folks they would laugh when they saw us together
a story in three parts
by anamatics
"I'm sorry Joan," Marcus says, rubbing at his eyes with his index finger and thumb. He's sitting on the edge of his desk looking absolutely dejected and irritated beyond belief. Joan doesn't blame him, the anxiety that's welled up and taken residence at the pit of her stomach won't dissipate and this situation is not going to get any better. "Our hands are tied. Sherlock is an adult with a history-"
"Marcus," Joan cuts him off testily. She honestly cannot believe that he's giving her a line like that. They both know that while Sherlock is an addict, he's got a very pragmatic approach to addiction and has turned down drugs several times when they were freely offered to him in recent memory. This isn't a relapse, Joan knows it and Marcus knows it too. They're stuck because Sherlock's done this before, following up on a lead, and apparently Joan's gut isn't a good enough reason to actual start an investigation. "That is a myth. You don't need to wait twenty-four hours to file a missing persons report. You told me that."
He looks up at her then, and his face says everything he doesn't dare say. "I know," he says in a low voice. "It isn't me, or even the Captain that's blocking it. They want to wait until later tonight before they do anything because they're pretty sure he'll turn up, having solved the case and no worse for the wear."
Joan doesn't think so. The case is twisted enough as it is without Sherlock going off on some ill-advised solo mission (which she's pretty sure he still would have told her about) on top of everything else. Lauren Evansport, 37, single mother of two very young children - a boy and a girl, had been found dead in the middle of an abandoned lot just inside the 11th Precinct's jurisdiction. She and Sherlock had been called in to consult, and the more that the dug into Lauren's past, the more that they found more questions than answers. Her children's father, in particular, was a great mystery, as was why she was so far away from her central Indiana hometown. They'd spoken to her mother the previous morning, and she'd had no idea why her daughter was in New York at all. They'd been under the impression she'd been living in Chicago, with a boyfriend whose name they'd never gotten.
She shakes her head, scowl firmly etched across her face. "Sherlock was convinced that Lauren was involved in something – he wasn't sure if it was drugs or smuggling or even running girls, but he was convinced that we were missing something important." She takes a step away from Marcus and glances towards Captain Gregson's office. She can see that his expression mirrors Marcus' and she hates that they're not able to act just yet. She wraps her arms more tightly around herself and tries to swallow the anxiety that she cannot shake. Something is very, very wrong. "He wouldn't just leave without telling me. And he would have taken his phone."
Marcus hangs his head. "Go home," he says, resting a comforting hand on her shoulder. "We both know Holmes. He'll turn up." There's worry in his eyes and Joan knows that it's because of how absolutely horrible the situation is. He's trying to put on a brave face.
When she gets home some twenty minutes later, the house is still empty, and Sherlock's phone has no new messages. Joan leans against the wall of the living room and draws a slow, steadying breath. There has to be something that they've missed. She doesn't think about how it's the middle of the winter, or how Sherlock is not the sort to disappear like this, even if he was relapsing.
It is that worry, beyond all others, that has her standing before the murder board some twenty minutes later. She's tracing the threads of their investigation as they found them, trying to see a pattern that they might have missed. They know next to nothing about Lauren Evansport besides the obvious and there's obviously a very large piece to the puzzle that simply isn't there.
Joan lets out a quiet sigh of frustration and wanders over to the computer to check her email. Sherlock's phone has no new notifications and Joan doesn't bother to actually enter in his password to make sure that they aren't simply not showing up on the lock screen. She'd made him change his settings after they'd accidentally switched phones one morning a few weeks back and she'd been waylaid gussing his passcode. They should be showing up.
"Nothing," she mutters angrily. She doesn't see any pattern in this – and usually Sherlock's the one who can pick them out without problem. She's got nothing. "What the hell am I missing?"
She picks up her notes and scans through them, distracted to the point that she almost doesn't hear the quick, three rap knock at the door. She sets her notes down and is halfway to berating Sherlock for leaving without any of his things – not to mention his coat and keys – when she catches sight of who's darkening her doorway. Her breath catches in her throat then, and she just about slams the door shut in protest for how much this is not happening.
"Hello, Joan Watson," and honestly, it's probably the shit-eating smirk that's gracing Moriarty's face rather than the fact that she's standing in the doorway and that she's most definitely not Sherlock that sets Joan's teeth into a slow grind of annoyance. "I've just had the most bizarre phone call and I was wondering if you would be willing to assist me in parsing out its meaning."
The problem is that Joan knows fully well that Moriarty would not show up here unless it truly was a weird phone call. She steps aside and closes the door behind Moriarty with a snap. "Sherlock is missing," she says.
"I'd figured," Moriarty replies. She's dressed in uncharacteristically casual clothes, Joan realizes in that moment – leather jacket over a white tee and jeans. It's an odd look on her, Joan doesn't like it. They stare at each other for a moment, as if neither can think of anything to say, before Moriarty continues speaking as if she'd never stopped. Joan thinks she loves to listen to herself talk. "The call was from an old associate of mine, offering a trade."
"Of what?" Joan asks, folding her arms over her chest and glancing towards the wall where they've pinned up their entire investigation.
"Information," Moriarty says simply, stepping into the living room. "He wanted me to hand him over a dossier on one of his enemies, in exchange for information on one of mine." She lets out a mirthless chuckle. "Imagine my surprise when I asked which one and he mentioned Sherlock by name."
Joan raises a single eyebrow at Moriarty. "Why is that surprising?"
