Morning at the brownstone on an autumn day.
"Watson! Lets moooove!" came the bellow from downstairs.
"That man can be such a boor!" she thought as she headed down the stairs. He was waiting by the door, with her coat in hand. Holmes carefully helped her on with the coat and then rushed her out the door. "Okay, maybe he is a gentlemanly boor ... " she conceded.
"I don't understand why it takes you so long to get ready."
"Oh, I don't know, perhaps the fact that I don't walk out the door in the clothes I slept in..."
"Are you saying I'm slovenly, because I assure you my hygiene is beyond reproach..."
And on they continued in semi friendly banter, punctuated by eyerolls and hand gesticulations, much to the, at first amusement, and then annoyance, of the cabbie. Captain Gregson waited for them at the entrance of the upper east side apartment. "Took you long enough." The look they both shot him told him to drop it and brief them on the situation. As he handed them the requisite latex gloves, Joan's phone rang, provoking one of Sherlock's many faces of displeasure to be aimed her way. Her usual response was to roll her eyes and turn her back on him, but something was different. She stiffened, lowered her head and walked out into the hall.
He stood for a split second internally debating whether to follow her out. He turned and followed. It was now Gregson's turn to roll his eyes.
In the hall, Sherlock found Watson leaning with her back against the wall, head still bent, asking "What hospital did they take her to?" He takes his place close by her side.
"Did they tell you anything else?" He hears the slight tremor in her voice. With one finger he finds her hand and gently touches her. Her hand instinctively opens to Sherlock's touch, fingertips touching.
She responds on the phone, "Thank you Mrs. Lee. I'll be there as soon as I can, thank you." Their hands, now linked, come to rest behind the folds of Joan's coat, visible to no one else. He watches her face intently as she hangs up.
"It's my mom." Joan says softly, tears welling in her eyes that she will not allow to fall. "She collapsed in front of the Met. She and Mrs. Lee were going to the punk couture exhibit." The word "punk" in a sentence about her mom eliciting a sad half smile from her. "They just took her to Mt. Sinai. Mrs. Lee is there with her now."
Still looking intently at her, he says, equally as softly but with urgency, "The hospital is not far from here. We can walk faster than getting a cab."
"No, its alright. I can go by myself. Gregson needs you here. I need to call the rest of the family ... I'll let you know what's going on as soon as I know."
They stood briefly staring at each other. Words failed but their communication was strong.
"If you need anything..."
"I know," and with a small squeeze they unlinked hands and she quickly disappeared into the crowd of officers and technicians. Once on the street, she walked quickly, weaving through the crowds, trying to stop the litany of possible causes for her mom's collapse that were running through her head.
"Is Joan all right?" Gregson asks.
"Watson's mum is in emergency care, collapsed on the street."
Bell looks at him, "Shouldn't you go with her?"
"I asked. She said no."
"Women say that but they want you to go with them." Bell was trying to be helpful. He knew that at least when it came to women he was better informed than Holmes.
Sherlock looked up at him from the floor where he was inspecting the body, annoyed at the intrusion, "Joan says what she means."
An hour or so later, Holmes phone rings.
"Hey, it's me." She can hear the familiar commotion of the NYPD investigation in the background.
He's happy to hear her tone is more relaxed, "Everything all right then, Watson?
"Yes. I found my mom sitting up and trying to get released. They think it was her blood pressure medicine. The dosage needs to be reduced. They're keeping her overnight to make sure."
"Well that's a relief." And it truly was. He had a fondness for Joan's mum. "Do you need me to bring you anything?"
"No. I'm going to head back to the brownstone in a while. I'll come back to visit her later this evening. How's the investigation?
"Almost done. An open and shut case. I was just getting ready to go to the hospital, but I guess I'll see you at home instead, then."
"Okay. See you in a while. Bye, love you." ...OH MY GOD! Her whole body contracted and scrunched down. How did that slip out! She had been talking to family and that's the way they ended all their calls and ... my lord, she was an idiot... She held her breath, maybe he hadn't heard.
A second of silence followed on the other end and in a low, barely audible whisper he responds, "likewise" followed by a dial tone.
The brownstone glowed golden in the late afternoon sun. The beauty of it was lost on Watson. She had spent the train ride home rehearsing the talk she was going to have with Holmes to explain her stupid slip of the tongue. She couldn't let this go. He will understand, right? He is skilled at deduction. Crap, he can read her like a bargain basement book. She sighs and goes looking for him.
The cacophony of multiple televisions blaring away tells her exactly where he is. Sherlock stands still, eyes flicking back and forth. Miracle of miracles, he's changed his shirt. He's wearing the yellow one with the four leaf clover. Joan tries not to read anything into that as she approaches.
"Watson! You're back! How's mum?"
"Cranky but apparently in excellent health thank goodness."
"Glad to hear it..."
"Listen, ..." She cuts him off before he can say anything else, "we need to talk about what I said, at the end of our phone ..."
Still paying attention to all the televisions and avoiding looking directly at her, Holmes sighs deeply. He does not want to have this conversation.
Now directly in front of him, Joan tries to continue, "Sherlock, I ... "
He turns off all the televisions at once, drops the remote and stares down at her, scaring her a bit. "Watson, as I told you once before, you place far too much emphasis on talking. Most of what we humans have to say to one another is communicated hapticly, nonverbal communication. We are primarily sensory beings Watson, verbal communication is..."
She now sighs deeply. She gives up. She stops his lecture by placing her head and arms on his chest "Its been a hard day Sherlock." He stops talking and his arms slowly wrap around her, drawing her a little closer. She looks up at him, his eyes wide and intent on every detail of her face, and she kisses him. He holds her head in both his hands as he tenderly responds. They tentatively separate lips, foreheads touching, eyes closed. She drops her head to his chest and he kisses the top of her head. A few seconds pass and she slowly pulls away, and stands in front of him saying a bit timidly at first, "Right. We need to get a move on here." She takes a beat to see if he remembers. A small smirk crawls onto his lips as he watches Watson. "I'll go put the kettle on, shall I, hmm?" As she gives him a side long glance. He smiles at her, "Give me five minutes to get ready and I'll meet you in the kitchen."
"I'll give you six." She smiles as she heads for the kitchen and yells over her shoulder at him as he bounds up the stairs "... and change your pants if you are coming with me to visit my mom."
"Will do Watson, will do."