Work Text:
A Satellite Out of Orbit
The first time he comes, he says almost nothing at the beginning.
That is to say, he says almost nothing about himself. When she probes, he gives her the bare minimum to go on, his eyes fixed on her like twin blue laser beams when they meet hers, otherwise drifting around the office. She doesn’t get unsettled easily, and she’s used to being alone with people who need professional help, obviously, but his gaze is particularly penetrating – while somehow also reflecting a dull emptiness. Dp, she scrawls in her notebook, guessing that the world’s only consulting detective could certainly read writing upside down, and that the former flatmate of John Watson most certainly would. Shorthand for Depression. It’s all there in the carefully uninflected tone of his voice, and the quiet desperation she senses behind those eyes, his face half-hidden in the depths of his coat collar.
“I need to know what to do for John,” he says, that same dullness in his voice and face.
She hesitates, and this gets her a flash of temper.
“Oh, come on, let’s not pretend,” he says, irritable. “We both know that I know that you’re his therapist. You’re the only person alive who knows him better than I do. Tell me what to do for him.”
Ella looks down at her notebook. “The client-therapist relationship is one of confidentiality and trust,” she begins, carefully. “Even admitting that a client is or is not my client would be a breach of that trust.”
“I already know,” Sherlock says. “I’ve known for years. And he’s talked about you.” She hesitates a moment longer, and he adds, “Please.”
The desperation leaks into his tone on the final word, and Ella sighs inwardly and gives in. She’s already stood up to Mycroft Holmes no fewer than four times now and moves offices frequently in a futile attempt to escape his notice. Of course his brother found it with ease. Not even John has been to this office yet. Then again, she also hasn’t seen John in a long time. Too long. Months. She’s left messages, and she’s worried, herself. “All right,” she says aloud. “What’s going on? Why does John need help?”
Sherlock’s voice is bleak. “His wife died,” he says. He looks as though he means to continue, but stops instead.
She knows better than to express her shock out loud. “Mary?” Sherlock nods. Ella swallows. “What a tragedy! How did it happen?” she asks.
Sherlock shakes his head very slightly. “I don’t know how much he told you about her. She…”
He trails off, appearing to fall into some inner thought, and after a moment, Ella decides to prompt a little. “I know quite a bit,” she says. She thinks of John the last time she saw him, just after Rosie’s christening. Bleak would be a good word to describe him, too. He looked tired, even more so than the parent of a young baby should. I wanted to name her Katherine, for my mother, he’d said in obvious resentment. When she’d asked why they hadn’t, he’d said, sulkily, Mary wouldn’t let me. Gentle probes had unleashed a flood of fury and still more resentment, complaints about Mary, complaints that Sherlock liked her better than him now. She’d inquired after their sex life and been told that John had lost all attraction for her back when she’d shot Sherlock and learned of Mary’s past as an assassin. They’d discussed the shot before, though it was still a bit of a block for John, something he could never stand to talk about for too long. Obviously it was a painful subject, but his refusal to look at it in depth was holding him back from dealing with it and moving on. “Did Mary die in relation to her line of work?” she asks now of this other man sitting across from her. A stranger, technically, but she’s heard so many vivid descriptions of him from John, who is, after all, a writer. He hadn’t told her how handsome Sherlock is, and wonders why, now. Surely he must have noticed. She’s seen them in the papers, of course, but even depressed and recalcitrant, Sherlock is far more attractive in person.
Sherlock nods. “She was mistaken for someone else, though still responsible for… something that got left unfinished. It was my fault, though.”
“Your fault?” Ella repeats. “How so? Did you kill her?”
Sherlock drops his gaze at last, directing it at the floor. “I might as well have.”
“I don’t understand,” Ella says. “That sounds rather as though you didn’t. Let me ask again: how, precisely, did Mary die?”
“She jumped in front of a bullet intended for me,” Sherlock says, terse now, still to the floor. “I provoked the shot. I pushed too hard. Said too much.”
