Work Text:
W: Do you have your passport?
S: Yes.
W: “Your earplugs?”
S: Yes.
W: Handkerchief?
S: Yes. I also have clean underwear in a quantity sufficient to last the duration of my assignment.“ He put down his valise. "Watson, what is the problem?”
W: “Nothing, no problem. It’s just you know … Nothing. Just take care of yourself. Stay out of trouble…” She crossed her arms and stared at his shoes to avoid his eyes.
S: “I will. I’ll call when I land but after that ….” He shrugged. Once on the ground, he would be out of reach for the next few weeks.
W: “I know, I know … Just … ” Her eyes sought his. She wanted him to understand. She was getting teary and she wasn’t sure why.
S: “Yes, yes.” He cleared his throat and blinked several times before continuing. "Same goes for you … “ He nodded. Sherlock pivoted a few degrees and changed the subject. "I froze a portion or two of the lasagna and there’s extra sauce also …” He stared wide-eyed at her.
W: “Thanks.”
The taxi honked to announce its arrival. Sherlock picked up his bag.
S: “I’ll be back and underfoot before you know it. Enjoy your solo time …”
Watson offered a weak smile. “I will. …. Bye.”
He stared at her for a moment, put down his bag and moving a step forward, gave her a short but very tight hug. “Bye.”
She opened her eyes but did not turn to watch him go.
-:- -:- :-: :-: -:- -:- :-: :-:
3:27 a.m.
Joan sat on the polished wood of the library floor; before her, a neatly laid out semi- circle of documents and photos. Barefoot, clad in shorts and her partner's "I'm not lucky, I'm just good" tshirt, she stared up at the second set of documents that she'd pinned and taped over the fireplace mantel.
The old house was absolutely silent with not even a creak to keep her company. She missed the man. Sherlock had been gone now for 23 days, not that she'd been counting. His NSA assignment swept him away .... somewhere ... and left them with no means of communicating. She worried. She told herself that if he were hurt or dead, McNally would surely let her know... eventually.
Joan sighed and blindly scanned the documents over the mantel. She was surprised by just how much she missed the grumpy, know-it-all. The casework was not a problem. Apparently, she handled "no-Sherlock" at work much better than she did "no Sherlock" at home. Last night, she ended up sleeping in his bedroom - the proximity to the kitchen made it a good place to read and snack - at least that was what she told herself and, should he ever find out, what she'd tell him.
Her attention went back to the rather gruesome photos before her on the floor. Blood trails and footprints gave them a likely suspect but it didn't feel right. There was something she was missing in all this; it was most likely right in front of her, but she just could not see it.
The sound of the front door lock thunking open sent her scrambling to her feet. She peeked into the hall just as he closed the foyer door behind him and turned. Sherlock, looking a bit more hirsute than when he left, put down his valise.
A rather warm, happy feeling suffused his being at the unanticipated sight of his partner. "Watson," he murmured.
He had missed her; had spent the last 23 days feeling stupidly out of sorts, needing her counsel, needing her at his side.
"Sherlock!" she moved excitedly towards him. Without a second's hesitation, she threw her arms around his neck and welcomed her partner home.
Sherlock was overwhelmed: Watson was genuinely happy to see him. No one was ever happy to see him. He had never been so warmly welcomed home or anywhere else for that matter. Inhibitions dropped and he responded in equal measure. His arms wrapped tightly around her, pulling her close and holding her there. They happily swayed a little in greeting.
The world made sense again.
"Why didn't you let me know you were coming?" She pulled her head back to get a good look at his face, arms still around his neck.
"I didn't know myself until a few hours ago, plus those bloody control freaks confiscated the phone I took with me."
His hair had grown out; no longer cropped into submission, small waves of it peaked about his head. Joan fought the urge to smooth it down. Just having him whole and sound and back home filled her with joy.
His eyes roamed her face, taking in every nuance of expression. It felt so good to have her in his arms, so good to feel his body pressed to hers ...
Self consciousness stealthily squeezed itself between them. A quiet awkwardness took over and they moved back and away from the embrace. Joan inspected the floor beside him and he fidgeted with his coat pocket and stared at a spot behind her.
"Are you hungry? I can make you eggs or ..."
"No, no... Not at all ... Thank you. ...." He nodded at the floor and then looked up at her, "Why are you up?"
"Mr. Hunters' untimely end ..." She motioned towards her nest and it's accompanying wall of crazy as they moved into the library. "Plus I've been having some trouble sleeping ..." She shrugged, "Not sure why exactly ..." She watched as he inspected the work.
"Mm... Good job on the evidence layout." He cut his eyes to her. "And your choice of attire is to be commended."
His too big tshirt hung loosely on her small frame. Joan felt her cheeks redden slightly. "I... I thought it would help me focus," she stammered.
"Remind me to take some article of your clothing with me, should we ever again have to spend time apart. I had my own problems ... focusing." He flashed his eyes at her and she smiled in return.
Again an awkward silence as they stared at one another. He broke the moment first, "So, fill me in on what we have here."
Attention focused on the work, they stood side by side, a little closer than the norm perhaps. Joan went over the facts of the case. Sherlock listened. The brownstone creaked.