Moriarty shrugs. "I don't consider him an enemy." She glances towards the wall, and Joan can see her interest is caught on Lauren Evansport's picture at the center of the web of their investigation thus far. "Is this your case?"
"No," Joan says testily, "We just enjoy decorating our walls with pictures of dead women." Moriarty lets other another mirthless chuckle and steps forward. "I know her," she says after a moment, tapping Lauren Evansport's face with a pensive look on her face. "That might explain all of this."
Maybe it is the break that they've been looking for, that one final piece to the puzzle that both she and Sherlock haven't been able to see. "Who is she?" Joan asks before she can help herself. It's been bugging her for the better part of a week now, trying to figure out the connection between Lauren Evansport and the people who murdered her. There had been seemingly no connection, and Sherlock had gone on at least two rants about how there was absolutely no way that anyone could be that squeaky clean.
"Her name is Marina Pietrova," Moriarty says, her accent on the name impeccable. Joan wonders, briefly, how many languages the woman speaks. She imagines that she's like Sherlock and is conversational in more than a few. "She's an enforcer for Demetri…" She turns to look at Joan then, hand dropping to her side. "And you don't want to get involved with Demetri."
"And why is that?" Joan asks, even though she thinks she already knows the answer.
If there's one thing that she and Sherlock are both very aware of, it is the criminal underbelly of this city that they both love. New York is far from perfect, and there are darker elements to the city. The Russian mob, in particular, has a steady presence, as do the Triads in Chinatown. There are other elements, elements that Joan's been keeping track of for what feels like over half her life now – but they're dying voices. It's the Mexican and Colombian cartels that are moving into the city, driving the old mobsters, the mobsters that Joan knows well from the soap opera-like sagas in the newspapers of her childhood, out of the city and to the outskirts of the criminal underworld.
Moriarty takes half a step forward, she's ventured into Joan's personal space and Joan doesn't like it. She doesn't back, doesn't let Moriarty know that she's uncomfortable. She is uncomfortable though, because she's willingly let a sociopath into her home and she knows that this woman – this sociopath – probably possesses the only lead that they've gotten in this case so far. She knows where Sherlock is, and that is enough to make Joan want to let her stay. "Joan," she says, and her lips twist around Joan's name in a way that makes Joan feel even more uncomfortable, if that is even possible. "When Sherlock disappeared, was anything out of place?"
Joan looks down at her feet. "No, his phone, his keys – even his coat, they're all still here. At first I thought he'd just jogged to the bodega to pick up some more milk, but then he just… didn't come back." She raises her eyes then and meets Moriarty's gaze head on. She doesn't flinch and she keeps her voice steady. "I went to the precinct already – they can't do anything until at least twelve hours have passed," she runs a frustrated hand though her hair. "They say it's because he's got a history of doing this, which is total crap and I know that it's not Marcus or Captain Gregson that's driving this and I don't understand why someone higher up is blocking them." Her eyes flutter shut and she bites back a frustrated groan. She hates this so much, because it's complete and utter bullshit.
She's startled a few long and calming breaths later, to feel a comforting hand on her shoulder. It's impossibly warm and certainly human and Joan isn't quite sure what to make of it, other than she wants to push it away and lean into it all at once. "He's got people everywhere, I'm not surprised," Moriarty says in a distracted sounding voice. "I didn't exchange the information, Watson, but I can. It's easy enough to reacquire."
"You would do that?" Joan asks, because she already knows that the only reason Moriarty is here at all is because she does genuinely care about Sherlock, even if she doesn't understand why she does. She's shockingly predictable in her continued attachment to Sherlock.
The hand on her shoulder pulls away, comes to rest on Joan's cheek. "Oh Joan," Moriarty says, her voice low and her eyes shining with something that Joan can't put into words. "I would move heaven and earth to keep you both safe."
Joan swallows and takes half a step backwards. She needs to put distance between them, because she doesn't know what Moriarty's bizarre tenderness means. She sucks in a shaky breath and then another. "Do you want some tea?" she asks in what is surely a remarkably transparent attempt to escape the room, even if only for a moment.
Moriarty has produced a phone from the back pocket of her jeans. She cradles it between her two hands, close to her chest. She looks up after a moment of staring at the screen. "I would," she says with that winning smile that Joan finds so irritating and intriguing all at the same time.
She flees then, retreating downstairs to the kitchen and the distraction of the simple routine of making tea. Joan's hands shake as she hears Moriarty's voice filter down from the top of the stairs as she clicks the stove on and waits for the gas to light. She fills the kettle and takes a deep breath. She can do this, she can work with Moriarty and she can get Sherlock back.
Soon though, she's without a reason to stay away, and she carries the two mugs upstairs and hands one to Moriarty without a word. She's still on the phone, her eyes narrowed and scribbling on a piece of paper pilfered from the printer with a chewed up pen that she'd probably found, discarded, somewhere on the desk.
"-are you sure that this is truly necessary?" she's saying, her lips pitched downwards into an irritated scowl. "I know that I haven't been in town recently, but a party is absolutely out of the…" She falls silent, obviously having been interrupted. There's a pause, as Joan sips her tea and Moriarty straightens, her whole body tight and poised as if ready to strike. "We'll be there," she says testily and hangs up.
The house is silent then, save the distant sound of the furnace switching on and the quiet hum of air escaping the heating vents. Joan watches Moriarty as sets down the pen and clutches the mug to her chest like a shield. She looks so odd in this moment, obviously irritated and deeply troubled at the same time.
