Title: Once Again I Reach
Summary: Watson has had enough.
Notes: Watson's Woes July Word Prompt Challenge Amnesty Round: single story includes prompts 1 - 7. See notes at end for prompts. A/N: This follows the story made up of prompts 17-24 (chapter 3), plus prompt #31 in chapter 4.

After Watson left the storage room, he collected the bones that had fallen out of the closet and methodically reassembled the piece, considering the results of the experiment as he worked. Being among her own things clearly set her on edge, although the lingering discomfort from her injuries couldn't be ruled out as a mitigating factor in her short temper. In fact the psychological discomfort she experienced in the aftermath of the would-be-bomber's car crash almost certainly exacerbated her negative reaction to entering this room. It was too bad he'd forgotten the actual skeleton in the closet; that variable skewed the results immeasurably. Nonetheless, he had the data he wanted to collect by sending her up here, even if he did not know how to proceed now that he had it.

He'd tried negative reinforcement, refusing to listen to her doubts and self-deprecation, but apparently that served only to limit his exposure, not to change her thinking in any way.

And what was the problem, exactly? She continued to remain committed to their work. She excelled in almost every lesson he set before her. The partnership was all that he thought it could be. But she was not happy.

That gave him pause. Watson was not happy; what matter was that to him? Her dissatisfaction lingered from unresolved aspects of her medical career. It was not something he had any control over or any responsibility for or any ability to repair. She did not let that unhappiness get in the way of their work. He knew she still found the work satisfying; if not for the problem in the past, he believed she would be happy. And he wanted that.

He wanted her to be happy.

The more he thought about it, the more uneasy he felt: the last time he cared to this extent about another person's emotional state, things did not go well for him. Obviously Watson was no Moriarty. He had no doubt that there was any measure of artifice or coercion in her unhappiness. And he had no delusions that he had any power of any kind to fix the reason for her unhappiness. She would never ask.

But now that he considered the situation directly, he realized that he was unhappy because she was unhappy. He muttered a profanity. And still a solution to the puzzle eluded him.

Well, attempting to deduce her feelings was too difficult on a number of levels. And there was only one way around that.

*.*.*

"Watson." He passed her a cup of tea, hoping the prop would be an ice-breaker.

"Thanks." She took the cup without looking up from the book he'd assigned her this week, on shoe construction and repair.

"Watson."

"Hmm?" Still not looking.

"It is now well past the traditional mourning period, and any emotional processing that remains would be better served through action rather than contemplation." He took a breath as her grip on the edge of the book whitened her knuckles. "It would be propitious for you to renew your medical license."

Tea splattered across the book, which thankfully belonged to the library, not him. Couldn't say the same for his t-shirt. At least he had the foresight to wear one he didn't particularly like.

"If this is some unbelievably inappropriate armchair psychologizing—"

"It would be invaluable to our work."

"In what way? I can't recall a single case in which having a surgeon on hand to dissect a liver or remove a tumor would have made any difference."

"Obviously, because we didn't have one, we never saw such cases."

"Sherlock—" The low timbre of her voice brought to mind another conversation. I think you know a lost cause when you see one.

"All right, never mind. It would be a convenience, not something I require. I managed without a surgeon before, I'm sure we will do as well going forward. If you prefer to remain bound to past events, that is of course your choice." He held up a hand to stem an outburst she didn't make. "I for one am in no place to judge, although I thought perhaps my experience might serve as an object lesson to the contrary. No matter; it was just a thought."

"Yeah," she said, and got up and left the room.

*.*.*

He heard the front door slam an hour later and took the opportunity to head upstairs to retrieve the printouts he'd left in the media room that he didn't want to get at the risk of crossing paths with her. On his way up he glanced into her room and stopped abruptly. The closet door was ajar, the bed stripped, and one drawer half open. He entered slowly, as if wary she was going to jump out of a corner and berate him for invading her privacy once too often. But it appeared that such trespass had already happened. She was gone.

*.*.*

He didn't know how long he stood in her doorway, but when he made his way downstairs, he found a note on his computer keyboard. "Can't stay. No contact. JW." A fifth word, "don't," was heavily crossed out. He lost more time contemplating the potential nuances in her words. A knock on the door pulled him back to his senses, and he was surprised to find the room dark, flickering sensors on the scanner and power lights the only illumination. His phone buzzed on the table behind him, and he hurried to it, relieved, and then disappointed to see a string of texts from Alfredo, the last of which stated his intent to stop by the brownstone, which he read just as the knock repeated.

When he opened the door, Alfredo looked at him expectant, and the appointment he'd missed snapped into focus.

