A/N:
I'm sorry this chapter was so short, and so mushy - it was supposed to be funny I swear, but I suppose Sherlock and Jo had other ideas.
In other news, I posted the glossary of terms a few days ago; I hope it's helpful. Let me know if there's anything that I've missed or is still unclear.
As always, thank you so much for reading, I hope you like it, and I'd love to hear from you.
It was the day leading up to the last night of his Change and even Sherlock had to admit that camping had been a good idea. He and Jo had spent a lot of time at the lake — although Jo definitely enjoyed swimming more than he did. Jo continued to prove that she was quite adept at outdoor cooking: even if she did stage a brief strike in order to convince Sherlock to do his share of the washing up. He had finished his first three books and was halfway through the Russian translation, which ended up being a bit more difficult that he had originally anticipated. The last night they were there, he decided to make dinner himself — Sherlock insisted that it was because he wanted to give her a break, but Jo was fairly sure that he just wanted an excuse to stop translating Russian for a few hours.
Considering the fact that every single time Sherlock had tried to cook in the flat he had set something on fire, Jo was understandably skeptical, but once Sherlock decided that he was going to do something it was almost impossible to get him to change his mind, so she just sat in her chair and prepared herself to step in when things inevitably took a turn for the disastrous. They were only five minutes into the exercise when she realized that she couldn't just sit there and watch him manufacture a disaster and decided to go for a walk. She had only been gone for fifteen minutes when she realized that she would rather be there to assist in the containment effort, rather than return to the charred remains of their campsite.
When she got back to their site, there was no sign of Sherlock — something which never failed to make her heart beat faster. She was still looking for any indication of where her flatmate might have gone when she heard a pained cry from the tent. Bursting inside, she found Sherlock kneeling in front of her bag, one hand bloody and clutched to his chest and the other impossibly tangled in the silver chain she kept in her bag. She quickly dropped down next to him and began to unravel the knots that were burning into his skin.
"I can't leave you alone for fifteen minutes without you getting into my things and hurting yourself, can I?" She murmured, trying to distract him while she worked.
He rolled his eyes. "I was just looking for a plaster; you're the one who booby trapped your bag."
"I didn't booby trap anything; that chain was safely put away in its case," she answered with a sigh. "And what were you doing looking in my bag for a plaster. I told you that my med kit was in the car." She freed his hand and pulled up to his feet. "Alright. Let's go and get my kit, and I'll get you fixed up." Sherlock quietly followed her out into the open and sat at their table as Jo retrieved her med kit.
Jo started by cleaning the three inch cut on Sherlock's left palm and then wrapping a bandage around his hand, knowing that if she just used a plaster, he wouldn't be able to keep it covered and would probably develop an infection. Next she moved on to the silver burns on his other hand, carefully rubbing cream into the injury in order to soothe the pain. When she was finished, she packed up her kit and then took over making the dinner that Sherlock had abandoned; the detective just sat quietly and watched, more than a little embarrassed by the commotion he had caused by just trying to make dinner.
"Why do you have a silver chain with you, anyway?" Sherlock asked a few minutes later, awkwardly clearing his throat.
She shrugged. "I usually have it with me. It's always been vital to my work, so I don't see the benefit of going anywhere without it; kind of like that magnifying glass of yours. And besides, I'm spending this Moon Cycle sitting by myself in the middle of no where — it's nice to have some form of self-defense."
"You weren't by yourself," he protested, unsure of whether he should be offended or not. "I'm here."
Jo smiled at him, her eyes crinkling fondly. "I know, but it's not like you stayed around the campsite. You could have been miles away and not even known that anything had gone wrong until you came back in the morning."
"I haven't just been leaving you here by yourself." He was definitely starting to work up to being offended now. "I come back to check on you once every hour, and I never go far enough that I couldn't hear you yell for help if you needed it."
Now she was beaming at him. "Really? I never knew. You must be much sneakier than I've given you credit for."
"Does that bother you?" He asked, wondering whether or not that was supposed to be a compliment. "That I can sneak up on you even when you're paying attention."
She gave a breathy giggle. "Sherlock, I've learned that at any given moment, I'm most likely underestimating you in one way or another; you are constantly exceeding my expectations, and it's brilliant. Why on earth would it start bothering me now?"
