Joan and Sherlock
By phaedraphelan
Word count 7,700
Chapter 1
Summary: What has happened to Sherlock and Joan in the wake of recent events? How can they help each other through this? This is simply one possible take on what caused Joan to fall into Mycroft's arms and what his sudden exit from her life caused her to realize. We are so challenged in the face of what has happened to our favorite characters! But there is more to be said.
Disclaimer: Elementary is the artistic property of CBS and no infringement is intended.
Sherlock had never been so devastated as at the sight of Joan in Mycroft's bed. He had tried to dismiss it in the face of it with his normal cynical response, but it shook him to his foundations in a way that nothing else could have.
He sat in Alfredo's car later that day trying to explain what had happened in his life. He looked like had lost his last friend, but he felt like he had to talk to someone about his pain of heart and his sponsor and he had developed a certain rapport.
"So where is Watson these days, Sherlock? Has she recovered from all that happened?"
Sherlock started to speak, but then he had to choke back a sob.
"No, not really. She . . . she is with Mycroft. I found them together today at his place." Sherlock put his face in his hands as his tears began to stream down his cheeks.
"Joan and your brother? Serious?"
"Serious, Alfredo. They are . . . together. They . . . had coitus."
"Sherlock! Man, you know this for a fact?"
"Alfredo, you must understand something about Mycroft and me. When we were children, he always took my favorite toy from me. All he had to know was that it was something I fancied and he set out to take it from me. Now he has taken Joan. He told me that he knew that I loved her more than anyone in the whole world . . . and then, damn him, he took her from me. He took her into his bed. I saw her in Mycroft's damn bed, Alfredo!"
It was obvious that Sherlock was going to be sick. He grabbed his belly, gagged, opened the car door and vomited onto the curb outside the car.
"Hey man, how did that happen? I thought . . . I mean . . . you two. I guess I thought she knew how you felt about her."
"I have tried to respect her sexually. I never touched her that way. I did not want to take advantage of her, living and working together the way we do. I didn't want to affect other things. But I admit that I love her and I have wanted her that way . . . for quite a while now. I was hoping for the appropriate time."
"Man, you gots to let a woman know where you stand. If you want her, you fight for her. Personally I thought you two already had it goin' on . . . the way you guys look at each other, the way you work together. There ain't no mystery to me when I see two people look at each other the way you and Watson do."
"Are my feelings for her that obvious?"
"Well, yeah, I thought you two were kickin' it for a while now."
"I have not declared my feelings to her, I . . . I couldn't tell her, Alfredo."
"Man, you know you got a case for her! How you let Mycroft get up in your business like that?"
"I . . . I don't know what happened. I just don't know how to face being without her in my life."
"Man, you mean you never told her that you had feelings for her?"
"I felt it would jeopardize our partnership . . . but when I saw her with him . . . God! It was like I took a blow to my gut."
"Does she really want him or what? Do you know?"
Sherlock just shook his head. He was in a cold sweat, totally sick and devastated by the whole situation, his hands shaking as he contemplated his circumstance.
"I think we need a meeting, Sherlock. Let's go . . . now."
True, Sherlock was known to say that he disdained sex as anything more than a release of a safety valve in his own case, but in his heart he had allowed an attachment for Joan to grow that involved a deep physical and emotional attraction to her unlike anything he had ever experienced in his life. It was very akin to a marriage in every way except that they had not been intimate sexually. That did not mean however, that he had not cherished in the deep recesses of his heart and mind his desire for Joan, to mate with her sexually, to be her one and only man. It was there and had been there from almost the beginning. They both had simply fought it and kept their distance from each other—Joan because she did not want anything to jeopardize the delicate balance between intimacy and knowledge that characterized their partnership, Sherlock, because he knew that if he unleashed his passions upon Joan, there would be no turning back from that, and he did not know how that might affect them in their working together. It had been the 'elephant in the room' with them from the beginning.
When Sherlock first realized that Mycroft and Joan had been together in London, that itself had made him physically ill. He knew that he and Mycroft had always been in competition with each other from their teen age years, but he had not anticipated that this would happen. Yes, he had involved himself with Nigella, the Marchioness, when she and Mycroft were engaged, but he knew that she was an amoral woman. She had propositioned him, in fact, and he had taken her simply to prove to Mycroft that a marriage alliance with her would be ill-advised. This was different.
