Jamie reached for the clothes Sherlock had thrown onto the bed, studying him carefully as he spoke. Every single thing about him was noted and catalogued, even as she listened intently, her expression never changing from the nervous but trusting expression she wore as Irene. He was tense – his shoulders were squared and one of his hands was clenched at his side, like a soldier standing to attention, as he gesticulated with the other. Sherlock had always been uncomfortable in his body, especially next to the Irene façade she wore, with her deliberately loose and languid gestures. But he had never been this rigid, this strained, during their time together. This was a new aberration in his personality, a sign of just how affected he had been by her apparent death. She had to admit that it was disappointing, but it made him all the easier to read. Every new tick, every stim, she noticed was a sign of his inner turmoil.
She had never struggled to read him, and right now he was an open book. He reeled off the plan at typical lightning speed, and she sat on the edge of the bed and pulled her jeans on. She was still facing him, heedless to him seeing her shirtless. She buttoned her jeans, and reached for the vest, yanking it on over her head as he talked of the Greyhound bus and his friend in Maine. The plan was as good as any – it served the purpose she had intended and physically severed him from that insipid partner of his, thereby removing whatever superfluous influence she held over him. Jamie of course did not doubt that she could draw him in within the irritating confines of New York, but things would go much smoother away from the long shadow of the N.Y.P.D. and Joan Watson.
He finally stopped talking, and Jamie stood up and slipped the black coat on over her vest, finally completing the ensemble. “We don’t need to have every move mapped out twenty steps in advance,” she said, the false American accent slipping from her mouth effortlessly and naturally, giving her words a soft roundness. “But it sounds like we can get as far as Newfoundland, and then… see where we go from there?” She picked up her bag and held it close to her. With her wet hair hanging over her shoulders, and apparently all her worldly possessions in the rucksack, she painted a pathetic picture.
“I know this is hard for you, Sherlock,” she said quietly. “Leaving the city. But… I’ll feel safer, knowing you’re with me.” She managed a weak smile, which didn’t completely reach her eyes. “Thank you for doing this. I don’t know what I’d do if I had to go alone.” She paused, swallowed, and blinked, careful not to overdo it. The role of the victim came naturally to her, but she didn’t want to overplay it and slip into a caricature. So, she just stood there, waiting for him to take the lead and fill the silence, knowing him well enough to realise that he would. If she was playing the role of the innocent victim, then he was playing his role as the heroic martyr perfectly and reliably.
“I-I do have it planned, and several other backup plans in case the main flow fails.”
His body was tense as his mind worked at top speed, trying to piece things that didn't make sense together. There was a lot that changed and had been lost about him, nearly just as much as had changed about her. Neither of them were the same people they were as a couple before her death, and there was a big probability that they wouldn't work the same ever again.
The microscopic yet painful splinter of doubt kept digging deeper into his skin, irritating harsher the closer they got. He was waiting for the moment he'd see something, a detail that would make it all make sense. No answers came, but questions kept haunting him. Joan’s voice in his head repeatedly telling him that this is a bad idea, telling him how this is what Moriarty truly wants. For him to leave, and focus on her. And she was usually right, why wouldn't she be right now?
Reality was all Sherlock ever tried to focus on. Facts, tangible things and provable concepts. But there was a part of him refusing to confront the reality of details about her, physical details that shouldn’t be possible on someone who was supposedly confined against her will. The need to know was fighting with the desire to stay blind. To find the old Irene in the shadow of her that Moriarty decided to deliver back.
If he couldn't trust her... how could he ever get her back? How could he ever make it up to her for all that he caused?
He relieved her of her bag, throwing it over his shoulder as he prepared to leave with her. His own things were in the car, everything was ready and it was a matter of simply taking action. "I wanted to give you the option to choose a destination, as once in St. John's airport, we can go practically anywhere."
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