"Tell me, Joan," Moriarty begins, taking an infuriatingly dainty sip of her tea before turning and fishing a coaster out from under a pile of Sherlock's papers and setting her mug down on it. "Do you like parties?"
Joan closes her eyes, this whole thing seems like a nightmare as it is, and the idea of going anywhere willingly with Moriarty is absolutely the last thing that Joan wants to do right now. She doesn't quite draw breath in that moment, but rather levels her best glare at Moriarty. Best deflect with humor. "If this is your way of asking me out you have another thing coming."
She chuckles then, picks up her tea and takes half a step away from Joan. Her fingers are splayed out over the page that's covered with her loopy, almost girlish handwriting. "My contact wants to do this exchange in person – I think he wants to make sure that I'm still alive since he's gone to all this trouble to do me a favor." Moriarty takes another sip of tea and smiles a smile that could almost be charming, if it had reached her eyes. "I told him I'd been out of town for personal reasons, couldn't very well tell him I'd spent the time feeding your government secrets until they decided to set me free."
It was a decision that Joan still doesn't agree with. She and Sherlock had both come to what was essentially an unspoken gentleman's agreement to not mention the subject of his ex after the incident with the kidnapped girl. Joan understood then, as she does now, that it's the sort of thing that's never going to go away, despite the fact that she desperately wishes it would.
"Wouldn't want to ruin your reputation, I'm sure," Joan says with the slightest amount of bitterness.
Moriarty makes an affirmative noise. "He's having a party in midtown, some hotel ballroom for his more legitimate clients. Not the sort of thing I'd usually go for, too public, but these circumstances are not exactly ideal."
"Do you think that Sherlock will be there?" Joan asks, because she honestly doesn't care about Moriarty's grandstanding. She wants to make sure that they get Sherlock back in one piece. "I mean, the guy never told you that he had him, just that he had information, right? How do you know he's not bullshitting you? How do I know you're not bullshitting me?"
"You don't," Moriarty says, sipping her tea and tapping her phone back to life. She navigates to an app that Joan doesn't recognize, but its purpose soon becomes obvious. The phone conversation that Joan had just overheard one half of starts to play and Moriarty drags her finger to a certain point in the three minute long conversation. "Listen," she says, and presses the play button, one finger clicking the volume on the phone's speaker up louder.
"Da, so we have an agreement," the voice says at the other end of the line. Joan supposes that this is the Demetri that Moriarty mentioned earlier. "You will be wanting proof of life, so listen." There's a sound like tape being ripped from skin, and then Sherlock's voice fills the room, demanding to know where he is and who's kidnapped him. Joan's fingers rise up to cover her mouth and Moriarty grimly shuts the program off.
"So tell me, do you like parties, Joan?" Moriarty asks again.
Joan lets out a resigned sigh. "How formal?"
She calls Marcus from the car on the way over the bridge. Moriarty had vanished for two hours, telling Joan to get dressed and that she'd be along to collect her. She's wearing a dress that Joan doesn't even dare put a price tag on, looking every bit the picture of Moriarty that Joan's always held in her head, poised and dressed to play her part as expertly as possible.
"We've been trying to get a hold of you," he says when Joan apologizes for not answering his texts. "Captain's been given the green light to start an investigation, if you still want us to go ahead."
Joan hates lying to him most of all, fidgeting under Moriarty's gaze in this little black dress that she'd found buried at the back of her closet. It's not her usual style and she feels almost naked in it – showing off far more skin to eyes she'd rather have anywhere else in the world than on her person. "Give him a few more hours, he seriously could just be running down a lead and lost track of time."
He makes an affirmative noise. "Did you find something at home that makes you think he did?" he asks.
Joan's eyes slide up to meet Moriarty's gaze and she feels her face heat before she looks away. This whole situation feels too much like a date and Joan really doesn't like it at all. "You could say that," she says. "Look, Marcus, I'll catch up with you in a few hours if he doesn't turn up."
"Well, let me know if he does," Marcus says. If he's caught wind of Joan's discomfort, he doesn't let on to it, for which she's grateful.
She promises to call him regardless and hangs up the phone, feeling those cold eyes still on her. Joan doesn't flinch when Moriarty leans forward and fixes a strand of hair that she's pulled out while on the phone. "You're good to not tell him everything," she says in a low undertone that makes Joan think that she probably heard both sides of the conversation. She starts to press the volume down button on her phone as discretely as she can. "Better to not mention me."
The worst part is that Joan knows that Moriarty is absolutely correct. One breath of Moriarty's presence in the city and she would find herself under an armed, twenty-four hour watch. They would assume, and perhaps incorrectly, that Moriarty had something to do with Sherlock's disappearance. She and Marcus have actually talked about it a few times, a casual observation of two people who understand and know Sherlock pretty well. Moriarty is a presence in his life that the NYPD collectively cannot truly understand.
"I don't get it," Marcus had said, after she'd told him everything that had happened with the Kayden Fuller incident. He'd still been in the hospital then, angry at the world. "The dude's in love with her despite everything that she's done to him, and he busts his ass to exonerate her from an extra lifetime sentence for what she did to that guy?"
Joan wonders if it's a cop's mentality that makes it so hard for both Marcus and Captain Gregson to understand the relationship there. She thinks she sort of gets it, because Moriarty can be irritatingly charming and an excellent verbal sparring opponent if given the opportunity. She and Sherlock trade letters because they're both unhealthily attached to each other and Sherlock will not listen to her when she points this out to him. Joan bets that Moriarty would say the same things he does, almost verbatim, if she were to mention it right now.
