Deducing Tragedy Part Two: Speak No Lies

John didn't know when it happened, hell if Mary hadn't pointed it out he would have continued to go on unaware. They were all just having an afternoon in; Sherlock was waiting impatiently for a call from Lestrade about the note. He and Mary were on the sofa watching a program, some silly show about a man tracking the universe in a blue box. Hanna was standing by the window; those clear blue eyes were lock on the cloudy London sky as she tapped absently on the tea mug in her hands.

He didn’t hear the question Sherlock asked but did turn to glance at Hanna who was giving their flat mate an amused smile before shaking her head and rolling her eyes. John smirked and turned back to the TV. Mary fidgeted beside him and he looked down to see her confused frown. He was about to ask but she shook her head and offered him a short smile, turning her attention back to the program.

Later at dinner he noticed it again. Hanna had made them chicken fettuccine and was in the midst of setting the table when Sherlock walked over. He looked over the food with those calculating eyes before reaching towards the bowl. Hanna slapped his hands with the spoon and gave him a scornful look before nodding towards the hall. Sherlock glared but turned and went to wash his hands while John snickered and sat down in his chair. Mary slowly sank into her seat next to him, her blue eyes glancing between Hanna who was carefully transferring the food from the hot pan into a serving bowl, to John and then the bathroom where Sherlock had just finished washing his hands of all the chemicals from his experiments.

“Is something wrong?” he asked, leaning over to whisper to her.

She leaned too, her confused face locked on Hanna’s back and she whispered, “She does speak… doesn’t she?”

“Of course she speaks,” he stated with an incredulous shake of his head. “Why do you ask?”

She turned to look him in the eye, “she hasn’t spoken a word since I’ve been here.” John frowned, leaning back as Sherlock rejoined them and took his seat opposite him. Hanna placed the food on the table and gave them a small but proud smile as she took her seat at the head of the table. John served the food and everyone dug in. well almost everyone; Sherlock took one bite and then began his usual routine of pushing the food around his plate.

“So,” John began after a moment of silence. “No news on the note?”

“It seems that German is beyond Eva’s mediocre abilities,” Sherlock muttered and Hanna shot him a glare. “What? You know that this is taking ridiculously long.” She cocked her head to the side, and John could almost hear her tell Sherlock to be patient.

“Sherlock is many things,” he found himself saying, “but patient is not one of them.” She turned to him and smirked, nodding in agreement before taking another bite of her food.

“Who needs patients? Patients is dull,” Sherlock complained

“Patients is a virtue,” Mary said taking a bite.

“And I am not a virtuous man,” he said pointedly. Hanna looked up; her eyes were wide and just a little sad as she reached for the detectives hand to squeeze softly. Sherlock sighed, taking her small hand in his, “You always see the best in people… that will get you killed one day.” She smirked giving him a look that John could only interpret as: let them try.

After dinner he and Mary were washing the dishes when he glanced over to see Hanna sitting at the piano, fiddling with the keys. Sherlock was sitting in John’s chair, his silver eyes locked on the back of Hanna’s silver-blue house sweater.

“So you were right,” he said in a low whisper as he handed her a plate to put in the dish washer.

She raised an eye brow, “about?”

“Hanna doesn’t speak,” he said glancing at the woman in question. “I don’t know when it happened but she doesn’t talk any more. She communicates through expressions and gestures, but no words.”

“You know I'm use to you being blind to the painfully obvious but this is just ridiculous,” she sighed meeting his gaze. “So what do we do?”

“You do nothing,” he said taping her nose and giving her a small smirk. “It’s not your problem-“

“John Watson if you think you’re keeping me out of this then you have another thing coming,” she said placing her hands on her hips. “Now I love you and Sherlock is tolerable but I like Hanna. I like who she brings out in the two of you- don’t argue with me on this, she affects you too. But, I mean look at him,” She turned to look at Sherlock, “I’ve known that man for the better part of a year and I have never seen him look at anyone like that.”

John knew what she meant; even though all they could see were curls he’d seen that face more times than he could count. It would come out of nowhere, Sherlock would walk into the room in the morning as see her standing in that window with her tea in her hands. The look, John could hardly find words to describe it. It was like Sherlock’s walls came down. When he saw her he didn’t have to be the cold and calculating Consulting Detective, he didn’t have to be the smartest person in the room and it was almost like he was okay with that. Hanna would never see the way that man looked at her, but John did. And he promised himself that, one day, he would tell her.

Mary turned back to him, “and if you think you’re going to keep me from helping them fix whatever’s broken then you’re not just blind, you’re an idiot too.” He smirked wrapping his hands around her waist and pulling her to him.

“How can I keep you from anything?” he asked resting his forehead against hers, “You’ll just ignore me and do it anyway.”

“Damn right I will,” she smiled, biting her lips as her hands gripped his collar. “Now, let’s finish these dishes, we’ll talk more about this later.”

“Yes Ma’am,” he said with a salute as the two resumes filling the dishwasher.

Sherlock remained still until the two left to “talk” in Johns’ room. He’d heard everything they said despite their rather poor attempts to be discrete. Hanna was back in the window. Her cardigan was pulled tight, like she was cold; her arms were crossed over her chest keeping it in place. She wore an old pair of skinny jeans that outlined her muscular legs as she leaned into the windowpane. Her hair was down; silver and copper locks fell like feathers around her as she tipped her head to the side. Those blue eyes, locked on the London sky, were filled with an emotion he couldn’t begin to understand. And he didn’t understand. Ann was gone but Hanna was not back. She was somewhere far away, too wrapped up in her own mind to notice the world around her.

Turning, Sherlock slipped his hands into his pockets and retired to their bedroom. He knew that Hanna would not join him. She would spend all night at the window, like she did every night. He would wake to the smell of food being prepared. John and Mary would be at the table having already begun breakfast and Hanna will not say a word as she served him his portion.

She was there, within reach, but Sherlock had never felt so far away from her. Not when she first faked her death and he became so incredibly angry with her. Even when he didn’t remember her and she was trying so hard to be something she wasn’t; even then he didn’t feel this layer of ice between them. They had been through so much but this, this was different.

Despite her promise, Hanna had once again gone where Sherlock couldn’t follow.

And this time he feared that the distance might just kill them.