The Smaller Pieces
From the outside, the relationship between Holmes and Watson looked to be a crazy quilt of shared moments and experiences. The colorful and dramatic pieces, those of shiny crimson satin and deep indigo velvet caught the eye first – bees named after her, bullets dug out of him. But the fabric of the friendship, what held it all together, was comprised of smaller pieces. Shaped to fit between the drama, these moments were made of subtler tones, softer fabrics, and held little meaning to anyone but them.
A patch of light grey silk embroidered with thin gold threads
The blustery Brooklyn day swept them into the warmth of brownstone. Gratefully home, a tired Sherlock and Joan shed their coats, gloves and hats, dropped their files onto the library floor, and made their way downstairs. Tea was required if they were going to continue working on the Flaubert case, as boring a case as ever existed. Per routine, Sherlock filled the kettle, set it over the gas flames and got out the teapot while Joan set up the mugs and the other necessities for their afternoon tea.
She walked toward the refrigerator and called over to Sherlock, "Cookies, sandwiches, what would you like?"
"A biscuit or two is fine for me. We have some up there, on the top shelf." He motioned with his eyes at the far cabinet.
She stood on tiptoes and reached up to the shelf. Tickling the small box with the tips of her fingers, she coaxed it forward, pulled it down and caught it as it tumbled. Joan stared at the green and yellow box in her hands. It was covered in Chinese characters; the cellophane wrapping sealed tightly.
Joan looked up at him with a questioning gaze, mouth slightly open in amazement at the small treasure that had fallen into her hands. "Sherlock?" her tone asked for an explanation.
"Hmm?" In a studied innocent manner he looked from the kettle to her, pretending not to understand.
"Where did these come from?"
"Those? ... Oh, those ... I saw them while purchasing some loose leaf tea and remembered you had mentioned them a few weeks back." He nonchalantly went back to staring at a kettle full of water that simply would not boil. "They are the right ones I hope," he said softly to the kettle.
She stared at the box in disbelief. These were her cookies - the cookies her dad brought when he came for supervised visits. He would read the Chinese characters on the box and tell her they said "made especially for Joan and not for Oren." Joan would pretend to read the characters with him and repeat loudly, "and not for Oren." Her brother was not bothered by the exclusion; he cared little for the cookies. Most times, he was quite content with the bag of huamei dad brought him. Oren loved the salty dried plums his dad gave him as much as she loved her cookies.
Joan had mentioned the cookies to Sherlock during a discussion of the validity of comfort foods. She shared with him the story, telling him how this particular cookie made her feel her daddy loved her when she was tiny and how the association lingered. These had ceased to be available years ago; no longer imported she was told.
Sherlock gave her a sideways gaze. Joan held the box gingerly in her hands, like a reliquary of childhood. With memories of her father swirling through her head, Joan lifted her eyes and met his, "Thank you. This is amazing! How ..."
"Not a chore Watson, not a chore. Just saw them on the shelf. They had your name written all over them." He gave her a thin smile. The water was ready and he gladly turned his attention to the tea, busying himself with the warming of the teapot.
His act of kindness embarrassed him, left him feeling vulnerable - a white-hot spotlight focused on the contents of his well-hidden heart. Joan understood and pressed no further. She knew this was not a casual purchase; these had been imported just for her.
"Wait until you try these. They are so good..." Happiness spilled out of her as she peeled off the crackly cellophane and opened her box of cookies. Bringing the cozied teapot to the table, Sherlock couldn't help but smile at her joy.
A tattered square of faded black denim with tiny splotches of sky blue paint
Joan fidgeted in the back seat of the taxi willing it to go faster. She was late. Her mom hated waiting. They were scheduled to meet at the brownstone at noon and walk to the new French bistro Leonora had recommended. Traffic came to a complete stop as the taxi came off the bridge into Brooklyn. Joan could practically hear her mom's voice chiding her, "Why didn't you take the subway?" A resigned sigh escaped her lips and she did what she had been dreading.
With fear in her heart, she texted Sherlock and requested that he entertain her mom until she got there. Sherlock and her mom seemed to like each other and got along pretty well, which is what truly frightened her. She was their only common interest and she worried about the information those two might share. Joan worked very hard at keeping her worlds separate.
Finally barreling through the front door, Joan announced her arrival with an apology. "I'm so sorry, mom, but the traffic was ..." She rounded the corner into the library and stopped at the sight of them.
Mary and Sherlock sat side by side on the couch, looking down at an image on an iPad and laughing. This was not good. Sherlock rarely laughed.
Sherlock looked up, "Ah, Watson! You're home. Your mum has a new iPad which she has loaded full of family photos!" He flashed his eyes at her.