His jaw clenches and Ella feels acutely sorry for him for a moment. “I see,” she says softly. “That must be so difficult. I can see how you feel responsible. Though you must remember that it wasn’t you who pulled the trigger, and it was Mary’s decision to jump the way she did. You must be grieving her death, too.”
Sherlock does nothing to indicate that he even heard this. “I didn’t come here to discuss myself,” he says stiffly. “I came to ask for your help with John.”
“What do you need help with, exactly?” Ella asks, recrossing her legs.
Sherlock gestures a bit vaguely. “Everything.”
She lifts her brows. “Has he asked for your help?”
“No.” The word is bitten out.
“Then what makes you think he needs it?” Ella asks gently. “I’m not suggesting that he wouldn’t, but – ”
“But he does. You know him,” Sherlock insists, raising his eyes to hers again, the stare piercing hers in accusation. “You must – know how to reach him. How to – ”
He stops again, nearly wincing, and Ella guesses that he’s said more than he intended. “How to reach him?” she repeats delicately. “Are you having difficulty with that?”
“He won’t talk to me,” Sherlock says, bitterness flooding his voice. “He blames me. And he should. I made them a vow. I swore to keep them safe.”
Ella frowns a little. “It sounds like it would be difficult to protect someone who decides to jump in front of a bullet,” she points out. “That’s not your fault.”
Sherlock shakes his head, stubborn. “That doesn’t matter. All that matters is what John thinks, and in his view I am at fault. Therefore I am. But never mind that. I need to know how to help him.”
“Without talking to him?” Ella asks, trying to keep it gentle.
“Yes. Anything I could do – from afar, or – I don’t know.” Sherlock’s tone turns agitated. “You’re supposed to know this – you’ve been talking to John for years. Just tell me what to do!”
She waits a moment, giving the tension a moment to deflate, then says quietly, “John’s still got a lot of his walls in place. From the way he talks about you, about your friendship, I would say that you know him better than I do. If he’s hurting and lashing out, then perhaps he needs a bit of time before he’ll allow anyone to help him.”
“But he’s suffering now,” Sherlock tells her, obviously out of patience. “That isn’t good enough!”
Ella studies him and realises that he’s near the point of emotional breakdown. Crying is cathartic, people often say, but there are times and places where the breakdown is almost more damaging than relieving. “If he doesn’t want to be helped, then you cannot force it on him,” she says quietly. “I’m sorry, Sherlock. I can imagine how hard it must be.”
He absorbs this in silence, then gets up and walks to the door without a word.
“Sherlock.”
He stops without looking at her. “What.” The question is dull and flat and he isn’t even trying to mask his despair, to her concern.
“I’d like to see you again,” Ella states. “In two or three days, if you can spare the time.”
Now he turns around, a trace of scorn on his rather beautiful face. “I thought this relationship worked the other way around,” he says, his tone closed and slightly haughty. “Appointments at the behest of the client.”
“Yes, often,” Ella replies mildly. “But we’ve barely scratched the surface with you. That might be a better place to start. I can see that you care about your friend very deeply. The best way to know him better might be to start with yourself.”
That brings a slant of wry amusement to his face, though he doesn’t explain. “Oh, really,” he says, clearly unconvinced but playing along. “Very well. Thursday. I’ll come at two.”
Ella checks her schedule. “I have time at three,” she says firmly, though two o’clock is wide open. Best establish territory early on.
Sherlock concedes with good grace. “Three, then,” he says, and is gone.
In the ensuing silence, Ella has a long think. She goes to her desk and unlocks the filing cabinet, and withdraws the entire file on John Watson, and goes back to read through it starting at the very beginning.
***
Almost to her surprise, Sherlock keeps the appointment. He fidgets throughout and answers her questions without seeming to pay attention to any of what he’s actually saying. He’s preoccupied, obviously, but she doesn’t take him to task over it. He manages to avoid revealing too much of himself by telling her instead the details of the case which resulted in Mary’s death. He refers to the killer by her last name only, repeating the name as though it’s become profane: Norbury, uttered like a curse. After the third time she says it, she comes to understand that he is using it as a curse: he’s infused the three syllables with his sense of personal failure, and cursing that every time he utters it.
