Asymmetry

It's just for a little while.

It's what he tells me every morning when I sit down at the breakfast table across from him. I put a coffee in front of him—black, though he grimaces discreetly every time he takes a sip—and give him a smile when he belatedly says good morning. The manners are new, and it's hard to get used to them. I like to pretend the effort is for my benefit, but I'm not very good at lying to myself. Well, not anymore.

Lying to other people, though. That's always been easy for me, easier now since I've known Sherlock. After all, when one runs with Sherlock Holmes, it almost becomes second nature. Not that he asks us to lie—of course not. He just implies that if we withhold the entire truth, it would be beneficial to him. So I withhold the entire truth—the truth of exactly how fatal that fall was, the truth of exactly whose body is buried in that grave. And maybe it's not right and maybe I'll go to jail if it ever gets out, but I made my choices. I made them a long time ago, really. I could never refuse him.

So. Breakfast table. I reward his manners with biscuits, and tut when they slip. I think it reminds him of Mrs. Hudson. I once joked that I wasn't his housekeeper, but it made him look so… well. I never did it again after that.

I watch him as we sit across from one another, sometimes. He reads the paper in near silence, though when he catches an interesting article I see his eyebrows go up and his mouth open. He'll tell me about what he's reading on occasion, in a voice that suggests if I were the right person, I'd have a witty comment to make. I remain silent, or nod along.

I don't want to replace him. It would be folly to even try.

He complains of being cold constantly and no matter how many jackets and blankets I fetch him, it doesn't seem to be enough. A shock blanket snitched from one of the ambulances seems to help, but it isn't until I'm passing by a discount store on my way home from work that I find the solution. His hands certainly don't shake when I present him with the cableknit jumper, but I find him wearing it more often than not, when he thinks I don't know.

I wish, sometimes, that I knew how to help him. When he isn't sneaking out of the flat for "fresh air," he's pacing like a caged tiger. I know that he itches to deduce something more than how many bodies I had to work on, or what I did for lunch this afternoon. I'm considering working out a deal with Lestrade, trying to see if he can let me take home unworkable case files, just for the challenge of trying to figure them out.

But before I pick up the phone, every time, I remember his words.

It's just for a little while.

end