"I didn't want him jumping to any conclusions," Joan admits, not quite missing the privately pleased smile that drifts across Moriarty's face before it is schooled neutral once more.
The rest of the ride is silent, and it is only as they're working their way through the thick of Midtown traffic that Moriarty's hand shoots out to touch her thigh. "Whatever happens in there," she says, glancing towards the looming building that is playing host towards the party. "Follow my lead." She reaches out and takes Joan's hand, looking at the ring that Joan's got on the ring finger of her right hand. "And take that off."
"Why?" Joan asks. She loves this ring. It had belonged to her grandmother – her mother had given it to her on her eighteenth birthday and Joan can't remember a time that she's taken it off in recent memory.
Moriarty's smile is almost predatory and she leans forward, their noses nearly touching. Joan wants to draw back, but she's intrigued now, wanting to know the whys and the ins and outs of this plan that Moriarty has obviously cooked up in the two hours she'd left Joan to get ready. "Because, for this ruse to work, you're going to need to put it on your other hand."
It takes a hard count to ten to keep Joan from spluttering her disbelief at Moriarty's audacity. It takes a further count of fifteen to get her breathing under control; and even then, leveling an icy glare back at Moriarty, Joan feels like it isn't enough. "So your reason for your absence is that you got married." She deadpans. "To me." It's completely and utterly unbelievable that Joan wants to throw her head back and laugh, but Sherlock is missing and this is definitely a hair-brained scheme on his level if she's ever heard one in her life.
Her ire earns a mere shrug. "That is a family heirloom, your grandmother's I'm guessing." She gestures to Joan's ring and Joan scowls and lifts a hand to cover it. She doesn't to go along with this. It won't work. Anyone will be able to see through it. She nods though, when Moriarty's head tilts just off to one side and she seems to soften.
The car's pulled up to the curb, the driver stopping and Moriarty letting out a quiet breath of air. "It was a summer marriage," she says quickly, tucking her phone into her clutch and producing a ring that she holds up for just a second to catch the light. There's a stone on it, blue like her eyes, and Joan thinks it suits her, even if she hates the whole principle of this thing. "And we've been honeymooning in Europe – France mostly." She reaches out, as if she wants to touch Joan's cheek and her fingers hover in the air before Joan's face. Her expression is almost tender. "Trust me," she whispers, her voice almost pleading with Joan.
"You're lucky I've actually been to France," Joan grouses. She tugs her grandmother's ring from her finger and stares down at it for a moment. The driver has come around to let them out of the car and Joan anticipates the cold blast of air almost before he opens the door. She shivers, and pulls her wrap more firmly over her shoulders. She slides the ring home onto her finger and hopes to god she doesn't have to kiss Moriarty to make this seem convincing. She thinks she might actually gag.
Moriarty offers holds out her hand to Joan, and helps her from the car. She smiles at her, all pretty and full of something that Joan can't put into words. It is in that moment that she knows, beyond all measure of her own doubts about Sherlock's susceptibility to Moriarty's charms, that Moriarty is a fantastic actress. "You'll be fine," Moriarty says then, leaning into the car once more to collect a leather folio – the dossier that Joan assumes is the other half of this trade.
They are relatively alone when they enter the party, packed as it is with people. The large, obviously rented ballroom is full of the sort of opulence that Joan's come to expect from the upper echelons of New York society. She doesn't often have occasion to rub elbows with people like this and she's never particularly cared for the experience. It's so far and away from everything she grew up with. She takes a deep breath and lets Moriarty take her wrap and leave it with her coat at bag check. She doesn't relinquish the folio, carrying it like an oversized purse.
"Do you actually know anyone here?" Joan asks in a low voice as Moriarty surveys the room with the sort of quick precision she's come to recognize in Sherlock. She's looking for the man they're supposed to meet, as well as assessing the room for possible exits. Sherlock likes to look for them in case people run, Moriarty, she guesses, is looking or other things. She hopes she never has to find out what.
"I do," Moriarty says, and offers Joan her arm. Joan fights back the urge to recoil, and steps into the offered gesture, getting far closer to Moriarty than she's ever truly wanted to be. "I'll introduce you." This feels so wrong, to let Moriarty – Jamie, Joan realizes that if this has even a hope of fooling anyone she's got to think of the woman by her actual name, not her title. She wonders if Moriarty's given any thought to Joan's knowledge of her line of work – within the confines of this false marriage. She decides that she has to know, because that is the only what that this could ever have a hope of a chance. Moriarty isn't the sort to get married on a whim.
They slide into step beside a waiter with a tray of champagne flutes and somehow Jamie manages to snag two with one hand. She leans in then, breath hot against Joan's cheek. She smells of summer and of breath mints that are so strong they burn when you first put them in your mouth. Joan doesn't inhale a second time, no matter how much she wants to. "Sip it slowly, Joan," Jamie says in a muttered undertone, her fingers playing against Joan's neck. "I don't want you forgetting yourself."
"Only if you promise to do the same," Joan retorts, and goes completely stiff when lips brush against her cheek and she feels the heat rise to her face a way that is totally obvious to Jamie, if her shit-eating grin as she back away is anything to go off of. This is absolutely not going to work.