“Tell me where you think the blame actually stems from,” she requests at one point, and Sherlock waves her off as though the question is an annoyance. “What, exactly, makes this your fault, as you see it?”
“I was too arrogant. Deduced too far. Obviously.” He rolls his eyes overtly. “It’s a mistake I’ve made before and this time it resulted in someone’s death.”
Ella turns her head on one side. “Let’s talk about your relationship with Mary,” she says, curious.
Sherlock shrugs and says nothing.
“That won’t do,” she remonstrates. “Remember, this only works if you talk.”
“You know my stance on talking,” Sherlock returns, an edge of defiance in his voice and the angle of his chin.
She smiles. “And yet you’ve been talking nonstop since you sat down. Maybe you haven’t been all that forthcoming about personal details, but you clearly have a lot to say.”
Those brilliant eyes narrow slightly. “You’re good,” he says, almost grudgingly.
Ella accepts the compliment with another smile. “Do you sometimes feel as though you wish you had someone to talk to more often? Or that the people you’re talking to aren’t hearing you?”
“They’re not,” Sherlock says bluntly. “I’ve been waiting for something specific to happen for awhile now. I’ve been looking for the clues. Everyone thinks I’ve fixated on something which isn’t there. I’m not. I know when I’m right. This isn’t arrogance; I simply am.”
“Is this ‘something’ you refer to dangerous to you?” Ella inquires. “Is it something that you’re afraid of?”
“Yes,” Sherlock says, not attempting to hide it. His knuckles, she notes, are white where his long fingers are gripping the arms of his chair. “It’s someone who not only wanted to kill me. He used to describe it as wanting to ‘burn the heart out of me’, which I took to mean that he not only wanted me dead, but that he wanted to prolong it. Torture me. Hurt the people I care about the most.”
“John,” Ella supplies, and he doesn’t deny this. “Mary, too?” she asks.
Sherlock hesitates. “Yes,” he says slowly. “She was my friend.”
Ella is unconvinced. “She shot you,” she says candidly. “How does that affect your friendship?”
Sherlock stands up abruptly and goes over to the stained glass window, his back to her. “I… don’t think about it,” he says, his voice low. “It doesn’t matter now.”
Ella gets it. “But of course it did matter, before,” she states. It isn’t a question, and he doesn’t respond, neither confirming nor denying it. “I see.”
“What do you think you see?” he asks the wall.
“You hide what you really feel for Mary for John’s sake,” she says evenly. “For the sake of your friendship. I understand: John… had a difficult time both in dealing with what he thought was your death, and then your unexpected return. You had a difficult reunion. Then he got married, and you felt you had no choice but to accept his wife. Am I close?”
Sherlock is silent for a long time. “You’re remarkably perceptive,” he says to the wall.
“Thank you. It’s my job,” Ella says briskly. She doesn’t nag him to come back and sit down. When he feels comfortable, he will. “John is obviously very important to you,” she goes on, since they’re on the sensitive subject and Sherlock has already given himself some distance.
“He’s the only thing that matters,” Sherlock says, his voice low. He drops his head and leans against the wall with one arm. “I would do anything to help him, even if he doesn’t want it to come from me. I just don’t know what to do. I’m… lost. He doesn’t want to see me. Doesn’t want me to help with his child, to look after her. He doesn’t trust me. He wrote me a letter that says that I’ve failed him completely and that he never wants to see me again. I don’t know what to do.”
Ella watches him and feels immensely sorry for him. “I’m very sorry,” she says quietly. “I can’t imagine how much that must hurt.”
Sherlock turns around. “Can’t you reach out to him?” he asks, his eyes so full of pleading that it almost pains her to see it.
She nods. “I left him a message the other day after you were here. He hasn’t called back, but I’ll try again.”
“Of course, he’ll probably change therapists if he sees one at all,” Sherlock says, more to himself than to her. “He’ll want to change everything.”
Ella observes him. “You do know him well,” she says. “Give it time. Something will come to you. It may just take time. Don’t forget that.”