Sherlock bit back a grin, warmth spreading through him at the praise. "Jo, you expect more from me than anyone else I know; how can I possibly exceed your expectations?"
Jo finally stopped what she was working on and put all of her attention on her friend, her expression softening into a sad fondness. "The fact that no one else expects as much from you as I do is a sad comment on what people think you're capable of."
"What exactly do you think I'm capable of?" He asked, more than a little nervous that he was going to end up disappointing his friend.
She sighed, shrugging again. "Honestly, I just expect you to be a decent man. A very brilliant man, but a decent one none the less."
"That must be very disappointing for you," he replied quietly. "There's not a single person I've ever met who would call me decent."
She shook her head. "Well people are idiots. You are most definitely a decent man — more than decent, in fact. You just forget it sometimes."
"I've never met anyone with so much faith in me," he said, unable to keep the awe from his voice.
"Yes, well," she said awkwardly, coughing to try and cover up the shakiness in her voice. "Don't think that that faith extends to leaving you alone and in charge of cooking a meal ever again."
Sherlock smirked, taking the offered change in conversation. "So I won't be cooking Christmas dinner then?"
"No, definitely not," she answered, shuddering. "I think I'd rather go back to Afghanistan than have you cook a whole Christmas dinner by yourself and unsupervised."
The detective's good mood began to fade. "I have the feeling that there are a lot of things that you'd rather go back to Afghanistan than do."
The doctor's expression turned serious, obviously having caught on to Sherlock's change in mood. "There's not nearly as many as there used to be." Sherlock looked up at her consideringly for a few moments, trying to asses whether or not she was being honest, before breaking into a genuine, if hesitant, smile. Jo returned the smile much less hesitantly before going back to her work.
That night Sherlock stayed in the campsite, the wounds on his front paws making it too uncomfortable for him to get very far. Jo had spread out a towel for him so that he wouldn't have to lay in the dirt, but he was still restless and unbelievably bored. Normally, Jo would put on some ridiculous film, James Bond more often than not, that Sherlock would never admit to liking and they would sit on the sofa together, Sherlock's head in her lap as she brushed the inevitable tangles out of his fur. But there were no such distractions this time, and now that he couldn't even explore the surrounding area, the mandatory downtime left him feeling irritable and isolated. Deciding that he shouldn't be forced to suffer alone, he levied a steady assault of pointed sighs interspersed by occasional groans. Jo held out until ten before heaving a sigh of her own and pushing herself out of her chair.
"Alright that's it, I'm going to bed," she said, looking down at her friend. "You can join me if you want, but I'm warning you — if you pull any more of this sighing and moaning crap I'll kick you out of the tent." Sherlock just blinked up at her, his pale eyes conveying just how convincing her threats were. When he didn't show any signs of getting up to go with her, she sighed and shrugged to herself.
She was just on the edge of sleep when she heard Sherlock snuffling and pawing at the tent flap. She had purposefully left the door open enough that he could get in on his own, but it wasn't too surprising that he was going to make her get up and open it for him. After the first night, they had left their beds pushed together, so Jo had to crawl over her friend once she had zipped the tent shut again. She laid back down and closed her eyes, letting Sherlock press even tighter against her side. She had definitely missed not having to sleep alone, and the warm body pressed against her was more than comforting enough to send her quickly back to sleep. She had just drifted off when Sherlock stuck his cold nose in her ear, effectively waking her up again.
Jo groaned and rolled over to face him. "Was that really necessary?" When Sherlock didn't even blink in response she sighed. "You know what Holmes? You're a dirty liar."
Sherlock made a questioning sound.
"When we first met, you promised me that you would occasionally stop speaking for days. Well you've yet to shut up and I'm beginning to feel a bit disgruntled by this."
He gave her a look and she rolled her eyes.
"Don't give me that. Just because you can't technically speak at the moment, doesn't mean you're not talking to me." He made a low humming sound and then they both fell silent. A few minutes later Jo cleared her throat and spoke up again, sounding so sleepy that Sherlock had to wonder if she really knew what she was saying.
"I'm glad you keep talking to me; I don't know what I'd do if you ever stopped."
Sherlock made a low grumbling sound in the back of his throat, and while Jo couldn't quite tell what he was trying to say, it sounded a bit like a promise.