Almost perfect
Note: I seem to have missed posting this here. Either way, first time for a lot of things here. Femslash, Joan Watson, Elementary, first-person. And JLM!Sherlock is the younger brother of Gatiss!Mycroft. Don't argue with my logic ;)
Summary: Anthea reflects on her relationship with Joan.
“He named a bee after me. Or an entire species. Euglassia Watsonia.”
She won’t shut up about her Holmes; I think she might be a little infatuated with him. I can’t blame her. I know exactly what it’s like to be blown away by a Holmes Brother, to be completely swept of my feet by a brilliant mind.
I still feel jealous - How can I not? - and a bit insecure. Perhaps because I know how all-consuming the Holmes are. Perhaps because she wouldn’t be my first girlfriend to leave me for a man. Perhaps because I recently figured out that I love her.
Either way, I let her talk. She lies naked next to me in bed, so eager to tell me every wonderful, frustrating, and satisfying thing about her life with Sherlock Holmes and I don’t interrupt. I love listening to her speak, she sounds so very happy when she talks about him.
And, I admit, I have a soft spot for (most) American accents.
She goes on, telling me about Alfredo, as if I don’t know all there is to know about him already (for all she knows I don’t) and the progress Sherlock seems to be making. I wonder if she knows that I was there when Sherlock fell, if she knows that I’ve seen him at his lowest and that his brother leaned on me to get through it. If she does she’s not letting on, if she doesn’t… well, I’m not going to tell her. I don’t want her to look at me as the loved one of an addict. Mostly because I’m not, but also because I don’t want her to blame me for not intervening.
That’s probably selfish.
I just want her to keep looking at me as if I deal with state secrets in the ‘I can tell you, but then I’d have to kill you’-kind of way. I want her to think that my UN assignment in New York has more to do with creating World Peace and less to do with babysitting diplomats.
I want her to think that I’m Jane-bloody-Bond.
“I love you,” I say, interrupting her explanation of singlestick (I’ve got enough of that from my Holmes, anyway). My heart is beating fast; it’s a long time since I’ve said those words to someone who mattered.
She looks at me, her eyes wide and all the words seem suddenly stuck in her throat. It stings when I realise that she won’t say it back. I smile, hoping that it won’t show just quite how much it hurts. When I reach out to brush hair from her forehead she takes my hand and kisses my palm.
“You’re perfect to me,” she says, kissing my palm again. It’s not quite the same as what I said, but she cares for me and for now I have to settle with that. I kiss her to tell her that I’m not upset - though deep down I probably am - and that I still love her, even if she doesn’t love me back.
Yet.
I push the thought out of my head as well as I can, convincing myself that I don’t regret telling her. She kisses me back, probably pleased not having to have the rest of this conversation verbally.
I don’t mind either.
I don’t mind one bit.
Summary: Anthea reflects on her relationship with Joan.
“He named a bee after me. Or an entire species. Euglassia Watsonia.”
She won’t shut up about her Holmes; I think she might be a little infatuated with him. I can’t blame her. I know exactly what it’s like to be blown away by a Holmes Brother, to be completely swept of my feet by a brilliant mind.
I still feel jealous - How can I not? - and a bit insecure. Perhaps because I know how all-consuming the Holmes are. Perhaps because she wouldn’t be my first girlfriend to leave me for a man. Perhaps because I recently figured out that I love her.
Either way, I let her talk. She lies naked next to me in bed, so eager to tell me every wonderful, frustrating, and satisfying thing about her life with Sherlock Holmes and I don’t interrupt. I love listening to her speak, she sounds so very happy when she talks about him.
And, I admit, I have a soft spot for (most) American accents.
She goes on, telling me about Alfredo, as if I don’t know all there is to know about him already (for all she knows I don’t) and the progress Sherlock seems to be making. I wonder if she knows that I was there when Sherlock fell, if she knows that I’ve seen him at his lowest and that his brother leaned on me to get through it. If she does she’s not letting on, if she doesn’t… well, I’m not going to tell her. I don’t want her to look at me as the loved one of an addict. Mostly because I’m not, but also because I don’t want her to blame me for not intervening.
That’s probably selfish.
I just want her to keep looking at me as if I deal with state secrets in the ‘I can tell you, but then I’d have to kill you’-kind of way. I want her to think that my UN assignment in New York has more to do with creating World Peace and less to do with babysitting diplomats.
I want her to think that I’m Jane-bloody-Bond.
“I love you,” I say, interrupting her explanation of singlestick (I’ve got enough of that from my Holmes, anyway). My heart is beating fast; it’s a long time since I’ve said those words to someone who mattered.
She looks at me, her eyes wide and all the words seem suddenly stuck in her throat. It stings when I realise that she won’t say it back. I smile, hoping that it won’t show just quite how much it hurts. When I reach out to brush hair from her forehead she takes my hand and kisses my palm.
“You’re perfect to me,” she says, kissing my palm again. It’s not quite the same as what I said, but she cares for me and for now I have to settle with that. I kiss her to tell her that I’m not upset - though deep down I probably am - and that I still love her, even if she doesn’t love me back.
Yet.
I push the thought out of my head as well as I can, convincing myself that I don’t regret telling her. She kisses me back, probably pleased not having to have the rest of this conversation verbally.
I don’t mind either.
I don’t mind one bit.