Sherlock thinks about this for a long time. Then he says, “Thank you,” and strides across her office for the door. This time he stops. “Do you want me to come again?”
Ella looks at him, or at the back of his lovely coat, rather. “Do you want to come again?” she challenges.
His shoulders stiffen a little. “Next week,” he says. “When are you available?”
This is progress. Ella looks down at her calendar. “I have Tuesday afternoon, if you like. Two o’clock?”
“Fine,” Sherlock says, and walks out.
***
Tuesday is, to put it mildly, a disaster. Sherlock is wild-eyed and dishevelled when he arrives, stubble staining his pale features, his blue eyes rimmed in red. He hasn’t showered for at least two days, and she discerns immediately that he is high.
He throws himself into the client chair with a graceful flop of limbs. “Where shall we start today?” he demands without preamble. “The death of my family dog? My older brother’s overbearing, manipulative ways – though, of course, you would know plenty about that by now, wouldn’t you – or should we talk about you? What was your childhood like, Ms – what’s your last name? I’ve forgotten. Actually, forgot your first name, too.”
He gazes at her expectantly and Ella compresses her lips. “Sherlock, I don’t see clients when they’re using,” she says. “Come back when you’re sober.”
He doesn’t get up. Instead, his eyes narrow, honing in on her. “This intolerant behaviour is suggestive of some manner of intolerance experienced in your own life,” he says, his wits no less sharp despite the state of his body. “That painting, there – you want to go there on vacation but you also don’t want to go alone – pity, because you’ve recently split up with your boyfriend. You said it was you, not him, but it was definitely him, both his halitosis and then the fact that the halitosis stopped, leading you to suspect an affair – probably quite right; you’re clever enough to have seen that, and besides which his long working hours made you suspicious given that he hasn’t been earning any extra, which is why you haven’t already been there – where is that, Tahiti? Bora Bora? – with him already. And then there’s your relationship with your mother – ”
“That’s enough,” Ella says, calmly enough but she lets the steel cut into it. She makes very certain that no tension shows through the lines of her body language, fingers easy on her notebook, legs uncrossed, spine upright but not stiff. She isn’t going to ask how he deduced all of that. Obviously he’s very, very, very good at what he does, and for a moment she understands vividly why someone unbalanced might have taken a shot at him for a deduction that pressed deeper, hit the wrong buttons. Sherlock’s stream of speech falls silent and she continues. “I’ve already asked you once to leave. You may return when you’re clean. Don’t make me ask again.”
The fire goes out of Sherlock’s eyes. He sweeps himself to his feet and pulls his coat around himself, and she notices that he’s wearing what appear to be pyjamas beneath the coat. “Fine,” he says stiffly, and goes to the door. Just like that: not another word.
She listens to his footsteps descend to the lower rectory and waits for the outer door to close before she begins her notes for the non-session, only then letting her brow knit into the worry she didn’t want to let him see.
She checks her messages after, but there is still nothing from John.
***
The fourth time she sees Sherlock he comes without having made an appointment first. Ella is five minutes away from the end of her appointment with Diane Selwyn (anxiety and an eating disorder), their usual Wednesday session, when the outside door is yanked open and footsteps come stumbling rapidly up the stairs.
Ella looks up in both consternation and some annoyance. It’s Sherlock and it’s also apparently raining outdoors; he’s dripping wet and also crying. He looks worse than ever, like a homeless person, and she suspects immediately that he’s high again.
“I need to talk,” Sherlock says, sounding like a person at the very end of his limits, and without any regard for the fact that she’s currently in an appointment with someone else. “Don’t turn me away. Please!”
Ella glances over at Diane. “I’m sorry,” she says. “Give me just a moment.” She gets up and crosses the space. “Sherlock, I’m in a session with someone else,” she says quietly. “But look – I’ve got half an hour free after this. Why don’t you go downstairs and wait in the waiting room, or the church if you prefer? I’ll come and find you when I’ve finished with my current client.”
He nods and goes without a word, leaving behind a puddle of muddy rainwater.