"No." The word was exhaled as Joan mentally sorted through every horrible photograph of her that she knew was in her mother's possession.
"Didn't know you were a Ramones fan..." He turned the tablet towards her and she was faced with an image of her gangly self at 15 - black shredded Rock 'n Roll High school tshirt, skinny tight pants, hair combed forward, covering most of her face in imitation of Joey Ramone with one heavily kohl-black-lined eye peeking through, staring defiantly at the camera.
"Oh, she was terrible at that age. You'd try to talk to her and she'd give you this stare and just walk away."
"Hmh, I am familiar with that stare," Sherlock grimaced at Joan. He was enjoying this way too much.
"Mom!" Realizing she had spoken too loudly, Joan took a little breath to calm herself. "We don't want to bore Sherlock with those. Plus, we're late for our reservation..."
"Not bored at all," Sherlock piped up.
Her mom looked at Joan, "You're not upset I showed these to him, are you? He's practically family from wh..."
"Mom!" Joan cut her off again before she could embarrass her any further. She felt fifteen once more, being mortified in front of her friends.
Mary Watson and Sherlock silently stared at her. She regained her composure, "Sorry. Why don't we go? I'm sure Sherlock has things to do and we don't want to lose our table."
"I'm sorry. You're right." Mary brought the cover down over the iPad and with a magnetic click the image of Joan's teenage self mercifully disappeared. Mary smiled and turned towards Sherlock. "Maybe you'd like to join us for lunch?" Joan's eyes widened and she shook her head no at Sherlock from behind her mother's back.
High levels of stress and anxiety clearly registered on Joan's face and body. Enough for one day, he thought.
"Thank you for the offer, but as Watson mentioned, I unfortunately have some things to which I must attend." Sherlock stood and offered Mary his hand.
Mary smiled at him, "It has been a pleasure chatting with you Sherlock." Joan's stomach dropped at the thought of what he might have shared with her mom. "Come on Joan, we need to get you some food. You look pale." Mary had a good idea as to the cause of Joan's pallor. She had enjoyed this as much as Sherlock. A small smile played on her lips as she walked past her daughter on the way towards the door.
Sherlock came up beside Joan. "Rebel, rebel..." he said under his breath. Mockingly, he shook his head as he walked past her and went to open the door for Mary.
Wine, thought Joan, as she watched the pair say their good-byes. She would definitely be ordering a bottle of wine with lunch.
A small triangle of black-striped green flannel
Later that day ...
The only light in the room shone on the desk before her. Early on in the partnership, Joan took over some of the more mundane tasks of their association - paying bills being one of them. She had ended up having only one glass of wine with lunch, which, unfortunately, left her clear-eyed enough to tackle the finances.
Her head bent, attempting to decipher notes on receipts, she didn't notice Sherlock until his hand appeared in front of her. He placed a faded color photograph on the small stack of receipts. Joan recognized him immediately. There was no disguising his eyes even in that baby face. He was probably in his late teens in the image, wearing an orange tshirt, arms defiantly crossed in front of him, his hair bleached blond almost to white, thick and messy. She picked it up for closer examination and smiled up at him.
"I too had some rather rebellious teenage years, Watson, and rather questionable taste. Summer of my 17th year, I was sent off to Scotland to stay with my Aunt Adamina after blowing up the boathouse." He leaned against the edge of the desk, looking off, remembering for a moment. "Father never had much of a sense of humor. That was the summer I first dabbled with narcotics. Poor Aunt Adamina didn't have a clue. My change in demeanor, drop in weight, paleness caused my aunt to believe me quite sick. She sent me back to London after a month or so."
"Did you continue using?"
"No. I didn't take up the habit again until a few years after."
She nodded her head and turned her attention back to the photograph. "You were kind of cute with that Billy Idol sneer."
An amused scoff came from him; he pursed his lips, cocked his head and walked away into the darkness.
Joan inspected the image a little longer, and imagined what might have happened if her rebellious 15 year old self had met this bleached blond boy in the Scottish highlands on a cold and grey afternoon. She thinks they would have become instant friends and together would have terrorized the countryside. She traced his jaw line with her finger; he really was cute. Joan stopped herself from going any further with that thought, tucked the photo away for safekeeping and turned her attention back to the receipts.
An irregular shaped piece of red and yellow plaid wool
The noise woke her up. Someone was rummaging through her closet at two in the morning. Someone? As if she didn't know who it was. His late night yearnings for her room were akin to those of raccoons for garbage cans.
"Sherlock," her voice was gravelly with sleep, "what are you looking for?"
"Sorry, Watson ... Didn't mean to wake you. Ran out of wire for my armature. ..."
