Reality of Realities
By: phaedraphelan
Word count: 4,964
Rating: T
Summary: Sherlock, Joan . . . why are our protagonists torturing each other with these dalliances? What are Joan and Sherlock fighting against? And in the process, what are they learning about each other and their true feelings? Where will it take them?
Disclaimer: This "Elementary" story is not-for-profit and is purely for entertainment purposes. The author and this site do not own the characters and are in no way affiliated with "Elementary," the actors, their agents, the producers, the CBS Television Network or any station or network carrying the show in syndication, or anyone in the industry.
Some time had passed since the Moriarty affair came to its conclusion with Jamie Moriarty in prison and Sherlock and Joan were busy taking and solving cases together. Sherlock seemed to be back to himself to all outward appearances, but Joan knew that he was still trying to come to terms with the grand deception that had been Moriarty. There were days when he didn't leave the brownstone at all. He had his moments when he was uncharacteristically quiet, even contemplative, as if his mind was still wrestling with the fact that he, Sherlock Holmes, had been so thoroughly deceived that it had almost cost him his life.
Joan had thought that things were heading in a certain direction for them, but suddenly things slowed and Sherlock, while remaining even more close if possible in some ways, seemed to retreat in other ways. When he made the bold statement that he was 'post love,' that he had been in love only once and was forever done with that emotion, it had cut Joan like a knife. That, combined with the fact that Sherlock, post addiction, post injury was extremely healthy and more attractive physically to Joan than he had ever been made it more difficult for Joan than ever to ignore the feelings she was developing for him. Joan had also gotten to know Sherlock so well that she knew his tells when his libido was giving him a problem as well as he knew hers and he was obviously in need of attention. Sherlock knew his body well enough to realize what he needed, but he found himself beyond wanting to simply call a prostitute to serve his needs.
First of all he knew that Joan did not like it when he brought prostitutes into the house. She would definitely smell them . . . the cheap perfume, that other indefinable thing about them that she could sense. And secondly, that was not the kind of sex he craved now. The last time he had called upon the Lynch sisters for their services was when Joan was away on a family emergency and when they showed up, he offered them tea and delayed as long as possible taking them up to his bedroom. When they finally climbed all over him and he succumbed to their 'charms,' he felt a twinge of guilt, as if he had taken advantage of them in some way—even as he handed over their sizable fee.
As the girls were dressing to leave, Sherlock thanked them and asked them if they had ever considered becoming paralegals. They looked at him, somewhat shocked, and back at each other and laughed.
"What's with you, Sherlock? Is this not your thing anymore?"
"Yeah, you were somewhat less than enthusiastic today. Are you okay?"
Sherlock shrugged, putting his clothes back on and simply said.
"It has nothing to do with you 'ladies.' "
Joan came back within the week and the fact that he had had the Lynch sisters in weighed upon him. He had never felt this kind of guilt before, but he felt it now nonetheless.
"You should know, Joan, I had company in while you were away."
"Company? You mean the Lynch sisters?"
"Yes." Holmes paused, waiting for her response.
"I knew they had been here. You do what you want, Sherlock. I cannot monitor your sex life."
"So you don't care what I do to relieve my stress, Watson?"
"I care. But do you care?"
Joan turned and went upstairs without another word on the subject.
He was feeling particularly vulnerable when a couple weeks later, he renewed his acquaintance with Jenn, Joan's friend. He truly intended to simply apologize for the one night stand more than a year previous but Jenn came on to him in a most aggressive way and he simply gave in, even hating himself afterward as he reflected on what had happened.
He had known that Joan would figure the whole scenario out, that he had had sex with a person who was a personal friend of her, and in some strange way he had hoped that she would be angry with him—angry enough to be repelled by him. Then there was the letter he had received from Jamie Moriarty had shaken him so. He wanted to tell Joan about it. He knew that he should tell her and yet he didn't know how to do it. Joan was his partner, the most significant other person in his life. He knew that he was closer to her than he had been to any other person in his life, but he felt loathe to tell her about Moriarty's letter. And having in sex with Jenn was somehow a means of putting a wedge between them, to stave off the inevitable moment when he would have to finally confront his feelings for Joan.
When Joan called him out on the business with Jenn and even shook him to his foundations by saying that Jenn was ovulating and had viewed him as a possible 'donor,' he was completely revealed and left standing with his mouth open as she went up the stairs, leaving him to 'stew in his own juices.'
