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The few times he'd been close, he'd touched her. Two kisses on the cheek, mostly, though there were a few instances of hands on shoulders and barest grazes of fingers on arms. She never really touched him. Three slaps was about all she'd managed in all the years she's known him. Normally there was space between them, physically and otherwise, and that's the way he preferred it. If he didn't want there to be space then he'd be the one who initiated it, not her. That's the way their relationship has always played out. It's been under his control, never hers, and he almost always kept his distance.
It changed, though, with the madman on the screens with the “Miss me?” message. She was terrified when she saw it, sure he knew her role in all of it, in doing the body swap and letting Sherlock use her flat as a bolt hole and being a confidant. He had been leaving that day, off on an errand for his brother. She had known he wasn't going to come back even though he made empty promises that he would see her soon enough. She could see it in his eyes that he knew there was no return. She thought about saying something, but decided against it in the end. And then he was back, in her morgue at St. Bart's, adamant that he would keep her safe. He kept a table between them, and she let him, but she was glad he was there.
It was soon figured out that Greg would keep himself safe and John would protect Mary and Sherlock would ensure her and Mrs. Hudson's safety. She hadn't especially wanted to leave her home but she knew this was for the best, that having the three of them under the same roof would be the logical way to keep all of them safe. Sherlock accompanied her home and she packed the three pieces of luggage she had bought for her honeymoon that never happened with the things that were most dear, and then she left, unsure if she would ever come home. Sherlock stayed in the doorways as she packed, and put a seat between them in the cab.
He showed her to a room and she took her things there, unpacking slowly. It wasn't a bad room, it just wasn't her room. And it would be a place where she could be safe, she knew that, but she just didn't want to be there. After a time she went down to the sitting room, sat in a chair with her feet tucked under her, watched the telly when she realized she was there all by herself, and eventually fell asleep in the chair. She woke up to a stiff neck and a sore body and found a quilt had been draped over her in the night. She asked Mrs. Hudson about it later but she said she hadn't set foot in the sitting room. Sherlock had gotten close, but only when she couldn't be close back.
It went on that way for a time, this strange dance between them, where they kept distance but kept company, where they shared a space but kept large parts of it to themselves. He was close to her most of the time, more often than he wasn't, but he was never close enough for her, always a fair bit removed. John said it hadn't been that way with him, and it must be her. There must be a reason why he distanced himself yet stayed close, but he couldn't put his finger on it. But she had an inkling of an idea. She wasn't completely sure, because if she was right it was something she had hoped for for so long, something she'd given up on ever getting from him. So she resolved to see if she was right.
The evening when she worked up her courage they were both in the sitting room. He was in his chair, brooding over the latest development with Moriarty and she was standing near the kitchen, debating what to do. Finally she moved, slowly and hesitantly, over to his chair. She stood by it for a moment, knowing he knew she was there but waiting for him to acknowledge it. “You have a question,” he said finally, without looking at her.
“It's more like a request,” she said.
That surprised him. She could tell when he looked up. It wasn't obvious if you didn't know him, but his eyes were a little wider and there was a strange tilt to his pursed lips. “What is it you want?” he asked.
“Could I get close to you?” she asked. “Physically close, I mean. You...you're close but you're not. You always put distance between us unless you want to be close. And I want to know if you'll let me decide that I want to be close to you and then let me actually be close.”
He looked up and down the length of her for a moment, and she could see him weighing things out in his head. And then he slowly stood up, keeping a bit of distance between them. “What do you want to do?” he asked.
“What are you willing to let me do?” she asked quietly.
“I'm not sure,” he said.
She was quiet for a moment. There was a lot she wanted to do, had wanted to do for years and years. And she could take advantage of this moment and do them, but lose something in the process if she wasn't careful, if she pushed him to a point he wasn't comfortable with. “Sherlock...how do you feel about me?” she asked when she finally spoke.
“I appreciate you,” he said. “I care a great deal about you. You're important to me.”
“I see,” she said quietly, looking down. Of course he didn't fancy her. She would never be that way to him. Never be looked at in that way because why should he want someone like her?
“There's more to it, though,” he said, and when she looked up she saw he almost looked nervous. “You saw the tabloids? The articles about Janine and I?”
“Yes,” she said, unsure why he was bringing it up.
“She made most of it up. There was some physical contact. You can't fool someone into being in a relationship with you without it, but there was nothing behind it. She's nice enough, I suppose, but I didn't care about her. I wasn't thinking of her when I played my part to lay that trap.”
“Who were you thinking of, then?” she asked, hesitantly taking a step closer to him.
“You,” he said quietly. “I'd done that a few times before, while I was gone. Thought about it. I came back and there was Tom and you were distancing yourself in a way and so I kept quiet. And then I was already involved with Janine when your engagement ended and it came out wrong when I made the comment after you slapped me. I shouldn't be cruel to you, not when I care about you. But I was. And then all of this happened and so I've kept my distance because it's not the right time. It never seems to be the right time.”
She nodded and took the last few steps towards him. There was a height difference between them but it was just slightly more noticeable since she was barefoot. After a moment she reached up, gently placing a hand on either side of his face. He didn't flinch or move back, instead shutting his eyes and seeming to relax. “We'll make it the right time, then,” she said before she raised herself up and kissed him softly on the lips. For a few seconds he did nothing but soon he moved his hands to her waist and kept her close as he kissed her back. This, she realized, was exactly what she had hoped for in a first kiss with Sherlock, and even if there was the chance everything could go to hell all around them she was glad that she had him now.