He left it at that; as if that explanation was sufficient.
"What?"
He poked his head out of the closet, "I'm constructing a scale model of a rhinoceros and it requires more materials than I can presently lay my hands on."
Joan considered asking why a rhinoceros but knowing Sherlock she knew it might lead to a lecture on the strength of matted-hair horns as weaponry or an all-night discussion of Eugene Ionesco's work; one never knew with Sherlock.
He continued talking even without her participation. "Really, Watson you should keep a few more wire hangers in your closet. Never underestimate the multiple uses of simple materials. These," he rattled the two hangers in his hand, "are multi-taskers, able to be transformed into a weapon for self protection, a restraining device, hooked for lock opening, drain cleaning ... the possibilities are endless. Why the simple armature I'm ..."
"Stop!" The cause of his current behavior became obvious to Joan. "How long since you've slept?"
He stood thinking for a second. "Two, three ... No, four days ago."
"Get into bed." Her response was quick, forceful and caught him totally off guard. Even in the shadowy light, she saw his body tense.
"Watson, I couldn't. I've contemplated, copiously I might add, the possibility of us ... But I couldn't use you ..."
She stopped him before he embarrassed the both of them any further. "Sherlock, I am not asking you for sex, nor am I offering you sex." In his current state, she had to be explicit and direct with him. "I am asking you to lie down next to me, fully clothed, and sleep."
"Oh," he sounded a bit disappointed, "That would be a complete waste of time, Watson. It won't work."
"Now, Sherlock. Bed." Her patience was thin. She wanted sleep.
"Alright, then." He knew that tone, there was no arguing with that tone and he obeyed. Sherlock went around to the other side of her bed, took off his shoes and lay corpse-like atop the covers, a decent distance away precluding any chance of accidental touching. His judgment was slightly impaired from lack of sleep and he wanted no temptation.
"You can get under the covers. I trust you," Joan was amused by his nervousness. At another point in time, she would have felt as he did, anxious at possibilities that might present themselves. Joan too had contemplated these possibilities. But at the moment, she was dead tired and cared for nothing other than sleep.
"That's rather insulting," he muttered as he carefully maneuvered himself beneath the covers.
"Now close your eyes, just relax your breathing, sync up with mine if it helps." She turned on her side to watch him.
"I don't think this will work. I've never slept with a woman without first engaging in coitus, and even then rarely do I actually sleep.
"We are friends Sherlock. We can sleep together without sex. And I don't believe you've never just slept with a woman."
"Well, there was Nanny Watkins" Sherlock turned on his side feeling a bit more at ease retelling his memories of nanny. "I suppose she counts as a woman. She was 83, had a huge hairy mole on her cheek and snored loudly. She was charged with making me sleep or at least stay in bed when I was seven. Nanny would grip my hand and hold on tight to it all night so I wouldn't skip out on her."
"Did it work?"
"For the most part. I eventually figured out how to slip out of her grip and then rejoin her in the morning before she awoke."
"Well, I'm no Nanny Watkins ..."
"No, you most certainly are not." There was a rather sensual undertone to his comment which she ignored.
"But I am your friend and we are not going to have sex and we are going to sleep. I'm tired and getting crankier by the second."
"Perhaps I should go downstairs ..." He made an attempt to get up.
"Give me your hand Sherlock." She laid her open hand between them.
"Watson I don't think ..."
"Hand."
Sherlock stared at her open palm, extended his hand, and placed it lightly on top of hers. Knowing how sensitive he could be to touch, Joan let his hand settle on hers for a moment before her fingers loosely encircled his hand. He was surprised at how pleasantly reassuring the contact between them felt.
"See, that wasn't so bad?" The gentleness of his touch was comforting in a way she hadn't expected. Joan thought she was doing this for him but quickly realized both of them needed this moment.
Side by side, he examined her face as best he could in the dim light, and found the sense of calm that had eluded him for days; their breathing, slow and deep, the only sound in the room. Sherlock eventually broke the silence with a whisper, his tone serious and sincere. "Why do you put up with me, Watson? Most people have at best tolerated me for a little while and then run screaming away. You haven't. ...Why?"
Joan looked at him with empathy. "Because I like you, you have a good heart and you are my friend ... will always be my friend and there is nothing that will ever change the way I feel for you ... unless of course you keep talking and don't let me sleep."
A feeling he could not name overwhelmed him, a sense of belonging. Sherlock adjusted his hand within hers and she gave it a small squeeze, "Don't even think about slipping out."
He watched her eyes begin to flutter shut. "I won't let go, I promise," he murmured.
