Work Text:
Another two days staring at the wall, four since he'd learned of Moriarty. This afternoon, after his mind kept wandering to the Malbolge-hacked random number generator, he'd posted the five notes left by M over the years in a column on the far left side. The first four had been thoroughly reviewed many many times before, by him and by others, with no results. But now he had a fifth to work with, and he was certain there was a pattern enmeshed in there. Layers of them, probably, and not based on anything so well charted as the digits of pi. Still, perceiving that had brought some relief, slowed the internal churning that was keeping him off balance. He felt anchored again. He would have liked to tell Watson about it.
The house was dark when the stiffness in his neck roused him and he got up from the floor to stretch. The one lamp directed at the card on the wall was the only light; glancing at the stairwell, it seemed to be dark upstairs and down. He did not want to talk to Watson yet; he was still too angry. But he didn't remember hearing her leave, and it bothered him more not to be sure who was and was not in the house.
[Seventy-two hours ago, a killer had walked in. Forty-eight hours ago a second one had walked out.]
Turning onto the hallway from top of the stairs he could see her door was ajar, the interior lit only by the streetlights outside. He paused, listening. Nothing. Maybe she was on the roof. He started to turn back to the stairs and caught a glimpse of something reflective by her bed. Going back, pushing open her door, he saw it was the dingy white mattress cover, bare. The bedding was folded neatly in a pile at the end of the bed. Her clocks weren't there. He knew if he opened the drawers, they'd be empty.
---
She hadn't texted or called but he checked anyway. In his email was a blind-copy of the report she had sent his father. He almost deleted it without reading. The body of the email said little, Here's my final report, Please do not hesitate to contact me at any time, Joan Watson. The email signature included a PO Box address and her phone number. He didn't open the attachment.
She had misunderstood; he hadn't said he didn't want her to stay. He had merely confirmed that he was no longer bound by his father's strictures regarding her tenure, and his, in the brownstone. He grimaced and sighed, tempted to roll his eyes on her behalf.
"Prat." His voice sounded too loud in her room.
He walked in and sat down on the foot of the bed facing the windows. The side where she slept, but out of her way, if she'd been there. He could smell her soap and the faint scratch of dry cleaning chemicals and the jasmine tea she sometimes drank at night. Wind whistled gently through the fireplace flue, the probable source of the cold draft at his feet. She'd never mentioned it. He watched bare branches moving across the streetlight glare through the pale thin curtains.
---
Please do not hesitate to contact me.
Most Sundays, Watson met up with a running group at the Reservoir in Central Park. He'd walked the loop once, before Hemdale, and recalled there were several benches on the route that were easily visible from the path. It was as good a place as any to do his work with the pieces he had so far. And if she saw him, she could choose.
The last time he sat like this, it was with her, waiting with fading hope for someone who never came. He felt a renewed appreciation for her state of mind that evening.
He'd pictured her running alone, concentrated and earnest, but when she came into view, she was conversing with a small group, smiling and relaxed. He saw her falter when she spotted him, then turn away and touch the arm of the woman next to her, gesturing in his direction before slowing down and letting the group jog ahead without her. She walked slowly toward him, hands on hips and slightly out of breath.
"Watson." It sounded like a question.
She sat down on the bench some feet away from him, stretching her legs out straight and flexing her feet a few times, looking out towards the reservoir.
After a minute she turned to look at him. "I'm sorry I lied to you."
"I'm not— I didn't come here to talk about that." He swallowed, pushing his fists against his legs. "Nothing to do with my father."
"Okay." She sat still and watched him. She was always so still.
"This wasn't what I meant."
He rubbed his hands on his thighs. She turned toward him slightly, arms folded and hands tucked into the opposite sleeves.
"I'm a little chilled and getting stiff. Do you mind if we walk a bit? There's a water fountain up head I could use." She nodded her head in the direction she meant but waited for his nod and movement before standing up.
They walked in silence to the fountain, and she drank, longer than he would have predicted. "Thanks," she said when she was done, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "I should have brought gloves today. I thought it was going to be warmer."
They stood for a moment. "This wasn't what I meant," he repeated.
"What?"
"When I said— what we talked about before. I was angry. It took me by surprise; I wasn't prepared."
"I know." He knew she wanted to apologize again.
"I didn't intend for you to leave then. That's not what I meant."
She waited, silent. He thought she looked different, looked at him differently. It no longer felt like that night at the clinic.
"When you're finished with your new client—"
"I don't have one. I cancelled that job after— I cancelled that job."
"Well." He paused. "What are your plans, then?"
She looked back to the reservoir, then straight ahead, glancing at him, not quite smiling.
"I recently had the opportunity to learn something about detective work. I'd like to do more of that, if I could."
"Someone once said, 'it's a life of boundless surprises', you know."
"I know," she said.