Fic for etherai: the good fight (2/3)
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And so another week has come and gone. Sherlock has been going to meetings every day, often with Alfredo. When Joan joins them, Sherlock always remembers to help her into her coat before they leave the house, and he’s taken to offering her his arm for the short walk. He also returns to his usual distractions: beekeeping and experimenting and cold cases and athletic sex with Athena and Minerva, though on one occasion when Joan runs into them just as they come to pick him up at the brownstone, the sisters somehow engage her in a sort of... pep talk? Which goes on for a while because Joan is at first unsure of where the conversation is going, and also because she can't bring herself to cut the talk short if it means being rude to them - they are helping him too, in their own bizarre way. "His heart's not really in it, though," Minerva says, vaguely reassuring, though Joan doesn't know what they're reassuring her of. "It's kinda-"
"Sad," Athena completes, with a perfect timing Joan had previously associated only with twins. "All he wants to do is reenact crime scenes, but not even in a kinky way, just-"
"For science. Which is fine! We like science. But it's better if it's sexy science, you know?"
Joan gapes, then closes her mouth and nods before she can properly process what the sisters said. Sexy science? She isn't sure why they're telling her this, or when her life got this absurd. "Okay," she says, dumbly. "I hope it gets better?"
"We do too," Athena says, and then both sisters take a step forward in sync and wrap their arms around Joan in a surprising bear hug. Joan stands frozen. "Thank you for looking after him, Joan," Minerva says, and Joan frowns into the girl's neck. Minerva and Athena know her name? "We're here for you."
"Umm." Joan pats each sister on the back robotically, then extricates herself from their embrace with a polite smile. "Thanks, girls. I appreciate that."
"Also, if you ever wanna come see us, you're totally invited," Athena offers.
Joan can't help but blink at her in confusion. "I beg your pardon?"
"There's no reason why you shouldn't have fun with us," Minerva explains. "You deserve all the fun, Joan."
"Ummm," is all that Joan can say, her voice going high. The way the sisters are staring at her is weirdly loving and sweetly predatory at once. Sure, they are both gorgeous, and - No, she chastises herself, before she can follow that line of thought any further, no, you are not having sex with Sherlock's fuckbuddies. Boundaries, Joan. Boundaries. "I'm very flattered," she replies eventually, feeling very embarrassed about how red in the face she's gone. Somewhere in the past, Teenage Joan is yelling at her for this. Teenage Joan would have done bad things to date either of these sisters. Gee, doesn't life work in mysterious ways. "But I'm gonna have to pass."
Minerva makes a sad sound, looking genuinely bummed. "Why?"
"Don't Sherlock and you share everything?" echoes Athena, curious.
"Not exactly."
"Me and Athena share everything," Minerva adds unnecessarily.
"That's great." Joan tries another courteous smile. "I'm glad that works for you."
"Okay then," the sisters say in unison, moving forward for another expeditious hug. "Call us if you change your mind-" Minerva begins.
"Or if you need anything at all," Athena completes.
"Bye, Joan!" they call over their shoulder as they troop upstairs in search of Sherlock.
Joan pinches herself, shakes her head, and goes for a run which turns out to be full of inappropriate thoughts about Athena and Minerva. She puts headphones on, blasts her music louder than usual, and decides she will have a cold, cold shower when she returns. Later that day, Gregson visits with groceries and apologizes about not being able to spare them the suspension. Joan reassures him that they do not hold it against him. When he leaves, it dawns on her that Morland Holmes has stood them up again, as he had promised her that he would come see his son today, so instead of accepting what appears to be, on the old man's part, a spectacular disregard for his own son, Joan gets dressed to take matters into her own hands. She finds one of Morland's lawyers and threatens him into pressuring his boss to either show up or stop playing games with them. It works, but later that night when she’s trying to sleep and she knows Sherlock and his father are on the rooftop, exchanging verbal blows, and remembers Morland's lawyer’s contempt for her partner, for the both of them, she wishes she had punched that bastard in the face anyway.