Jamie steers her towards an older couple entertaining a few other people, Joan guesses that it's the couple that knows Jamie, based on how their faces light up when they see her and how the husband's eyes narrow suspiciously when he sees Joan. He's probably got a crush on Jamie, Joan realizes, and she doesn't like the thought of that at all. They are Mr. and Dr. Karnsten, Jamie explains, introducing Joan as the group of people they'd been chatting with disappears back into the crowd.
"Joan Watson," she introduces herself, shaking Dr. Karnsten's hand. "Jamie just insisted that we meet you," she adds, swallowing all of her pride and batting her eyelashes at Jamie. Jamie starts, her eyes narrowing for an almost imperceptible fraction of a second before a warm smile crosses her face. It goes all the way to her eyes, and Joan swallows nervously. How much truth is there, on Jamie's side, in this lie?
"She'd mentioned the last time we saw her," Mr. Karnsten says with a polite smile at Jamie, "That she'd met the most wonderful person. I had no idea she'd be so beautiful as well."
She tries to laugh it off, but the flattery makes her cheeks flush and she hides behind a sip of champagne while Jamie tells this nice, older couple, of their marriage. Joan finds herself contemplating if they know Jamie as gay – because she certainly doesn't – of if that's just something they're taking in stride as only the New Yorkers in them can.
What's stupid is how easy it comes, to fall into a conversation with Dr. Karnsten about what sort of a doctor she is. Joan lies a little, and says that she's let her medical license lapse as she's found a that married life suits her far better than holding people's lives in her hands. Dr. Karnsten, unfortunately, had known of her failure and of the man who'd died by her hand. "It's just such a tragedy," she says, as Jamie's fingers curl protectively around her waist. "For someone with your skill and talent to have lost your way in the field, people spoke very highly of you, Joan."
"I know," Joan says, and voices something that she's been kicking around at the back of her mind for the better part of a month now. She doesn't think that she wants to go back into surgery, but she wants to help people. There's a free clinic not too far from where they live now and the director of it is an old friend of Joan's. "I've been thinking about renewing it actually, now that we're back in New York. I miss helping people."
When they walk away from the Karnstens a few moments later, Jamie's hand that's wrapped protectively around her waist doesn't relax. Joan feels the emotional exhaustion that always comes from speaking about medicine and her reasons – albeit relatively untruthful ones – for leaving the field, well up within her. The hands supporting her and the warm, constant presence of Jamie is actually comforting, and Joan hates that she wants to take comfort in it. "How do you know them?" She asks Jamie as they pause in an alcove by a wide window. The city is truly beautiful at night, and Joan only stops to take the time to notice it when she finds herself forgetting that she's from here, and that the city is constantly changing to stay exactly the same. "They're both lovely."
"He," Jamie says, one hand pressed against the window pane and her head tilted towards Joan's, "Is Demetri's most trusted lieutenant." Her eyes sparkle then, as the cold reality of this situation truly hits home for Joan. She's so far out of her element that she doesn't think she will ever feel comfortable doing something like this again. She takes a deep breath as Jamie chuckles. "Consequently, he is probably the one who cooked up this whole exchange. Demetri's dangerous, but this he isn't this smart… No, this has Erik's fingers all over it."
Joan reaches out then, and touches Jamie's shoulder. They're acting, she tells herself, this is just a game like any other of Jamie's games. It will end badly, she knows this. The reality is that she wants to touch Jamie, she wants be reassuring.
"I have a great deal of information that Erik would be interested in as well," Jamie says in a low voice. "I didn't think to bring it with me, I had-" she shakes her head angrily and looks to Joan with an icy expression on her face. "I made an error, assessing this situation."
"You're human," Joan says automatically. It's what she says to Sherlock when he gets like this, all mopey and depressed because he'd missed something obvious. "Humans are allowed to make mistakes."
And it is in that moment that Joan sees just how beautiful a genuine smile can look on Jamie Moriarty's face. It steals her breath away.
The five-string band on the far side of the room selects a slower song, and Joan bites at her lip, knowing that as 'newlyweds' they should be dancing. The problem is that Jamie's still got that folio in her hands and it's pretty obvious that she's not going to leave it just anywhere so she can have both hands free. She shifts from foot to foot, uncomfortable with the notion that she actually wants to ask Jamie if she'd like to dance. It's just for the ruse, she tells herself, because she can see Erik Karnsten speaking in a low voice to a man holding court amidst a circle of women.
They're looking over at the pair of them, standing by the window and definitely not dancing. "Jamie," Joan says in a low voice, reaching out and touching her shoulder. "They're watching us." She doesn't move or react when Jamie leans into her touch, or when she tosses her hair over her shoulder and glances back behind them, fingers white-knuckled around the folio.
"So they are." Couples have gathered, pulled towards the dance floor and the music. Joan's set her discarded champagne flute down on an abandoned table, and Jamie's left her clutch there as well. The folio hasn't left her hands until this moment when she takes half a step back from Joan and sets the folio down next to her clutch. She eyes it for a long time before turning back to Joan and holding out her hand.
Joan takes it without a word. She's not going to let Jamie Moriarty and her stupid smug smile or her bizarrely humanizing display of self-doubt get the better of her. No, she knows better than to do that. They have to dance, because that is what couples do when presented with an opportunity.
This is by far the closest that they have ever been to each other, and Joan isn't sure that she likes it. Jamie smells good and she knows how to dance and Joan's content to let her lead, one eye still obviously watching the folio, as if daring one of the mafia goons to try and steal it out from under her nose. Joan watches two, catching glimpses of other people staring at them, some in wonderment, some with curiosity clearly written on their faces.
