I know the premise is not new, but hopefully mine is different enough that I'm not stepping on anyone's toes. Please tell me (and know that it is unintentional) if you feel otherwise, since at this point I've only read a fraction of the Elementary fan fiction. It goes without saying that I don't own anything or anybody from "Elementary" or Arthur Conan Doyle's works, and I don't receive any compensation other than the pleasure of making the characters do exactly what I want them to do.
Joan closed her laptop and threw a gold embossed envelope across the room, nearly knocking Clyde off his perch atop the mantle. Sherlock raised his eyebrows inquiringly.
"It's Christine," she said, in an aggrieved tone. "She's really pressuring me this time."
"Ah," said Sherlock knowingly, "Christine." For weeks, Joan had agonized about the gala for the hospital that she had worked at before her ignominious departure. He'd listened impatiently while Joan explained how she had avoided the event, which raised money for a myriad of philanthropic projects at the hospital, ever since she stopped working there. One year her excuse was a client, then a family event; then, after she began consulting, crucial cases mysteriously broke just before the big event.
"Christine's the one person who stood up for me at the final hearing, so I've always felt indebted to her," Joan explained again, mostly to herself, since Sherlock had seemingly returned his attention to Clyde. "I've made excuses every year, but I can't avoid it any longer without hurting her feelings. Maybe it's time to face the music..."
"Fine. I'll clear my schedule," said Sherlock without looking up.
"I didn't ask you," began Joan irritably.
"Not yet, but you were planning to," he returned knowingly.
"Maybe I was going to invite Marcus…" she started.
"Why not ask Gregson? Marcus may be a fine-looking companion, but he simply screams 'NYPD'," said Sherlock, unphased. "You want to charm your erstwhile colleagues, not bore them."
Joan snorted. "If that was my intent, I'd definitely not take you."
"I can be charming when I choose," returned Sherlock loftily. "It's just that I rarely choose to do so. You'll recall our dinner with your mother?"
"That was different," Joan protested weakly. "She's family."
"Not to me, she isn't," he returned evenly. "Picture arriving at the soiree with a dashing stranger on your arm, full of mystery and allure. You would be the talk of the event."
"I don't want to be the talk of anything!" she protested. "I just want to…"
"Impress them?" he countered. "You needn't impress anyone foolish enough not to see how dedicated and competent you truly are. But I promise you that I will be on my best behavior. Besides, we could observe their idiosyncrasies and gossip about them all the way home. Isn't that what friends do after parties?"
"I don't approve of gossip," said Joan, but she smiled slightly at the thought.
"Then it's settled," said Sherlock with an air of finality. "I'll make the arrangements."
"Fine," she returned feebly as he bounded back to Clyde's precarious perch. "But it's a formal event, so for heaven's sake at least consider using a razor!"
Two weeks later, Joan nervously fidgeted with an earring as she waited for Sherlock. He'd insisted on meeting her at her apartment, and she smiled ruefully as she heard the formal knock, so at odds with his usual staccato tap. She opened the door to find him not only freshly shaven, but dressed in an impeccably tailored suit that showed his broad shoulders and lean physique to their best affect. Looking at his hands, she noticed a plastic box with the local florist's name on the front.
"Really, Sherlock, this is not the prom," she started in embarrassment.
"This isn't for you; it's for me," he said, opening it to reveal a single yellow rose tipped in a deep, vibrant red, which he affixed in his buttonhole. He glanced at the comb in her chignon, to which were attached flowers of the exact same shade. "There, now we match." He stepped back and viewed her critically from top to bottom. "You look lovely, Watson. Your back is particularly well showcased. Sophisticated and subtle, yet a surprisingly attractive and overlooked feature of the female form," he remarked with a clinical air.
How had he deduced that she was self-conscious about the low-cut back on her dress, Watson wondered? Probably the same way he knew how she would wear her hair. She flushed unexpectedly and said shyly, "You look nice too, Sherlock." He held the door as she reached for her wrap, then she took his arm and they stepped into the cool night air.
As they approached the door of the gala, Joan faltered slightly and felt Sherlock's hand on her back guiding her forward. When they entered, conversation lagged and Joan felt the weight of many eyes on her. She imagined spiteful comments in hushed tones, but mercifully Christine began toward her and enfolded her in an enthusiastic hug.
"I'm so glad you came!" beamed Christine. She looked to Sherlock. "Is this the partner you told me about?"
Sherlock stepped forward with his hand outstretched. "You must be Christine," he said, with this most winning smile. "Joan has told me so much about you. I hear that you are a legend at the hospital. Tell me, how is the new wing progressing?" He then began conversing avidly with Joan's friend, as if hospital administration and building codes were his most fervent passion. Joan listened suspiciously, her eyes narrowed. After a few minutes she raised her eyebrows and looked enquiringly at her partner, but he was engrossed in his conversation with her friend and affected not to notice. After Christine was out of earshot, Joan held Sherlock's elbow firmly and hissed, "What the hell was that?"