Sherlock soon followed her upstairs. He took a shower, a very long shower, taking note that the bathroom was full of Joan's scent mingled with the fragrance of the shower gel she used. He wanted to wash all evidence of Jenn from his flesh. It had been such a mistake to yield to her advances. He had not been satisfied, except in the most basic sense. Suddenly he realized that he wanted more from his sexual encounters than mere release. He lay down in his bed, as tense as ever, the desire for physical contact with a female consort still creating an annoying pressure within him that he could not ignore. He proceeded to toss and turn for the next few hours before finally falling into a troubled dream-filled sleep. This was the beginning of a series of nights of restlessness, nights when he did not feel free to go to Joan's bedroom during the night. She was sleeping with her door closed since the Jenn incident.
Joan was as angry with Sherlock as she had ever been over the matter with Jenn, but she was also hurt to her very core. She held herself together till she reached her room that night and then she felt the tears begin to stream down her face. She didn't want Sherlock to hear her crying so she went into the bathroom and got under the shower so that she could cry her eyes out. She blamed herself for not being honest with Jenn, for not telling her that she cared for Sherlock in that special way, because she felt that her friend would not have crossed that line and jeopardized their friendship if she had been aware that Joan was in love with Sherlock.
Finally Joan made her way to her bedroom and crawled into her bed, sad and miserable, silent tears still streaming onto her pillow. It was a very long time before she fell asleep. But then she wakened in the middle of the night and her mind was racing as she tried to account for Sherlock's behavior. That morning a week earlier when he had made an elaborate breakfast for them in the fireplace when they had no power was in her mind. It was such a cozy time for them. Joan had come down in her short pajamas. She knew that he enjoyed looking at her legs and found it amusing when he shyly cast glances at her when she was dressed this way. She did not deliberately flirt with Sherlock, but she knew that he liked to look at her and she liked to indulge him that way. They had enjoyed breakfast together just like a married couple, discussing the case, teasing each other a bit, being honest and comfortable together. How could he have gone on to allow Jenn to seduce him the very next day?
After an hour or so of emotional turmoil, Joan fell asleep again and didn't waken till the next morning. She wearily got up and tried to make it through the day without dwelling on her feelings of betrayal. The case with Tommy Gregson's home invasion came along and captured her mind and her time, but then Mycroft showed up. When she and Mycroft had met again, Sherlock with his amazing intuition immediately picked up on the fact that there was history between Joan and Mycroft and spoke quite explicitly about the possibility that she and Mycroft had hooked up in London. It was so obvious the Sherlock was jealous, that he didn't want her to be with another man, but didn't realize what all this revealed about him.
Joan did not deny to Sherlock that she had been with Mycroft, even though she was highly offended that Sherlock would jump on the first opportunity to accuse her of him. She liked Mycroft but she realized now that she had unwittingly become a pawn in the brother to brother conflict between them. Sherlock was her partner and the moment of weakness with Mycroft made her feel somehow like an unfaithful wife. She had made a tactical error in judgment by yielding to Mycroft's advances in London and she could not take that back. She remembered that night of painful revelation.
The sound of the anguish in Sherlock's voice when he said "You had sex with my brother!" was all Joan needed to realize the pain her actions had caused. Sherlock had gotten up at that moment and left the room. He was sick. He felt like he had been kicked in his gut and he was hardly going to make it to the toilet before his colon began to empty violently. Joan looked at Mycroft and he simply got up from the table and walked out of the brownstone.
Joan heard Sherlock up and down and back and forth in the bathroom. She wanted to go to him but she could not bear to see him like that. She was worried about him. She finally got up around three in the morning and brought a special tea to him that would help calm his stomach down.
"Sherlock . . . Sherlock," she knocked on his bedroom door.
There was only a barely discernable moan in response so Joan opened the door and went into his bedroom.
Sherlock was lying on his bed in fetal position. He was naked, except for his robe, and he was shaking uncontrollably. Joan was alarmed when she touched his forehead and he was burning up with fever.
"Sherlock, we have to get this fever down."
"I don't care about it. I don't care. I don't want to live. Mycroft? Mycroft? Why, Joan? Leave me alone!"
Joan ignored his protests and immediately went to get cool wet towels wrung out in alcohol and cold water and put them on his forehead and then on his chest. She recognized the signs of pyschological trauma.
"You are not going to lie here and will yourself to die of dehydration, Sherlock. Turn over and let me help you. You are going to drink this tea now. The next thing I do if you will not drink this tea is call 911."
