A/N: Hey everyone :) This is a very short one-piece which I thought about when I saw part of 3x09. I was in two minds about whether to write it or not, but decided I would. I haven't actually seen the episode yet (it won't air in the UK for a few weeks) but I saw a clip of the dripping tap speech and wanted to create a tribute (of sorts) to what I personally think is a truly masterful and inspirational monologue. I hope you like it :) And, as always, all comments/critiques/advice is greatly appreciated.
Thanks,
-HQ21
Also, another chapter to 'Unspoken Vows' will be uploaded tonight, sorry for the delay.
As he leaned back in his comfortable arm chair, an old volume of a late-nineteenth century text regarding forensics in his hands, Sherlock found his breathing falling into a pattern that was almost identical to when he was asleep. His chest rose and fell gently, and his solemn and glassy eyes blinked tiredly as he gazed absent-mindedly at the window before him, which was being pelted with heavy rain and hailstones. The roaring fire by his side added to this scene, creating an almost literary scene which was the perfect backdrop for his thoughts. As he found himself lost in the maze of his mind and the confusion of his present state, he found his attention drawn to the sound of the rain and hailstones which were striking his window pane with increased intensity. At the sound of the water and ice attacking the sentient and defenceless pane of glass, Sherlock found his thoughts returning to the topic that he had been attempting to banish from his mind for the majority of the night: the conversation he had with Joan Watson about his current struggles with his sobriety. Sherlock inhaled slightly and turned his head to the side, closing his eyes as he attempted to banish the topic from his mind once more. And, as always, he failed.
Sherlock sighed in frustration, leaning his head back against the moth-eaten cushioned headrest, closing his eyes as he ran his finger down the torn and well-used pages of a text he knew off by heart, but still found himself retreating to. It was a comfort blanket, of sorts, that particular text. It was a volume that he had stumbled upon in his father's library when he was just nine years old, and which he head read voraciously beneath the desk, until his father had returned and scolded him for entering the room without his permission. The left side of Sherlock's lip turned up in a small smile at the recollection of that event, before the image of his father's angry and disappointed face burned itself into his mind once more. For a moment, Sherlock allowed himself to wonder whether that expression was the same one his father wore when finding out about his drug use in London, and whether he would ever have cause to adopt the expression again. But this thought, as were many others on this particularly difficult subject, lasted only for a moment.
Before he could think of another subject to occupy his mind, and to detract attention from the issues that were plaguing him, Sherlock's attention was drawn to the hallway by the solid and confident knocking upon his front door. In one deft movement, Sherlock flicked the book closed and dropped it onto his armchair, before walking briskly through the room and towards the front door, which he pulled open forcefully. For a moment, he had forgotten that he had stood up, heard a knock and headed towards the door. But the cold wind and rain which was blown into his face reminded him, and he blinked away the confusion as he gazed at the figure before him.
"Watson" he breathed, his voice lower and slightly more hollow than he had intended. The dark eyes of his former partner, whose figure was covered by a large black coat, gazed over him analytically as she considered his expression. She was wearing a black hat and boots, and was clutching a medium-sized bag to her as she stared up at him, the rain falling lightly down her face. As his eyes fell down her soaked figure, he noticed a tall black suitcase on wheels, which she was holding behind her.
"Can I come in?" she asked simply, holding the bag slightly closer to her as she spoke.
"Of course" Sherlock returned, blinking himself out of his stupor as he stepped aside immediately, and allowed her to pass through into the warmth and comfort of the familiar hallway.
Sherlock watched as Joan removed her hat and coat, hanging them on the hooks by the door, before dragging the case to a spot beside the coats. Sherlock's attention fell to the suitcase, which he stared at for several moments as Joan placed her black bag upon a chair and rummaged through it. As he considered this scenario, his former partner knocking on his door at ten o'clock at night, seeking permission to enter, bringing a case with her, he found himself wondering what could have happened to cause her to appear before him in such circumstances. His concern for himself and his sobriety disappeared indefinitely as he considered the woman before him, who had picked something out of her bag and was standing before him. As always, the only cure for forgetting about his own troubles was concerning himself with the well-being of Joan Watson.
"Watson, are you quite alright?" he asked, watching as her wet tresses fell upon her shoulders, as her dark eyes shone brightly amongst the pale palour of her rain-soaked skin.
Without a word, Joan rose her arm and handed Sherlock an item, which he accepted instantly, staring at it for several moments as he considered its significance: it was a brand new silver wrench, with a ribbon tied in a bow around the centre. Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he stared at it with a puzzled expression which Joan would have found amusing in any other circumstances. But these were not those circumstances. Although some day, perhaps we will both smile warmly at the memory, she mused. As she thought this, her attention was drawn from her inner musings by Sherlock, who rose his head and was staring at her with a perplexed and questioning expression. Joan gave him a warm and reassuring look, before placing her hand upon the black case she had dragged in behind her, and tilting her head to the side to observe her former partner.
"What do you say we try and deal with that leaking fawcet?" she asked, her expression softening as she spoke.
Sherlock's head tilted back slightly as he processed her words, his eyes alight with new knowledge and understanding, as he turned the wrench around in his hands. They stared at each other for several moments, before Sherlock bowed his head slightly, nodded, and looked back up at her.
"You aren't going to hit me with it, are you?" he quipped, raising the wrench in his hand and swaying it theatrically from side to side. "Beat the weakness and self-pity out of me?"
"You are not self-pitying, Sherlock" she stated in a low, gentle tone, as he looked up at her with uncertain eyes. "And you certainly aren't weak" she stated with conviction, her eyes meeting his and holding his gaze as she spoke. "And to prove it, why don't you take this upstairs for me?" she asked, tapping her hand on her case. "I don't pack light." Sherlock snorted lightly, his mouth forming a small, embarrassed smile.
"It appears we both have baggage, Watson" he stated reflectively, his eyes adopting the same glassy expression they bore when he spoke to her about his struggles with his sobriety. His attention was drawn from his thoughts by his sensing Joan's presence close to him. As he looked down, he saw that she was crossing the hallway towards him, dragging her heavy case as she did so.
"Then why don't we help each other with that?" she asked gently, dragging the case in front of him and handing him the handle. His fingers drifted onto the handle, lingering there for a moment, before wrapping themselves around it and tugging it lightly towards him. "I'll make us some tea" Joan stated, turning on the spot and heading towards the kitchen. Before she made it three steps, his name called her back.
"Watson!" he called, causing her to turn on the spot instantly, her wide, dark-eyes meeting his. "I believe you'll be needing this" he stated, walking towards her slowly and standing tall before her, as he placed an item into her hand.
Joan nodded, before turning on the spot and heading wordlessly into the kitchen, placing the kettle on the stove and listening to it boil as Sherlock carried her heavy case effortlessly up the stairs. She walked past the stove towards the cupboards, reaching up for two mugs which she put on the counter. Joan paused for a moment, staring at the cups in front of her, before placing the object in her hand beside them on the counter. Less than a minute later, Sherlock walked slowly into the room, hovering in the doorway for a moment as he watched Joan preparing the tea. She carried the two cups over to the table, and Sherlock followed her obediently, sitting beside her as he wrapped his hands around the hot mug. After a few seconds he looked up, his eyes drifting from Joan to the counter, where Joan had placed the wrench. He stared at it for a moment, as it rested beside the sink. His eyes moved from the wrench to the cold tap above the sink which was, ironically, dripping. He blinked once at this realisation, before leaning back slightly in his seat, and turning towards Joan. He watched her for several moments, her calm and composed expression giving him the courage and determination that it always had. And after a few comfortable moments of silence, Sherlock Holmes began to speak.