She finishes up with Diane and locks her notebook away, then goes downstairs to find Sherlock. He’s lucky that the vicar isn’t in today; the little church is often rented out for meetings and small conferences, as well. She finds him sitting in one of the pews, head bowed on his arms, his back heaving as he sobs without restraint. Troubled, she goes into the pew ahead of his and sits down a few feet away. “What’s going on?” she asks.
Without lifting his head, Sherlock unleashes a stream of nonsensical, difficult-to-follow talk about Culverton Smith and a serial killer, though at times she isn’t sure whether he’s actually talking about breakfast cereal instead. “And I can’t do it – I can’t do it without John!” he sobs. “I need him! I miss him! I can’t think without him, can’t do it, can’t work, I can’t – I’m a satellite out of orbit, I’m my own black hole. I can’t be who I am without him, I can’t – ”
He stops, choking, and Ella thinks she understands fully at last. “You love him,” she says, then corrects herself for accuracy. “You’re in love with him. This isn’t just about him shutting you out because he’s grieving.”
Sherlock’s only response is to continue crying, his back shuddering, utterly out of control
Ella sighs. “I’m very sorry, Sherlock. I think that what you need to do first, though, is see an addictions counsellor. There’s a very good one, a friend of mine, who works at a rehab clinic just a few blocks from here. I’ll give you his card. He’ll see you today, if you like. They keep all hours, and I’ll give him a call and let him know you’re coming. His name is – ”
“I don’t need an addictions counsellor,” Sherlock snarls, lifting his head. There is mucus leaking from his nose and possibly saliva from his mouth. Between that and the tears, his face is a reddened swamp. “I need John. How many times do I have to tell you that? Yes, of course I’m in love with him, you daft twit. I’ve all but said so every time we’ve spoken. I died for him, would have died again! Why do you think I’ve done it all? It wasn’t for Mary; it was all for John!”
“I understand that,” Ella says firmly. “I really do. But you’ve got to get yourself under control. Come on. Let me drive you to the clinic.”
“I’m not going to rehab,” Sherlock says, rolling his bloodshot eyes. “I just need you to tell me how to convince John to see me again. I need him. I need to stop this killer. I need to work. And I need to be high right now. It’s part of the plan. But if it doesn’t work, then I need you to help me find some other way to convince John. I’m trying to save him in the only way I know how, but I – ”
“What you need is to get clean,” Ella interrupts, beginning to lose patience. “I don’t know what you’re on about, with this serial killer or what Culverton Smith has to do with anything, but you most certainly do not ‘need’ to be high. No good plan would call for that, and if you were sober I think you would see the inherent logic in that. You’re certainly intelligent enough for that. I’d like to take you to that clinic. I have a fifteen-minute window and I’d be happy to take you there myself. Or I can call you a taxi.” She’d like to demand that he choose one of those options, but that’s not how rehabilitation works. “Would one of those options work for you?”
Sherlock shakes his head. “You don’t understand,” he says, his voice shaky. “I thought you would.” He gets himself unsteadily to his feet. “I’m already in hell, don’t you see?” he shouts at someone or something which Ella cannot see. (Is he talking to God? she wonders. They are in a church… Or perhaps he’s speaking to John.) “How much further down do I have to fall?” He staggers toward the door.
“Sherlock,” Ella says, very concerned. “Please – let me call you a taxi, at least!”
“Never trust a taxi driver,” Sherlock intones, as though reciting a well-known proverb. He shoves the door open with a shoulder and sags back out into the rain.
Ella goes to the window and watches him, a hand pressed to her mouth in real fear. She watches Sherlock hail a taxi despite what he just said, and he and the driver have an exchange that leaves Sherlock shouting and out in the rain; the driver clearly refused to take him in the state he’s in. She runs upstairs to her office and unlocks her desk, searching rapidly through the top drawer for the last card he gave her. She picks up the phone and dials quickly. “Hello,” she says when a professionally-smooth voice answers at the other end. “I need to speak to Mycroft Holmes, please. It’s an emergency!”
