A/N: I don't own any of the "Elementary" characters and I am not making any money from writing this.
Please forgive any minor spelling or grammar mistakes, English is not my native language.
I recently realized that I haven't written an "Elementary" fanfiction in almost two years. Unforgivable! So, here I am with this oneshot. I hope this makes up for the absence, at least a little. For a start. It takes place late in season three or early in season four, you decide. Just a reminder: Joan got her basement office in the episode 3x15 "When Your Number's Up". I also have a new, multi-chapter "Elementary" case!fic planned, but until then, there's this. Rated M just to be safe. Enjoy. (And yes, I parodied "The Sound of Silence" by Simon & Garfunkel near the end.)
"Oh, yes, Sherlock... Give it to me..."
Joan sighs, and has to read the police report from the beginning again. This whole thing is so silly. Sherlock brought a girl over. He announced it, like usual. Whenever that was due to happen, Joan would usually leave for a few hours. But she didn't feel like going out, and she really wanted to work on that one case from her private client. She hasn't been taking much of those lately, but this one sounded interesting. (A botched hamster shop robbery in Brooklyn. The owner almost died. Almost.) So she decided to stay in her office, in the basement, while Sherlock was... entertaining himself upstairs. Figuring that she wouldn't see nor hear a thing that way. Sherlock agreed, although he was sceptical. But even though the walls there are pretty thick... well, they are obviously not thick enough, as Joan soon learned. And, apparently, the basement's position and structure makes for some... interesting acoustics. And now she's stuck here. Joan Watson: consulting detective/private detective/unwilling eavesdropper of her best friend's sexual escapades. Great.
Joan runs a hand through her hair. She wants to leave; but she doesn't want to prove Sherlock right, let alone make it known that she... heard things. Let alone interrupt them. Still, she can't help but wonder what kind of woman Sherlock has... well... with him, up there. She retreated to her office in advance; she didn't see her, and Sherlock didn't reveal much details. Not that that is much of a mystery. Probably a call girl. Well, almost certainly a call girl. Sherlock has been seeing them quite often lately. More often than usual, that is. And there isn't anything wrong with that. Still, Joan can't help but wonder where is he getting the money to pay them all. Does he own some huge secret stash for that purpose only? At this rate, it sounds easier to just to out and find a one night stand. Of course, bars and nightclubs can be triggering for him. She wonders does Sherlock know about Tinder. He made fun of her for signing up to that "TrueRomantix" website (well, Emily did; you just accepted it), but that was almost two years ago, and that website wasn't exactly for finding one-night stands...
But again, maybe Sherlock just doesn't want to waste his time on all that. But would he really have to try so hard, though? For one, he is very intelligent and observant. The most intelligent and interesting person Joan has ever met, actually. His mind, his abilities, still continue to amaze her. Thinking about it, it is quite admirable, and kind of... thrilling, even... exciting... that he decided to take her in, share his talent and knowledge with her, and help her discover and develop her own deductive skills. And he is definitely attractive, Joan has to admit. His surprisingly ripped body, those muscles, his well toned skin covered with those vivid, dark, strangely attractive tattoos...
Feeling heat flush over her body, Joan snaps out of her thoughts. What was she thinking? No. Nope. No.
Geez, why are you being so Victorian about this, to quote Sherlock? What is wrong with such thoughts, exactly? Is Sherlock not intelligent, charming and attractive? Be honest with yourself, girl. Yes, he is very intelligent and attractive and charming, and you've been living and working together with him for years, and he helped you find your true calling, and has always been there for you, except that one time when he fled to London after you slept with his brother (seriously, what were you thinking?), but that is water under the bridge now, and he is currently upstairs making sweet passionate love to some one-night stand, touching her, kissing her, licking her, their nude, sweaty, writhing bodies reveling in pleasure... Joan curses, jumps out of her chair, screams into a couch cushion and kicks one of the case boxes aside.
No. This is wrong. Sherlock is her friend. Her best friend. Why complicate things? Man and a woman can just be friends. Good, close friends. But nothing more. Purely platonic. Purely... pure. For years. And years and years and years...
Yeah, but where is the fun in that?
"Shut up," Joan mutters, rubbing her temples. She sighs and glares at the case materials on her desk, as she literally feels energy and willpower draining away. Maybe some music could help relax her? True, her phone battery is dead and her MP4 is upstairs, but maybe she could put her mind to a good use...
Hello, Sherlock, my old friend
I've come to talk with you again
Because a vision softly creeping
Left its seeds while I was sleeping
And the vision that was planted in my brain
Still remains
Within the sound of silence
The vision of you, making love to me...
Joan is not a good poet.
It is... interesting, actually. She is closer to Sherlock than she ever was with some of her boyfriends. She hasn't even been in a serious relationship since meeting Sherlock. Except for Andrew. And Mycroft... well, that was a trainwreck. She wonders if Sherlock feels the same about her. That is, if he even wants, desires, a steady, long-term romantic relationship. Of course, Sherlock had Irene/Jamie. But that was before he met her, Joan. And Jamie is a fucking lying, murderous, manipulative schmuck-face bitch-slore who is currently in a Dutch prison or something. While Joan is here... thinking... and listening.
And then, another lustful moan, penetrating through the thick concrete ceiling, followed by an unmistakable sound of the bed frame slamming against the wall. Joan groans and sits down again, giving up and allowing her mind to wander.
You know what to do. Just wait for a slow day, without any major case; no cases at all, actually. You and Sherlock will hang out, do something fun, interesting. At your insistence, if he, for some reason, doesn't initiate it. You will watch old movies, eat pizza and make fun of social media exhibitionists together, like great friends that you are. Whole day. Wait until the nightfall, like a good girl. Then, you come into his bedroom at night, wearing that black silk robe of yours, and new Victoria's secret lingerie underneath (which is so cliche and overused, not to mention ridiculously expensive, but you know that it always works so why not?), and look him in the eyes, without saying a word. His eyes will widen, he will probably blush (adorable), he will gulp, look you over, and ask: "Joan, what are you doing here? What do you want?" You'll smirk and reply: "You know", then pull your robe up just a little, revealing your bare legs. OK, maybe even open the robe all the way, if he is that hesitant. He will hesitate for a moment or two, then jump out of bed, rush over to you, and kiss you with such a force that it will literally take your breath away, pinning you against the wall, all the tension and desires erupting...
Joan snaps back to attention, finding her trembling hand reaching under her skirt. She takes a deep breath, trying to collect her thoughts. Then she listens attentively again. Complete silence. Not a sound. Is it finally over? It sure lasted long. Long and hard... Joan sighs, crossing her legs and leaning back in her chair. She bites her lower lip, her gaze landing on her laptop. She contemplates her decision for a moment, her heart thundering against her chest.
Come on. Live a little. You deserve to be happy-finally...
Joan pulls open her laptop, connects to the Wi-fi, and types "Victoria's Secret Catalogue" in Google engine, pushing weak hesitation to the back of her dirty mind before she clicks on "Search".