Maybe Morland Holmes actually kind of wishes his son were in prison, she realizes belatedly. Then Sherlock wouldn’t be his problem anymore. His wife having passed away so long ago, one son allegedly dead, the other imprisoned - that makes for a sad story that would hardly be brought up in polite conversation, and she supposes in the high-powered circles Morland moves in it must be better to be the object of pity -for being the victim of a tragic life- than of contempt for having a family many would view as a complete, embarrassing failure. Still, Joan is painfully aware that Morland is the only reason why Sherlock's not in jail right now, so she will put up with him for as long as she has to. She falls asleep trying to list contingency plans they could use to protect themselves against Morland, or to rebuild their lives in case he changes his mind and decides to withdraw his favors. Eventually she falls into an agitated dream where a cold voice that sounds suspiciously like Morland Holmes is giving orders for her arrest, explaining unperturbed that if she wants her partner to escape his punishment she must pay for it with her own life. A couple of faceless thugs approach, handcuff her and put a hood over her head, and it all goes black. She starts with a frightened cry and lies petrified in her bed, her breaths coming fast in her panic. The door clicks open, and the light from the hallway picks out a familiar face popping in at the door.
"Watson."
She doesn't ask whether he has been waiting outside, or for how long. She tries to calm her breathing down, feeling very self-conscious, but she can't seem to find it in her to speak, so instead she nods and lets go of the sheets and blankets, which she now sees she's been clawing at.
"Bad dream?" He comes to sit on the chair by her bed.
She nods again, makes an effort to sit up. "Your dad gone?"
Sherlock wrinkles his nose, displeased at the mention of his father. "Yes. He rode off on his pet, Cerberus."
Joan finds herself smiling at that despite herself. In the dim light coming in through the window, Sherlock's eyes look strangely colorless, but his presence is comforting. They have sat like this many times before. This is our life and I’m not gonna let anybody take it away, she tells herself in a moment of weird possessiveness. "What'd he say?"
Sherlock shrugs. It's too dark for his face not to be blurry but she knows it too well not to read the discomfort in his eyes and around his mouth. Aside from Moriarty, Morland is probably the only person in the world who can make Sherlock feel this small, Joan realizes, and feels ten kinds of furious about it. "The usual spiel about wanting the best for me, me being a shame to the family name, his obligation to clean up after my mistakes, and so on."
She clicks her tongue in frustration. "I'm sorry," she says, out of habit, while reminding herself to tread carefully, considering how little she actually knows about Sherlock's family history. "You don't deserve that."
Sherlock frowns at her, then shrugs again. "It's not exactly news."
"That doesn't make it okay."
He hums a nervous assent, then stands up abruptly, fingers twitching at his sides. He is looking down at his feet rather than at her, which is how she knows he is about to ask something that he's not entirely comfortable with. "I've still got some work to finish up with," he says, "but afterwards, do you wish..." He trails off, gestures vaguely between them with an energetic wave of the hand.
She considers it. "Only if you want."
He sighs in exasperation. "Watson, leave my feelings out of the equation for a moment. I am asking you what you want."
She drops her head to her chest. "Okay," she whispers, unsure why she feels so shy and tense about asking a favor from her best friend, and one he’s already been willing to grant. "Yes."
He bounces on the balls of his feet once, taps his thighs twice, and nods. "Understood. I shall come by in a short while."
She waits up until then just to make sure the whole conversation wasn’t a dream. When he finally comes back and slides into bed, she’s still not too sleepy not to notice a vaguely citrusy scent to him. “Why do you smell like tangerines?”
“Experiment,” he says by way of explanation, which, of course, doesn’t clarify anything. She turns to give him one of her trademark WTF looks over her shoulder. Sotto voce, without opening his eyes, Sherlock says, “Go to sleep, Watson,” and pulls her a little closer. His nervous fingers drum once, twice on her hip.
“Fine,” she grumbles pleasantly, making a mental note to ask him about it later. Then she lies on her back with her head turned to the window, and falls asleep, and there are no more nightmares after that, just a dark, soothing, star-studded nothingness.
The next morning, out of sheer spite, she orders a custom-made tee in a furious shade of pink with the text That girl is a goddamn problem. When it arrives and Sherlock sees it, he gives her an inquisitive look and she quips meekly, "Gonna wear it to your father's funeral," and it is so patently a joke and so brazenly unlike her Sherlock actually laughs.
---
Now he has been clean for exactly two weeks. Sometimes it feels like that's all he has: no matter how many cases he solves, or how much progress he makes as a person, he will always be defined by whether or not he has used drugs on any given day, and whether or not that continues on to the next day, and how long it's been since he last used. Like two weeks' worth of sobriety -or, if he's being generous, his three-year chip, his longest personal record since he started counting-, is all he has to show for himself. The shame over relapsing is taking its time to dissipate, and although his father is currently using his influence both to keep him out of prison and to restore him and Watson to their jobs, he's still very aware, every single day, that they are skating on the thinnest of ice and it is all because of him. That he has acted foolishly and Watson very nearly paid the price. He has jeopardized their careers, their living situation, their reputation -thus indirectly, their livelihood, or at the very least Watson's, who doesn't have a family fortune to fall back on-, and, perhaps worst of all, he has frightened and disappointed the very few people who have never failed him. But Watson remains; Watson fights his battles; Watson continues to look at him as if the fundamentals have not changed, as if there is something precious in him that must be protected, and as if -most vexing and exhilarating of all- she still likes him. He has promised himself to do his very best to deserve all this.
