formoftherapy | (no subject)

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The door is supposed to take her to Natalie's spare room; Kite stumbles at the threshold, but keeps going. The t-shirt and sweats she wears almost fit her. Another shirt and a pair of jeans are bundled in her arms. (These are splattered with...something. Cran-apple juice, maybe?)

She heads straight for the bar, where she drops the second set of clothes off. "Bar, can you...take care of these? I don't need them back."

The clothes vanish, to be replaced by a mug of hot tea. "Thanks," she murmurs.

Her throat is still a wreck, probably will be for the next few days. She can learn to like tea for that long.

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"The thought had occurred to me, yes. I believe my circumstanves were very like. Except that in my case, there were no helpful young ladies to rescue us, and they got to Tony before I could stop them."

"Tony rescued himself.

We were lucky, that was all."

If they had stayed at home. If they had all gone out. If they had returned earlier, or later.

If Obadiah had stopped being such a goddamn tease and just broken her neck.

"I am glad you were, then."

"What happened to your Sherlock, after?"

"I met this girl at school. A witch.

She gave him his soul back.

I had to leave right after that."

"Tony?" he guesses.

"Tony," she echoes, sipping her tea.

"He walked in, when I was...

It wouldn't have been good, me sticking around."

Softly: "I imagine not, no."

"Yeah," she whispers.

Tea is suddenly a lot less satisfying.

"Don't suppose I could get that drink now?"

"Oh, as you like," he says, opening his hand in an inviting gesture.

"Thnaks.

Bar, can I get--

Fuck it. Surprise me. Just make it strong."

A cut glass tumbler appears on the bartop; she takes a healthy first sip.

She's pretty sure there's Jaeger in this, which means a hangover tomorrow, but she can't bring herself to care.

"I would say that I'm sorry," he says,

"but at least yours is alive."

She winces.

"I know, I...I know it doesn't always turn out that way."

She knows she should be grateful. She is grateful.

It's just hard to remember right now.

"Yes. Well. I am glad that it did, in your case." He sighs. "And that your Sherlock retained his soul. I've no doubt Tony needs him."

"Yeah."

"Can I ask you something?"

"By all means, yes."

Even with permission, she still hesitates.

(It's a stupid question. And of all people to ask--

But who else is there?)

"Do you think Tony will ever forgive me?"

He shuts his eyes.

"Of course," he whispers.

She reaches out slowly, her fingertips hovering over the back of his hand, but she doesn't yet touch him.

"Thank you."

(He can tell, of course.

He smiles.)

"It's Tony. He could not do anything else."

She smiles faintly back.

"Probably not."

But it still helps to hear it.

She curls her hand lightly over his.

He interlaces their fingers.

"It is," he says softly, "very good to meet you."

She squeezes gently.

"Good to meet you, too."

Sherlock opens his eyes and grins at her.

"People tell me that so rarely."

"People," she replies, "do not know what they're missing."

"Oh, sudden death as often as not. So few of them are worth anything else."