Razor." This time, Tessa gave a little gasp, realizing what he was referring to. He paused to look at her, his eyes crinkling as his smile grew, "Biscuits."
Tessa bit her lip, tilting her head insouciantly, seeming to hold her breath as she waited for him to decide what came next. That was no hardship for him; his foul mood over his disappointed plans-and what he realized was Tessa's understandable reaction to his thoughtlessness—had completely passed, replaced with the sure desire to make up for his selfish behavior. Sherlock thought that, in this case, Tessa would agree that actions might speak louder than words.
And so he took her hand, leading her down the hallway to her room, and finally to her bed. It had been silly of him to place such importance on the success of his designs for the day, when Tessa's truest desires were only for his company and his happiness. The best laid plans of mice and men, he mused to himself, ever fail to take into account the wonders of a woman's heart.
Afterwards, as the once bothersome, summer rain beat a steady, soothing rhythm against the window glass, they lay contentedly tangled in the bedclothes and one another. This silence was comfortable; there was no rush or need to fill it with anything but the soft sound of lovers breathing in sync, each with the other, as the afternoon gave way to early evening. Later there would be take-away to satisfy another sort of appetite, but the warmth they shared beneath her sheets held them rapt in one another.
Tessa's head resting on his shoulder, her left hand idly tracing small, whisper-soft circles on his chest, they spoke of many things, grand and trivial and even mystifying, always in tacit agreement that this first lovers quarrel need not be revisited. Eventually, she asked, and Sherlock finally spoke more fully of his past experience. "Yes, somewhat," Sherlock was saying, "yes, but they were really just hormonal fumblings in the dark. At university, I was more like to be the odd man out when the tie was on the doorknob." He paused, the bitterness of such memories now abated by the gentle ones he was creating with Tessa. "The girls I knew, well, it never lasted long; I'd lose interest quite quickly as I grew bored with their mundane concerns and goals, or worse, I'd say or do something I thought perfectly logical and sensible, but would make her mad as hell." Tessa ceased her circling fingers, laying her hand flat against his chest, feeling his steady heartbeat. Her touch, as always now, soothed him agreeably. "I just got tired of trying. It didn't seem worth the effort for the momentary pleasure of the flesh. I wanted my mind stimulated, and they weren't up to that task." Sherlock exhaled a "Hmmmm", surprisingly glad to have confided that old secret to her.
She moved her head slightly and kissed his along his jaw. "And now—do I stimulate your mind? Or do I chance you growing bored with me as well?" The question would be self-serving if posed to any other man; but from Sherlock, Tessa wanted no pretty, bedroom lie, even if his answer might sting a bit, even as they lay in the bed they'd so thoroughly tumbled.
Sherlock chuckled softly "My mind, why yes you do, thus far. You have surprised me more than once, as I've told you before, and therein lies great charm—" he paused for dramatic effect, and added teasingly "and your power over me." Tessa tapped his chest lightly, in mock irritation.
But he collected that hand in his and kissed her fingertips with an uncommon sort of reverence. He looked her squarely in the eyes, tightening his embrace unconsciously, "But I've learned from you something I'd never taken the time to consider. Before, I couldn't see, let alone appreciate, the depth and beauty of a woman's heart." Sherlock drew a deep, satisfied breath, then continued, "That is the biggest surprise of all—and it's a well that draws me in—I only want more." He brushed his lips against her brow, his voice intimate and low, "If you'll have me."
In answer, Tessa only nestled her head against his shoulder, astonished and too moved to speak. Silence reigned again for a little. Sherlock wasn't concerned; he could read in her body language that what he'd said had touched her profoundly. After a bit, he asked the question he knew she was waiting for, "And what about you?"
Tessa inhaled slowly and then sighed with slight exasperation—for the memories, not the moment. "Actors, mostly. Hazard of the profession, especially when you're young." she told him, sounding more sheepish than regretful, "Good-looking, charming, bright-for the most part. But filled with vanity, and egocentric at their worst." Her voice was tinged with amusement, in recollection, "Like a brilliant flash, empty after the sudden light. It took me a few tries to get that lesson." Tessa paused for thought, then continued, "Then the chance came to study at RADA for a spring term, and I jumped at it. Left everything familiar behind, here on my own, for love of the art I wanted to gain some mastery of. Strictly vowed I wouldn't get distracted by any man." Her voice grew soft and sad, "But then along came Hal. And you know that part."
Sherlock nodded, familiar with this part of her past. Though Tessa usually avoided the topic, or only spoke of it around its edges, he knew her engagement and loss remained one of the most defining chapters of her life. He didn't speak yet; it felt like she had more to say. Tessa continued haltingly, as her emotions began to leak through "It's important I say this to you, okay? You need to know, and I hope the timing doesn't damage what we seem to be building here." Sherlock felt the flutter of her lashes tickle his skin, knowing she had closed her eyes in concentration. "Hal was wonderful, a dream, a soldier, a gentlemen, and very much a hero. His death alone would tell you that." Tessa's breath hitched now, as the weight of the memories hit her, "And I was incredibly numb for so long after he died, accepting that our future together had been wiped out in literally a heartbeat."
Her sigh was long before she continued, "But eventually I found life again, I found the memories still hurt, but I could smile about my possibilities once more. I found joy in my work, which was the biggest healing of all. But I truly never expected to ever be able to give my heart to anyone, because it could mean losing all over again, in one way or another."
Tessa raised herself up a bit, so she could look him directly in the eyes. Sherlock had known without seeing, that tears were falling again, but seeing them on her face was like a little arrow to his heart. "Loving like that, and being loved back in kind, fundamentally changes a person. And I don't expect to hear those words; I'm not so foolish as to think you are the sort of man who might say them..." She hesitated here, closing her eyes, surely deciding if she should dare say the next, then looking at him unwaveringly "...but I just need you to keep in mind be careful with my heart," Tessa placed her own hand over his heart, a move of instinct more than purpose, "because after all this time, I guess it's still kind of fragile, and I'm not ready for another break. I'm trusting you now, and good god," she finished as she lay back on the pillow beside him, "I've probably said way too much, way more than you probably wanted to hear. My mouth gets me in trouble every time…"
Sherlock went up on his elbow to lean over her, smoothing the tears from one cheek away with a sweep of his thumb, and kissing those on the other gently away. His face hovered over hers, as he nodded almost imperceptibly, then stopped that mouth with a long, tender kiss. This path of emotional entanglement might perplex him still, as he continued to find his way with Tessa's guidance, but at the very least he knew the way to show her what had taken root in his own heart.