A long rectangle of sea-glass green colored linen
Marcus spotted the pair as they emerged from a taxi about a block up from the crime scene. The mid-day sun shone brightly and Sherlock patted himself down searching for his sunglasses. Watson reached into her purse to answer her phone and at the same time produced his sunglasses. She gave them to him with a nudge and he bobbed his head in thanks.
They strode towards the yellow taped sidewalk up ahead. Watson walked a few paces behind Sherlock; the conversation with their accountant slowed her down. Finally, she just stopped to better listen as Sherlock made his way towards the covered remains. They had received a call about a shooting victim in midtown; no other information was given.
Bell met him as he ducked under the police tape and filled him in with the scant information they had on the shooting. He knelt to examine the body but as the black tarp was removed, Sherlock bolted up, turning to where Watson stood finishing her call.
He walked towards her quickly. "Watson, I require coffee. I believe there is a shop a block or so up. Get me a large." The imperious tone of his voice demanded rather than asked.
Joan stared at him and kept walking towards the tape.
"Did you hear me? You know how I ..."
The frantic quality of his voice confused Joan."Sherlock, you can go get your own coffee. What's wrong with you?"
Bell felt anger rise as he watched Holmes order Joan to run his errands. "Hey, Holmes, if you need coffee that bad, I can send a uniform down to get it." Marcus stared Sherlock down as he held the police tape up for Joan to duck under.
Sherlock gave Bell a look of absolute frustration. "Watson, stop." He attempted to get in front of her. "I need to have a word with you, now."
It was too late. Joan was looking around his shoulder at the uncovered body lying on the sidewalk. Sherlock moved slightly and stood closely at her elbow. "You alright?" His whisper low enough it only caught her ear.
Joan looked stunned. She swallowed hard and shook her head yes, imperceptible to anyone but Sherlock. "It's not him," she said under her breath, and Sherlock exhaled in relief.
Marcus came up behind her, giving them more information on the victim. "There's no ID on the body. We think he's mid-seventies, Chinese American, homeless by the looks of him. Shot execution style, bullet to the head ..."
Sherlock tried to stop his recital but Marcus, still irritated by Holmes' rudeness to Joan, wouldn't stop. Marcus held out a pair of latex gloves for Joan and only then caught sight of her face and realized something was wrong.
"If you could give us a moment, detective," Sherlock quickly steered Joan away from the crime scene and up the street a little ways.
Marcus watched them, unsure as to what just happened. He saw Joan stop, walk round behind a tree and more or less disappear from his view. Sherlock was still visible as he stood in front of her, looking round as if to make sure no one was watching. He saw Joan's hand appear and one finger discreetly make its way towards Holmes who locked his finger and thumb to hers and held on. Marcus realized he'd never actually seen them touch before. Sherlock moved slightly forward and bent his head down. He couldn't see Joan's face but he could see the look of concern on Sherlock's face. The way he was shielding her from passersby was what his mom used to call "mama bear mode." Marcus was concerned but felt awkward intruding on what was obviously a private moment between them.
Bell became aware of Gregson at his side, "Holmes do something stupid again?" He was slow to answer, "Not sure ... I think it may be just the opposite."
They looked up to see Sherlock and Joan walking towards them. Joan came up and reached for the gloves still in Marcus' hand. He took the opportunity, "Everything alright?"
She looked at him and nodded, "Fine, thanks. I just needed a moment." Joan gave him a small smile and walked towards the body.
/:/:/:/:/:/:/:/:/:/:/:/:/
Deciding now was as good a time as any, she removed the quilt from her bed, carefully packing it into the large plastic sleeve she purchased for it. The quilt did not fit with the décor of her new apartment and she really didn't need it. Joan took it the hall closet, placed it on the top shelf and closed the door.
As she turned, she caught sight of the wire hangers Sherlock gifted her a few nights back, laying exactly where he had placed them. She stopped and let her fingers momentarily play with the curly ribbons, her thoughts drifting back to better times.
Joan knew that had been his intent. The wire hangers were not a casual choice nor a choice made out of desperation. Sherlock knew exactly what he was doing when he brought those to her. Joan had not given him the satisfaction of acknowledging the reference; refusing even to take them from his hands. He meant them as a subtle prompt, a reminder of the night they spent together holding hands, of promises of unwavering friendship made and a pledge not to let go.
A lump formed in her throat and tears clouded her vision. He was the one who let go and slipped away in the middle of the night. That one action changed everything and nothing. Joan would not now allow him to crawl back into her life and take her hand. If they were to have any sort of relationship, they would need to start anew; rebuilding the care and trust they lost eight months ago.
Joan sighed and took the wire hangers to the closet. Sherlock was right about these, though, they might come in handy.