[Fic] like a jump off a cliff
Fandom: Elementary
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, Joan Watson, Irene Adler
Rating: G
Warnings: None.
Word count: c.480
Disclaimer: Characters are not mine.
***
She shows up on his doorstep and like always, the sight of her sends his mind spinning, thoughts racing, taking in every detail like he usually does, but he's always been a little different around her.
Her hair is shorter and lighter, her skin more tanned than it had been under the grey skies of London, but nothing short of surgery would change the regal structure of her face, and he will always recognize the unwavering confidence in her eyes.
"Sherlock," she says, and he notes that her upper class British accent has been replaced with something more neutral, mild but tinged with northern Europe.
"Sherlock," she says, and he shuts the door in her face.
"Sherlock," she says, and he's halfway up the stairs, can barely hear her muffled voice through the door, but it still echoes through his mind, rings in his ears.
He pushes that first, involuntary thought -- but she's dead -- out of his mind; there's a multitude of ways that one can fake their own death, and she is certainly brilliant enough to pull any number of those ways off. Brilliant enough to fool even Sherlock Holmes.
The sound of her voice saying his name is one that has been present in his head ever since London, growing a little fainter every day, miniscule but miniscule. He used to like the way she said his name; like it was a challenge, a dare. He's spent months remembering the sound of it, but now that he has again, he resents it.
Joan finds him later, sitting on the roof, listening to the calming hum of his bees. She tries to ask him what's wrong, but he's almost completely unresponsive -- no snappish remarks, no abrasive comments, and her expression and her voice soften, and she leaves, a little confused, but knowing Sherlock well enough to realize that something has happened, and that he doesn't want to talk about it.
It's not until later that Joan understands, when she comes up a second time and tells him that there's a woman downstairs asking for him. He just shakes his head and says that he doesn't want to see her. Joan doesn't ask, but Sherlock answers her anyway, when she's at the door to the roof.
Joan wants to know more, she has so many questions to ask -- what, how, why -- but she won't. Sherlock isn't ready yet, and Joan's learned to wait.
He doesn't know if it's adrenaline or shock or pain that makes his thoughts spiral out of control and then stop abruptly at the thought of her, at the sight of her, at the sound of her voice. She makes his tongue prickle, leaves a sour taste in his mouth, but he used to like the way her name sounded when he said it; like a risk, like a jump off a cliff.
Irene.
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, Joan Watson, Irene Adler
Rating: G
Warnings: None.
Word count: c.480
Disclaimer: Characters are not mine.
***
She shows up on his doorstep and like always, the sight of her sends his mind spinning, thoughts racing, taking in every detail like he usually does, but he's always been a little different around her.
Her hair is shorter and lighter, her skin more tanned than it had been under the grey skies of London, but nothing short of surgery would change the regal structure of her face, and he will always recognize the unwavering confidence in her eyes.
"Sherlock," she says, and he notes that her upper class British accent has been replaced with something more neutral, mild but tinged with northern Europe.
"Sherlock," she says, and he shuts the door in her face.
"Sherlock," she says, and he's halfway up the stairs, can barely hear her muffled voice through the door, but it still echoes through his mind, rings in his ears.
He pushes that first, involuntary thought -- but she's dead -- out of his mind; there's a multitude of ways that one can fake their own death, and she is certainly brilliant enough to pull any number of those ways off. Brilliant enough to fool even Sherlock Holmes.
The sound of her voice saying his name is one that has been present in his head ever since London, growing a little fainter every day, miniscule but miniscule. He used to like the way she said his name; like it was a challenge, a dare. He's spent months remembering the sound of it, but now that he has again, he resents it.
Joan finds him later, sitting on the roof, listening to the calming hum of his bees. She tries to ask him what's wrong, but he's almost completely unresponsive -- no snappish remarks, no abrasive comments, and her expression and her voice soften, and she leaves, a little confused, but knowing Sherlock well enough to realize that something has happened, and that he doesn't want to talk about it.
It's not until later that Joan understands, when she comes up a second time and tells him that there's a woman downstairs asking for him. He just shakes his head and says that he doesn't want to see her. Joan doesn't ask, but Sherlock answers her anyway, when she's at the door to the roof.
Joan wants to know more, she has so many questions to ask -- what, how, why -- but she won't. Sherlock isn't ready yet, and Joan's learned to wait.
He doesn't know if it's adrenaline or shock or pain that makes his thoughts spiral out of control and then stop abruptly at the thought of her, at the sight of her, at the sound of her voice. She makes his tongue prickle, leaves a sour taste in his mouth, but he used to like the way her name sounded when he said it; like a risk, like a jump off a cliff.
Irene.