It was three days later when Mycroft came to the brownstone to announce his decision to fake his own death in order to save his life. Sherlock and Joan were at the point of solving all the loose ends of the case framed against Mycroft but he capitulated and planned his own exit strategy. Sherlock was stunned and Joan was devastated when Mycroft announced that he was walking away from what she viewed as a newly formed relationship without even respecting her enough to discuss his possible options with her.
They stood silently after Mycroft left them.
Finally Joan spoke without even looking at Sherlock.
"He told me about Sedoma Hann, that you had problems you with MI 6 because of your dealings with him, that you did not know Hann was financing a terrorist plot against the British government. He said that he had covered for you, that that was why he imbedded with Le Milieu. . . that he wanted to protect you. I do want to protect you. It changed how I viewed what he had done, how I viewed him. You asked me why I allowed myself to be involved sexually with him when I had rejected him completely. There you have it, Sherlock."
"Why didn't you tell me, give me the opportunity to explain to you what happened. I would gladly have shared that with you. Even when I was on heroin, I never lost sight of who the true enemy was. Sedoma Hann was and still is under deep cover. Do you think for a moment that MI 6 would ask me to work for them after such a miscalculation?"
"I'm sorry. I was so stressed and I . . . believed him. I have . . . " Joan's voice broke and she turned and ran up the stairs to her room.
Sherlock was stunned. It all made sense now. Mycroft knew that Sherlock loved Joan more than anyone else in the whole world and had said as much, but Mycroft also sensed that Joan loved Sherlock more than anyone in the world and would do whatever was necessary to protect him. He used that knowledge when he set about to take her and lie down with her, using whatever subterfuge or misinformation he had at hand to influence her to believe that in some way the two of them were taking care of Sherlock. He had deliberately misled Joan by telling her that Sherlock had mistakenly worked in behalf of a terrorist and that that was why he, Mycroft, had gone back to work for Le Milieu. That had caused Joan to take Mycroft after first rejecting him in no uncertain terms. He slyly used her love of Sherlock to get her for himself. Then, when things spiraled out of control, he had taken the coward's way out, faking his own death, rather than allowing Sherlock to solve the mystery, and fix the problem.
Mycroft had said that he loved Sherlock, his younger brother, and Sherlock knew that he probably did in his own twisted way, but Mycroft did not know or truly understand Sherlock, and he did not know how to love him or he would not have violated Joan, who was in reality Sherlock's woman the way that he did, and then tossed her aside after using her. He committed the ultimate insult against his brother and against Joan. Then he simply took leave of her on that last day as if she should have expected that to happen.
After Mycroft broke his news to them, Joan had gone upstairs to her room and fallen across her bed, stunned and shaking. She tried to remember what had actually transpired between Mycroft and her. He had been "adequate" in bed, but had been less engaged than she would have thought. He spoke very little during their lovemaking and he came to climax much too soon for Joan to be completely satisfied. Joan had attributed his low key approach to the stress of the recent events. When Joan revealed to him that she had told Sherlock that she was moving out, Mycroft seemed strangely quiet, almost noncommittal. It was as if suddenly he was realizing that Joan was not a simple dalliance or diversion. They lay quietly in his bed and then had simply decided to get dressed and go on with life, when Sherlock had burst into the bedroom where they were. Now Joan was left feeling used, rather than loved, embarrassed and saddened by her whole encounter with Mycroft. She realized again that she did not really know Mycroft, that whereas she knew what kind of man Sherlock was and she understood him with all his frailties and quirks, she had no such knowledge of his brother, that Mycroft had not been totally honest with her, that he had perhaps used her to simply prove to Sherlock that he was able to have whatever he had, unable to resist the competition that had gone on all of their lives.
After Mycroft took his leave, Sherlock stood alone in that room where he and Joan had spent so much time together utterly devastated. He felt such a mixture of feelings toward Mycroft—anger at how he had turned his life upside down, understanding of Mycroft's need to express his brotherly feelings toward him, resentment at him for his conduct toward Joan. He looked in the direction of the stairs where Joan had fled and wanted to go to her, but he refrained from doing so. She had already lost face by getting involved with Mycroft when his motives had not been what she thought they were. That on top of the trauma of being kidnapped and held by Le Milieu, being unable to save the life of a severely wounded young man in her hands, and witnessing Mycroft order the execution of a half dozen men right in front of her, had left her totally wrung out and devastated emotionally.
