WHERE WE BELONG

Welcome back, reader!

Every once in a while I go back and re-watch some episodes of one of my favourite shows, Elementary. As I was re-watching season 7, this scene popped into my head, and wouldn't let me go until I wrote it.

So, here it is. Set in the last episode S07E13 "Their Last Bow", right after THE scene where we learn about Watson's cancer, and Sherlock promises to stay, before the time jump of one year later.

I swear, every time I see that scene, and how Sherlock just closes the distance and hugs her... it just goes to show how much these two mean to each other, and how much Sherlock has changed over the seasons.

Anyway, without further ado, ENJOY!

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Watson had gone up to shower, while Sherlock waited for the takeaway to arrive. The soft patter of water echoed faintly through the house, blending with the distant hum of traffic outside.

Thankfully, nobody else was at the brownstone, Arthur was with Rose and would be spending the entire night with her. One look at his and Watson's faces had told her everything she needed to know. She'd nodded, once, and with a feigned mischievous voice, had convinced Arthur they could do a pyjama party at her house. So, they took everything they needed, said goodbye to Mummy and Sherlock, and left.

Sherlock sighed, the sound of the shower not quite masking the tension in the room, mingling with the lingering scent of Watson.

Except for the shower, everything was calm and silent. But he was unsettled. And he knew the reason, above all others, was that Watson had almost let him leave for Norway without telling him the news.

Cancer.

Just a simple word, and yet, it brought along a world of pain and fear.

It didn't matter why Watson hadn't told him, whether it was because she didn't want to feel he'd stayed out of duty, or if she'd seen him happy and didn't want to dampen that.

None of that changed the fact that now, after everything they'd been through, she needed him.

There was something else, however. Something that kept nagging at Sherlock's mind. They were best friends, were they not? They would've done anything for each other, they had done everything for each other.

The steady tick of the clock echoed through the living room, and he couldn't shake the sensation of time slipping through his fingers. He couldn't even want to imagine himself leaving in the morning, and leaving his friend behind, thinking she was fine. No, he couldn't do that.

He'd been standing in the same position for a while when Watson descended the stairs. Her hair was damp, tiny drops clung to the ends like morning dew, catching the soft light of the room. She was wrapped up in her years-old red cardigan, worn-out and comforting like a soft hug.

Sherlock approached her, his gaze lingering on the area where the lump had been. Watson stood still as he approached, and when she saw where he was looking, her hand instantly covered her breast, as if he wanted to hide, to shield herself.

Sherlock tilted his head and placed his hand atop Watson's.

Her skin was cool from the shower, but his touch was warm and steady. She looked away, her gaze darting around the room. His thumb stroked the back of her hand, slowly, gently, the rhythm matching the slow, deep breaths he forced himself to take to keep his voice steady. His eyes sought hers, but she wouldn't meet them. Not yet.

"It's alright, Watson. Arthur is safe with Rose, and I won't leave come morning. Tonight, we can take it slow. Agreed?" he said, his voice low. There was a softness to his tone that surprised even him, a warmth that felt foreign and yet… right. Like an old habit finally remembered.

Watson nodded, her lower lip quivering. He could feel the tremor in her hand now, the faintest shake as the weight of her emotions began to surface. He saw the tears well in her eyes and stepped forward.

His arms easily found their place around her, holding her close, as though they belonged there. He pulled her in, gentle but secure, grounding her as she trembled in his embrace.

The scent of her washed hair—a hint of something floral—filled his senses, stirring a deep, familiar ache in his heart.

He was home.

A home he had missed without realising just how much.

For three long years, he had delved into work, needing an outlet to forget the fact that he missed her. It had been hard to accept that, regardless of trying to focus on his health and sobriety, without Watson it felt like he'd forgotten how to breathe.

He threw himself into work, closing case after case. Trying to avoid thinking about her and spiralling out of control.

All the while, he hadn't been there when she needed him. When she faced life without news from him, not knowing if he was dead or alive. When Arthur came into her world and he welcomed him. Or when her diagnosis came.

He'd fought his own battles, forcing her to face hers alone. Without him.

And he had failed her when it mattered most.

Watson pressed into him, hiding from a cruel world. Her warmth brought him back from his memories and guilt, her soft whimpers tickling his neck. He smelled the salt of her tears.

"Shhh Watson, you'll be fine... The prognosis is good—it was caught early, localized... 90.8% of women…" He trailed off, the statistics suddenly empty in the face of her trembling body in his.

Statistics had never frightened him, not until now. Because the truth was, no matter how favourable the odds, they were still odds. And when it came to Watson, any risk felt unbearable. His mind raced, unbidden thoughts swirling like a storm—what if she was one of the few? What if he had to face a world without her?

He pushed the thoughts aside, refusing to let them take root. She needed him steady, not spiralling.

Watson pressed against him, her face buried in his jacket, her fingers curled into his jacket. Her breathing was shallow, her chest pressing against his in short, trembling bursts. Sherlock stroked her back, feeling the rapid rise and fall beneath his touch.