He’s there in seconds, which seems like a minor miracle in and of itself. “Ella,” he says smoothly, not explaining how he knew it was her. Perhaps he had a private line installed just in case she ever called. Who knows.
“It’s Sherlock,” she says without preamble. “He came to see me. He’s very high and he just left my office. He’s soaked through and I’m afraid he’s going to get hit by a car or something. He – he may be in danger of self-harm, as well. I’m telling you this in the strictest confidence, because I’m worried for his safety.”
“I have him now,” Mycroft says, and she doesn’t know what he means until she hears him say, away from the receiver, “Camera 1421, lower right quadrant. Have the nearest car pick him up.”
“Yes, sir. The car is thirty seconds out,” someone, a male voice, responds in the background.
“We’ve got him,” Mycroft tells her, speaking into the phone now. “Once he’s back at the house, I’ll have his landlady contain the situation. We’ll monitor it. Thank you very much for your call. And your concern.”
He hangs up and Ella looks at her phone, surprised by the abruptness of it, then goes back downstairs to see if she can still see Sherlock.
She can’t; the rain or Mycroft’s car have swallowed him into the mist.
***
It’s a month later before she sees Sherlock again, and by that time, she’s had a meeting with Mycroft Holmes that she didn’t particularly enjoy, and four sessions with John, who finally returned her call. He makes great progress over the four sessions, talking openly at last about his issues related to guilt and misplaced blame, his mistake in having gone back to Mary and his subsequent guilt at her death, the text messaging affair, and finally, Sherlock. Reading back through her notes, she wonders how she didn’t see it sooner: John was always in love with Sherlock, only he wasn’t fully conscious of it, perhaps. He certainly never mentioned it to her. When Sherlock died, or when they both thought he had, she’d wondered then. The unspoken things that John absolutely refused to share… she hadn’t pressed the point, though. John’s walls are very high, indeed, but he’s at least learning to let himself see what lies behind them.
Then he stops coming again, without a word. Sherlock had emailed and requested an appointment for a Monday afternoon, then cancelled it abruptly on Sunday night and a month has passed since then. It’s Monday morning now, and when she arrives at the office, there’s a message from Sherlock on her voicemail requesting, to her astonishment, an appointment for himself followed by an appointment for John. “This is coming from him, don’t worry,” Sherlock’s voice assures her in the message. “We just thought that since I was already calling, I’d ask for him, too. Or we can come together, if it’s easier. Whatever you like.”
Well! That’s a turn-up for the books, isn’t it? Ella sits down and dials the number for Sherlock’s mobile.
John answers it, to her surprise. “Hello, Sherlock’s mobile,” he says, sounding more cheerful than she’s ever heard him sound before.
“John,” she says, still surprised. “This is Ella. I was calling to return a message that – ”
“ – Sherlock left,” John interrupts, anticipating her. “Right, yeah. So what works better for you? Do you have time to see us both, or should we double it up? We’d both still pay, of course, if you want to see us together.”
“Well – what’s your preference?” she asks. “Would you rather come together or separately? I have time for either this afternoon. Or both. Whatever you like.” She doesn’t tell him that Sherlock was entirely right, that leaving Bill meant leaving herself a little strapped for cash. She would never pursue an appointment for her own interests, though. Of course not.
“Maybe both?” John suggests. “Maybe you could see Sherlock for half an hour, then me for half an hour, then both of us together for the second hour? Would that work?”
“Yes, certainly,” Ella says. She pauses. “I gather dinner that time went well, then?”
She can hear his smile over the phone. “Friday night dinner lasted until Sunday night,” John confirms. “It was brilliant. And then we got a case – that’s why we’ve been out of touch, sorry, and then things got complicated. We’ll tell you all about it this afternoon. Sherlock’s just in the shower, that’s why I answered his phone, but he’s awake and he said to tell you that he’s been clean for weeks. I can corroborate that. We’re both okay.”
She doesn’t ask about his drinking; she’ll save that for the appointment, but she’s marvelling at how forthcoming John is being. It’s a marked difference and she can hear how happy he is, too. “Great,” she says. “Tell Sherlock to come at two, then, and you can come up at half-past.”
