A/N: What's more fun than writing Elementary fan fiction? Writing it with someone else whose work you respect and admire! CharmingNotDarling and I have been hard at work on a joint venture, and she's graciously allowed me to post it under my pseudonym instead of creating a new one solely for this story. Keep in mind that every review will be doubly appreciated, and please consider visiting her page and checking out all the wonderful works she has to offer!

Disclaimer: We do this for love, not for profit!

Indelible

Sherlock holds himself perfectly still in the dark silence of the brownstone, processing the events of the day (and night) while watching Watson sleep. This is hardly aberrant behavior on his part, but tonight his perspective is vastly different from what he's used to. Her hair is splayed out across her pillow, just as he's seen it on many other occasions, only this time some of the finer strands stir slightly with each of his exhalations. Her chest rises and falls with the same slow regularity he's witnessed previously, but now he feels the movement as much as he sees it, the fingers of his right hand slotted snugly into the small creases between her ribs.

His body yearns for sleep, but his mind is racing, spinning deliriously with all of the input that it's received over the last few hours. He's always known Watson to be graceful and generous and strong, and, if anything, those qualities have only been magnified in his estimation. But now he's also aware of the way the timbre of her voice changes when she's whispering encouragement into his ear instead of admonishing him for his lack of tact. He knows the feel of her clever, articulate fingertips tattooing the length of his spine, the way her hair cascades between her shoulder blades when she arches her back, and what it's like to wake up with the taste of her still on his tongue. He flooded his senses with her, and she spurred him on, urging him to know her body every bit as intimately as he does her mind. The only thing that she failed to share of herself is any clue as to what this might mean to the course of their relationship.

His logical side questions why this need fundamentally change things between them, while a softer voice, one that he thought had died along with Irene, wonders, How could it not? How could either of them ever be satisfied with anyone else, with anyone less than what they are to each other?

Perhaps this is merely the latest in a long line of gradual changes in their relationship. They've evolved from client/companion to mentor/apprentice to a full partnership. This latest transition was fueled by her discovery of a detail he'd overlooked in one of his cold cases. In her excitement, she'd thrown her arms around his neck and hugged him hard. Her exuberance quickly gave way to excitement of a different sort altogether.

He thinks he may have kissed her first, although, in retrospect, it was likely something of a tie. He knows that she had his shirt untucked well before his hands slid up underneath her top to investigate the satiny skin at the small of her back. She was the one who broke that first, fevered kiss to peer up at him intently. Clad in stocking feet, she was small in stature, but not in presence nor in courage. Eyes bright, cheeks flushed, and lips swollen and slightly parted as they both gasped for breath, she'd studied him for several seconds. Just as he was on the verge of preparing an abject apology, she'd taken him by the hand and led him here, into her bedroom.

She stirs briefly beside him before settling back into sleep. Too restless to join her, he eases out of the bed and gently tucks the covers in beside her before searching for his clothing. Barring one sock, he manages to find everything and dresses quietly before settling himself into her armchair.

Even in the dim light, he can still make out the silhouette of one slim leg protruding out from beneath the sheets. It's hidden now, but there's a small mole high up on the inside of that thigh, and he can't help but wonder if there are others that still remain secret. Sherlock is accustomed to the pursuit of knowledge for its own sake—the thrill of learning new things has always been a neverending source of fascination for him—but this is altogether different. This is more than simple knowledge. She's gifted him with her body and entrusted him with her affection.

Affection. He scoffs at himself. That's what the small, shallow part of him is comfortable naming it, but he knows full well that she would never have risked their friendship or their partnership out of a simple fondness for him. The stakes are too high for both of them. No, there's more to it, but he can't yet bring himself to name it, not until he knows that she doesn't have any regrets.

He gets to his feet and walks quietly back to her side of the bed. If he were to wake her with a kiss, how would she respond? She needs to rest, they both do, but he finds himself fighting the urge to do it anyway, full of a mad hope that she'll smile and welcome him into her arms and reassure him that they're still okay. Instead, he settles for touching her hair one last time before leaving her room and padding down the hall and toward the kitchen, feeling the chill of the floor every time his bare foot makes contact with the wood.

He's just finished filling the kettle and putting it on the stove to heat, when he hears the slamming of a car door coming from the front of the brownstone. It's unusual activity for this time of the morning, and he goes to investigate. Before he gets near a window with an appropriate vantage point, however, the doorbell chimes and is followed by a series of heavy knocks at the front door. Sherlock opens it to find a uniformed police officer on the stoop.

"Everything okay in here?" the officer asks as he casts his eyes around the foyer.

"Of course," he answers testily. "Were you expecting otherwise?" It suddenly occurs to him that Watson had been substantially more, well, vocal than he'd expected, given her usual reserved demeanor. "Was there a noise complaint, officer?"

"Nah," the burly uniform replies. "Captain Gregson sent me out here to get you since you weren't answering your phones and we had a couple of bodies drop. He wants you and your partner to take a look at the scene before the rain comes in."

As if on cue, thunder rumbles long and low in the distance.

"What's going on?"

Watson pads softly down the stairs, wearing a pair of pyjama bottoms and a loose t-shirt.

"Officer..."

"Kirkpatrick," the man fills in helpfully.

"...has come to take us to the scene of a murder. It seems we were both negligent in keeping our phones near us."

"I see," she says quietly as the memories of exactly why they were otherwise occupied flit across her features before she schools them back into inscrutability. "I guess we'd better get ready, then." She walks back toward her room without another word or glance, leaving Sherlock completely in the dark as to what the last several hours might have meant to her or to their future.

End of Chapter 1