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He’s fidgeting by the time they get to the car, tugging at his sleeves and plucking at his cufflinks. Cufflinks, really. Who needs cufflinks? The last time he wore cufflinks was at one of his parents’ parties, and oh, that night was lovely, wasn’t it, James laughing at him as he fought to get words out in between his heart knifing up in his chest and—
“Sherlock. Breathe.”
He sucks in a breath. New York. New York, he reminds himself. And Joan is here this time.
She’s staring at him steadily, her brown eyes gleaming in the evening light, her hand tucked over his hip. He takes another shaking breath, though he can’t bear to hold her gaze, then another, and another. He breathes diaphragmatically until his throat comes unstuck enough for him to speak.
“I told you,” he says. “Formal things make me—”
“You did tell me.” She squeezes his hip. “It’s okay, Sherlock—you don’t have to be perfect at this. You don’t even have to be good. You just have to be you, and get through this if you can, any way that works, all right?” She pauses. “If you don’t want to try tonight, we can head back to the house, you know. This is your decision, not mine.”
He wavers for a moment, but no. “No. Let’s go.”
-
She stops the car a block away after they leave and turns to pull him into her arms. He goes willingly, screwing his eyes shut.
“You made it,” she says, voice glowing in the dark. She kisses his temple. “I’m so proud of you.”
Pleasure rolls through him at her praise, heavy and soporific. He turns his face into her neck and simply breathes.
Here, he thinks, he is all right. With her, he always feels safe.