A/N: I have no idea what kind of crazy I've stumbled into here. I know-not my normal fandom-not my normal fare-and let's face it, a Joan/Sherlock romance fic isn't exactly written in the stars. But the idea is intriguing to me. And frankly, this tenny tiny little ficlet has been gnawing at my head for awhile. I'm not even sure there are many people reading Elementary fanfic-but if you guys are there and you get a kick out of it, drop me a line! I'd sure love to hear from you! (Unbeta'd and tossed together - please forgive issues!)
**Joan's POV**
It can't happen. Not ever.
I remind myself of this three times on my morning jog, twice while we're eating breakfast, and once when Sherlock and I reach for the refrigerator handle at the same time, our fingers brushing for one electric fraction of a second while he rattles on about the rate of growth of a human fingernail after death.
It's disturbing that I would need to remind myself at all. He isn't my type. He's narcissistic, immature, just this side of unlikeable, and he dresses like a cross between a Oxford professor and a-well, a drug addict.
Which, I'd do well to remember, he is.
"You're looking quite pensive, Watson," he says from his perch on the living room floor. He doesn't look at me. He doesn't even move, just keeps staring at a pile of crime scene pictures on the floor between his legs. He's got one knee bent, his fingers tapping out an insanely fast rhythm on his thigh.
I look away from his fingers, letting my hair fall into my face. "Actually, my mind's wandering. "
"Is it? Given your furrowed brow and pursed lips, I'd say you're deeply in thought about something perplexing. Excellent activity for a consulting detective. My own success is inextricably tied to my commitment to contemplation. You should spend more time like this."
No, I should spend more time acting like a highly educated woman who knows better than to entertain these sorts of ideas. He isn't just a bad choice-he's an addict. A client. Which makes this wrong on every conceivable level.
I flip through a file in front of me, but read nothing. Instead, I look at Sherlock out of the corner of my eye, watching his hummingbird-wing fingers dance on his leg.
Morality aside, this doesn't even make sense on a purely physical level. I like broad-shouldered men with golden skin and toothpaste-commercial smiles. Sherlock is slim and prone to frowning. When I catch him with his shirt off, I'm always struck by his pale skin and dark tattoos. The way he's all sinew and lean muscle, so wiry that I find myself staring at the way his hipbones-
I stand up abruptly, cutting off my thoughts and spilling my tea. I can't think about this. I need to get out of this house-go on a date for God's sake. I need to stop doing this, because it's insane.
I'm pulling a dishrag out of a kitchen drawer to clean up my mess when I hear him behind me.
"What's wrong?"
I jump with a cry, whirling around and immediately wishing I hadn't. He's barely a foot away from me, his face drawn in concern. It's an infuriating transition. Insufferable arrogance to this almost child-like tenderness.
"I spilled my tea, obviously," I say, brushing past him.
He watches me with a knowing look. "I've lived with you for eight months and in that time I've noticed many things about you. You crave citrus when menstruating-"
"-You know when I menstruate?" I shriek, repulsed.
Sherlock continues on as if he hasn't heard me at all. "-you take your tea without sugar or milk, you keep your dresser immaculate, but rarely make your bed, and you never, ever spill anything, which leads me to the likely conclusion that something has unsettled you. So, I repeat, Watson, what's wrong?"
I ignore him and attack the spilled tea with absolute focus, because cleaning up a table is normal. And nothing else in this room-in this entire house-is.
"Watson?"
His voice is what stops me. That soft, uncertain tone. The one he uses so rarely. The one that holds a ridiculous amount of power over me because it reminds me of the one thing most people can't see in Sherlock, the thing that has nothing to do with his unfathomable IQ. His heart.
It's like a bank vault-locked shut and out of public sight at all times.
Except that sometimes I get to sneak inside.
I let out a shuddering breath and drop my rag on the table. Maybe I need to move out. Or take a nap. Something.
I feel Sherlock moving long before he touches me. I expect him to tremble, to be tentative. But he isn't either of those things, because Sherlock is never exactly what I expect him to be.
He touches my arm and turns me, quite firmly, until my back is to the table and he is right in front of me, so close I can smell the soap he uses. And then he looks at me like he's stripping me apart with his eyes, finding the bits that click and tick, finding out why I am the way I am.
"Sometimes I wish you wouldn't push," I say, very softly. "Sometimes you should let it go."
He tilts his head slowly. "Why do you want me to let this go?"
I close my eyes tight and try to not think about his voice. Or his words. I even try not to think about the shock of his hands suddenly finding my face, feathering over my cheeks in a move that steals the breath right out of me. And it works. When his fingers side down my skin, testing the hollow beneath my jaw, I can't think at all.
"I deal in puzzles, you know. Enigmas. The sorts of mysteries that look like madness, and yet, inexplicably, make perfect sense. This is madness," he says, fingers sliding into my hair and then down the nape of my neck. "Therefore, letting it go is counter to my nature."
My eyes stay shut and my head swims, but I say nothing. Nothing at all.
"I want to push," he whispers, and my whole body pulls tight like a bow, because I can actually feel those words. His mouth is so close to mine that I know he can detect the hitch in my breath. Because I can feel the heat in his. "But since I hold your opinion in such high regard, dear Watson, I won't."
I bite my lip and his hands fall away from me. My heart is in my throat and my hands are slick with sweat where I've gripped the table behind me. But by the time I gain enough courage to open my eyes, he is gone.
I find him on the floor where he was, as if nothing ever happened. He has one knee bent, one leg splayed, and crime scene photos in front of him. The only difference is his fingers. Where they drummed madly before, they are now curled around his knee, knuckles white.
I put my cup in the sink and take the file I didn't read off the table, heading to the bottom of the stairs. Everything feels a little surreal. Like maybe I imagined his hands. His words. All of it. And maybe that's why I stop halfway up the stairs, glancing at him over my shoulder.
Maybe that's why I speak. "I deal in puzzles, too, now."
He doesn't look at me, but I see the corner of his mouth curl up in a smile that I feel in my knees.
"You know the thing about puzzles, Watson?" he asks, back to his cool, airy self.
"What's that?"
"They always have a solution."
It's my turn to smile as I make my way up the stairs.
I still say it can't happen.
At least not for awhile.
-END