When he looked up at her, the look in his eyes was as if his heart was broken. Joan simply continued to minister to him, efficiently wiping him down with alcohol-soaked towels. When his robe fell open, Joan gasped involuntarily as she saw Sherlock completely exposed, more of Sherlock than she had seen in all their time together.
"I'm sorry . . . sorry. It was like the bottom fell out of my stomach." Sherlock tried to pull his robe over his nakedness. "I soiled my clothes . . . couldn't make it to the toilet in time . . . don't want you to see me like this."
"I'm sorry, Sherlock, for what happened. I didn't mean for it to happen. I didn't know you would have these feelings. Please let's just try to get you better. You can't be sick like this."
Joan's eyes filled as she realized that Sherlock's body was reacting to confirmation of what he suspected about Mycroft and her. This was the last thing she had expected or wanted to happen.
"Just leave me alone, Joan."
He tried to turn away from her; but Joan gripped him by his shoulders.
"Damn, Sherlock. We can't win for losing, can we? Come on, pull yourself together. I don't want to send you to the hospital."
Sherlock's temperature finally dropped and the tea settled his stomach down and he fell asleep. Joan covered him in warm blankets, picked up his room and tossed his soiled things into the wash. Then she finally lay down across the foot of his bed and broke down in tears herself.
Mycroft had left and the brownstone had settled back down, but Sherlock was not settled. He was greatly discomfited by the tension between Joan and him. The whole coming to terms with Joan having been with Mycroft had upset him emotionally as well as physically. The idea that the two of them could be the close partners that they were, and yet have no sexual component to their relationship seemed to be more and more difficult to manage. It was unrealistic for two people to be as close as she and Sherlock were and to care for one another as they did without it moving to the next level. The platonic model set forth that two asexual persons of the opposite sex could be friends but neither Sherlock nor Joan was asexual. They both had specific needs that had to be addressed from time to time. And when either stepped outside the partnership to have those needs met, there were hurt feelings that should not have entered into the picture in a truly platonic setting.
It had been nearly a month since Sherlock had come to Joan's bedroom during the night and he missed that time very much. He loved to sit at her window, listen to her snore softly as she slept, and then watch her gradually begin to waken as dawn approached. Sometimes he heard her in the deepest part of sleep in the throes of a dream and the sounds he heard were distinctly sensual. Those were the moments he wanted to go to her bed and give her what she was obviously in need of, but he always held himself back, fearing that she would reject him forthwith. But he was changing his viewpoint of so many things . . . romantic love . . . monogamy . . . partnership. He knew instantly when Watson did not agree with his broad sweeping statements on human relations and emotions. She alternated between giving him a look that said 'you are so full of crap' and another look of pain that he was still trying to decipher.
His mind plagued him with guilt since his most recent occasion when he had yielded to his urges and brought that ballerina, Iris, to his bed. Yes, she had propositioned him. He did not go after her. But he accepted her proposition and flaunted his conduct in front of Joan. When he saw that look in Joan's eyes, he was cut to the heart, but could not bring himself to beg her to forgive him.
He had taken Iris deliberately to put sexual distance between him and Joan. He knew how his attraction to Joan was becoming impossible to contain and bringing the ballerina home was a last stopgap measure. He knew that the act would repel Joan and that is what motivated him, in addition to his libido, which since he had left his use of heroin had become so powerful that it left him quite vulnerable so that the pressure to have sexual release seemed to be constant.
Sherlock had very few restraints that he placed upon himself other than the fact that he was completely heterosexual. It was the feminine form, the scent of the female, the sway of womanly hips, the soft swell and fullness of breasts nestled together, their nipples crinkled in arousal, that wakened all his passions. He made no stipulation about that woman other than that she be receptive to him at the moment in question. That had been all that was necessary in the past before he met Joan. He would take women, use them, never call them again. Now all of that had changed, and he found that in addition to being distracted by Joan's stunning beauty, the mental stimulation he received from being with Joan was the most powerful aphrodisiac he had ever been subjected to. This is what he was battling on a daily basis and in the face of that, a woman like Iris was of no more value than the Lynch sisters in relieving his sexual tension.
This night Sherlock finally got up from his fitful tossing and turning and went down to make a pot of tea. Instead of sitting downstairs to have the tea, he brought it upstairs and knocked on Joan's bedroom door. He did not dare barge in.
Joan was not awakened by Sherlock, knocking. She had been unable to sleep.
"Yes, Sherlock, what do you want? It's four a.m."
