The ceiling looked the same as ever. Same dire need of repainting, possibly rebuilding. Grey light poured in through the thin drapes; street noises were faint but clear below. Joan studied the evidence and decided that in all measurable senses, nothing had changed.
This had been predicted. Promised, even. Ha.
It was entirely on his terms. She knew that. He could wake up and announce that the liaison, partnership, cohabitation, was over. His choice of term would establish on what grounds they were separating. She expected he would cite professional reasons, but simultaneously she wanted him to be better than that -better at being a regular human being. It would be a sign of improved socialisation if he were to break it off with her because the sex was not so great.
She shook herself and set better expectations. She had an equal say in what happened and didn't happen. They were not going to break up because they were not an item. There was no implication or expectation of exclusivity. Hell, there was no inkling of repetition.
There was no they, just she and he and a mystery to solve.
Joan ran her hands over her face, sat up, and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. Time to work. She had had a thought on waking, about the missing autopsy report and needed to follow it up.
Her brain was already racing. Last night, all nights, all past events were behind her and this moment was all consuming: find the killer, find the answer.
She turned back to grab her robe just in time to catch him lying, still and straight, eyes open and staring at her ceiling, looking shell shocked.
Shower time. "Morning, Sherlock."