Chapter Text
“Watson, it is really not as bad as you think.”
“Yes it is! Look at my hair!”
“There is no need to tell me to look at something when I have already observed several ti—”
Sherlock cut himself off, observing with a jarring sense of unease that Watson was far from hearing him. He came forward to where she stood bent over the kitchen sink, her long black hair soaked in gasoline trailing under the running water, steam already rising towards the ceiling. Instead of looking at Joan’s face, twisted in a grimace as she began to soak her hair in the scalding water, he calculated how hot the water must be based on the already angry red of the skin on her hands. His own hands itched to pull her away at the sight, but the ever strong rational side of him held back.
Watson often had trouble keeping warm in the brownstone, and liked to take almost blistering showers (an indulgence he’d made note of years ago), but this was a different matter altogether. He knew the case they’d just completed had shaken her, but he wasn’t aware yet to what degree. He had to proceed with caution.
Watson could have showered as soon as they’d gotten home from the police station, but seeing as Sherlock had gotten the worst of it, she’d shoved him into the bathroom while she got rid of their gasoline-soaked clothes. In the five minutes Sherlock took to scrub his body clean of the flammable substance, Joan had gotten them each a fresh change of clothes and after that had promptly rushed to the kitchen to rid the gasoline from her hair.
Sherlock did understand she had quite a bit more hair than him, but she was not being rational. As opposed to an hour ago, when they had delivered their suspect to the police. They had been soaked in gasoline, yes, but free of burns or any other serious injury. Watson had been calm and collected then. But the entire taxi ride home he had felt something untwisting inside her, like a vise releasing, and he was not sure how it would manifest. So now he stood by, tense, his brow furrowed with a combination of confusion and concern.
He silently handed her the dish soap, as she had rinsed most of her hair. His eyes were trained on her as she began drizzling the soap liberally through her thick strands—Sherlock’s stares were almost like a physical touch in their intensity. Joan had to fight not to glance at him, even as she grimaced with disgust at the smell in her hair, her heart still racing over almost becoming a human torch. But still she felt Sherlock’s heat radiating besides her, his body positively buzzing with unused energy.
Then out of the corner of her eye she saw him unbuttoning his shirt—that he’d just buttoned a matter of minutes ago.
“What are you doing?” she turned awkwardly to glare at him, both hands still in her hair. She became suddenly conscious that all she was wearing was her blue silk robe and underneath that only underwear—her bra had been as soaked in gasoline as her shirt. She usually did not linger in such a state of undress outside of her bedroom, but the circumstances had driven the issue far from her mind.
“I’m going to help you,” he said, almost condescending—as it was what she had just requested a moment ago. He wasn’t looking at her but she saw the determined thin line of his mouth and knew she was in no position to argue. All she’d be able to do was fling dish soap at him. She resisted the temptation.
“I meant stand there and wait to hand me a towel,” she said, although it came out quieter than she intended. She looked away from him, trying to salvage the last of her pride. But the tangles in her hair were getting worse, and the smell was making her want to gag. No one would guess right now that she had once been a surgeon that cut people open. But their recent ordeal was still fresh and she would never understand how the smell of gasoline had ever been appealing ever again.
While her mind was starting to re-entangle itself in that memory, she felt Sherlock’s large, sure hands rest atop her own. “Let me, Watson,” he said, his tone still firm but with more care in it than she was used to. Her surprise was such that she obeyed him without further protest.
He helped her gently disentangle her fingers from the bird’s nest of suds and gasoline her hair had become, and then adjusted the temperature of the water so she could rinse them without scalding her skin. She rested her now clean dripping hands on the edge of the sink while he continued what she’d started.
He was pressed up close against her side, and she felt his arms looming over her, his muscles tensing and releasing with each movement. It sent a quiet vibration from his hands, fingertips, into her scalp, a sensation that was so foreign Joan had to close her eyes to better absorb it. Or maybe her mind needed to redirect to something immediate and tangible.
After he had smoothed the surface tangles with his fingers, he took the dish soap up again, squeezed more into his palm, and using a careful ratio of warm water and soap, began scrubbing her hair clean.
Joan felt her heart rate begin to slow with the gentle pressure of Sherlock's hands through her hair. The image of their latest apprehended criminal holding a flame to her skin began to be replaced with the smell of Sherlock's clean skin and the unfamiliar but comforting masculine strength flowing from his hands into her.
Sherlock ceased scrubbing the dish soap into her heavy hair and began rinsing the soap out, using a plastic cup Joan had set aside earlier. He slowly poured the warm water, starting from the roots and working toward the ends. The smell of gasoline was almost gone, but Joan could still smell it on her skin. She held her breath for a moment, her eyes still squeezed shut. The criminal’s lighter igniting inches from her gasoline soaked clothes sprang into her mind. She tried to shift focus to the sound of the running water, Sherlock’s soft breathing against her side, the now pungent smell of the dish soap.