Sherlock did not dare to go to her at this point. He wanted to take her into his arms and declare his love for her, but he did not dare upset the delicate balance in their relationship. That did not change the pain in the pit of his stomach as he contemplated his situation with Joan, the reality that she was planning to move out of the brownstone and away from day to day association with him. He went to meet with Sir Walter and proceeded to arrange to work for MI 6.
After his conversation with Sir Walter, Sherlock walked about the city for the rest of the afternoon contemplating the strange turn of events in his life, trying to make some sense from what had happened to him and to Joan. Mycroft had succeeded in wrecking his relationship with Joan and then walked out of their lives, leaving them both in shambles emotionally. If it had not been for his work on himself with Joan and Alfredo, Sherlock would have headed for one of the squats where he would have drowned his hurt in heroin.
Sherlock went back to the brownstone by evening and sat down for a long time letting his anxiety just wash over him. He put a CD on, one of his favorites, Rod Stewart singing the Isley Brothers classic, "This Old Heart of Mine." It seemed to fit the sadness of the mood he found himself in. As much as what had happened between Mycroft and Joan had hurt him, broken his heart, he would not have hesitated to take Joan back in an instant. "If you leave me a hundred times, a hundred times I'll take you back" the song said. That is just how much he loved Joan. "You got me not knowing if I'm coming or going."
I don't know if I'm coming or going. I'm lost in my feelings for her. I see her and this passion for wells up in me and I want her like I have never wanted a woman. I don't care if she was with Mycroft. It was my fault for not declaring myself to her. Now I don't know what I will do without her in my life.
He finally got up and made tea. He had not heard a sound from upstairs since his return to the house, so he mustered up his nerve and carried a cup of Earl Grey up to Joan's room and knocked on her door.
"What is it, Sherlock?" Joan answered, her voice muffled by her pillows.
"I brought you tea. May I bring it in, Watson?"
"Yes, but I can't talk now. I just can't."
Sherlock brought the tea in and sat it on the chair beside her bed. Joan had obviously been crying, her eyes red, her face tear-stained. Sherlock had never seen her cry.
"I'm sorry, Watson. I'm so damned sorry . . . for everything."
Suddenly Joan broke down into sobs and fell onto her pillow.
"I was so stupid, Sherlock. Mycroft didn't care for me. How could I have been so stupid? I can't hold my head up now."
"I am truly sorry, Joan. Please, have your cry out, but know that I understand. This whole sorry mess has been a trauma for you."
"Why did he seek to be with me, Sherlock, if he planned to walk off and leave just like that? He didn't respect me enough to discuss the matters between us before simply taking his leave. I am left feeling like nothing but a slut, a whore," Joan said, her voice breaking again as her emotions overwhelmed her.
It was all Sherlock could do to hold himself back from reaching out to embrace Joan as he saw her so affected by what had happened to her. His voice was gentle as he spoke his next words.
"You are not a . . . a whore, Watson." he said, finding it difficult to use the word in a sentence that referred to Joan. "You, my dear Watson, truly are the lady of this house. Mycroft knows that you are not a whore. But he also knew . . . knows that I . . . I love you more than anyone else in the whole world. That is why he wanted to take you from me. You were to him simply a pawn in a cruel game."
"You . . . you love me?" Joan was stunned and sat up and looked at Sherlock, backing away from him on her bed. "But not that way, not like that?"
Sherlock felt his emotions causing his chest to tighten and his eyes to well up.
"Yes, like that and every other way there is to love another person. I confess it to you. I don't expect you to do anything about my declaration, but you deserve to know it."
"I thought that you did not have those feelings . . . for anyone, that you were the one who had renounced love."
"I have had to try to deny these feelings in myself. I have had to lie to myself constantly to try to keep from touching you, my dear Watson. I felt that it would be inappropriate for me to nurture my passionate feelings toward you, and that you would be . . . repulsed by what you would view simply as base and lustful behavior on my part. I even feared my inability to find pleasure due to the anhedonia caused by my past drug use might make it impossible to take care of your needs. You know me, Watson, all that there is to know, more than anyone else, warts and all."