"That was the power of Google," said Sherlock blithely. "Christine is quite the woman in philanthropic circles. Now, if you would introduce me to Michael and Suzanne…"
The rest of the evening passed in similar fashion. Sherlock greeted every guest as if they were his sole purpose for attending, and he showed keen interest and insight in everything from golf to the state of Bulgarian politics. His attentiveness to Joan herself left her speechless; he held out her chair as they sat for dinner, complimented her in every conversation, and kept her glass filled with a solicitude that she would not have believed possible.
As she observed, Joan's suspicion gave way to amusement. He saw it as a game! She realized that he saw the invitation and her doubt in him as a challenge to be met. He must have researched the guests for hours, and he knew their interests with accuracy that would have stunned her if she had not known him as well as she did. He also seemed to sense exactly who to greet warmly, and who needed to be impressed. A few times, to her secret delight, he even politely but firmly silenced some of her more outspoken critics. She was fondly watching him dance with one of the older and kinder of her former nurses when Christine approached her expectantly.
"When you said you were partners, I thought you meant the work kind!" Christine said. "You didn't say that you were partners."
"What are you talking about?" Joan said, feeling herself blush. "Sherlock and I consult together; I've told you that. He's my friend too, but what does that have to do with anything?"
"Friends don't stand that close to each other," Christine answered knowingly. "And friends don't look at each other the way you two do. But if you are just friends, then I'll tell Bridget that he's free. She asked if he's taken, and I said by you. But if he's just a friend…"
Joan felt an unexpected stab of jealousy. "Bridget?! You wouldn't dare!" Then she gathered herself. "On second thought, tell Bridget she's welcome to him. In fact, I'll even give her his number. But warn her…he is a very difficult man." Sherlock would make short work of Bridget, she was sure, and Joan had never been particularly fond of that woman in the first place.
A few minutes later, Sherlock returned with a breathless but beaming partner. As Mrs. Holder excused herself to return to her table, she squeezed Joan's hand. "Hold on to that one," the nurse whispered with a smile. "He's a keeper."
Joan smiled indulgently and turned to Sherlock, who was holding out his arms. "Dance?" he asked expectantly.
Joan faltered. "I don't know…" she said, but Sherlock had already taken her by the waist and glided her onto the floor. She found him to be surprisingly skilled; he guided her uncertain steps until she matched his rhythm and they fell into an easy gait. "When did you learn to dance?" she said suspiciously.
"Last week," he admitted with pride. Ah, thought Joan, that explained it. She should have known. She'd seen one of his girls visiting on Tuesday, followed by rhythmic footsteps across the floor for nearly an hour at a stretch. At the time, she hadn't wanted to know what new mischief he had thought up. She had to admit that he had put his time to good use, though; he was easy to follow, and as they circled smoothly together, she felt eyes on them for the second time that night, this time in admiration instead of accusation.
After a few minutes of easy banter, he leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially in her ear, "Don't look now, but we're making your former crush very jealous." He spun her quickly as her head whipped around. "I said 'Don't look," Watson! What part of 'Don't look' did you not understand?"
"If you tell someone not to look, the first thing they do is look," she countered. "How could you have known about Derek?"
"When you first saw him, you blushed and adjusted your dress and hair, but you did not greet him until he came to you, and you completely forgot to introduce me. But you were only a little disappointed when you met his wife, so I assumed that the infatuation had run its course," Sherlock returned coolly. "His wife has been staring daggers at you all night, so I suspect he complimented you in her presence. Let's really make him squirm," said Sherlock. His hand moved lower on Joan's back, and he pulled her closer. Then he gazed into her eyes so soulfully that she had to choke down a giggle. "Stop it," she hissed furiously. "You're making me laugh."
Sherlock lifted his free hand and tenderly brushed a tendril of hair behind her ear. "But Watson," he said, sounding more serious, "you are at your most bewitching when you laugh." He let his thumb linger as it grazed her temple, and she flushed suddenly. Her feet faltered, causing him to hold her still closer, and her eyes involuntarily fluttered closed as he leaned down until his cheek touched hers. She strained to hear his whisper above the voices of the other guests.
"There," he purred triumphantly. "Didn't I say I could be charming when I chose?"
Blushing and indignant, Joan reared back. Unable to reprimand him properly in polite company, she contented herself with pinching him on the shoulder just hard enough to make him wince.
As they rode home that night, Joan listened happily as, true to his word, Sherlock filled her in on which of her friends were breaking up, who was cheating with whom, and which individuals had money secreted in the Cayman Islands. When they returned to the brownstone, Joan was surprised when he accompanied her to her door.
"You don't have to do that," she said.
"Nonsense," he returned. "You, better than most, know what deviants lurk in the shadows."
They stood awkwardly until Joan impulsively stood on tiptoe and kissed him on the cheek, causing the corners of his eyes to wrinkle as he smiled genuinely for the first time that night. "Thank you," she said simply.
"The pleasure was mine," he replied. "It was a useful memory exercise and a chance to air out my formal wear." He paused. "It didn't hurt that my date was the most exceptional person at the party." As she turned with a pleased smile, he added, "Although…"
Joan looked over her shoulder with narrowed eyes. "Although?" she prompted.
"Although next year you might want to prepare with me. Your lack of knowledge regarding your friend's philanthropic activities is simply shocking." He turned, hands in his pockets, and strolled leisurely up the stairs to his door.