This is my absolute first joanlock fic, I had just started the series, and finished it, this summer. I've been looking for a plot that fit well with the two but I just couldn't find the perfect one. That is, until I stumbled across an undercover au gif set by tickatocka on tumblr With their permission I wrote this fic and I truly hope I did their AU justice
"Absolutely not." Joan shoots down with an unamused glare.
"Honestly Watson I do not know why you are objecting. It is not as if I'm actually asking you to undress."
"Sherlock I'm not going undercover as a stripper. It's not happening." She insists shutting the book she had been reading, placing her glasses on the table.
"It is only one night and you are perfectly fit enough to do so."
"My body isn't the problem." She exclaims in frustration pinching the bridge of her nose.
"Then I don't see what is. It is a perfectly natural profession. You are very confident in yourself are you not? Besides, he frequents at this specific club on the pier. This is our perfect chance to apprehend the man."
"I thought you only lied working with the NYPD. This is with the CIA."
"They haven't had a case worthy of my intelligence in far too long. What's a better use of my time than catching a serial killer suspected in the murder of a federal agent?"
"A serial killer who targets strippers." She emphasizes. Sherlock stands walking over to her briskly.
"Watson I assure you, I would never allow harm to ever befall you." He whispers so softly he's not sure if she had heard him.
"When do we have to meet Agent Quinn?" She sighs.
"Tomorrow night."
She stands gathering her book and glasses with a frown. "Then that's plenty of time for you to come up with another solution to catching him." And with that she marches upstairs not to be seen for the rest of the night.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Sherlock steps into the gaudy place wrinkling his nose slightly at the overwhelming aroma of smoke piercing the air. The stage was dark with the promise of the next act and Joan was nowhere to be found.
She had told him that she would meet him here. Remarked that she had to pay a visit to an old friend not an hour before they were supposed to meet Agent Quinn at the bar of Down the Rabbit Hole, a rather distasteful metaphor. One would think an English major opening a strip club could come up with a more clever name.
He finds Agent Quinn rather quickly, the man nursing a glass of whiskey as his eyes trace the crowd. Harsh lights cut off his vision as a man in an expensive suit steps onto the stage to announce the first act of the night.
"You're late." Quinn states matter of factly. "Where's your associate?"
"Correction, I was quite punctual however I was wondering the same thing. She's typically very punctual about these sorts of things." The crowd erupts into whoops and cheers as the lights of the stage flicker on to reveal silhouettes of women standing behind a beam. This sort of behavior from Joan was worrisome. She kept a schedule for crying out loud, she wasn't normally late for things. The spotlight hits the stage on beat with the center dancer dropping to a crouch shrouded in light. "She'll arrive shortly I assure-" Recognition reflects over his face as his mouth suddenly stops.
Joan smirks on stage as she crawls from beneath the beam. Her hips swaying to the rhythm of the song. Her bright red lips part the catch the finger of her black gloves as she cocks her hip to the side smacking the exposed skin of her thigh in sync with the rest of the dancers. His eyebrows shoot up as she pulls the glove from her hand with her teeth.
The whole thing is tacky and poorly done but he can't help himself from getting enraptured with her every movement. Her thigh high fishnets are held up by a garter belt attaching them to a ridiculous pair of sequined boyshorts that does wonders for her curves. Her smooth stomach is exposed, her breasts hardly covered by a hastily tied together bright blue top. Her dark hair fell loosely on her shoulders held back by a ridiculous sailors hat. Her eye makeup was dark pulling his gaze to hers as she swung her hips seductively.
The whole suggestion had been a mere joke but he never expected her to be so good at it.
Joan purses her lips as she steps off the stage sauntering her way to his seat. "It would seem I found Miss Watson." He remarks with a bit of shock laced in his voice. Oh god he hasn't even been looking for their target.
Thankfully, the man isn't hard to spot. He sits at the front of the stage slouched in his seat mesmerized by the girls on stage and catcalling to them with every opportunity. Perfect.
However, what he doesn't expect is Joan throwing her legs over his and settling herself in his lap. He instinctually stiffens at the contact, her rear end grinding against him. It feels like his mind has suddenly quit on him, his only thoughts settling on the smoothness of her skin, how her hair tickles his nose as she tips her head back to rest on his shoulder.
"Sherlock." She murmurs snapping him out of his reverie. His hand slides up her back smoothly, his fingers twisting in the dark locks at the base of her neck. She gasps lightly as he tugs her head backwards. His mouth goes dry at the sound, wondering what sort of other sounds he could coax out of those lips.
"Rowdy man in the front row. He should have a tattoo of a lion on his underarm." Watson nods so slight, he can only feel it due to his grip on her hair. Reluctantly he lets go of her noticing her other glove is now missing, abandoned in his lap.
