At first it was just a feeling creeping up the back of her neck, an extrasensory tickle that someone was watching her. But now Sarah's fairly certain that Sherlock Holmes is following her, has been all afternoon. She can see him two tables away, dressed in black trousers and turtleneck with a grey sport coat, his hair slicked back in ebony waves. It's a subtle disguise, but enough that he wouldn't be recognized immediately as the great detective.
Sarah thinks he's not trying very hard to hide himself.
Her date, Gabriel, is talking and talking about something. He has dark brown eyes and tan, expressive hands, and he has monopolized the conversation from the moment he met her at the restaurant. Sarah has given up trying to have an actual conversation with him and is already regretting having agreed to meet him for dinner as their first date rather than coffee.
Well. Sherlock may as well make himself useful.
She smiles and nods at Gabriel and moves one hand to the outside of her thigh. Her index finger gives nine taps on a loop-three fast, three slow, three fast.
Gabriel is talking and talking, and doesn't notice when Sherlock comes over to stand beside him.
"Hello, darling," Sherlock begins, a truly convincing smile on his face. He steps over to Sarah and leans in to give her a kiss on the cheek.
This should be fun.
She tilts her head to receive his kiss. "Oh! I didn't expect to see you," she improvises.
Sherlock is stealing an empty chair from a nearby table and settling in near Sarah. "I know, but I couldn't bear to wait," he says, smiling apologetically.
Gabriel is displeased. "I'm sorry; who are you?"
"Jared," Sherlock answers, putting out his hand. Gabriel shakes it automatically, his brows drawn.
"Oh, yes, I'm sorry, Gabriel, this is Jared-" and Sarah can't resist the opportunity to both end things with Gabriel and make Sherlock uncomfortable, "-my husband."
Gabriel is silent, but his brows climb upward.
"Yes; I'm sorry if it's a bit of a shock," Sherlock says, picking up the thread without hesitation. His approachable, open body language feels surreal, and she swallows down a nervous giggle. "Sarah and I were so hoping you could be our third, and I'm overeager, I'm afraid."
Sarah simply smiles over at Gabriel and decides to delete her profile on that particular dating site just as soon as she can.
Gabriel blinks. Stands.
"Thank you, both, for an . . . interesting evening."
He doesn't offer to shake hands, and nearly leaves a cloud of dust in his hurried retreat.
Sarah watches Sherlock's features drop back into their usual arrangement, complete with a dramatic rolling of his eyes. He shifts his chair to sit across from her.
"Really, Dr. Sawyer. Your date couldn't have been laced any straighter had he been a corset," Sherlock says, pouring wine into the glass that Gabriel clearly had not used. "Won't even drink wine with dinner."
Sarah watches him take a sip. "Muss your hair or something. You still look weird."
He frowns at her, but runs a hand through his locks, liberating a curl or two to fall across his brow.
She takes a sip of her own.
She knows Sherlock is only here because of something to do with John-he has no other reason to seek her company or advice-and yet it can't be an emergency, or he wouldn't have bothered with any sort of disguise at all. No, it must be something less urgent, but still serious, something-
Jesus.
"Trouble in paradise?" she quips, not bothering to hide the bitterness she still feels, the image of him holding hands with John in the hospital hallway stinging her anew.
Sherlock looks up at her sharply, but says nothing.
Sarah pushes her wineglass away. Glances down at her lap. "Not sure I'm the best one to be giving relationship advice."
She looks up into his eyes straight on. Sherlock looks as though he's about to argue, claim he's not in a relationship, but then he drops his gaze. He turns the wineglass in his fingers and stares at the wine sliding around and around.
"He's unhappy."
She really can't stop herself. "And that bothers you?"
"Of course it bothers me."
She had wanted to say more, to say how much of John's unhappiness Sherlock is responsible for, but he answered her so quickly, so heatedly, and the realization is a slap, cold water on her face. "You love him."
Sherlock swirls and swirls. "Yes."
She looks away for a moment. Her words are soft but distinct. "So do I."
"That's why I'm here," Sherlock replies, and the added obviously is no less clear for being silent.
She raises an eyebrow at him. More, Sherlock. Give me more.
He puts the glass down. "He won't . . . ask for what he wants."
"No. He won't," she replies immediately, and Sherlock actually looks surprised. It's flattering and aggravating at the same time. "Why do you think we broke up, Sherlock? Didn't you deduce that, as well?"
Sherlock's gaze has turned remote again, but he is listening.
"He was already half in love with you then."
"He's not . . . 'in love' with me," Sherlock protests.
"What would you call it, then?"
He looks down. "We are . . . devoted to each other. But neither of us want to . . . it's not sexual."
She wants to argue that it's still love, sex or not, but she also knows how hard it must be for Sherlock to approach her, to talk about this with her. She lets the silence fill the gap for a moment until she thinks of what to say.
"He didn't know, then. He didn't know why things weren't working for us."
Sherlock's eyes narrow at her. "But you did."
Sarah sighs, purses her lips as she wonders how to explain it. "I knew that you were the most important person in his life. That you probably always will be."
She sees him bristle at the "probably," but continues. "And John's an honorable man, in the end. He knew he couldn't commit himself to me the way he thought he was supposed to. So it ended."
"Supposed to?"
"He thought he had to choose between us. He didn't think he could have both."
For a moment, pain crosses Sherlock's face, and though he hides it almost instantly, she sees the heartbreaking doubt there. "Can he, though?"
Sarah looks at him until he meets her gaze. "Yes."
Sherlock blinks at her.
"If that's what he wants-"
"I know it's what he wants," Sherlock says quickly, voice pitched low.
Sarah sits back in her chair and squints at him. "How, exactly, do you know?"
"After John left this morning, I took the opportunity to gather data-"
Sarah frowns.
"-and John has been corresponding with his hopeless therapist-"
"Corresponding privately," Sarah interjects.
"-about you and me, along with several heartfelt but unsent emails addressed to you which-"
"Sherlock." Her tone stops his words, but she can see him vibrating with the need to continue. "Whatever John is hoping for, I need to hear it from him, not from you."
Sherlock flicks a frustrated hand at her. "We just agreed that he won't tell you!"
She gives her head a frustrated shake. "Because he thinks he knows the answer! But he doesn't, and neither do I, and neither do you, even."
Sherlock scrunches up his face. "You are the answer."
"Why? Shall I just go offer him my magical vagina and that'll solve it? 'Oh, Sarah will provide the sex, so there's that sorted, then',-is that what you thought?"
"No," Sherlock says too quickly.
"Liar."
In his cashmere and wool, Sherlock Holmes pouts.
Sarah shakes her head a little and glances down at her watch. "Look. His shift ends in about ninety minutes. I'll go meet him at the surgery, and then bring him to Baker Street."
Sherlock says nothing.
"Where the three of us will sit down and discuss this."
His eyes widen with something akin to horror.
"This won't work if we don't . . . communicate."
A shudder works its way over his features, and he exhales heavily. "Fine."
She expects him to bolt, but instead he continues to twirl the wineglass in his fingers, his gaze riveted to the red waves within. She's never seen him flummoxed, and she imagines it's rare for him to feel so.
"You're welcome to stay and eat, if you like," she offers as casually as she can muster. "Gabriel ordered the duck."
"Of course he did," he answers.
It's not a yes. But it's not a no, either, and Sarah knows. Omissions are important. The unsaid has weight and volume.
And Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are fucking icebergs.
x-x-x
Notes: Thank you to my Armada for beta services on this bit!