Joan stared into Sherlock's bluegreen eyes and saw his sadness mingled with his tender feeling that filled them and sensed the truth of his words.
"Oh God, I am so sorry. Sherlock, I am so sorry."
"As am I, dear Watson . . . as am I."
Sherlock at that moment felt a surge of something totally new and different in his flesh, a surge of passionate desire running up and down his spine that took him all the way back to when he first became sexually active in his late teens. That sensation merged with his mature sensual nature and came upon him so suddenly and so powerfully that it shocked him, nearly taking his breath away in a powerful surge in the pit of his belly. He quickly turned away from Joan to shield her from the evidence of his arousal, got up immediately and walked from her room and back downstairs, leaving a stunned Joan sitting on her bed.
Suddenly Joan experienced a moment of perfect clarity when she realized that the man that had walked from her bedroom was the man that really loved her. She saw clearly the sibling rivalry that had pushed Mycroft to make such a decided play for her as soon as he discerned that she was the focus of Sherlock's passions. Mycroft also knew that Joan loved Sherlock and played upon her protective and nurturing side to draw her toward him as he knew that she would accept him if she felt that she and Mycroft shared a common interest in Sherlock's welfare. Joan also now realized that her feelings for Sherlock that had all but consumed her to the point of frustration were shared by Sherlock toward her as well.
Joan's hands began to shake and tremble as she realized how she had been taken advantage of and how Mycroft had risked her life and Sherlock's life in his game of rivalry with his brother. She felt completely used and abused somehow, that she had broken something between Sherlock and herself by allowing Mycroft to touch her. She went back in her mind over her relationship with Sherlock, all the things that had happened between them, all the little nuances, the unspoken words that should have told her how he felt about her. He had been fastidious in his avoidance of direct physical contact, but during their time living together they had exposed themselves to each other completely in other ways that were unique, ways that were so intimate that their motivation could not be ignored. She had seen Sherlock in all circumstances, sometimes wearing just a tee shirt and that favorite pair of his old worn sweatpants that hung from his hip bones and could not by any means shield the fact of his very generous genitalia from her view. She knew the scent of him so well now, that special blend of violin rosin, beeswax and sandalwood, the sight of him when he was obviously in pain emotionally, the look of childlike joy in his clear blue-green eyes when he discovered something that was truly a revelation to his keen mind, the sight of him sleeping sprawled like a little boy on the sofa or on the floor when exhaustion finally took him down in his tracks.
At length Joan got up and took a long very hot shower, attempting to cleanse every aspect of Mycroft from her flesh. She was done with him. He was gone, taking most of her own self-respect with him. She would have been proud to have been labeled as Sherlock's woman. He had even called her "the lady of his house." They had history together, reason to be together. But in the case of Mycroft she was simply a "bird" that he had had a fling with.
When Joan finished showering, she wrapped herself in her favorite soft dark green robe and went downstairs to Sherlock, who sat on the sofa in front of the fire with a cup of Earl Grey growing cold in front of him.
"Sherlock, please forgive me . . . for not knowing . . . for not knowing how you felt."
Sherlock looked up at her and then back down at his hands that lay open on his lap.
"My dear Watson, this not your fault. I hold no resentment toward you whatsoever. I . . ."
"I love you too, Sherlock. I have loved you for a very long time. I tried to deny my feelings for you, to keep everything very over-and-above-board between you and me, but as hard as I tried, it did not change anything. I want you to touch me."
Sherlock stared at Joan as if he could not believe what he was hearing. They both were quiet for a very long moment, and then Joan sat down beside Sherlock on the sofa, put her head on his shoulder and took one of his large hands in both of hers. They were both trembling as their passionate desires came powerfully to the fore.
"I realize that I do not went you to be with anyone else, Joan. I want no other man to touch you because I want to be the only man that touches you. I have loved you since the first day you walked into this brownstone. At first I did not want to call it 'love' because that would be an admission on my part that I am just as vulnerable as any other human to such passionate emotions. But I am only human. I admit that now. That is all that I am, a human, a weak man, a pitiable recovering drug addict gifted with mental brilliance but cursed with the inability to understand my own humanity, who has fallen hopelessly in love. I love you, Joan Watson. Like that song says, 'if you leave me a hundred times, I will take you back a hundred times,' because I love you."
