sherlock&irene: we used to wait
Title: We Used to Wait
Length: 1, 105 words
Rating: PG
Warnings: none..but beware of grammatical errors/mistakes.
Summary: Sherlock & Irene have a fight; he reflects on their relationship
Disclaimer: I am not Arthur Conan Doyle, nor Moffat/Gatiss/BBC, therefore I own nothing.
**part of my Sherlock&&Irene fanfic which can be found here & its sequel found here.**
We Used to Wait
It may seem strange
How we used to wait for letters to arrive
But what’s stranger still
Is how something so small can keep you alive
He watched her face fall, her lower lip tremble...the light in her pretty eyes dim, but she turned before any tears fell. Irene put on her coat, as she always did after they fought (about what, this time? he could never understand where he went wrong, sometimes he believed it was her fault, but knew she’d never admit to that).
Usually, he would call after her, or throw some half-hearted insult in an attempt to harden his heart against the fear of never seeing her again. But not this time. Sherlock watched her flip her dark hair that was caught under her coat and walk out the door, down the stairs, and into the night. And he didn’t say her name.
It’s funny, because after she had come back to London, finally bored with running from country to exotic country to hide from Moriarty, he actually found hope in a life with her. She made it seem possible: understanding his absurd mood swings, helping with his cases, bringing domesticity into 221B without invading his already pre-existing lifestyle. And in return, he tried to see things differently, from her perspective, could catch the little quiver in her voice if she was irritated or upset with him, and he’d apologize as soon as he realized. Because now that she was a part of his life, he never wanted her to leave.
Until now.
***
John was still at work, and Mrs. Hudson went off to buy some much needed groceries. The flat was quiet when he entered, too quiet...like someone was desperately trying not to be found. He carefully treaded on the stairs, heard a slight rustle in the living room. Peeking at the side of the door frame, he saw a figure at his desk, shifting through his papers of case notes and photographs. He cleared his voice, and she turned.
“Sherlock!” she exclaimed with a grin, and she let go of the material in her hands, running across the room to embrace him. He stiffly put his arms around her small frame.
“What are you doing here, Irene?”
“I came back.” She pulled away, but cupped his face in her hands, stroking his cheeks with her fingers. She was beaming. “Honestly, I don’t know why it took me so long, but there were things that had to be dealt with, and now-”
“Moriarty still hasn’t been found.”
“It’s been three years, Sherlock. I think he’s moved on.”
Sherlock removed her hands and walked passed her. “He doesn’t ‘move on,’ Irene. You need to leave immediately.”
“Wow,” she said flatly. “Not even a ‘hello’ or ‘I missed you so much-’”
“Irene.”
“Sherlock.”
He turned around and glared darkly at her. “This isn’t a game, Adler. How did you even manage to get into the country without his notice?”
“I took a plane.” She laughed, but her tone turned sardonic. “Is that a panicked look on your face? Really, Sherlock? Give me some credit. I’m not an idiot.”
“I beg to differ.”
“I had help,” Irene snapped. “You’re not the only person I kept in contact with.” She shoved him aside (he stumbled slightly) and grabbed some folded documents at the bottom of the pile on his desk. “Not all my letters were for you.”
Sherlock blinked. “They...weren’t-?”
“No, no,” she said quickly, rolling her eyes. “These are yours, but I...I really shouldn’t say, in case...”
“What?”
“Never mind.” She smiled tightly and glanced at the letters in her hands. “Did you really keep them all? Out in the open? They were actually really personal, what if Mrs. Hudson-”
“Who assisted you?”
“Do you have to keep cutting me off?” Irene laughed. “Seriously, Sherlock, I haven’t had a single word with you for three years, I’d much rather hear something nice, instead of your annoying questions that I will answer. But not now.”
He sighed heavily, not willing to play along. “Why not?”
Irene smiled, and her eyes soften and for a moment Sherlock could barely think.
“Because like I said, Sherlock Holmes, I haven’t seen you in three years.” The softness in her eyes disappeared and suddenly was replaced by a mischievous twinkle. “And I’ve been wanting to do this for a while.”
Before he could even reply, she stood on her tip toes and kissed him fully on the lips.
***
They’d been living together for five years now. John had gotten married and moved out of the flat, Mrs. Hudson finally could afford a few vacation trips every couple of months, which left Sherlock and Irene on their own most of the time. He liked that he didn’t have to always fill the silence, that she would sometimes just sit next to him as he worked and not say a word (sometimes she would fix one of his rogue curls and start chatting, but by that time he’d already be bored with the case work and more interested in taking her to their bedroom).
He knew there were people talking behind his back, trying to convince bright, beautiful Irene that she had made a terrible mistake in choosing Sherlock over a married life with a man now back in the United States (the ‘coward,’ Sherlock often called him, to which Irene would scold him for; that was something he could never understand, loving someone even when you’d fallen out of love, but maybe that’s because he could never imagine falling out of love with her). At times, he would catch Sally, or even John, pull her aside, but she’d just laugh it off, because they really didn’t know, no one ever really knew, exactly why their relationship worked. Not even him.
Especially on nights like these. These cold, bleak nights that leave permanent walls every time they occur. When she’d leave out of frustration, those rare moments when she wouldn’t tell him what went wrong so he could try to apologize, and storm out into the streets of London. He supposed she thought she was doing him a favor, by putting distance between them, as if that would help the situation and she’d come back with a warm smile and forgive him for what he had done.
All at once, a swell of rage filled his chest and he glared at the empty space between himself and the door. Well that was fine then. No more of this ‘feelings’ nonsense. Because he had tried, he had tried and tried.
But in the end it was her who had made the mistake, but mistook it for his own, and Sherlock hoped Irene realized that it was she who always left him.