@deductry
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.