"How did you manage," Joan asks. She doesn't bother to lower her voice much, as the conversation and music are so loud around them that she doesn't think they'll go overheard. She does lean closer, their bodies pressing together, so she can speak into Jamie's ear. "To keep your incarceration a secret from all these people?" Joan knows that while the FBI and the US Marshalls claim to have scruples, there are always bad eggs – and if Jamie knows of them, so can any other fairly large organization. She doesn't know the scope of this Demetri's organization, but he'd had a woman living essentially a double life, and he'd been able to kidnap Sherlock without much fuss.
Just thinking of Sherlock makes the anxiety that Joan's been managing to keep at bay throughout this whole ordeal come roaring back. She hates this, hates that she doesn't know how to quell the surge of emotions that have welled up in her just thinking about how horribly wrong this could potentially go.
Jamie's hand slides from Joan's hip to the small of her back. She can feel the heat of her even through the fabric of her dress and Joan feels herself swallowing nervously. This is too much, it's too intense. She'd never signed up for this.
"Stop thinking about things you cannot change," Jamie says, and she's so close that Joan wants to lean forward and step back all at the same time. She doesn't know what she wants, and her gaze flicks down to Jamie's lips. She's speaking again, and Joan can scarcely hear the words, talking about how she'd kept her public image elsewhere, and how this ruse would help to solidify that lie. Her lips are distracting and Joan's cheeks are burning with the shame of her realization that she actually could want this horrible, evil woman.
They stop, and Joan's pulled back into the real world. Jamie is looking at her curiously, and they're still so impossibly close. "You want to kiss me," she says sagely, and Joan looks away, down at where her hand is resting on Jamie's hip. Her grandmother's ring is on her finger and this is all a lie. She's caught up in the act and of course she'd want this.
"No…" Joan says, and she doesn't look up. If she looks up she's going to do it, consequences be damned. She grits her teeth and grinds out the truth, because lying seems like the other, worse option somehow. "Yes."
She isn't gay. It isn't like that. Joan isn't sure what, exactly, it is like. She's kissed a girl or two in her life, but she's never wanted, wanted to the point of distraction and forgetting how much she loathes this woman. She hates how easy it is to forget, in a moment of intimacy like this. She says yes, because she thinks she's going to do it anyway, and she does want this to work. She can feel herself tumbling downwards into the tangled web of lies and secrets that Jamie's woven, and doing so willingly feels like failure.
There's a finger on her chin, making her look up, and Jamie is kissing her with soft lips and gentle fingers on her cheek. It's all a lie, but in this room full of cut-throats and villains, Jamie is the one that Joan knows she'd throw her lot in with every time.
She stops before the kiss becomes anything but chaste, backs away before Joan can lean in to kiss her again. "They're ready for us," Jamie says in a low voice. She inclines her head almost imperceptivity towards Erik Karnsten and the man he's been speaking to. They're standing by a door across the room. Joan follows half a step behind Jamie as she collects her things from the abandoned table and checks the folio before she lets out a satisfied little sigh and makes for the door. "Whatever happens," she says as Joan catches up to her, "do not speak unless they speak to you directly. I don't know if they've bought into the game and I shan't risk your life on top of Sherlock's, Joan."
Joan nods and nothing more is said before they step off into the side room and Joan has to swallow the scream that threatens to escape her lips as she takes in the contents. Jamie's standing half a step before her, and her fingers twitch before they clench into a fist. Joan understands Jamie's anger, she's been on the receiving end of it before and she wants absolutely nothing to do with it. She knows that
Sherlock is tied to a chair in the middle of the room. This is a normal enough occurrence in Joan's life that she's not actually freaked out by that. No, it's the cut to the side of his head that's still oozing a blood and the black eye that concern her.
"We'd thought you'd left the business," Mr. Karnsten says, arms folded over his chest as the other man, Joan assumes he is the mysterious Demetri, stands with his hands in his pockets.
"And what gave you that idea, Erik?" Jamie glances towards Demetri, an annoyed sneer playing across her face that does absolutely nothing to betray the rage that Joan has seen the quiet signs of in the way that Jamie is carrying herself. "My operations continued in the same capacity as before."
"This is true, yes," Demetri speaks for the first time. He steps forward and holds out his hand in what looks like a gesture of peace. "Erik was concerned, given that you hadn't pulled a major job in so long. I think I understand why you didn't, though." Jamie glances over her shoulder at Joan, who tries her best to not look too horrified by the idea of being sized up by two Russian gangsters. She takes Demetri's hand politely and shakes it and lets out a surprised sounding squawk as he pulls her into a one-armed hug. "Congratulations are in order, my dear M." Demetri laughs, swatting her on the back. "It is not often that one in this line of work finds a supportive partner."
Joan takes a deep breath and digs her nails into her palm to keep from looking at Sherlock, who was staring at her with an absolutely betrayed look on his face. Joan purses her lips and shakes her head just once, off to the left side. She's caught up in trying not to look at the hilariously alarmed look on Jamie's face at the boisterous Russian congratulations she's on the receiving end of and trying not to look at Sherlock and his confused eyebrow wiggle at the same time. She isn't sure if she wants to laugh or cry at this whole situation, but the Russians have completely bought into the lie, and Joan's glad of it. It means that they will probably manage to get Sherlock out of here in one piece.
"Thank you, Demetri," Jamie says, pushing on his chest with two hands and stepping back. She's smiling, even if it's completely and utterly fake in Joan's eyes. She wonders when she'd gotten so good at pulling the real emotions from the fake ones on Jamie's face. "We've been in France mostly," she says after a moment's contemplation.