"I thought that you regarded sex as a simple release . . . something that you used to maintain your mental acuity. You have never come to me for that kind of thing."
"I have human needs, Watson. On one level I was simply taking care of them by seeking out whores to take care of these, but I knew that on another level completely, I wanted you. I wanted to touch your body and find my hand wet with your essence. Every time you walked into this brownstone and I inhaled the scent of you, every time I heard your footsteps coming in my direction, every time I looked at you . . . at your lovely body, your dark beautiful eyes, the lushness of your hair, your delicate hands, the shape of your . . . hips and . . . the swell of your . . . your breasts with their proud . . . n-nipples. I look at you and . . . forgive my saying this, but I . . . I have wanted so much to . . . to just lie in your arms and suckle your breasts, my dear Watson. I have wanted to . . . be with you. I desire you so. I cannot . . . I dare not keep on. I feel as if I will burst if I do not tell you what is in my heart. These intense feelings have not abated, but I continue to suffer for the need of you. There is so much, much . . . so much more that I want . . . that I need to say."
Sherlock looked into Joan's eyes and Joan took his hand and put it against her cheek. Joan was crying now . . . her tears streaming down through her fingers onto his hand.
"I was so scared, Sherlock, when they kidnapped me, but I knew that you would save me. I keep dreaming about it even now. I needed you so then, Sherlock, and . . . I still need you. I need you to hold me in your arms and tell me that everything will be all right. I only feel truly safe when I am with you."
"I would have gladly killed those men who took you. I was frantic, Joan. I threatened to torture to death one of them because of you. I was in agony, fearful for your safety," Sherlock said, choking back a sob.
Sherlock took Joan up into his arms and held her tightly as she finally let out all her anxiety and fears from the trauma she had experienced. She was trembling, clinging to him, reliving the horrors of being kidnapped and held by Le Milieu. Sherlock drew her onto his lap and held her. He immediately became completely aroused by the close physical contact, and he could no longer shield her from the state of his flesh, as he attempted to soothe her with words to her that he had never realized were in his heart as he stroked her shoulders and then found the curve of her flank, buried his face in her hair and then finally gasped as he buried his face between her breasts.
"It's all right now, my dear Watson. I . . . I will always keep you safe. I was so terrified for you . . . so terrified. But I was so helpless . . . Watson. . . Joan! When I tried to come for you, I made the mistake of turning my back to Mycroft and he tazered me, rendered me unconscious. When I regained consciousness, I was frantic to find you. I even begged the NSA people to help me find you."
"Please hold me, Sherlock. Please don't let me go. There is no one else. I . . . just need to know that you understand and that you will keep me safe, Sherlock."
"I will keep you safe. I will . . . will always be here, Joan."
Suddenly the air was charged with their passions as Sherlock groaned softly and at that moment they both knew that all their feelings were about to combust and burst into flame.
"Sherlock . . . Sherlock . . ." Joan moaned as Sherlock's lips found her open mouth in a kiss that neither of them would ever forget, a kiss that became immediately passionate, a frantic consuming kiss that neither of them wanted to ever end as they tasted each other's mouths for the first time.
"Oh, God, Joan, I fear that things are getting out of hand. Joan . . . Joan," Sherlock gasped, the man who always refrained from kissing, intoxicated with the taste of Joan's mouth.
But they continued to kiss and the kiss deepened into the wild impassioned kiss of lovers long denied as they literally drank thirstily from one another's lips. As the kiss went on, Sherlock pulled her pony tail loose so that he could catch his hands into her long hair as it fell down onto her shoulders. Joan put her hands inside his soft old sweater into the thick mat of russet-colored hair that adorned his muscular chest and when she felt his heart pounding for her, she pressed her hand there and moaned his name softly.
"Oh, Sherlock . . . Sherlock," Joan gasped helplessly for breath.
"I think . . . I think that we should try to restrain ourselves, Joan. Forgive me, I . . . I dare not take advantage of you," Sherlock murmured as he tried to catch his breath from the kiss and from the effect of her hands touching the bare skin of his chest.
"Please do take advantage of me, Sherlock."
"You were with my brother. I must . . . I'm trying to observe . . . boundaries. I, I want to but I shouldn't . . don't dare touch you this way." Sherlock was kissing Joan all over her face and his hands were shaking as he spoke.