“Would it be all right if I waited downstairs, in the sanctuary?” John asks. “It’s just easier if we can come together.”
“Certainly,” Ella says, listening to his repeated use of ‘we’. “See you later, then.”
“Great, thanks!” John hangs up.
***
When Sherlock comes up later, she nearly gapes at him. It’s like night and day from the last time she saw him, sobbing, high, and soaked to the skin. He’s firmly in control, exquisitely dressed in a suit, deep purple shirt, his shoes polished to perfection. He’s shaved and coiffed and looks like he just walked out of a magazine advert. He’s also bearing a sheaf of tropical flowers, which he proffers to her upon their greeting.
“Goodness, what’s this?” Ella asks, accepting them. “It’s not my birthday!”
“It’s a thank you,” Sherlock says. “There’s something else, too.”
“Come in and have a seat,” Ella invites. “I’ll just put these in a vase.” She goes to get one from on top of the cupboard and pours the contents of her water pitcher into it, arranging the flowers just so. “They’re gorgeous! And I have to say, you’re looking well, too.”
“Thank you,” Sherlock says. “Bit of a change from the last time I was here.”
She turns and he’s glancing up at her from beneath his lashes, a bit ashamed. “I’m a little surprised you actually remember that,” she says. “I was very worried about you, Sherlock.”
“Yes,” Sherlock says. “Thank you.” He pauses. “You called my brother. Thank you.”
“I had his card from all those times he’s come by trying to extort me for information about John,” Ella says dryly. “I wasn’t expecting to ever actually phone him.”
“It was part of a plan,” Sherlock tells her. “It just wasn’t a very good plan. I’ll tell you all about it. It was related to the case, but I also… I should have listened to what you tried to help me see, about Mary. I’ll tell you more in a moment. First, I wanted to tell you – well, you’ve already gathered it, but – John and I are together. You’re the one who helped us get there. And we know you can’t accept gifts from clients, so technically this is from Mycroft.” He leans over and hands her a long, white envelope.
“What’s this?” she asks, taking it in surprise. “You already brought me flowers!”
Sherlock smiles. “Flowers from Bora Bora,” he specifies, then nods at the envelope. “Open it!”
“I can wait until later, if you’d rather use your time to talk about you,” Ella points out, but Sherlock shakes his head and opens his mouth to protest, so she gives in. “Oh, fine, then.” She opens the envelope with a fingernail. Inside she finds two sets of airline tickets, the old-fashioned kind that she didn’t even know they still printed out, then several pages of what seem to be hotel – no, make that resort – reservations, three appointments in the resort’s spa (one marked for a ninety-minute massage, one for a full-body wrap hydra-therapy thing involving hibiscus and chocolate, apparently, and another for a manicure and pedicure. She looks up and gapes at Sherlock. “You’re giving me a trip to Bora Bora?!”
“Technically, Mycroft is giving you a trip to Bora Bora,” Sherlock corrects smoothly, smiling at her. “And he’ll be very put out if you refuse; he pulled strings and got George Clooney’s reservation bumped, so you really do need to go.”
“George Clooney?” She’s still gaping, and tries to pull herself together. “Sherlock – this is far too much. I can’t just – ”
“You can. You will,” Sherlock says. “You leave next Monday. That should give you adequate time to cancel your regulars. Please. You saved my life, possibly John’s, and gave us the only things either of us really wanted: resolution, and each other. Please accept it. It’s the very least we can give you in return.”
“As I told John once, not all relationships work in perfect balance,” Ella tells him, but presses the sheaf of papers to her chest. “I’ll accept it, then. Thank you. But the real thanks is seeing and hearing you both so happy.”
Sherlock beams at her, a brighter smile than she’s ever seen on her face. He leans back in his chair, his long limbs easy. “So,” he says, waving a hand in her general direction. “Ask away. I’ll answer anything you can throw at me in the next twenty-one minutes.”