"Erik says she's a doctor," Demetri continues. He claps his hands together and rubs them like he's cold, before turning a broad, smiling face, complete with dimples, on Joan. She doesn't flinch or look away, and she's really impressed that she's managed to pull off a somewhat decent smile as well. "Forgive me," he says. "I do not know your name."
She stiffens, not wanting to reveal anything about herself that this man might be able to use against her later. "Joan," she says, biting at the inside of her cheek to keep her face as neutral as possible. This is just a game, it's just a role. She can pretend to be someone else for a while. "We're still debating what we're doing about the last name. She," Joan steps forward and rests a hand on Jamie's shoulder. She can feel how tense Jamie is as soon as her fingers come into contact with Jamie's skin. "Doesn't want to hyphenate."
"It would sound ridiculous," Jamie points out, not missing a beat. "But we are not here to discuss my marriage, Demetri. You have something of mine, and I have something that you want. Let's make the exchange and be on our way. You know how much I hate parties." She holds out the folio, expression grim and determined. "That is everything that I have on the Swede you're looking for."
Demetri takes the papers folio and opens it, letting out a low whistle. "I am always forgetting that information is really your business, M." He chuckles and passes the folio over to Mr. Karnsten, who flips through the pages and nods once. He stares at them for a long moment before tapping his chin. Joan's stomach clenches with nervousness. She isn't sure why she's so afraid, this seems to be going well. "By the way, if you ever find yourself wanting children, come see me. We can get you a little girl or two no problem. Maybe one that looks like each of you?" He glares over his shoulder at Sherlock. "That one was sticking his nose into that side of my business; you know how these things can be." He chuckles. "I know that he is your adversary, though. Please deal with him accordingly."
Jamie nods once. "I will." There's nothing relaxed about her person, the entire line of her body is tight tension and Joan's nervous just looking at her.
"You're a doctor, right Joan?" Demetri pulls a key from his pocket, as well as a business card. "Mr. Holmes here might need some patching up..." He presses them both into Joan's hand with an almost irritatingly charming smile. "Call this number, it is my adoption agency. We can fix you up."
Mr. Karnsten snaps the folio shut. "I've taken the liberty of collecting your coats from coat check, Demetri and I would rather you not take Mr. Holmes out of the building through the party. The service elevator is just through this door."
They leave the room after shaking hands with both of them, and Jamie lets out a slow, shuddering breath. Sherlock is looking at them both like they've got three heads and Joan shakes her head once before bending to unlock him from the various bonds that holding him to the chair. She checks him for injuries as she does it. His wrists are bruised from squirming, but he hasn't dislocated anything that she can feel. Jamie's collected her coat and has tugged Joan's wrap from where it'd been stuffed down the sleeve.
"This looks bad," Joan says, fingers gently poking at the cut on Sherlock's hairline. She tugs the tape from his lips slowly and lets him suck in a few breaths of eyes before she eyes him critically. "Has it been bleeding this whole time?"
He nods. "I think I have a concussion, Watson," he confesses, rubbing at his wrists. "Because I could have sworn that you were pretending to be married to her and that cannot possibly be true. Short term memory loss and confusion are symptoms of concussions."
Just barely managing to not roll her eyes at his indgination over this whole bizarre situation, Joan helps him to his feet. He's situated and standing of his own accord Joan glances over at Jamie, who's grimly staring out the door. She's shoved her clutch into her coat pocket, and Joan catches sight of what is very clearly a gun handle tucked into the other pocket. It almost figures that she'd suspect a double cross, but then again, Joan had been worried about it as well.
"It was a favor for a favor," Jamie says with a pleasant smile. "You're looking far worse than the last time I saw you," she adds with an assessing glance to Sherlock.
He opens his mouth and then closes it, obviously thinking better of whatever retort he's thought of. "I want an explanation," he says as Jamie leads them past the service elevator and out onto the hotel floor. She's heading for the main elevator, which will spit them out into a busy hotel lobby. It's smart, to introduce other parties into the possible ambush. Joan appreciates it.
Joan pulls her wrap around her shoulders and promises him that he'll get one, just as soon as they're out of here.
"He's got one hell of a shiner," Joan says over the phone to Marcus as Jamie's driver takes them back over the bridge towards home. "But he's in one piece."
"Thank goodness," Marcus says. He lets out a relieved sigh. "Are you at home now? We just got a call from the vic's parents, they've arrived in town. I don't know if either of you are really up to coming in to speak with them."
Joan bites her lip and glances at Sherlock, he's got his arms crossed and is very pointedly not looking at Jamie. His leg is bouncing up and down and he looks absolutely exhausted. Joan figures that she'll get him patched up and then send him to bed. The case can wait until the morning. "Better put it off until tomorrow," Joan says, feeling the weight of the ordeal today has been pressing down on her shoulders. "There are some new developments in the case that he and I want to discuss too." An idea strikes her then, and she adds. "Hey, can you run a check on a Marina Pietrova? Her name came up today. I think she's Russian."
"Will do," Marcus says and he hangs up after a quick goodbye. Joan hangs up her phone and holds it in her hands for a moment before setting it on the seat beside her.
This, she realizes, is beyond awkward.
They get back to the house without anyone speaking a word, which Joan thinks, given how both Jamie and Sherlock love to talk, has to be some sort of record. They're into the house before Sherlock rounds on Jamie and demands, again, to know what the hell is going on.