It took her another few seconds to come back to reality. The smell of dish soap and the almost astringent smell of the hot water reminded her of how potent the smell of antiseptic would be after a surgery. Antiseptic and blood and the almost sickly smell of exposed flesh. Somehow the memories were comforting. Much like the smell of the morgue that she and Sherlock visited so frequently. Except she knew how marked the difference was between the smell of life and death in a room. And she was alive.
Sherlock’s hands were still running themselves through her hair, now a tangled dripping mass he was carefully squeezing the excess water from. When he moved away to grab her towel, she felt immediately chilled.
But she rose from the sink and turned to take the clean towel he offered without comment. Her hair fell heavily over one shoulder as she began soaking up excess water with the towel. Goosebumps were rising along her skin as if a draft had entered the room. But the air was eerily still. Sherlock stood shirtless in front of her, studying her as if he expected her to—what?
She couldn’t say the words, she realized. She couldn’t tell him she was alright. There weren’t men with guns at their waists surrounding them, their presence ordering her to offer immediate reassurance to her partner. There was just the two of them, standing facing each other in the silent kitchen. She looked straight into his eyes for a moment, not trying to communicate anything, just looking and studying him the way he was her. She saw the concern and wanted words to come, to come out of her mouth and clear that particular shadow from his eyes, but nothing happened. Then a chill shook her and she turned away.
“I’ll make some tea,” she murmured, turning toward the cabinet.
But before her words connected to the rest of her brain that was still reacting to the smell of gasoline on her skin, Sherlock stepped swiftly in front of her. His expression was earnest, almost manic. Out of the corner of her eye she saw his fingers twitch, and for once didn’t know what to make of it. She stopped short, feeling his heat again, standing only inches away. She crossed her arms, holding the damp towel awkwardly against her stomach.
“Let me, Watson. You have scrubbed the majority of the gasoline from your skin, but I know you wish to properly cleanse yourself, now that the bathroom is free. I left enough hot water, I assure you.” And he gave her one of his small smiles, the ones he reserved for reassurance, an expression she seldom saw directed at herself. She noticed her heartbeat slowing again. When had it sped up?
She nodded, turned away, and continued padding her damp hair with the towel as she went upstairs. Her hair smelled of dish soap and clean water, and a hint of the body soap Sherlock used.
-
When she came downstairs from her shower, dressed in a long-sleeve shirt and baggy pajama bottoms, she found Sherlock kneeling before the fireplace, stoking what was already a large fire. And he’d put his shirt back on.
At her footsteps he looked over his shoulder, and rose quickly to his feet, standing so straight so fast it made her want to say “at ease” every time he did it. The thought made her almost smile.
“I took the liberty of lighting a fire—I hope it offers comfort rather than...disquiet," he said, indicating the flames with his right hand without taking his eyes off her. She glanced at him and managed a small smile that she didn’t think looked like a grimace.
“It’s fine, Sherlock. Thank you,” she said, and turned to find her steaming cup of tea waiting for her on the table beside the brown leather chair. She picked it up and the smell of chamomile and Sherlock’s honey rising with the steam around her face made something else loosen inside her. She sighed and settled cross legged in the chair, cupping the mug with both hands and relishing the heat that couldn’t burn her spreading through her hands.
Sherlock had settled himself cross-legged on the rug in front of the fireplace, rather than taking the chair opposite her. She sipped her tea, watching him stare into the flames for some time. The silence between them was companionable, but still Joan felt she was waiting for something. From her, from him, she wasn’t sure. Most of her just wanted to revel in the taste of chamomile and forget the frightening stream of events that had preceded this.
But then Sherlock turned to her and spoke.
“I promised you once that I would never let any harm come to you, Watson,” he said, his voice lowering to almost a whisper on her name, his eyes going to hers and then away, down. She could see the shame take shape on his face, and she wanted to reach out and wipe the expression away. Cleanse him of that emotion. But she kept her fingers around the warm mug and stayed silent.
“I realize I have already failed in the promise, but it is a promise I never intend to rescind,” he continued, his tone hardening. His was struggling to look at her again. She didn’t let her gaze falter. He knew she wasn’t judging him. She was remembering how she’d first answered him: “You can’t promise that.”
But he had. And he hadn’t gone back on his promise, no matter what guilt-ridden beliefs she could never dissuade him from.
“What happened tonight, Watson, I…I did not act quickly enough, and I’m sorry.” His eyes were finally able to meet hers on the last two words. She bent her head toward him, her own eyes narrowing. His mouth was drawn in that thin line again, and his fingers were tapping incessantly, one on top of his knee and the other on the toe of his shoe.