Joan coaxes the rowdy man out of his seat leading him to one placed in the middle of the stage. She pushes him back, the man looking much too ready to pounce on her. She straddles his hips, rolling hers slowly. Her fingers play with the man's coat, slowly pushing it off of his shoulders. The man takes advantage of Watson's preoccupancy to place his hands on her ass.
Sherlock feels anger crawl up his veins. This was a man who had murdered six different women, all of whom were strippers the man had bought off for the night. The thought that this man could even be considering Watson as his next target made his blood boil. He was just about to charge the stage when a hand settles on his arm.
Another woman had slid behind him, a fiery redhead who had been on the pole only moments before. "She knows what she's doing." She's gone before he can even ask who she is or how she knows what's going on.
Joan's fingers catch the man's wrists pulling them over his head. The sleeves of his shirt slide down his shoulders revealing a golden lion whose red eyes peer at him knowingly. Joan flips her hair over her shoulder before bending her back so she can peer at the crowd. Sherlock coughs lightly stumbling away from his seat.
The cold pierces his exposed skin almost as soon as he steps outside. He had never imagined her to be so intoxicating but here he was, lurid thoughts teasing at his subconscious tempting him to give in to primal urges.
Four years. Four years he had remained professional. Four years he had made it without putting a single thought towards sexual urges. He made jokes but he never seriously put thoughts into them. They were simply to get that oh so gratifying eye roll out of her. To see her lips twitch slightly in amusement when he made a particularly bad remark. To see her eyes sparkle in hidden mirth only exposed to the most keen observer, obviously him.
Now he can't stop the images from surfacing in his brain. Red painted lips in a smirk, black leather gloves between perfect teeth, hooded eyes gazing down at him sensually, the feel of her silky hair between his fingers, the gasp leaving her perfect lips, freckles scattered like constellations across her cheeks.
"Sherlock." He turns at the sound of her voice. She was back in her normal attire, the only sign of her previous activities being her smudged lipstick. He silently wondered how the smudges would look on his collarbones, transferred from her lips to his skin. How her makeup would be smeared and her hair rumpled after a particularly good romp. "Sherlock!"
"Did Agent Quinn catch the man in question?" Sherlock asks pretending to be unfazed by the previous events.
"Yeah, he tried to go after me as soon as I went backstage but-"
"Did he hurt you?" Sherlock interrupts grabbing her by her forearms and tugging her closer to assess for injury.
"Sherlock," She sighs as he scatters to undo her coat. He has to make sure she's okay. He has to know. "Sherlock." She insists a little louder as he shoves the thing down her arms, inspecting the skin covered in goosebumps from the prickling cold. "Sherlock!" She yanks her arms from his grip forcing him to meet her eyes. He'd never forgive himself if he had put her in harm's way. "He didn't even get the chance to get near me." She whispers comfortingly.
He let's out a steady breath seeing truth in her eyes. "Right."
"The CIA is taking him in for questioning to see if there was any correlation between his murders and the death of Officer Triplett. They have enough evidence to put him in for the rest of his life though. The description of his tattoo from the sister of Iris Allen really helped. You don't need to worry."
"Good." He nods but she doesn't step away. His eyes are drawn to the smeared lipstick once more, picturing how it would transfer to his lips. "You know, for someone who didn't want to go undercover you were rather good at it."
"I had practice." She smirks again, eyes sparkling with mirth. His tongue feels heavy with unasked questions as she arches one eyebrow, silently challenging him. That seemed to always be the game between the two of them. Silently challenging the other until one of them gave in. God was he tempted to give in today…
He laces his fingers through her hair pulling her lips to his. Later he would blame it on his inquisitive nature. He had to know how they tasted, how soft they were against his. He had to know what sort of noises he could pull from those lips, how his name sounded on her lips when it was laced with lust. How he can make her back arch just by touching her, how her freckles looked when her head was tossed back in pleasure.
To his surprise, she didn't push him away. It's just curiosity, he tells himself. They're both curious creatures. They learn through action. Yet her lips are so soft against his. Her hands clutch at the lapels of his coat pulling him closer, still. His free hand settles against her hip, tracing the smooth skin beneath her top with the tip of his thumb.
She is the one to pull away first, despite his head swimming from lack of oxygen. She smirks again, tempting him to pull her lips against his yet again. She lets out a soft chuckle, her teeth capturing her bottom lip. His mind begins to run rampant once again picturing all the different scenarios in which he could make her bite that lip again and again. She's so damn intoxicating. Her taste, her smell, the feeling of her skin beneath his fingers. It was unbelievable that someone could have this much effect. She numbed his thoughts, quieted his mind for the first time since his relapse. She could be his next addiction
Joan leans in, her lips brushing his ear so softly he swears that he might have been dreaming this entire thing. "I kept the stockings." She mutters before pulling away, her dark eyes sparkling in the winter moonlight. She saunters away from him once again, an extra sway in her hips.
He's screwed.