Stifling all the annoyance that she feels at Sherlock for not thinking that maybe, just maybe, this wasn't Jamie's idea; Joan disappears upstairs and collects the first aid kid from the bathroom. She sits him down on the couch and begins to explain to him how natural it was for her to be worried that he'd gone missing in the middle of a case and how annoying it was that the police didn't want to act on the report that she'd filed until he'd been away for longer. "She showed up," Joan adds, glancing at Jamie, who's just returned, having disappeared into the bathroom and changed out of her dress and into the same jacket and jeans from before. It makes her look so completely and utterly normal that Joan's almost sick to her stomach, knowing that there's a gun tucked down the waistband of her pants and having seen photographs of what Jamie had done to the man who'd kidnapped Kayden Fuller. "The Russian called her, not me, or even the police; he kidnapped you to get something from her."
"Yes, you're lucky I was in town, Sherlock. I'd hate to think what Demetri's boys would have gotten up to, had I been overseas," Jamie says. She's standing in front of their wall, looking at the pictures of Lauren – or Marina, whatever her real name was, her finger trailing down a clipping from the Ledger that Sherlock had printed out. "Joan was willing to go along with my plan, and to provide a plausible explanation for my absence from Demetri's loathsome parties this past year."
Joan bats Sherlock's hand away as he reaches up to prod at the butterfly bandaids that she's used to pull his head wound closed. It's already showing signs of staring to heal, so she doesn't think that it needs stiches. "Don't poke it," she says and he scowls at her. His leg has started to bounce again. "Anyway, yes, it was sort of a weird plan, but I went along with it. It worked out, let's leave it at that."
He scowls, all petulant like a child who hasn't gotten his way. "I will not have you making deals with her, Watson, that's how it starts."
Joan gets to her feet. She's taken off her shoes and she feels impossibly overdressed between the pair of them. It's the anger that gets her more than anything else, because he cannot be grateful that they've just bailed him out of the hands of the Russian mob. No, it's all about his own personal hang-ups with Moriarty and how he cannot wrap his head around that fact that she'd be willing to save him. Or even that Joan would be willing to set aside her own dislike of the woman for long enough to ensure Sherlock back in his own home with a case half-solved to keep him busy. "As I am my own person," Joan says testily, "and certainly not married to you or to anyone else. I'll make my own mistakes, thank you."
She doesn't know why she storms out, or why Sherlock doesn't call out after her. She hears Jamie tell him good night and she stands by the door, one hand on her coat and the other tugging on the flats from the other day that she's yet to bring up to her room. She's tired, she's confused, and this case has got her thinking in circles.
"Walk me to the car," Jamie says, gathering up the bag of her belongings that she's left by the door. Joan pulls her coat on and follows her outside, slamming the door for good measure. She can see Sherlock watching them in the window, and she knows that she cannot say all that she wants to say, because thanking Jamie is too much.
"What was in that dossier, on the Swede?" she asks as they walk up the block. She doesn't know why she wants to know, or even if she'll be able to stomach what she's about to hear. They've got time, and Joan doesn't want to talk about Sherlock or their ruse or even what they'd done after that dance. It's late now, and most of the parking on the street is taken. Jamie's driver must have had to circle around to find a place to park, well out of Sherlock's line of sight behind a tree.
Jamie turns to look at Joan then, and her expression is not one of suspicion, but rather resignation. Joan's not used to seeing it on her face and it takes her a moment to place it. "He's a contract man," she explains. "He did Demetri's cousin about two years ago, he was all of fifteen." She shakes her head. "I don't really blame Demetri for wanting him, though. Larson likes young boys like that, and from what I heard, he didn't make an exception for a professional hit."
Revulsion almost chokes Joan then, and she stops, feet planted as firmly as she can get them. She feels like she wants to vomit. "So in giving that to the Russians, we're doing the world a favor?" Joan asks, swallowing against the bile that's threatening to well up from her stomach.
"If that is what helps you to sleep at night," Jamie says and Joan wants to shake her. How could anyone be so cold? She looks at Joan and she's as hard as she was around Demetri. "Give me your phone," she says and Joan blinks once before holding it out.
"What are you doing?" Joan asks, watching Jamie's fingers fly over the keyboard.
"Your dead woman, she had two very young children," Jamie says quickly. "I would not be surprised, going off of their photographs, if they were to turn up missing within the next day or so. They both show signs, even in the pictures, of having spent time in an orphanage, probably in the former Soviet Bloc." Sherlock had picked up on that as well, but there had been no official adoption paperwork filed as far as they could dig up. Jamie looks up then, eyes flashing almost dangerously as she saves whatever she's doing onto Joan's phone. "Demetri offered them to you, Joan."
Her mind races as she thinks about just what Demetri had said to her. He'd offered her children – for their laughably fake marriage, had she wanted them. "So this is what then? Another favor I'll owe you?"
Jamie steps forward, tucking the phone back into Joan's pocket. "No," she explains, leaning in and kissing Joan once more. Again it is chaste, innocent, and full of promise. Joan wants her to do it again when she pulls away. "Call it a need to see this thing through. People who deal in children are deplorable." She tilts her head to one side. "You scratch my back, I'll scratch yours. I dunno if you'll need it, but I've saved my number into your phone and wrote you an algorithm so that you can get around my security."
She retreats then. Joan finds herself staring after her, watching as Jamie disappears into the car and vanishes, two red headlights in the cold midnight air.