A few days after his father’s visit, when they're officially reinstated to the 11th precinct, Watson uncharacteristically wakes up early on her own. After coming back from a short run and taking a shower, she sets about making breakfast. A little while later he hears the kettle whistle as the water boils, and soon after Watson is padding into the study with two steaming mugs, one of which she hands to him. She looks anxious, he decides, like she's both apprehensive and eager to be called back into work. They are to wait until they are assigned a case, as per usual, only Captain Gregson, understandably, might not call them back right away. Watson starts taking down the cold case files from the wall of crazy in order to make room for whatever comes next, and he decides to raise a subject he's been grappling with ever since the tense, earnest conversation they'd had on the rooftop on one of those first few days of the aftermath.
"You're absolutely certain you want to go on with this?" he prompts, conversationally.
She doesn't turn around. "Go on with what?"
He waves his hand back and forth between them in frantic appeal, though of course she isn't looking. "Our work. Our partnership."
She half turns at this, looks at him as if he had just sprouted horns and started speaking in tongues. "What? What are you saying?"
"You don't deserve this, Watson," he begins. "You have proven yourself a capable investigator in your own right. If you should wish to emancipate-"
"No," she interrupts, more surprised than angry, which is fortunate, or else she may begin throwing punches, and she repeats that strict, calmly forceful, monosyllabic refusal every time he opens his mouth to protest.
"Watson," he resumes as soon as she turns back to the wall. This is too important; he mustn't falter. "I would understand, I assure you. I appreciate the value you place on loyalty. You possess that most rare of qualities in our modern world. You have honor. I know. But no one would accuse you of jumping ship if-"
"What do you want?" she interrupts, turning to him again, her tone rising a bit more than necessary at the end in a flash of irritation. He must look thrown off, because she rephrases, ever the pragmatist: "Where are you going with this? I already told you I'm not leaving."
"I just thought perhaps you'd reconsider-"
"How many times do I have to tell you how much our partnership matters to me?"
"Oh, for fuck's sake," he blurts out, quiet but with great emphasis, pivoting brusquely and taking a couple of brisk strides away from her. When he casts a brief glance at her Watson looks stunned, like she hadn't noticed how agitated he was getting. "Watson, you cannot fault me for being concerned for you when you yourself spend the majority of your time worrying about me."
She blinks at him, her expression neutral. "I'm not saying you can't," she concedes. "I'm trying to make you see that you have nothing to worry about."
"Do I not?”
She folds her arms, peeved. “Do you want me to leave?”
“Of course not.”
“Then why do you keep bringing this up?”
“Because I would like you to stay because you want to stay. Not because you feel you must, or because you’ve nowhere else to go, or because you’re frightened of starting afresh.”
For a moment she gapes at him, presumably aghast at the accusations implicit in his words. It has been a while since they have been this honest with each other; perhaps she finds it overwhelming. He won’t meet her eyes. “So…” she begins slowly, struggling to put the pieces together, “you’re saying that I don't have a life of my own, and I have to go?”
He turns to her sharply. “No, Watson, you continue to misunderstand,” he corrects her impatiently, and starts to pace around as he talks. “The brownstone will always be open to you, and I will always welcome your partnership. However, if there is some other line of work you’d rather be carrying out, or anything you feel you miss and this life cannot provide, I must insist you pursue it, whether or not you intend to live here in the meanwhile.” He is making a mess of it. He is trying to tell her that it has to truly be their world, that she can’t simply be a guest in his. That it isn’t fair that she be a supporting character in his perpetual personal melodrama.
“You want me to cheat on our partnership with another job?”
He makes a face. “If you must put it in such a juvenile fashion.”
She narrows her eyes at him, studying his face in that careful, diligent way she has that never fails to make him feel transparent. “Why.” Her tone is more affirmative than interrogative, as if she already knew the answer.