“Neither of us acted quickly enough, there’s no reason to place blame, Sherlock. Mistakes happen. We’ve both made them,” she said, taking a sip of her tea. His hard, self-deprecating expression didn’t change. “We both made mistakes tonight. I could say the same thing to you. You could’ve caught on fire just as easily as I could’ve,” she insisted, wanting to physically get on her knees in front of him and smooth the lines across his forehead. He was letting this get to him, and she wasn’t going to let it.
“Would you say you were targeted tonight, Watson?” he asked, his gaze shifting again to become assessing.
She knew what he was doing. Looking for reasons to cast more blame on himself. She wasn’t having it.
“If I was, how could either of us have prevented that? We stopped him in time, that’s all that matters.” Her voice was rising, and she pressed her lips together, trying not to let the anger out further.
He said nothing in response, turning back to the fire again. The orange-tinted light on his face made his own anger all the more apparent to her. She set her tea down on the side table, finally getting up to sit on the floor next to him.
She felt him glance at her, but he still didn’t speak as she drew her knees up and wrapped her arms around them. She paused before speaking, letting the heat of the fire sooth her rather than allowing the memories of the gasoline soaked nightmare to resurface.
“Both of our lives are at risk all the time, Sherlock. You can’t let one incident drag you down like this,” she said, her voice softening as she glanced at him. Their eyes met. The tense lines around his mouth softened, and he made a silent nod to the side, frowning, but still said nothing.
She mirrored him, staring into the flames, thinking. Why had she reacted so strongly once they’d gotten home? It struck her that she’d been afraid much as he had, but they expressed their fear differently. It wasn’t something she thought she could sort out in one night. She bit her lip, not sure what else to say. Exhaustion was beginning to pull at her bones and muscle, imploring her to go upstairs and to bed. But something in Sherlock made her stay. He was far from ready for any sort of rest.
She looked down at his hands. Only one hand was tapping now. The one closest to her. She took a deep breath, trying to calm something inside of her. She wasn’t sure what anymore.
“Sherlock,” she said, her voice coming out soft. He turned to look at her.
“I won’t make promises. What happened tonight might happen again with another case. But we had each other’s backs tonight. Nothing went wrong. You know that.” His eyes darted away from hers, and his mouth moved in a way she knew he wanted to say something. She waited.
“Your delayed reaction to what happened tonight gave me new insight, Watson,” he said. Both of their voices had softened, not quite to whispers, but as if they both feared a wordless anger would resurface if they let their voices rise. Sherlock was lifting his left hand out in front of him, making motions that punctuated his words, as if he needed to draw them out a certain way and his hand would help form them into the correct message. Joan only noticed it peripherally, keeping her gaze trained on his face. His eyes were considering, inward. It was a rare instance that he could hold his deductions back. But now she felt he was holding something inside. She didn’t know what it was.
“I have never seen you express fear so clearly,” he said, moving his head to look straight at her. “Not even during our first experience with MI6.” The last syllables were said with almost a hiss, and she read the hatred as clearly in his face as she did in his voice. She looked away from him.
“While you were upstairs, I continued to wonder why.” His eyes were trained on her now.
She shook her head, a dry laugh escaping. “I can’t tell you why, Sherlock. It just is, sometimes. Not everything has a clear reason behind it.”
He hummed in response. They were both silent for a long time, and the fire was beginning to die down. Joan was about to brace her limbs to get up off the floor and go up to bed, when Sherlock spoke.
“You’re right, Watson.” She looked at him. “We are both always in danger,” he continued, his eyes locking with hers, and there was a brightness to them that hadn’t been there before. He’d reached a conclusion then.
“The nature of our work has necessitated you taking on the role you occupied so well as a surgeon. But tonight I could see that expertise was not a comfort to you,” he said, his tone becoming detached in a familiar way. But Joan could hear what was beneath it. What had skated beneath both of their radars ever since they’d left the police station stinking of gasoline, a strange silence between them.
“Burns are a special kind of injury,” she said, watching the last of the flames burn down in the fireplace. “I didn’t like the idea of either of us suffering from them. We’ve never come that close.”
His stare was still heavy on her, but she did not look away from the dying embers. Everything was still again. Even Sherlock’s hands had stilled. There was a chill in the room, and all she wanted was sleep.
“I’m going to bed,” she said, turning her body away from his as she rose stiffly to her feet. He said nothing in response. She climbed up the stairs to the welcoming dimness of her room, a different sort of exhaustion embedded in her chest, behind her eyes, in every limb. It refused to ease, even after she closed her eyes.