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It’s something of a shock the day the deed to the Brownstone arrives by courier. After Morland moved on to his new megalomaniac venture and they chose to liquidate his rather pointed gift of the Manhattan apartment, Sherlock expected to return to that happy status quo of being ignored by his father once again. Of course this act could be interpreted as just that: his father washing his hands of him, no longer interested in wielding either carrot or stick over his affairs. Watson was suspicious of Morland’s motives and sent a copy to a lawyer for review. Sherlock was struck by the archaic legalese which granted ownership to himself and his designated heirs. Who could his father possibly be imagining in such a role? When they’re gone (scratch that, no euphemisms thank you very much), when he and Watson are dead, there won’t be a next generation in residence. No children of his or god forbid Mycroft’s. Observations he’s learned to keep to himself tell him that Watson’s window of fertility has all but closed. Oren is older than she but his wife is not, so there is still the possibility of a new generation on that front. Or perhaps Lin is of a mind to have children. Regardless, both of Watson’s siblings have other choices for guardian and residence in the case of last resort. It’s reasonable to assume that no Watson/Yun progeny will be waiting to take over the manor, in other words.
Residential inheritance doesn’t seem to be an American tradition, what with the constant motion and dissatisfaction with the status quo. At least not in urban and suburban areas. Apparently a few so-called family farms persist in the hinterlands. For the most part, real estate is not for posterity but for profit; homes don’t stay in families for generations. Well some do, those owned by families with deep pockets and high-maintenance reputations who have the wherewithal to hire consulting detectives and sober companions. But the slow collapse of capitalism under its own weight, whereby later generations have less wealth than their forebears, plays a role even in these lofty realms, just as it has in Britain. Few can afford to maintain obscenely large and increasingly decrepit buildings out of sentiment alone, and fewer want to. Human beings are are becoming hunters and gatherers again, wandering nomads of circumstance and the best options available, until resources dry up or a better situation beckons. People don’t stay, anymore.
He looks up from his seat by the fire to consider Watson, napping on the couch. Except when they do. And so he’ll go on, hoping she will stay even if staying doesn’t always look exactly like what he’d imagined it would. It’s happened too many times now: he asked, she balked, he panicked, and then there she was, by turns stubborn or angry or amused in the face of his doubt. His doubt was not unfounded, he knew; between his own past experiences before her and her personal history, they both knew betrayal, from both sides. For all his faults, he’d learned enough, mostly from her, to know she brought her own obstacles and blindspots. Her own triggers and scars. And of course one should never assume. She told him herself: people change. And so he hopes and fears and asks, and she considers and chooses and stays.
- - -
Joan expects some kind of reaction from Sherlock to his father’s passive aggressive largesse, but she’s completely unprepared when he presents her with a revised deed that lists her as co-owner of the Brownstone. They’d already discussed using the proceeds from Morland’s apartment for the Brownstone’s future property taxes and maintenance, and he’s quick to point out that she now shares ownership of those funds as well. “There won’t be any unforeseen drain on your personal finances from this transaction,” he assures her, hoping for some reassurance himself that she’s pleased with this arrangement. He squeezes his hands together clasped behind his back, and as her silence stretches thin, his arms separate to his sides and then his hands cleave again in front, snapping together like magnets. She’s still staring at the document.
“This…” she starts and stops, shaking the page a little. “I didn’t ask for this.” The words could be accusatory but her tone is not, more bewildered than belligerent. “I can’t accept this, Sherlock. It’s too much.” She shakes her head and places the document on the lock table, continuing to stare at it as if it’s a mistake for which she’s somehow responsible.
He closes his eyes, trying to visualize the perceptual chasm between them. How many times has he thrown his line across this gap, only to have it fall short? “I think perhaps you have no idea how much you’ve given me, Watson.” He steps forward to flick the corner of the deed. “This is a drop in the bucket. A pittance, a trifle that barely shifts the scale. You’ve given me my life. You’ve given me the work.” He places his whole hand on top of the page, gently now. “This is my home now because it’s also yours. Do you see?”
Joan feels the weight of the building pressing down, its security and its permanence suffocating her. It’s dangerous to make plans too far ahead, to believe you know what the future will hold. No one is strong enough to keep their promises, not Sherlock, and not her. As long as they have work to do, she can commit to doing it, to what they do. The partnership. But more than that: promising a life? Her future? She doesn’t know what that is. It’s not possible. It’s a trap. She’ll fail.
“Watson?” he asks, hopeful and anxious, and she knows that Yorkshire puddings will be filling the kitchen trash tonight.
“I can’t—“ She turns away from him to face the study. “You know I love this,” and she gestures toward their desks and the files and boxes and papers tacked to the walls. “But I can’t…” She turns back to face him, her arms by her sides but her feet planted in a fighter’s stance. “I can’t promise I won’t need my own place again. You can’t just buy—”
He steps back, offended, and she puts up a mollifying hand. “No, sorry. I didn’t mean… I know it’s not a bribe or a threat. You’re not your father. But you do have a track-record of using money to make conflicts go away. Not to mention a history of mixed messages regarding your opinion of where I should live.” He huffs with impatience but doesn’t argue the point.
“This is an incredibly generous gift. And I do want to live here now, you know that. But neither of us can be sure I’ll always feel that way.” She gives him a pointed look. “Or that you will,” and he scowls at that, grinding his teeth in frustration over the extent of his misdeeds. He’ll never be free from his mistakes, which is why he hasn’t bothered to offer amends for that break. How can he? It would seem she hasn’t forgotten, either. He exhales on a count of three. He can’t correct the past, but he can clarify his intention now.
“You are right to be wary, considering the provenance of the property. And of me. I can only state as plainly as possible that there are no strings attached to this arrangement. No residency requirements or professional obligations or non-disclosure agreements. I merely wished to put on paper what I felt to be fair and accurate: that this is our home.”
She takes in a shaky breath and wills her heart to slow down. This doesn’t change anything, not really. Not their day-to-day lives. She’s freaking out over nothing. “If I accept this, it’s not with a promise that I’ll never get my own place again,” she cautions him. It won’t stop him from freaking out over nothing later, but she wants it on record.
He tilts his head down in acknowledgment. The tips of his fingers rest on the document again, hand tented over them. He pushes it just slightly closer to her. “Can you accept it as a promise that you — and I — will always have somewhere to call home? If and when we so choose?”
She closes her eyes in search of a moment of respite, just a little space to breathe and find her bearings. The truth is so obvious it pushes half a wry laugh through her pressed lips at the image of comfort and safety she instinctively conjured. When she opens her eyes she sees it in front of her, the chair by the library fireplace and Sherlock nearby. She shifts her glance to him and slowly stretches her hand forward to let two fingers brush the paper’s edge.
“Okay. I can do that. I will,” she says, and his eyes blink wide like a basketball just bounced off his nose.