"Shhh," he murmured, the soft vibration of his voice brushing against her ear, the sound barely more than a breath. He savoured the sensation of her warmth, grounding himself in the reality that they were here, together.

As he kept his hold, he became aware of the dampness on his shoulder—her tears soaking through the fabric of his jacket. One of his hands went from her back to her cheek, wiping the tears with his thumb. Gentle, soft. He let the moment linger, the silence between them stretching, letting it speak louder than any words could.

"I've needed you so much, Sherlock…" said her tiny, trembling voice.

A cold spike of fear pierced him at her words. His heart clenched, the full weight of what she was facing crushing down on him. He could solve the most complex puzzles and fight off the darkest of murderers, but this… He had no power here.

The idea of Watson being taken away from him, of her absence becoming permanent, was unthinkable. How could he possibly exist without her tethering him?

Yet, none of that could slip into his voice. She needed certainty, not panic.

Sherlock closed his eyes, tears welling in his eyes at Watson's confession as he tightened his grip, mindful of her breast. He swallowed, not even wanting to imagine her fear, her loneliness; when she was given one of the worst pieces of news one could hear.

And he wasn't there to hold her.

"I'm here, Watson. Right here," he whispered, his voice rough and edged with emotion, "you won't have to take another step alone. I'm with you."

Her breathing quickened, shoulders heaving, eyes red-rimmed. The lamplight highlighted the tears on her cheeks.

"Y-you said your death was out of desperation but could be the best thing that happened for either of us," she whispered, repeating his words from two days earlier. The room felt colder now, the air heavy with the weight of their shared pain. "How could you say that?"

Sherlock flinched at the repetition of his own words, uttered with such precision, even happiness, just days ago. At the time, it had felt necessary—a calculated safeguard to keep him from sinking back into her orbit, to convince her, and more so himself, that he had made the right choice.

Distance had seemed like the best form of protection. For her and for Arthur.

Yet hearing those words in her trembling voice now made him realise just how much damage they had done.

Sherlock shook his head, hating himself for his words. The floorboards beneath them creaked slightly, swaying on his feet as he tried to contain his emotions.

For three years he'd buried himself in work, telling himself it was for the best, that he couldn't go back, not now that she had a son. That she was better off without him, and he should be better off without her.

A lie so easily told, but now, crumbling under the weight of the truth staring back at him.

Now, he was powerless in a way that unnerved him. He had always protected her, outwitted every danger, but this? This monster was beyond his reach, beyond logic and deduction. His instinct to shield her clashed with the cruel reality—there was nothing he could do to save her from this.

He could only be here, and stay for as long as she needed him.

"I can't do this Sherlock, I c-can't…"

She was starting to hyperventilate, her breaths coming out in short puffs. He grabbed her by the shoulders, grounding her as much as himself.

"Watson, look at me. Look," Sherlock said, his voice calm and soft, yet stern. She responded immediately, raising her gaze, "I will not leave. You won't have to face another day alone. We'll work it out, together, as we always do."

One of his hands cupped her cheek, brushing the tears with his thumb. The pad of his thumb felt rough against her smooth skin.

"When I said that, I was trying to convince you, to convince myself, that it was better if we were apart," Sherlock admitted, his voice lower now as his finger caressed the skin. "But you are very much needed in my life. Make no mistake."

He had needed her too. So much.

Her absence had been hard to take. He missed her smell, her voice, her presence. She was the one that tethered him to reality, that made him want to be better. For her.

Watson sniffled, blinking back tears that Sherlock wiped away with as much gentleness as he could. She swallowed and breathed out, trying to regain some composure.

Sherlock took a deep breath, tightening his grip around her. His voice, when it came, was rougher than usual, the air between them charged and laced with the truth he had buried so deep.

"I wasn't strong without you, Watson," he admitted quietly. "I tried to be, but... I relapsed. Once. I woke up in a hospital." He paused, his throat tightening, as if the memory still haunted him, "I was told I almost didn't make it."

Watson's breath hitched, and she pulled away slightly, her tear-streaked face tilting up to meet his.

"God, Sherlock… Why didn't you come back?" she whispered, hurt edging her voice. "I could've helped, I could've—"

Sherlock shook his head, his voice thick with emotion. He blinked repeatedly, but was unable to avoid a couple of tears rolling down his cheeks.

"Arthur," he whispered, "your life had changed. You had your boy, and I couldn't—" He hesitated, trying to find the words, looking down at her with an emotion so raw it nearly undid him. "The thought of him finding me with a needle in my arm... I couldn't do that to him. Or to you. I'd already failed you once."

Her arms tightened around his frame, she sniffled. "But I should've been there, Sherlock. I should've known..."

Sherlock shook his head. "You couldn't have known. And it's me who should've been here when you needed me most. By keeping away to protect you and Arthur from me, I failed the only person I—"

He paused, his words dying in his mouth. But Watson's eyes, her warm, wet gaze told him his words had travelled straight to her heart.

