All characters belong to CBS, and Maurice Leblanc.
If you don't know who Arsène Lupin is, go look him up right now! Or better yet, go read the stories (which are now public domain and available online). You won't be disappointed, and I dare you, dare you, not to be completely charmed by the gentleman burglar ;)
She heard the old wooden floor creak and she opened one eye just in time to see a familiar hand place a mug of coffee on her bedside table.
Yes, she had a bedside table now. Two, actually. After the whole Moriarty/Adler/psychotic maniac affair died down, both her and Sherlock had three full days worth of sleep and food. Then, Watson rented a truck, took Sherlock (he insisted on coming) and drove straight down to the storage facility that housed her things. It took two trips, a lot of snapping on her part to watch his shoulder, but they loaded it all up, and took it all back to the brownstone.
He was right. This was her home.
New art was put up, an extra couch was placed here, an armchair there. The library nook was significantly expanded as her bookshelves went up along with her own sizable collection of tomes. There were more dishes now to leave about and unwashed for days. Another computer was set up and connected to the others parked on his desks. It was mismatched and it was eclectic, but it was all theirs. They knew without uttering a single word that what was hers was now his, and vice versa.
This was all part of "the change," for something had indeed changed between them. It was hard to pinpoint and difficult to describe, but it was there, and it wasn't difficult to conclude that it was pretty much permanent.
Sherlock felt it when he truly and fully witnessed the magnificent and awesome force that is one Joan Watson. This remarkable woman was as tenacious as a bulldog, possessed the fortitude of a saint, and had a mind that continued to delight and surprise him. She was also the most loyal creature that he had ever met, and, for the first time in his entire existence, he felt that he could entrust his life to another person - to Watson - without question.
Sherlock knew that Moriarty's influences would eventually get her out of prison. He also knew that Moriarty now knows how important and essential Watson is to him. He went on a downward spiral of drugs when he thought he had lost his lover. If, however, he were to lose Watson… Joan Watson was more than just a colleague and formal sober companion to him. She had become a part of him, and he would rather die himself than allow any harm to come to her.
Joan felt it while in bed the night after Moriarty/Adler/that bitch! was arrested and the adrenaline and sheer nerve she had been running on was allowed to dissipate, only to be replaced by the toxic wash of fear that pervaded her consciousness.
Not the traditional sort of fear. Joan wasn't lying, for instance, when she told Moriarty that she was too angry to be afraid. This fear was much worse. It started on the inside, almost as if it came deep from within the core that comprised her very being and spread instantaneously, like an electrical impulse, to the rest of her body. It caused Joan to grow cold in a second, her entire body almost pausing in all its functions as she was struck by the paralyzing jolt that instantly coated her in a cold sweat.
This fear came when she truly and fully realized what she had very nearly lost.
Eventually, she knew, Moriarty will escape. Eventually, it will get to the point where all those last-minute-I-changed-my-mind-don't-kill-him murder attempts on Sherlock will cease to be attempts, and the thought of Sherlock dead distressed her so much that she instantly turned her mind to something else. The void in her life if such a thing were to happen was too much to bear. Sherlock had become more than just a friend to her; he had become a part of her.
Gregson and Bell saw it, too. The saw it in the way Joan's eyes softened whenever they glanced over at Sherlock. They saw the way Sherlock looked at her with an almost reverence, whenever he thought she wasn't looking. And yet, strangely, the two police men never once thought that the changed feelings they were witnessing geared towards the romantic. It ran much deeper than that.
Back to the present, Joan caught a whiff of the coffee before she felt a wad of clothes hitting her legs.
"Uh," she groaned. "What is it?"
"Good morning! If you'd be so good as to rouse yourself, Gregson called, we have a case." She felt another round of clothing hitting the bed. "I've also brought you breakfast, careful you don't knock it down."
A case. This would be their first since Irene. Sherlock told her she's never seen him when not preoccupied. This will be her first opportunity. Joan lifted her head. Sitting neatly by her side was a tray with toast and fruit.
"Did you eat?" she asked, sitting up.
"I was busy getting the full details of this case, Watson."
Joan indicated her plate. "Tell me."
Sherlock grabbed one of her toasts and dropped into an armchair. "Do you know who Beverly Abbott-Benedict is? More familiarly known as 'Babs'?"
"No."
"Her husband, Theodore Benedict, is the CEO and primary shareholder of Belvox Pharmaceuticals. Although not a large corporation, relatively speaking, to other pharmaceutical companies, Benedict still takes home over 13 million dollars annually, which enables 'Babs' to live the life of an affluent, albeit listless housewife, with a penchant for expensive, high quality jewellery, especially south sea pearls."
"Oh my God, wait - I do know who she is. Isn't she that red head on Real Housewives of New York City?"
"She is indeed."
"Wow. Okay, so what happened?"
"Eight days ago, 'Babs' received an unstamped, un-postmarked envelope with no return address - indication of a hand delivery. Inside was a single sheet of paper, on which was written a letter. Gregson sent me a photo of it."
Sherlock passed her his phone. Joan wiped her hands and began to read.
Dear Babs,
I do hope I don't offend you by addressing this letter so informally. I have been so captivated by your television program, and so delighted by your charming personality and quaint little quirks, that I feel that I know you almost personally.
How is your adorable Little May doing? I'm sending speedy wishes for her recovery.
Your appearance at the fundraiser gala for the Children's Hospital was especially inspiring. Not only did your generous donation set you apart from your acquaintances, but your sense of style and fashion were truly a thing to behold!
In particular, that stunning champagne south sea pearl necklace caught my undivided attention. I am a man who has a weakness for beautiful things, and I find that necklace to be exactly in my taste.
If you'd be so good, please send it along immediately to:
Post Office - Radio City
322 W 52ND ST,NEW YORK, NY
PO Box 58583
I'd be very much obliged.
Of course, if you don't send it, then I'd be required to come along and fetch it, but while I'm at it, I'll help myself to your diamond and ruby charm bracelet and your very excellent emerald earrings, for my trouble. If that be the case, expect me on the 15 of April.
I remain, very truly yours,
Arsène Lupin
Watson looked up. "Who's Little May?"
"The family Pomeranian. Apparently she ate too much halva and had to be taken to the veterinary clinic. There was an entire episode devoted to it."
"Okay, so April 15 was yesterday. I'm guessing she didn't send the necklace and her jewellery was stolen."
Sherlock looked at her with a twinkle in his eye. "The Benedicts live with their two adult children in a gated estate. They employ three full-time security guards, in addition to having full video surveillance on the property and a top-of-the-line alarm system.
When that letter was delivered, it was slipped under the front door, and yet, no one saw a thing. No alarms were triggered, and, curiously, no camera caught anything out of the ordinary, which is odd, since there is one pointed at the front door at all times.
Last night, not a peep was out of place, and yet, miraculously, this morning the jewellery mentioned in the letter have disappeared. Their combined worth, an estimated $230,000."
Joan's mouth dropped open. "So who is this Lupin guy? Ever hear of him before? It sounds like he knows what he's doing."
"Oh, once or twice, while still in London. He gave the French authorities quite the headache. Get dressed, Watson. I'll inform you along the way."
Joan wasn't sure, but Sherlock looked excited.
More so than usual.
She wasn't sure what that meant.
To be continued...
Okay, I've never actually watched an episode of Real Housewives in my life, so I made all that stuff up. Hopefully it worked.
Also, this will be my very first Elementary chapter story. I haven't done well with chapter stories in the past, so please bear with me through what will probably be irregular updates. I apologize in advance. But, you know, fingers crossed, and all that.
Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoyed it.