Chapter Text
Stay
She’s there for him and he’s there for her. These are their axioms, their unspoken truths, the always-present feeling of having someone to watch their backs. They both know pain and grief all too well, all too frequently, and neither of them, not even Sherlock in all his arrogance, dares think they would’ve gotten as far alone as they got together. It’s not unusual that one of them takes advantage of that cognition, and they flow easily, Sherlock asking Watson to monitor his sleep or other physical “experiments” (he calls them that, she refuses to call them anything but “hazards”) every so often, and she appreciates having him as a buffer whenever her mother comes over to dinner. Nothing’s ever questioned and nothing’s ever discussed.
It’s a Sunday when she brings it up, a stormy evening in which their corner of Brooklyn is uncharacteristically quiet and the rain thwarts most of their work-related plans, that she considers asking him about their dynamic. It’s not that there’s any particular reason why she feels the need to have something as ephemeral and impalpable as a relationship, but her therapist asks about their dynamic often, presses her, tries to coax information she doesn’t have out of her. He’s sitting next to the fireplace on his favourite armchair, striped sock-clad feet plopped over an ottoman, Summa Theologica resting on his lap., his cup of tea - cold, if the fact that the last time she heard the kettle whistle was over three hours back is any indication – rests next to him on the coffee table, noticeably on top of a very pronounced ring on the vintage piece. She glances at him, not lingering, just trying to assess whether or not this is a good time - if there ever would be one - and glances down when she realizes he’s noticed her presence. He closes his book and places it gingerly on his lap before glancing up at her. He’s clearly able to realize she means to ask him something, something she’s not necessarily comfortable asking,
“Watson, is there anything you’d like to say?” he asks, and his tone makes her hesitate for a second, but she ultimately decides to ask her question anyway, because it’s no big deal, (she repeats that on her head several times over, willing her consciousness to believe it, but honestly, she was never good at fooling herself) she’d just like to clarify some things, grasp some instances a little better. She needs to understand this co-dependent relationship they have, needs to understand if they’re still just partners and friends, or if the nights he slept on her floor and held her hand after a particularly frightening case got the best of her have changed their relationship - if everything they’ve gone through, having changed who they are, has changed their dynamic as well.
“What are we?” she asks, calmly, eyes glued on the confusing beauty of his face, all the straight lines and rough edges, trying to act as if she was perfectly comfortable with this conversation
“What part of our existence are you referring to?” he asks, and she can’t tell if he’s being serious or just pulling her leg, but decides it’s best not to intervene with his response, she’s learnt this, through the most frustrating of circumstances “We’re beings in the macrocosm. Sapient creatures, some of us. Consumers of oxygen. We’re…”
“You and me, Sherlock.” She says “We as in us. Holmes and Watson. Joan and Sherlock. What are we, the two of us?”
He ponders for a moment, before taking his feet off the footrest and reaching for the cup of tea. He seems annoyed by the question, confused even, which is something she’s sure she’s never seen before - it’s almost as if the change in their dynamic had befuddled him too, almost as if, for once, he’s a normal guy who doesn’t know everything all the time, just another person navigating the maze that is existing.
“I do not understand what is it that you plan to achieve with this inquiry, Watson.” He tells her, setting the cup back on the table “I fail to see both your point and what caused you to pursue this, and I’m honestly gobsmacked at the blatant ignorance of it.”
“Excuse me? Ignorance of what? I’m just trying to understand the kind of relationship we’re harbouring.” She says, and it’s almost a whisper. It’s unlike her to be fazed by his lack of tact, but his impertinence hits her like a bucket of cold water, like once again she’s alone in her doubt “God, Sherlock, can you not see it? Something has changed here. Between us. You fall asleep by my side so often I’ve come to startle when you’re not there. You have been observing me. Not just normal Sherlock Holmes observations, but personal observations.” She tells him, and he shifts uncomfortably in his chair. “You bought me flowers last week. My favourites.” She looks at him, pleading, begging him to just tell her what he thinks, explain what he’s doing, where they’re going, what he wants.
She looks at him, pleading, begging him to just tell her what he thinks, explain what he’s doing, where they’re going, what he wants.
But he doesn’t. It takes him a second, and then he’s dashing off to lord knows where, his coat and shoes disappearing alongside him through the front door, leaving in his wake what he always seems to: astonishment, confusion, sadness, anger.
She’s not entirely sure what she expected, but that certainly wasn’t it. He ran from her, quite literally ran from her, and as always, there she stands, confused, annoyed, and so, so very intrigued. Accept the fact that Sherlock Holmes isn’t someone you can ‘talk it out’ with, she says to herself, before she can drag her feet up the stairs and into her bedroom. He will not be there tonight, that much she’s sure of, but not much else is clear.
It’s well after one when she hears the doorknob turn. A faint light comes from the hallway, and she sees him standing on the doorway, hands deep inside his pockets
“Sherlock?” she calls, her voice drowsy with sleep.
“I don’t know.” He responds, shifting on his heels.
“Don’t know if you are Sherlock?”
“Don’t know what we are.” He tells her “I’m not a common man Watson, and you can’t expect my relationships to be common. I enjoy your company, there’s no one else I’d rather spend time with, and I’d go to any length to protect you, but I doubt there’s anything in these words you don’t already know.” He continues “Therefore, I invite you, Watson, to tell me what we are, for I do not know.”
He’s right. She knows all of that already. But for some wicked reason, she needs that affirmation.
“We are whatever we want to be.”
“And what is that?”
“I don’t know.” She really doesn’t. Sherlock is a chaotic, careless, infantile, completely crackers prick, and a romantic relationship with him sounds in no way desirable, and yet, a future without him seems unfathomable. She can’t fight for that relationship alone, and she’s bloody near sure he won’t fight alongside her.
“Well, be sure to inform me once you do know.” He says, and turns around to leave the room.
“Sherlock.”
“What?”
“Stay.”