They were to meet here in front of the Museum of Natural History. The lecture, "Musings on Maggots: A Day in the Life of a Corpse" was sure to draw quite a crowd and Watson was late. Sherlock exhaled a sigh of relief when he saw her coming up the street wrapped warm against the autumn chill in her favorite sweater, well, his favorite of her sweaters actually. He had set her clothes out this morning for no reason other than he hadn't in a while. Always surprised him a bit that she didn't balk at this behavior.
"I'm sorry. I lost track of the time," she didn't elaborate any further, adjusted her waistband a bit and led the way into the museum.
As the lights dimmed, they found seats that met Holmes' criteria - horizontally dead center in front of the stage and one-third of the way up. As the lecture progressed, he noted she seemed ill at ease.
"Watson. You seem to be in some discomfort. Dodgy egg?" He whispered with feigned concern, knowing that last comment would irritate her.
"I'm fine." She adjusted herself on the seat ever so discretely. "Pay attention to the maggots."
As they left the auditorium he again noticed Watson's unease and her attempt to shelter her lower left abdomen. He surmised it was just about an inch, maybe two, in from the hip bone. Holmes bided his time, didn't probe her any further on the subject and instead discussed tissue decay and fly larvae incubation periods on the cab ride back to the brownstone.
"I'm going to go change, will you put the kettle on?" Watson started up the stairs.
"Certainly. You can show it to me in the kitchen," Sherlock said over his shoulder.
Joan stopped, one foot on the stair riser, "Excuse me?"
"I'd very much like to see it. Your tattoo." He clipped his "t's" and stretched out the "oooo" for proper effect.
Caught off guard, irritation crept into her voice, "What are you talking about?"
"I am a bit disappointed you didn't come to me first," dropping to a more sincere tone.
"Sherlock, you're wrong..."
"No. I am right. I'd like to inspect it, make sure it's quality work. I am sure you researched hygiene, etc. but still best to get a second pair of eyes." And with that he headed downstairs to do as she had asked.
She stood on the stairs, staring in disbelief at the space where he had just been. With an exasperated sound, Joan turned, winced and climbed the stairs.
"I'll be waiting in the kitchen, don't be too long" his words floated up to her from the stairwell.
The rooms downstairs were all dark except for the kitchen. Watson walked in, her look defiant, her sweatpants loose and covered by her sweater.
Sherlock handed her a cup of tea, "I'm sure those feel much better, less rubbing, hmm?"
Angrily, Joan retorted, "I don't know why you think I got a tattoo..."
Sherlock ignored her surly denial and stared wide-eyed at her in anticipation. "What did you get? I've ruled out "mom" because of the area which you chose, more of personal space, not for mass consumption, hmm?" She stared icily at him. He continued, "If I may be so bold as to guess, perhaps the euglassia watsonia... " The words came out hesitantly.
"Alright, yes, I did get a very small tattoo. Why did I think I could keep this from you." She sipped her tea. "Anyway, what makes you think the tattoo has anything to do with you?" She said still irritated.
Sherlock looked slightly embarrassed and a bit crestfallen as he crossed the room to sit at the table. "You're right. None of my business. Sorry if I've overstepped."
She regretted it immediately. "I'm sorry. I was just hoping to surprise you..."
Watson smiled at him, "Still want to see it?" He looked at her to make sure she was sincere. She crossed over to the table and stood before him.
She carefully tugged at the waistband of her pants and gently pulled them and her undergarments down enough to where the bandage could be seen. He looked at her face for permission before he gently touched the gauze.
Watson nodded, "Go ahead..."
It sat as he had thought about an inch and a half from her hip bone. His silence confused her.
"What do you think?" Joan almost whispered.
Sherlock stared at her tattoo - a small opened lock, similar to the first one he taught her to pick, inscribed with "JW" paired with a key emblazoned with "SH" across its handle. His eyes as he looked up at her told her more than words ever could.
He gently re-covered the tattoo and placed the lightest of kisses on the material protecting it. Sherlock carefully laid his forehead against her midriff for the briefest of seconds as Joan's hand caressed the top of his head.
Sherlock tried to compose himself as he stood up. "Have you uhm, cleansed it yet?" She shook her head no. They stood inches away from each other, his hand on her hip. He cleared his throat, as he attempted to sound less emotional, "Very important to prevent infection. If you'd allow me, I can .. We can wash the area ... I have some ointments and such ..." He bobbed his head and she nodded in agreement. They headed upstairs as Sherlock lectured her on tattoo maintenance.
The lightest of smiles crossed Watson's lips. She had managed to surprise Sherlock Holmes.