Ella makes herself put the precious envelope down and not glance at the painting of Bora Bora on the wall. She brings the topic back to Mary and the mysterious case, and Sherlock is good to his word, talking freely and holding nothing back. That alone is a marvel. “And you’re clean,” she says, a little sternly.
“Entirely,” Sherlock agrees. “I made John a promise.”
“Making other people your collateral isn’t always a good idea,” Ella warns lightly. “It could mean disappointing you both if your addiction should raise its head again.”
Sherlock shakes his head. “You don’t understand: it was a substitute for the work, and for him. I couldn’t cope without him. And he’ll never leave me and I’ll never leave him, so you needn’t point that out as a possibility.”
His eyes dare her to contradict him on this and at the moment, she doesn’t have the heart to. “Well, consider the warning said, at least.”
“Done,” Sherlock says. “Anyway, whether or not he chooses to accept it, I told him that from here on in, my body and every other part of my being are his to do with as he likes. They always have been. I didn’t see that, before.”
Ella smiles. “You’re learning,” she approves. “And do you think he has accepted this gift of your entire self?”
Sherlock’s smile is dreamy. “He has,” he confirms. “And returned it in kind. It’s – quite wonderful, I must say.”
They both hear John’s step on the stairs at the same time. “Can I come up?” he calls.
“Come right in,” Ella calls back.
Sherlock gets up. “See you in half an hour,” he tells her, and goes to intercept John at the top of the stairs.
She watches them subtly, never having seen them together except in the papers before. They go to each other like magnets, John’s hands going to Sherlock’s waist, Sherlock’s to John’s shoulders, and they kiss, just for a brief moment, but she can practically see the electricity between them.
“See you in half an hour,” Sherlock says again, in a murmur this time, and it’s astonishing how different his tone is. It’s low and velvet-smooth and gentle. She remembers him the way he was the last time he was here, unshaven and unkempt, dressed like a homeless person, a junkie, sobbing wildly and dripping everywhere, high and out of control, staggering into the street. What an amazing difference being loved can make, Ella thinks, marvelling again.
John is smiling into Sherlock’s face, a smile she’s never seen on his features before, either. “Are you going to stay downstairs?” he asks.
“Yes,” Sherlock promises. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Ella hears the deeper significance of this and imagines that John must, too. Good, Sherlock, she approves quietly. John needs the reassurance. Needs the chance to build trust again. It’s not easy when trust has been betrayed so often: by people, by consequences, by death itself.
“I’ll be here,” John says, and she hears the counter-reassurance, and silently applauds John for it: Sherlock needs to be told this, too. It’s going to be an interesting hour with the two of them! She finds herself looking forward to it.
Sherlock releases John and disappears down the stairs, and John comes over and sits down, still beaming. Ella smiles at him. “Welcome back,” she says. “And thank you for the flowers and ‘Mycroft’s’ gift. It’s amazing.”
“Ah, we knew you’d see right through that, but we had to try,” John says easily. “Besides, when it comes to money, it’s all the same trust in the Holmes family, anyway. Same source, I mean. So it doesn’t really matter.”
“Interesting logic, but I’ll take it,” Ella says, quirking a brow at him. She clasps her hands around her upper knee. “So.” She looks at him expectantly and waits.
John smiles back. “So,” he says. “There are some things you wanted me to say once, years back, and I couldn’t say them then. I wanted to tell you: I can say them now. I can say a lot of things now.”
Ella feels a slow smile beginning. “Can you?” she says. “That’s wonderful, John. I can’t tell you how pleased I am for you.” She thinks of Sherlock, waiting downstairs. “For you both,” she adds, and means it.
“Not half as pleased as we are for ourselves,” John says frankly. “He’s – everything to me. We’re like two stars that rotate around each other, so much better off together than apart.”
Ella thinks of what Sherlock said, that day when he was so out of control downstairs in the church, about being a satellite out of orbit. This is a better image, she thinks in silent approval: two stars in orbit, together. “Go on,” she says gently. “Tell me all about it.”
And for the first time in all the years that he’s been coming here, John actually does exactly that.
Miracles, it seems, do happen. Ella sits back in her chair, and listens.
*