He pushed the door open and stepped into her room carrying the tray with tea for her.
"I think you might need this tea. I made some Earl Grey because I couldn't sleep, and I thought you may have had the same problem."
"Thank you. Just put it here," Joan said coolly, drawing her covers up to her neck.
Sherlock looked very haggard, as if he had not slept at all. It was a look she read easily after all this time together. He was tired, his mind racing with the bits and pieces of everything that was complicating his life these days. He was wearing his underwear and his well worn robe, or dressing gown as he preferred to call it. His hair was standing straight up all over his head and his beard had grown out overnight so that he was particularly scruffy in appearance. Joan smelled the scent of the sandalwood shower get he used mingled with his own personal scent and the distinct aroma of the Earl Grey tea.
"I think that I would like to talk, Watson, if you are up to it. There are some things that I need to say. I value our . . . partnership as the most important single thing in my life and I sense that we have both said and done certain things recently that have reduced the pleasure it brings hopefully to both of us."
Joan sat up in bed. She was suddenly at full attention.
"What do you want to say to me, Sherlock?"
"First of all, I wish to apologize to you, Watson."
"For what?"
"For that whole business with your friend, Jennifer Sayles, a few weeks ago. I was thoughtless and self-serving and I should have resisted her advances, but I fear that she caught me at a particularly vulnerable moment. I am coming to understand that there is not such thing as truly 'casual sex.' There are always unwanted ramifications, aren't there? I know that I offended you by bringing that ballerina here. I told you that she came after me."
"Is that an excuse? You and I have no sexual relationship, Sherlock."
"I am at loose ends, Watson. I have not committed myself to any one person in my life other than Moriarty . . . Irene. I am trying to refrain from hurting you. But I . . . I have urges that I am fighting. I am only a man."
"Did you not think I would have feelings . . ." Joan stopped short of speaking further on the matter because she would have had to reveal her feelings for Sherlock.
"Feelings? I thought that you were not disposed to have feelings about whom I might choose to sleep with to relieve my urges. I know that you don't like me to bring whores into the place, and I have tried to be considerate of that, and I somehow don't feel comfortable being a whoremonger of late. Have I misread you, Watson? I immediately sensed that Mycroft would seek to take advantage of you in London. Of course I knew that Mycroft was motivated by a desire for revenge because of my earlier encroaching on his relationship with Nigella, but I could not understand why you would have coitus with him, Joan. I therefore surmised that your actions may have been motivated by your compassion for him due to the questionable state of his health and then perhaps you were in a vulnerable state at that time as well. I have decided to take responsibility for what happened. I . . . I should have protected you. Do you think that is a reasonable deduction? I am still trying to understand my reaction to your being with Mycroft in London. I have put no claim on you sexually, but I hate the thought of you with any other man. Have you sorted out why i did not want you with Mycroft?"
Joan did not answer him. She felt intense regret for the whole Mycroft incident. She had not intended to sleep with Mycroft but found herself compromised by the circumstances at the time. She was not ready to tell Sherlock that when she was with Mycroft she was only thinking about him, that she was in love with him and that she wanted him.
"You choose not to respond to that query, Watson?"
"Yes, I choose not to," Joan said simply.
They were both silent for a long interval before Sherlock spoke again.
"I also realize that partnership means many things . . . especially since Gregson and Cheryl's problems came to light, and I am sure you have noted they are working their issues out. I was wrong about monogamy. I have never seen him so shattered as when he realized that he was about to lose Cheryl. He doesn't need variety; he simply needs his wife, his partner, and thirty years have obviously not made him tire of her company, sexually and otherwise. You see I am trying to be more . . . humble, to realize that my deductive abilities do not always lead me to correct conclusions."
"Sort of like cold cases. We can't always solve them through logic and simple deduction, can we?"
Sherlock sighed deeply before continuing.
"I want to show you something, Watson."
Sherlock pulled the letter from Moriarty from the pocket of his robe and put it on the tray beside her cup of tea and then he sat down in his usual chair by the window as Joan read the letter.
"When did this come?" Joan said after turning on the lamp beside her bed so that she could read the letter.
"A month ago. . . I'm sorry. I should have shown it to you immediately. I was confounded that she would try to communicate with me. What is she trying to do? Do I appear so weak and unstable that I would fall for such an overture?"
"Do you want to communicate with Moriarty?"
"No! I . . . I don't want to ever see her again. She is evil and dangerous. She tried to kill me and she will try to kill you. And yet there is this pull. Why couldn't I simply tear up the letter and toss it?"
