Two quick drabbles because I need to believe in a universe where these two can show comfort when the other needs it.
Watson went upstairs somewhere after midnight but Sherlock knows she’s not asleep, even from where he is —sitting in the lock room, Moriarty’s letter on the table in front of him— he can hear her tossing and turning, still too distraught to rest.
He can’t help the thought of walking into Irene’s flat and finding nothing but a puddle of blood, of thinking, even in that moment, that it was because of him. Only he can’t truly comprehend what Watson’s going through, unlike Irene, Andrew was real.
Upstairs, she gets up from the bed and opens a window, remains silent for a few minutes before lying back down. Sherlock wanted her back in the Brownstone more than anything in the world, but not like this.
On an impulse, he kicks off his shoes and discards his jacket before making his way upstairs, his steps not as quiet as he’d like but he knows if he slows down he’ll lose his nerve. Her door’s not entirely closed and he pushes it open carefully, not wanting to startle her.
She doesn’t ask him what he’s doing, doesn’t recoil, she just stares wordlessly at him as he slips under the covers to lie at her side. He wants to say something comforting but all words seem abysmally inadequate in the face of her grief. Instead, he reaches out until his fingers touch hers.
A tear swells and falls across the bridge of her nose. Sherlock wraps his arms around her when she turns to bury her face in the crook of his neck.
Joan doesn’t move from the old leather trunk as Sherlock hides his mother’s ring and replaces the fake bricks on the fireplace. She remembers the first time she saw her father after her mom explained his schizophrenia to her and Oren, how every single interaction, every single memory was suddenly colored with the knowledge of his illness; how it hurt that it all finally made sense.
Sherlock’s being carrying, like a locket, the image of his mom since he was ten years old, since she died in the most horrific way. Anything about me that you might find interesting or amusing or good, he’d said and Joan knows him enough to know that he’d actually believed it.
The best of him. And now…
Before she can think better of it, she stands and takes the space between them in two short steps, until she’s standing between his parted knees. He flinches back, stares up at her with wide, red-rimmed eyes and Joan thinks he’s going to bolt, to push her away; but the moment her hand brushes his shoulder Sherlock sags into the touch, leans in until his forehead is pressed against her stomach.
His breath hitches in a sob and his hands fist at her back. Joan doesn’t say a word but she doesn’t stop caressing his hair as he weeps into her shirt.