From Heroin to Harmony

A/N: Ok so… Thanks to the lovely and talentedhandful of sky, this has been edited :)

This picks up almost directly after the finale ends… It ends rather abruptly… I can almost guarantee there will be more to this soon… I do hope you enjoy:)

(…)

Her phone interrupts the New York filtered silence they've allowed to settle over the roof top. She jumps slightly as it vibrates and shrills seeing as it still resides within the palm of her hand. She brushes her hair aside and releases a sudden sigh in reaction to the name broadcasted across the screen.

"Shit, it's Oren. I forgot to call him back."

She turns to Sherlock, watches him watching the hives within the barely-there shades of twilight. The moon glow and industrial light set the evening air in hues of navy and lavender, everything set in a state of gloss and shimmer. She takes a moment to appreciate the way they play against his features, casting shadows and brightening all the angles of his face. His demeanor is enough to distract and render her unresponsive as the phone clutched within her grasp continues to demand her attention.

"You might want to answer that." His tone is both gentle and demanding. "We've lost the light anyway, should be heading in." The truth is they lost the light some time ago but they remained there, both seemingly content to spend the entire evening soaking up each other's company.

He stands before making eye contact with her, finds her answering gaze with his back to her, eyes cast over his good shoulder. "I would love a spot of tea, if you wouldn't mind." His tone is still gentle but now it's soft as well. It reminds her of the night they saved Rhys and lost Angus all at once. It's the tone he takes with her when he's still unsure of where their common ground stops and her personal space begins.

She's more than well aware that with his request, he's giving her space and taking his own all within the same breath. The silence between them is always amazingly compatible. It's just the act of nonverbal communication is filled with too much of everything the case has left behind.

"Of course." She answers him while simultaneously accepting her brother's call before it runs headfirst into voicemail.

She holds his eyes as long as she can, which is only until he returns his gaze to the hives that have quieted with the setting of the sun. She pulls the red sweater closer around herself while turning for the door and she begins to apologize before she even says hello.

(…)

He finds her, some moments later, in the kitchen. Kettle on but not yet warm. The small bulb above the stove and the coal red glow of the burner the only lights within the space. He watches her as she pulls plates and honey down from cupboards and can't help but admire the way her hair sways with every shift of her body. How it ghosts over her shoulders and casts shadows along the wings of her cheekbones. He enters the room only after she has become aware of his presence. He watches the realization filter through her body. The way her stance changes, shoulders falling back a bit, the tilt of her head as she listens for him to shift and breathe. He places himself almost beside her, rests his back along the counter between the refrigerator and the stove. He watches her pull bread from a basket and seamlessly slide slices within the confines of the toaster before he clears his throat to speak.

"Everything all right?" He can't help but ask, is pretty sure she's led her brother down some shadowy path of acceptance. Otherwise he would be finding defeat or sorrow sculpting the lines of her face. Instead all he sees is relief.

She issues him a small smile that does not reach her eyes as she inches her way closer. She lays a hand along his broken wing before lifting onto her toes, while the other reaches past him, sifting through the cabinet at his back. He doesn't give her room. She exerts just enough pressure, fingers gently finding purchase along the line of his collarbone. She means only to give herself a guide and a buffer to keep from causing him any additional pain. They both know she could motion him aside. Ask for some space or simply shuffle him along toward a chair, but she's never asked him for anything. So why start now.

She watches him gaze out into the kitchen, knows he's not seeing anything that's there.

"You lurk," she tells him with the beginning of a smile in her voice as she backs away and sets the box of tea beside the mugs and plates along the table. She paces back to the stove and places her weight on her palms along the ledge of the counter. Watches him continue to stare off into the semi-darkened room.

"Yes," he says meeting her eyes as the kettle begins to shrill. His voice shows no sign of humor and his expression is stoic as it ever is. "I do."

The irony of the situation is not lost on either of them. The role reversal is both physical and emotional and most definitely beyond their reach.

"It would appear, my dear Watson, disappointment is not the only emotion which limits my ability to convey my feelings toward you."

She watches him, specifically his eyes. She's found, over time, they are the most direct route to finding answers. He's so quick to evade, shadow, and confine, but it would appear for the moment the pain has slowed his reflexes.

She smiles at him, fully this time, dropping her cheek to the shoulder closest to him. All the while, neither of them spares a glance at the demanding shrill of the kettle.

"I think you've managed to convey your gratitude in the gesture you made upstairs with the bees." She keeps her voice even, tone gentle and soft. She doesn't know how she's managed it when her heart is beating like the wings of a wild, frightened bird.

He lifts off the cabinet then and steps into her space too quickly. She retreats without a second thought, not in fear but surprise. Surely he cannot mean to come so close with such purpose. And yet he reaches for her with his hand and his eyes and the knotted web of emotion tangled in his throat.

"Gratitude." The word tumbles from his lips and it's heavy, drenched in dismissal and an emotion she cannot hope to understand and truly would never dare to try and name. He reaches for the ends of her hair, eyes cast toward her shoulder where he's begun to wrap the obsidian strands around his fingers. She tries to meet his gaze but his eyes are still cast downward, still set in stony indifference.

"I've managed, in all of my life, to maintain only one meaningful connection." He looks directly at her then, eyes piercing and fathomless. "That is, of course, until I met you, dear Watson."

He shifts his weight again, doesn't stop until the back of his hand within the sling is pressed along the base of her sternum, drops the end of her hair and allows his fingers to find purchase deep within the inky ribbons along the base of her spine.

"As it turns out, the first was nothing more than a mirage, a façade. One could argue it never truly existed to begin with." He presses his lips to her forehead then, lingers with his mouth warm on her skin.

She leans into his touch. Can't be sure it's the best idea to follow his lead when she's not altogether sure that he's got a hold of himself at all, but as his lips graze her temple, she feels her own resolve slowly slipping away. She reaches for him, one hand pressing him closer, fingers heavy along the valley of his hip, while the other wraps around the wrist at her shoulder.

"But I will never be able to regret Irene." The words are whispered, if his lips were not pressed along her temple she may have missed them entirely. She stiffens and feels the depth of his confession spread like ice through her veins.

"Do not fret, Watson." He pulls her closer, doesn't stop until her cheek rests along the line of his clavicle. "I will never be able to regret Irene for the simple fact, that if it were not for her, I would never have you."