"I don't know, Sherlock. I'm not equipped to evaluate the ins and outs of your psyche, but I do know that you never need to put yourself in the position where she can hurt you the way that she did again. Don't be a glutton for punishment, Sherlock."
"We are quite the pair, aren't we? You, going on the internet on a futile search to find a warm body that will satisfy your urges as well as your emotional and intellectual needs or being drawn to having sex with my brother out of sympathy, and me, having intercourse with a rank stranger like that ballerina, a woman I have nothing in common with, simply because my libido has clouded my thinking."
"Is your libido clouding your thinking now, Sherlock?"
"It is quite distracting to me at the moment, but I don't think it's clouding my thinking. I can't sleep without my thoughts turning in that direction, and yet I have no outlet that I can take advantage of without twinges of conscience or guilt. It is quite an untenable situation."
"Do you really think that I wanted to jeopardize our partnership by having sex with your brother?" Joan's tone was tinged with irony. "It happened, Sherlock. It was not planned, but it happened. I was at the end of my 'tether,' you would say, and it happened. Perhaps my libido clouded my thinking. Do I want it to happen again? No. Mycroft was not the man I wanted, Sherlock. I did feel compassion for him because of the tenuous state of his health, but that was no excuse. I had more wine than I should have had and I lost control of the situation. I'm sorry."
"Are you anticipating having another go with Mycroft?"
Sherlock asked the question that had been pressing upon his mind ever since.
"No. That was not good thing for our partnership. I thought that a platonic friendship could support something like that, but I guess theory and reality are two different things."
"Damn Plato, Socrates, Diotima and all the other self-nominated Dr. Phil's of the Hellenic Age!"
Joan turned down her bedside lamp, took a deep breath and then she said the words the she would never have imagined herself saying.
"Suppose that there were a woman that you could be sexually intimate with, a woman with whom you have most things in common except the sharing of your bed, a woman with whom you would not have to suffer twinges of conscience or guilt. What would you do about that?"
Sherlock looked over at her directly, wishing that the semi-darkness did not hide her facial expression from him.
"Are you serious, Joan? You would allow . . . me to take that kind of liberty with you?"
"You have taken liberty with me in every other way, overstepped every other boundary. You know me better than Mycroft or any other man will ever know me. You know my menstrual cycle, even the time of day I need to empty my colon, and other things that I have not even realized you have deduced about me. I understand what you do and why you do it and I am fascinated by it. I have seen you at your worst and I have seen you at your best. I see you every day in varying states of dress and undress and have tried with all my might to focus away from the fact that you are in fact a man, without success. I hear you speak about being 'post love' and it pains me because I find you so attractive, but there is nothing that I can do about that. It doesn't change the fact that you are a man with specific needs and urges. We do everything else together. What would change if we took it a step further?"
"Joan . . ." are you saying. . ."
"I don't want to have a lot of talk about this. We do it . . . when you need it, when I need it, and that's that. There's not a lot that either of us can handle on that score at this time. Now you just think about this, Sherlock, and if you want us to do something like that, you may come to me to have your needs cared for when necessary. And one more thing . . . I don't want to ever hear you describe yourself as being 'post love' again. There is no such thing. You will just make yourself miserable by saying crazy things like that. Hasn't your brilliant mind been able to deduce the utter absurdity of that statement?"
Sherlock was quiet for a long moment before he spoke again.
"Joan . . . suppose that I don't need to think about this. Suppose that I already know that I want to be with you that way. I admit it. I find you supremely attractive, beautiful in every way and, like you I have found a constant battle to keep my focus away from your physical attributes, which, combined with your intellectual gifts make you such an excellent partner. I understand the parameters that you have drawn and I am willing to abide by them." He paused before continuing. "May I come to your bed now? May I have the honor of being with you now? I am in as dire need as I have ever been in my life. I should go to my room for condoms. I have never had unprotected coitus."
"I realize that you probably have surmised that I take the pill. No condoms. If I trust you, I trust you."
"Yes, Joan."
Sherlock got up from his chair by her window and removed his robe and his boxers and wrinkled tee shirt. Joan's heart leaped in her chest as she saw his naked body in profile in the soft light from the street lamp outside her window. His dire need was quite evident and as much as she wanted him, Joan suddenly had second thoughts.
"Sherlock, I . . . I think that I might be getting cold feet about this decision."
Sherlock came to the bed and knelt beside it and took Joan's hands in his.
