"It seems like maybe you're the game." – Joan Watson, "Elementary" 1x21
The text that wakes her is simple and to the point, and it immediately induces panic: Escaped.
For the first time since she's lived at the brownstone, Joan Watson and Sherlock Holmes emerge from their rooms at the same time. Looking at the time, she realizes it's not only two in the morning, but she's only been asleep for about 30 minutes. She is on her way down the stairs when she sees him at the bottom of the staircase, clutching his cell phone much like her. Probably on his way up no doubt to check if she's received the same message. He has a look on his face that probably matches hers: jaw slack and eyes wide followed by immediate recovery.
"Coffee," she says as she makes her way past him and into the kitchen. She does all she can to avoid eye contact with him until she's certain he can't see the worry in her eyes. He's too calm. She remembers the last time he was this calm. That time, she came to discover he'd been on his way to torturing an assassin.
"Files," he says. Sherlock takes off toward the never-ending bookcases.
Joan starts the coffee and busies herself with getting everything she can together. Finally, Sherlock pulls a chair away from the table for her, and she sits at the table with coffee, files and tablets in hand.
"Irene breaking out isn't something unexpected," Sherlock says, settling into his own chair. "Truth be told, I'm shocked she made it as long as she did in prison."
"How did she do it?" Joan asks. "I mean, I know she has an extensive network, but this is ridiculous."
"I'm far less interested in how," Sherlock says. "I want to know why."
There are photographs of crime scenes, of Irene herself and of various newspaper clippings. There are also a few personal things scattered in there, and Joan's fingers grab the only surviving photo of Irene and Sherlock. She gazes down at the picture. Both are smiling, almost bashful as they embrace for some kind of black tie event.
Of course, he hadn't bothered with a suit like a normal man. This would typically make her smile. When Joan doesn't hear him still going through everything she looks up to see him frozen and watching her with a peculiar look on his face that she can't place. His eyes go from Joan to the photo in her hands and back again. With careful fingers, he takes it from her.
"This isn't going to help us figure this out, Watson," he says, putting the photo on another side of the table.
Joan stays quiet and watches him for a long moment while he works. She begins to say something, stops and starts rummaging through the mound of paper.
"Have you thought about the big picture in this case?" Joan asks finally.
"Of course I have," he says, pinning a crime scene picture up on the wall. His eyes are narrowed, concentrating on whatever clues he can deduce from pieces of paper. "But I can't foil her plans if I don't know what it is I'm supposed to be foiling."
"That's not what I'm saying," she says. "She told you that she looks at people and sees games. Not puzzles, like you do. Games."
"You're suggesting that the first round is over, and the game is still going," Sherlock says with a nod. "Based on that theory, we would need to get ahead of her to uncover her end game."
"Exactly," she says. "And to do that we need to know everything about her. We need to be able to discern what's real and what's fake. We need to find out everything about the woman behind the persona."
"And how do you think we're going to do that?" he asks. But she knows he's figured out what she's about to say; he probably just hopes she won't say it.
"You're going to write down everything you know about Irene Adler." Joan hands him a notebook and pen.
Sherlock watches her with a hesitant gaze, not reaching for the pen and paper she holds out. Instead, he narrows his eyes on her. Joan doesn't budge. Instead, she does the same thing to him. For a moment, neither one back down.
"Fine," he says with a glare and a wave of annoyance. "But if you think that this—"
"Just do it, Sherlock," Joan says with a sigh. "Maybe we'll find a lead from it. Either way, we need to figure out who we're dealing with if we're going to end this game once and for all."
He settles and begins writing. Not looking up from the paper, he has an air of irritation that Joan chooses to ignore. She watches him, trying to see any signs of the trigger she knows exists. She wants to sit there with him, if anything to show him that she's going to be there for him no matter what happens in the next adventure.
"Watson, I do not need an audience," he says. "Why don't you go tend to one of your books while I do this?"
She doesn't protest. Instead, she nods and goes to the library, picking up a book and studying it while her mind digests both Sherlock's state of mind and the possibility that Irene isn't just after him anymore. Joan doesn't doubt she's on her list of targets, considering it was her idea that beat her last time. It took all the trust she had to send a recovering addict home with a syringe full of heroin. And in the hospital, it hadn't been the thrill of victory you'd expect when she opened the door to find Irene not only there but confessing to the whole ruse.
Instead, all she could see was her sitting next to Sherlock. The look on her face wasn't an arrogant smile that told Irene she beat her; it was an icy look that warned her to get away from him. Not just now. Forever.
She knows Sherlock well enough to know this is difficult for him. And even though they are partners, she knows he hates showing anything that might be seen as a chink in his armor. Like how much this pains him. Irene Adler was the one person who not only consistently outsmarted him, but she was also the one person he connected with. Until Joan forced herself into his life. Some would find it odd that the two people Sherlock has become close to have forced their way into his life. But not her. It's the only way for anyone to connect with him. Just ask his brother, Mycroft.
When he is done a few hours later, the list is broad to say the least. They relocate to their normal places. She sits on the red couch, and he sits on the floor as they piece together the paper trail. There are several parts of the list pertaining to sensitive matters better left in the bedroom, to which Sherlock will only quip that Joan had said to write down everything. She realizes it's his way of getting back at her for disclosing the most intimate parts of his personal life, something he still resents even though they are friends.
"You say she's from Berkshire," she says, ignoring as best she can the intimate details of the tumultuous relationship standing out on the paper in her hand. Thankfully, her years of being a surgeon trained her to keep her voice the same in situations where emotions are high. "She told you where she's from?"
"No," he says, leaning his head back into the couch to gaze up at her. "But her accent gives that away for her."
"You said she was an American to begin with," Joan points out. "How do you know she didn't fake it like she did before?"
"I thought of that," he says. "But her American accent, at times, was off. I attributed it to her having been in London for so long. Her true accent is quite pure."
"Okay, so we have a basic idea of where she's from," Joan says, pulling up an encyclopedia on the tablet and settling on a map of Berkshire. "And we know she loves art."
"Not much to go on, but I've done it with less," Sherlock says, pursing his lips, raising his eyebrows and glancing at Joan.
She doesn't make eye contact with him. Instead, she rolls her eyes, delves into the files again with another sigh and prepares for another long night surrounded by papers and mystery and puzzles.