"My apologies, Alfredo. Something came up this afternoon that disrupted my schedule. Can we reconvene at the 38th Street meeting tomorrow?"

"All right. You know I get it about your work. It's just usually you let me know. You okay?"

The answer that roared inside made him blink in its ferocity, but he steeled his spine and nodded brusquely. "I am a bit distracted over a miscalculation I made earlier today. Trying to work out what can be salvaged. Something of a complex problem; it's taken all my concentration."

"Okay." He suspected Alfredo knew there was more but also knew he could rely on his natural reticence to refrain from further questions. For now. "So, do you mind if I come in? I've got something for Joan."

"Ah, Watson is out for the evening. Would you like to leave it with me?"

"Nah, I'll see her on Friday." Friday! That was not too long to wait.

"Good night, then."

Over the next day, his fingers still sent texts when he came across something he wanted her to know, which his brain noticed a second too late to stop. The fourth time the text bounced back, number not available.

Sleep was a luxury and an indulgence. He had to continue working on the problem in the absence of a partner. Temporary absence. Yes.

Passing by her empty room on the way to the bath or or the third floor became harder as the week progressed. On the fifth day, he pushed the door open and came in to set on the end of the bed. From there he could see the stack of books on the floor, all her assigned readings. The shoemaking book was on top, open still to page 836 with now-dry tea spatters. He leaned over the edge of the bed to retrieve it. The author, Violet Ecks, wrote with florid language, odd to find in a text about the curing of thick and thin skins, the construction of lasts, and suitable materials for a sole. However, he parallels she drew between the cobbler and Frankenstein were surprising and, upon further reflection, surprisingly apt. A person he would like to talk to. Watson could be the mediator—

No. Just as well further investigation revealed that Ecks had died in 1981.

*.*.*

He missed the next two group meetings and conceded to be escorted to the third. When he appeared at the door, Alfredo gave him his long, "is there something you want to tell me?" look, but let his silence go unchallenged.

A new case came in, and he got to work on his own as he once did, as he'd started to do after Hemdale. As he hadn't done since Watson asked that doctor in the Amy Dampier case to account for his time the night of the murder. Gregson didn't pry into Watson's absence but Bell wouldn't quit with the questions as they spent long hours staking out the suspect.

"She's moved out. I assume, after two weeks, that she is not coming back. She declined to provide further information, but I will be happy to let her know you inquired should I ever hear from her again myself." That got him Bell's raised eyebrows and thankfully also his speechlessness. "She did not leave a forwarding address."

"Jeez."

The following week, he received a postcard. The front was of a painting, a still life of a cluttered table, something of a confusing jumble although he took hope from the inclusion of a violin. On the back was a smudged postmark it would take some time to decipher (partial postal code 07 wasn't going to get him far), his address, and a brief note. He ran his finger across her writing, didn't feel anything as his pulse returned to normal. I haven't made any decisions. Let me.

He closed his eyes and tried to hear her say those words. Tried to hear her move around in her room, turn the kettle on, yell a greeting when she came back home after being away. He opened his eyes to a wish come true. She was gone, he had the place to himself again. Just as he had hoped that night on the roof when he suggested she go on holiday instead of staying as his sober companion. "True journey is return, Watson," he whispered to his locks.

Note: amnesty prompts

The Perils of Pauline: Use an over-the-top peril or cliffhanger.

Ooops! A mistake with consequences.

Words to live by: Use one of your favorite quotes in your story. "True journey is return." Ursula K. Le Guin. The Dispossessed

Picture prompt: Books, Mug, Pipe and Violin (painting) by John Frederick Peto

Random play: Put your MP3 player on shuffle, turn on the radio, or otherwise tune into a random stream of music. Use the fifth song in the playlist as your inspiration. - Postcard Blues, Cowboy Junkies

purple prose: Use however this inspires you.

And where would we be without our wonderful mods?: For this amnesty prompt, prominently use words starting with K, C, S, and E, and the numbers 07 and 836 (the latter number being the number of members as of this writing).

Title comes from the lyrics to "Postcard Blues":

Especially with my head pounding
and lying helpless in my bed
I long for you and your expert hands
To ease this white heat from my head

And you would boast that you knew
All the pressure points inside
And you could just as easily kill me
Beneath the desire that I hide

But as your patient I knew
That your healing powers had grown
From a sore that's far far deeper
Than this heart where the pain was born

With my head again clear
I think of words to send to you
To coax you back to my side
But always leave out "I love you"

And then through my front door
A picture of a faraway land
And ? to love along the back
And once again I reach for my pen