“Because you must be free, Watson,” he professes, without considering whether the wording is wise. Her eyebrows shoot up in a question, so he elaborates, bouncing on the balls of his feet for emphasis: “Our life… our work can be consuming. And I am aware that I can be difficult, overbearing, sometimes overly dependent, a point which you made yourself over two years ago. I’ve come to understand that.” Now it is his turn to study her for clues as to her reaction, but she has retreated inside herself and her face is deceptively calm. “Watson?”
She gives a rueful little smile. “Look, I appreciate you looking out for me. It means a lot,” she adds, as a quiet afterthought, with a brief look in his direction. “I’ll keep that in mind. But right now I’m good. I promise.”
He nods to the side, not quite convinced, and she takes a step forward, her demeanor now animated with the force of her commitment. He looks down at her, and if there weren’t such kindness in her gaze it would be overwhelming, like trying to look directly at the sun. She is concentrated light, he thinks tangentially, a laser beam or a star, seen only in glimpses and flashes or in dreams, from behind the veil and through a glass darkly. She is light traveling through space and time, renewing and exposing and vivifying everything she touches. He must look away. He does not deserve this.
“I chose this life,” she reminds him. “I still choose it every day.”
“And you wish to stand by that choice,” he completes, “despite its most… unsavory ramifications?”
Now he dares look at her. Wrapped in her cozy red cardigan, with her dark hair still damp from the shower, she is giving him one of her inscrutable half-smiles, with eyebrows slightly raised as if she found something humorous and was keeping it to herself. Everything about her is painfully familiar and beautiful, and she is ever-present, ever loyal, ever willing to roll up her sleeves and face whatever comes right by his side, ever his dear, extraordinary Watson. “For better or worse,” she replies, inflexible, and he tries not to look as abjectly grateful as he feels. “I’m gonna get dressed,” she announces, bending to pick up the files that belong in their cold case trunk, “and then let’s get you to a meeting.”
Later, he helps her into her coat on their way out and offers her his arm for the short walk to the church. Neither of them says anything and -perhaps best of all- there’s no need to.
“Hello, I’m Sherlock and I’m an addict,” he starts, as per usual, when it’s his turn to talk, and though he would normally take the opportunity to talk about how disappointed and disgusted he is with himself for having relapsed, or to pontificate on the tedium of recovery and the fragility of sobriety, he looks out at Watson listening intently from the back rows and decides to change the subject, this time. “I know I usually bore you all with my thoughts on the meaninglessness of existence,” he begins, and there’s some well-meaning chuckling by way of assent, but everybody waits respectfully for him to continue. “About three weeks ago, I relapsed, in quite a shameful, infantile manner,” he confides, shifting from one foot to the other in discomfort. “So reasons for being downhearted abound.” He purses his mouth, nervously rubs thumb and forefinger together.
He thinks about last night, when he sat with Watson and Alfredo up on the roof to rewatch a favorite film of theirs, some sort of apocalyptic story about aliens emerging from oceanic fault lines. Watson insisted he stay for "all the best crazy science parts," but he finally managed to escape toward the end, to refill their popcorn bowls, under threat of her loud protests that he must come back to watch the final battle. Upon returning to the rooftop bearing the popcorn, on the screen there was a black actor with great gravitas, dressed in what looked like a space suit, who was making some sort of passionate speech about the survival of the human race, and Alfredo and Watson were listening in rapt attention. At the edge of our hope, at the end of our time, we have chosen not only to believe in ourselves, but in each other. Watson, Sherlock realized with some dismay, had begun to weep at this, and Alfredo passed her some tissue paper and muttered, “Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?” and Watson smiled through her tears.
Now Sherlock, in the church basement, finally looks up at the small group waiting expectantly for him to continue. He realizes he has been holding his breath, and he lets it go. “But I am here today because I've come to realize there’s hope.” Even for those of us who don't truly deserve it, he thinks, and insists: "There is always hope." Then he nods to himself and abruptly returns to his seat beside Watson nearer the back of the room. There's a mildly confused, uncoordinated round of polite applause, and then the next person goes up to the front to tell their story. Watson gives him a small, reassuring smile and says, "I'm proud of you."
It's not the first time she's expressed the sentiment, but that doesn't make it any less touching. "Hmm, yes, and it only took three years. What an accomplishment indeed," he deadpans.
Watson purses her mouth and titters inaudibly, and it feels like a small, prosaic triumph. At the end of the meeting, he once more helps her into her coat, and juts out his elbow for her to take. "Shall we?"
Watson studies him for a moment with eyes narrowed, then smiles in a thoughtful, humble way that makes him think of daybreak. She loops her arm through his. "Let's."
They walk out together into the streets of Brooklyn, into the whirlwind of whatever comes next.