Did you all get to watch the Superbowl episode? I loooooved it! The first minute and a half though...Wow...Yeah...
Here's part 3!
Joan felt as though she had been paralyzed when she saw the detective hit the surgeon. There was no such thing as a normal night with him, was there? Jason was leaning heavily against the bar, his eye already puffy and a bruise forming, whilst Sherlock didn't look apologetic at all, but shoved past him, making his way towards the exit, motioning for her to follow.
Before he could get out of reach, Jason jumped forward, grabbing his arm and pulled him round. Unprepared, the blow struck his lip, and he felt the blood begin to form and slide down his jaw. He was about to retaliate, when Joan recovered from her initial shock, and grabbed his arm, which was poised to strike again. On the other side, a barman stepped in front of Jason, pushing him away from the scene.
Sherlock wasn't aware Joan was repeating his name, until she shook his arm gently. His eyes instinctively lowered downwards, until they shot straight back up to attention. "Well, that was fun." He remarked as he used his cuff to dab at his split lip. Wells of crimson stained his finger, and he sighed. His entire body was rigid, tense, and the look in his eyes was the withdrawn Sherlock. The Sherlock who hadn't confided in her with any details about his plans for Moran. The Sherlock she felt she knew next to nothing about.
"You're unbelievable." She muttered, but her hands were gentle as she removed his hand from the cut. "You'll make it worse if you do that. Wait till we get home." He nodded meekly, though there was still no trace of guilt in his eyes, only triumph. He said nothing, as if guessing this was his best course of action, other than running after Jason and venting his anger upon him. They left rather swiftly after that, and neither of them exchanged words as they entered the backseat of a cab Joan hailed.
The silence continued until they were on their street, when Sherlock finally broke the reverie. "If you want me to explain my actions, I shall. But you and I both know there won't be an apology."
"Story time can be later." She let out a breath she hadn't realized she had been holding. "We can talk tomorrow morning."
He nodded briefly, and the cab descended into silence once more besides the steady thrum of static from the radio.
Once they arrived in the house, she sat him at the kitchen table and ran a hand towel under the tap, dampening it. He winced sharply at the cold sting as she dabbed at the laceration, but said nothing, merely fixated upon her with his frustratingly intense gaze.
"You're mad at me."
It wasn't a question, merely a statement, but still sought an answer. His expression was serious, well, as serious as the petulant detective could get.
"I'm not mad at you." And she wasn't. There was another reason for her silence, one that she didn't want him nit-picking or deducing. She set the bloodied towel aside, deciding to retire early. As she walked up the stairs, she heard him follow her, catching up to her as she reached the top stop.
"You're not looking at me. And when you accidentally do, you look away. Not to mention I just punched your...Jason. One can only assume under the circumstances, that you are mad at me."
"I'm not mad at you." She repeated, stopping outside his bedroom door so abruptly that he nearly collided with her. She could feel the heavy weight of his gaze upon her, his soul-searching eyes taking in every muscle movement, every facial expression. She wondered sometimes, how difficult it must be to have his skills. The existence of a normal conversation didn't occur with him. He couldn't go on airplanes. He saw too much in every little detail, and she wondered how someone could cope with that.
"When he punched you, I was scared, okay?" She finally turned to face him, startling him so that he retreated a step, back hitting the wall. "I haven't been that scared since..." She found herself unable to finish the sentence. Memories ran through her mind like clockwork. The routine procedure that was supposed to be a breeze. The laughing, relaxed interns.
Then the heart rate monitor began to decline.
His face crumpled as he caught the implications of her half-finished sentence. He seemed at a loss for words, the second time that had happened on this evening. She certainly did bring out the best in him. And occasionally, the worst.
"Your worry was not necessary. I can hold out on my own." He meant it reassuringly, but it did little to comfort her.
"You say that, but I don't think you believe it yourself." All she wanted was to get this dress off, fall asleep the second her head touched the pillow, and wake up in the morning, forgetting about the whole disastrous evening. She briefly wondered what Jason was doing, but found herself uncaring. He had proved tonight he was still as much of a jackass as he was in college.
He was staring at her, as if he had had some new-found discovery, or had been hit by a hundred cascading bricks. He slowly pushed himself from the wall, eyes never leaving her. Her breathing hitched in her throat, her eyes seemingly not able to move from his own. "I had no idea you cared for me that much, Watson." He murmured, his warm breath inches from her, sending a shiver to pass through her like electricity She found herself this time being the one with no words, being the one staring at him with a dumbfounded expression. He moved forward, closing the minuscule gap between them.
And then he kissed her.
...I have no shame. I couldn't resist.