"Your brother has declared himself dead. Even if he had not done so I must let you know how I feel. You had a right to know why I went with Mycroft."
"I did not need to know that from you. I forgive you, Joan. I have already forgiven you . . . for everything! Will you forgive me for all my crassness, my insensitivity, my failing to come to terms with what we had become to each other?"
"Sherlock . . . look at me. . ."
Joan let her robe fall completely open. She was naked under it and Sherlock stared at her absorbing every aspect of her beauty, his pupils taking up almost all of the bright blue-green irises of his eyes as he stared at breasts that mesmerized him completely, his nostrils dilating wide open as he became lost in the desire for her that was consuming him. And then it was suddenly all over when Sherlock pushed the fabric of her woolen robe aside to caress her soft skin, touching her with his slender fingers, whispering to her all the words he had kept carefully locked in his heart for the two years that they had been together.
"Joan, you are so . . . lovely . . . so lovely, beautiful . . . occupying all my passionate thoughts . . . I have wanted to touch you this way . . . for so long . . . my lovely, lovely honeybee . . . Joan . . ."
Sherlock was a consummate lover, his long sensitive fingers roving over Joan's torso, getting to know her flesh, kissing her all over her face and neck and then her breasts, talking to her constantly as he allowed all ohis feelings come out for her in his stream of passionate words.
"Your beautiful breasts, dear Joan. I do love them so."Joan gasped softly as his thumbs gently brushed her nipples and then drifted downward. When finally his fingertips lightly grazed her thighs, Joan moaned.
"Yes . . . Sherlock! Yes!"
Sherlock bowed his head as he carefully covered the lush point of juncture where her thighs met with his hand.
"I do not take this part of you as something common or ordinary, Joan . . . but I cannot resist you like this. I cannot help myself, Joan."
Joan took his hand from where it was covering her and brought it to her lips. She loosened his shirt and then his trousers and somehow they were about to come together on the dark burgundy velvet pillows of their sofa as he crouched above her, hungrily kissing her neck and cheeks and breasts again and again. But then Sherlock stopped kissing her, gently picked her up in his arms and carried her to his bedroom nearby and laid her on his bed. He crouched over her and looked into her eyes, but did not go further. His hands trembled when he reached out to touch her again.
"I have to be sure that you really want this, Joan. I do not know if I will survive heartbreak again. You have been through a great deal of trauma and I dare not allow you to take a precipitous action that you and I would regret later. I do love you . . . too much to risk heartbreak as the result of an emotional moment such as this. Please do not break my heart, Joan. I am only just coming to realize what the human heart is capable of in its attachments and I realize how vulnerable my heart is now. My heart is flayed wide open and bleeding for you now. I beg you, Joan. Do not accept me like this if you do not truly wish to be with me."
"Sherlock, please . . . just make love to me."
As Joan's dark green robe slipped completely off her shoulders, she reached to touch Sherlock intimately.
"Does this belong to me, Sherlock?"
"Yes! Yes! Joan!" Sherlock writhed in ecstasy at her touch, sighing helplessly as he fell back to lie alongside her.
The next moment Joan was on top of him taking him inside her, and they both cried out as they joined. It was unlike anything that either of them had ever experienced sexually as they found their rhythm. They were perfectly matched. It was like their meeting of minds intellectually. They were like a hand in glove, both of them so intense, so vocal in their expression and response, so without inhibition. The chemistry between them came to full expression when Sherlock growled like a wild man and suddenly turned Joan onto her back and claimed her as his own woman with a fierceness and power that took Joan's breath away. Joan cried out and sobbed for joy as she saw stars when she found release for the first time in his arms, but that was only the beginning as Sherlock brought her to the pinnacle again and again.
"Sherlock . . . Yes! Oh, yes!"
"Joan . . . Joan . . . Oh God! Joan . . . Luv!"
The endearment that was in his heart for so long had escaped his lips for the first time, as he groaned her name over and over.
"Sherlock . . . baby!" Joan's hands clenched Sherlock's shoulders in a grip far beyond her normal strength as her body convulsed in his arms in a series of powerful spasms.
Sherlock felt the explosion in his flesh that presaged his release and in that very moment his body began to jerk in a series of pelvic spasms so intense that his eyes rolled back into his head.