Sherlock pulled her in, fiercely yet tenderly, letting her rest her face on his shoulder. The warmth of her breath against his neck, her body pressed so closely to his, created a bubble where only they existed.

"I will not leave you, ever again..."

It sounded like a promise.

Watson closed her eyes, absorbing the weight of his words. For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of their breathing, the pain of their confessions hanging between them.

"We're idiots, you know that?" she whispered, her voice still slightly wet.

Sherlock blinked, confused by the sudden lightness in her tone.

"We lied and hid stuff from each other, not wanting the other to worry…"

Sherlock scoffed, and stroked her cheek with his finger.

"We care about each other too much," he replied, his voice soft, caring.

Watson nodded, the sentiment clear in her eyes when she moved her face from his chest and looked at him.

"Yes, but— it has brought nothing but pain," she whispered.

And her words, her voice, were now lighter. With purpose.

Watson swallowed and pulled away slightly, straightening her back, her black eyes boring into his.

"A promise," she said, "to never lie or hide the truth from each other. We can't let it happen again, Sherlock…"

She paused and swallowed.

Sherlock shook his head and pressed their foreheads together, one of his hands travelling to her cheek.

"I can't promise that," he said, his voice soft, warm, "Watson… I would spy, break trust and kill for you. I can't promise I will not go to any lengths, even bend the truth, to protect you."

Watson sighed, nodding.

"I know, we're us. I would do that too, for you," she replied, "but I'm not talking about someone else, here. I'm talking about not lying to each other. I'm talking about bringing the world down on its knees, but not without the other knowing."

Her eyes were full, still glistening but slightly narrowed. Sherlock's heart pumped fast, his old Watson, with her fire and determination, was returning.

"I can't deal with thinking you could've died, alone, in a hospital and far away from me," she said, her voice wet and full of pain. "And you don't want to leave me knowing… what I have to face now. We can't let it happen again."

Sherlock's eyes softened as he listened. He knew he couldn't promise never to lie again, but the promise to be honest with her was something he desperately wanted to keep.

He nodded.

"Agreed," he said, "no more lies or half-truths."

As the words left his mouth, the fear still gnawed at him, relentless and cruel. No more lies—but what would he do if the truth was that she wouldn't survive? The mere thought of it was suffocating, a future too bleak to entertain. He had faced death before, come close enough to feel its chill, but Watson's mortality?

He shook his head slightly to dispel those thoughts from his mind and he blinked, looking at Watson's still glassy eyes. He would carry the weight of uncertainty alone, and the sleepless nights with the numbers and statistics spiralling in his mind were his alone to handle.

Sherlock blindly found her hand, his fingers trailing down her arm. Watson gave him a faint smile, expectant. He brought her hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to the back without breaking eye contact.

"A kiss," he whispered, "to seal the promise."

Her smile widened as she kissed his hand in return. The soft warmth of her lips against his skin sent a shiver through him, her familiar scent lingering.

"Promise," she said, her eyes glistening in the room, "I'll never let you go again, Sherlock."

Sherlock scoffed and used his other arm still wrapped around Watson's frame, to bring her closer to him. He leaned forward, and in a gesture that surprised even himself, he kissed her cheek.

"My dear Watson... The entire world could be burning to ashes, and still, there's no place else I'd rather be than with you," he whispered in her ear, his voice laced with the emotions coursing through his veins.

Watson said nothing, but when they locked eyes, hers were glistening, and a bit misty. And she let him wrap his arms around her, pulling her in, soaking up his affection.

They stood, holding each other and anchoring each other, for a long time.

Until eventually, the doorbell chimed, breaking their intimate moment. Sherlock felt Watson's grip loosen slightly as she wiped her tears.

"Dinner's here," he whispered, as he pressed a final kiss to her forehead, "go, I'll get us some plates."

As they separated, he gave her a reassuring smile before she moved toward the door.

They ate in silence, hands occasionally brushing as they reached for the same dish. There was no need for words; the evening's emotions still lingered between them, filling the quiet with a strange, fragile peace.

After dinner, Sherlock filled the quiet with stories from his time away, his voice a soothing hum against the backdrop of the night. Watson listened, her head leaning on his shoulder, her eyes closed, her fingers curled loosely in his sleeve.

For the first time in years, Sherlock felt settled. As her breathing softened and evened out, he smiled, holding her close as she drifted off to sleep. There were hardships to come, for sure, but they would face them together.

And that, for now, was enough.

—-

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NOTES:

That's it!

I know it's not much, but I swear I'd been thinking about this for a few days before I had to give in and write it.

If you want to see the cover art for this story, check the TUMBLR post, where I've posted it.

For those of you who are reading my other long-fic BENEATH THE SURFACE, the next chapter is coming! But it needs a bit of work still, so it might take a few more days.

As always, thanks for reading, and don't hesitate to leave kudos or comments!