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 just what I want them to do. I am not a writer, so please don't be too harsh with critiques...I mostly wrote this to clear my head.
That night, as usual, Joan was annoyed but not the least surprised when she heard Sherlock's staccato knock at 2am. It had been a difficult day and a trying case, and she'd expected him hours earlier. She knew that creating a private space for her had been a huge sacrifice on his part, and as he reminded her repeatedly, knocking was a courtesy he extended, as he could easily have broken any lock she installed. Just the same, she routinely chastised him during his nighttime visits. Today was no exception.
"Really, you needn't have wasted the expense of a private apartment if you intended on invading every other night."
As usual, he was unperturbed. "Don't exaggerate, Watson. It has been nearly a week since my last visit. Besides, I'm not 'invading,' as you put it. Although I might as well have dispensed with knocking tonight; there was no need to wake you."
"Okay, then," Joan said abruptly. Without another word, she turned around and headed back to her bedroom, pretending that she couldn't hear him padding along behind her. After climbing into bed, she glared at the man who stood framed in her doorway, shifting uneasily from foot to foot. Finally, she sighed in annoyance and spoke with exaggerated patience. "If you didn't need to wake me, why are you here?"
"I wish to sleep in your bed tonight," he said peevishly.
"My bed? What's wrong with yours?" Joan asked warily. Clearly this was not the result of a botched experiment in his apartment. He had slept on her couch a few times after nighttime adventures made his own rooms uninhabitable. She knew that all their friends—including, she suspected, Gregson and Bell—assumed that if they had not already slept together, it was just a matter of time. Were they right after all? If Sherlock had been anyone besides Sherlock, she knew that the question would have surfaced long ago. What she didn't know was what her response would be. She should have been prepared, but her feelings about Holmes were anything but simple, and curiosity battled fear when she pictured them together, indulging in an entirely new and different type of intimacy.
As usual, Sherlock read her mind. "Relax," he said. "Sex is the last thing I want with you right now."
Covering embarrassment with anger, she growled, "Sherlock, if you are trying to…"
He interrupted her impatiently. "Don't be deliberately obtuse, Watson. You are quite aware that you are beautiful and that any man, including myself, would be privileged to have congress with you." She opened her mouth, but he continued. "The point is, your value far supersedes the physical. You are courageous, forgiving, more intelligent than I care to admit, and, though I am loathe to admit it, surprisingly compassionate regarding my…idiosyncrasies. Those qualities eclipse your beauty, stunning though you are."
She wasn't sure whether to be flattered or annoyed, so she chose the latter. "Then why," she said slowly and deliberately," do you want to join me in my bed, if it isn't for 'congress,' as you so romantically put it?"
"Because my room is cold, because it's easier to wake you in the morning, and," he said, as if it was obvious, "because I want to be with the person I love most in the world." He was at her eye level now, and although his tone was casual, his gaze was direct and intense, as if daring her to deny the reality of his assertion.
Joan looked at her hands as she collected her thoughts. She had applied a name to their mutual devotion so long ago that she couldn't remember how it felt not to love Sherlock Holmes, nor how it felt not to be loved by him. However, the words had remained ever unspoken, and she had half-expected that this state of affairs would continue indefinitely. Privately, she'd doubted that he had the capacity to put a name to their bond, let alone speak it aloud. She'd always told herself that this was fine. In fact, she'd reasoned, it allowed her to imagine starting a family with more appropriate men without admitting that no one, no one, could measure up to her partner. Why, then, did her heart jump at the sound of his words?
Joan felt Sherlock watching her carefully, and as their eyes met, his face softened. He continued simply, "Love is quite different from desire, of course, but they do have one similarity; the need to be as close as possible to the object of your affection. So please, if you would, slide over so I can have a bit more space."
She complied wordlessly, and he slipped easily under the covers, coming to rest just close enough to touch, but far enough to give her room to move away. While he settled into the pillow that she had so recently vacated, Joan tried to sort conflicting feelings. She realized that she was sure of one thing; like it or not, he was right, and he was exactly where he belonged.
She listened to Sherlock's steady breathing as her eyes grew heavy. Suddenly a wicked thought occurred to her, and she sat up. Turning to her partner, she said, with as much seriousness as she could muster, "And what if I desired congress?"
Sherlock was not phased for a second. His lip quirked as he said lightly, "Well now, that is an entirely different matter for consideration. I'm not sure my proclivities would appeal to you, but you have already proven yourself an apt pupil in other matters. However, that will have to wait, my dear Watson. I'm afraid I'm a bit tired at the moment." He lifted his hand to block the pillow that was lodged at him, then locked his hands smugly behind his head as he and his companion both sank into a contented sleep.