Work Text:
"I've forgotten what you look like," says Sherlock, when she opens the door.
*
--and his cheek, his bloody mouth, on the inside of her wrist. Ah, wicked pulse, giving everything away.
*
They lie, breathing, for a while after. The balcony door is open, letting in afternoon light.
* * *
They show up on her doorstep in early July. John wears shades, a white shirt, khakis, and sandals. Aggressively blending in. Sherlock, as usual, doesn't give a fuck.
"Doctor Watson," says Irene, because less than a formal address won't do.
John nods. He doesn’t say anything. Mouth pressed tight. Embarrassment, at how she sees right through him. She smiles. Beside him, Sherlock looks away.
*
They eat grilled Pacific cod on a bed of mustard greens, on the Boulevard, in full afternoon sun. Napa Valley Chardonnay. Cheesecake, after.
John talks about Rosamund Mary Watson. It's easy.
*
"Have you had enough?" Irene says, later. It's dark outside. John is standing by the open balcony door with a glass of water, and on the sofa, Sherlock inhales, holds the smoke, and exhales exceedingly slowly, opening his mouth and lifting his face to the ceiling.
"No," he says. "A bit more, I think." He closes his eyes and stretches, feet over the armrest. "Perhaps," he says. "Maybe. Oh."
He goes quiet after that. Irene watches him. Ice clinks in the glass as John takes a drink.
*
They leave him on the sofa, afterward, stretched out naked under a blanket.
Irene smokes, leaning against the railing. The moon is sunken deep into the sky, in the eternal fog over the Pacific. John comes out bearing two glasses of whisky. He hands one over, and takes a drink of the other, looking out at the dark tops of palm trees on the beach below.
"Are you safe here?" he says.
"Of course," she says. "I'm dead."
He turns to her. She can see his eyes, very clear in the moonlight.
"Yes," he says. "But are you safe?"
She considers this. Considers him. Considers Sherlock, who couldn't sleep through the night for days after Alberta, the sound of his footsteps waking her up at odd hours, until she decided that enough was enough, got a batch of the finest Indica in town, and made him smoke until he got happy and then fuzzy and then finally dropped off like a stone.
And after Singapore. San Francisco. That little town in Nevada with a funny name she forgot.
Irene takes a drink.
"No one's coming," she says. "There is nobody left."