"Joan . . . Joan . . . my . . . Joan! I'm in . . . ecstasy! I . . . I have never experienced anything like this in my life! Oh, dear God!"
He cried out her name as his brain was flooded with sprites and flashes of brilliant blue light, till he finally collapsed in Joan's arms.
"Sherlock, I love you. I do love you," Joan whispered when she finally could catch her breath.
She was crying softly and Sherlock just held her close smoothing her long hair and kissing her tenderly, both of them trembling as they held each other, at long last sated.
"Don't cry, luv. It will be all right. We will survive this. I could have lost you in that debacle between Mycroft and Le Milieu. I could have missed . . . everything. I was . . . so foolish."
"I love you, Sherlock, in every way that it is possible to love someone. I do . . . do love you more than anyone in the whole world and I will never stop loving you. I have never said those words to anyone else. Oh, Sherlock, help me!"
"Shhh . . . luv. You have been through a lot. I will be here with you. I will always be here."
"Sherlock . . . please . . . I can't stop trembling . . ."
Sherlock caught her up to his heart, crying softly as he told her over and over how much he loved her and they soon found themselves totally involved again, as Sherlock tenderly took care of her passionate need, marshaling his passions so that Joan had the time she needed to receive to find full satisfaction in the connection and only allowing his own passions to take over again when Joan was shaking and vibrating in the climax. Joan surrendered herself so completely to his ministrations that she was left clinging to Sherlock, helpless, all her vulnerabilities there, trusting him as she had never trusted any man.
Joan gradually fell asleep on Sherlock's chest, but Sherlock lay awake, as he contemplated the day's turn of events. His heart was so full and his eyes continued to spill over with tears that he could not hold back. He felt no resentment whatsoever in himself toward Joan. He blamed himself for not realizing that Joan loved him as much as he loved her. As she lay next to him, he realized that he would never let her wonder again if he loved her. He also realized that his whole way of life had changed in one night. There would be no more seeking prostitutes to satisfy his urges. That part of his life was over. After being with Joan, he confirmed what he had sensed all along, that there was no one else who could possibly satisfy him. The anhedonia that had plagued him was gone. The pleasure he had experienced was beyond and more intense than any sexual event in his life. Sherlock Holmes had finally discovered the mystery of true sexual communion. All his sexual focus was concentrated on one person and that person was the woman that lay upon his chest in his bed now.
As Sherlock lay with Joan in his arms, he was suddenly aware of Joan's sleep being disturbed by a nightmare. She was moaning, sobbing in her sleep, calling his name in the dark.
"Sherlock, help me! I'm scared . . . Sherlock . . . scared"
Sherlock held her tight, whispering to her, trying to sooth her and gently waken her from her bad dream.
"It's all right, luv. . . all right. I'm here and I'll take care of you. It's over . . . all over, luv."
Joan wakened trembling and clung to Sherlock as he held her. Sherlock kissed her all over her face again and again, gradually calming her and then his lips found her mouth. The passionate kisses took them over and they found themselves connecting again, unable to quell the powerful emotions surging in them, naturally rocking in the timeless rhythm of lovers, finding and giving comfort to each other, racing to the summit again and then crying out at the exquisite beauty of what they were experiencing.
"Dear Joan. . . My dearest Joan . . ."
"Yes, Sherlock, yes! Please hold me!"
The next morning Sherlock wakened with Joan sleeping on his chest and realized that the events of the previous evening had not just been a passionate dream. He and Joan had declared themselves over and over to each other. He sighed happily as he buried his face in her fragrant hair.
"Joan, luv," he whispered in her ear, kissing and then gently tugging on her dainty ear lobe with his teeth.
Joan turned to face him and put her hands on his scruffy cheeks and rubbed her thumb upon his finely sculptured lips.
"It is so strange," Joan said, "and yet this seems to be where I have been heading all my life . . . you and me . . . like this. Did you imagine it, Sherlock?"
"I confess that it has crossed my mind . . . many times, so many times, but, Joan, my dear Joan, what we shared was the most intense sexual experience of my entire life. The pleasure was . . . exquisite, darling. Was it so for you as well?"
Joan flushed in Sherlock's arms, unable to speak as she looked into his eyes and saw everything that she had ever wanted in a man. She smiled, catching her lower lip with her teeth, and Sherlock was lost.
"My darling Joan, my darling Joan!"
The next instant they were clinging to each other as the passions that had swept them the previous evening claimed them again.
It was hours later when they dragged themselves from bed. They were both calm and very mellow as they sat close together on the sofa drinking tea. It was as if the episode with Mycroft had never happened. They each knew that they belonged to one another now.
"You do know that I spoke with Sir James Walter yesterday."
"Yes, and how did that go?"
"He asked me to do some work for MI6 and I told him that I would seriously consider it."
"Why, Sherlock?"
"I guess it's a kind of penance. Mycroft told you that I mishandled the matter of Sedoma Hann involving them. I do not believe that to be the case, but I must prove it just the same. I do not know exactly how, but I must get inside MI6 to find out what actually transpired. I realize that I was using at that time, but that I know the reason that I did that job and I must revisit that matter. I must prove certain matters for myself and for you as well. Sir Walter wants my take on a situation down in Bogota. I will need to go down there for a few weeks."
"Sherlock, please don't tell me you are going away . . . now, when we have just resolved these things between us."
Joan's eyes filled with tears now as anticipated losing Sherlock. She reached out to touch him, gripping his arm.
"I will be away no longer than a couple weeks. I don't want to be away from you for a moment now, but, at the same time, I think I owe it to you to give you some space so that you can be sure . . . of what has happened here between us."
"I am sure, Sherlock. Aren't you sure?"
Sherlock smiled that tender lop-sided smile that Joan loved so and hugged her, drawing her onto him and pulling her legs up with one hand as he found her lips in kiss after kiss that left no doubt in Joan's mind about his feelings for her.
"I know that I am sure, Joan, but we have struggled too much to get to this point to risk your not being absolutely certain that I am what you want. I think that this time may help you to be sure, Joan. It will cause me much suffering, being away from you. Now all I can think about is the sound of your voice saying my name in that moment, or the way your eyelids flutter when you are going over the top, or the warmth of your bare skin when it is up against mine, or that lovely secret garden that you allowed me to visit and the beautiful coral cavern hidden there." Sherlock sighed deeply. "'The light that lies in 'woman's' eyes has been my own undoing.'"
Joan flushed deeply at Sherlock's complete and poetic description of her in this moment.
"I will wait for you till you return from this assignment. When do you have to leave me?"
"Unfortunately my flight is this evening. I go to Bogota. That is all I am free to say. Believe me I do not want to leave you here now, but I have to do this, my dear Joan. I gave Sir Walter my word. Of course I could not have anticipated what has happened to us now. I cannot bear the thought that we will be apart, Joan."
Joan buried her head into his chest and began to cry.
"Luv, please don't weep for us. We will be fine. I believe that with all my heart. Will you help me pack my gear for the trip?"
Joan nodded and gave Sherlock one more kiss before reluctantly slipping from his lap and starting to help him pack.
"Joan, please, give me one of your scarves to take along, perhaps that soft cashmere one with the pink roses on it. I need something of yours. . . something with your marvelous scent . . . for the lonely times."
It seemed such a familiar thing to handle his shirts and underthings; (Joan often did their laundry together), and yet it meant even more now that they had been together. As she lifted one of his shirts to her face and inhaled Sherlock's familiar personal scent, she recalled their coming together and she realized how different things had become between them in just the past twenty-four hours. She knew that he was hers and the thought overwhelmed her and she began double over and to sink down to her knees.
Sherlock was watching her carefully folding his things and saw her become overcome. He suddenly crossed the room and drew her up from her knees and caught her up in his arms and kissed her hungrily, gripping her hips, squeezing them, pulling her up against his pelvis as he growled and groaned for her.
"I know. I don't want to leave. I need you, Joan."
"Please hold me and love me again."
"Yes, Joan! Yes!"
Joan's knees buckled completely under her at this point and she started to sink to the floor, but Sherlock caught her, picked her up and carried her off to bed, stripped her robe off, pushed her legs apart and made love to her one more time. This time they both wept the whole time they made love.
When he was gone, Joan crawled back into Sherlock's bed, hugging his pillow, breathing in the scent of him, wanting only him, crying her heart out.
"I miss you already, my darling Sherlock. Oh, dear God . . . Dear God."