"If you will please allow me to woo, to . . . touch you. If it proves to be too much for you to accept me this way, I will respect your wishes. You know that I will not force myself on you."
Joan nodded and began to relax.
Sherlock lay down beside Joan. He put his arms around Joan as he lay beside her and stroked her arms gently. Joan trembled, but she was immediately warmed by the sensation of his naked body so close to hers and she gasped involuntarily as he snuggled closer to her, inhaling the scent of her.
"I have been so melancholy since all that terrible business with Moriarty. I just feel quite lost some times. I need comfort, Joan. Please comfort me. I know that I am no prize, Joan. I am blunt and obnoxious and self-absorbed and . . . and an arse . . . and Joan, you are altogether . . ."
"I know how you are, Sherlock. And you are talking too much now."
Sherlock leaned over and kissed Joan's forehead tenderly, and then he kissed her cheek and stroked her hair back from her face. Joan continued to tremble as his lips came close to hers and he kissed her tenderly on her mouth. The kiss quickly deepened when Joan moaned softly in response.
" I have wanted to kiss these lips for so long, Joan! My dear Joan!" Sherlock gasped, taking control of the kiss as his passions asserted themselves powerfully.
"You . . . Your kiss . . . Your kiss . . . Sherlock," Joan gasped.
"May I remove your shirt, luv. . . please?" Sherlock's voice turned husky with desire.
"Yes . . . If you want to," Joan whispered.
Sherlock growled in his distinctly masculine manner and lifted the tee shirt she was sleeping in, pulled it off her and tossed it aside before he drew her to his chest. The sensation of their bare skin touching was like a spark that ignited all the pent-up emotions between them and suddenly they were clinging to each other in the predawn darkness.
"Oh, God, Joan! Oh, God! Help me, Joan! Please help me! Joan . . . My God! You excite me so!"
Sherlock was touching her, caressing her body in what could only be called wonder. Her softness, her warmth, the scent of her engulfed him as he realized that for the first time in his life, he was holding in his arms a woman that truly cared about him. And he felt her reciprocating his feelings.
Sherlock was ever the consummate and skilled lover, but now as he kissed and touched her all over, stroking her masterfully with just his fingertips, he was in a completely new situation with himself involved emotionally as never before, and by the time he finally laid his head upon her abdomen and kissed her smooth belly, his arms clasped about her hips, Joan was gasping at each touch, each kiss, her hand running through his dark chestnut locks and gently scratching his scalp as she had so often longed to do. She was trying to keep from crying out, but finally gave up and moaned and wailed his name.
"Sherlock, my God! Oh, God!"
As close as they had become, yet avoiding physically touching for so long, this contact threw their emotions into overdrive, so to speak, and they were completely overwhelmed, shaking and trembling helplessly.
"Touch me, Joan, please touch me and know me. I need you to touch me, and then I want to touch you . . . everywhere that will bring you pleasure."
Joan did touch him. She touched the stubble on his cheeks and she put her fingers upon his lips, tracing their finely sculptured lines, letting the tips of her fingers slip inside his lips; then, almost timidly, she put her hand on his chest, caressing it, feeling his heart beating rapidly under her hand. She touched his hard abdomen, and he took her hand and kissed the inside of her palm with his lips and then carried her hand where he wanted it.
"Please, Joan . . . Please"
He craved her touch. He wanted it so badly. The man who always fled from physical contact now wanted it desperately. He wanted her hands on him. He wanted her to know him completely."
"Yes, Joan, yes," he groaned as she caressed him, getting to know all his parts.
"Sherlock . . . Sherlock!"
Joan literally swooned in his arms at that moment when Sherlock touched her intimately, the moment when Sherlock realized that she was more than ready to accept him.
"Joan . . . My God Joan! Why didn't you tell me how . . . how much you needed this? You have suffered for the need of this. Forgive me, luv."
Sherlock kissed Joan over and over, drinking from her lips, nipping her lips gently as he mounted her. Then suddenly he penetrated her, and then they were gone, lost in each other, lost in sensations that both knew but that became completely new as they experienced them together for the first time.
Sherlock's mind was suddenly free of all extraneous thought and wandering as his whole being focused on the pleasure of being one with Joan. He was completely taken with the sound of Joan's voice in ecstasy in his arms as they found their rhythm.
"It's perfect, luv . . . perfect. Lord, Joan!"
"Sherlock, baby! Help me! Help me!"
"it's all right, Joan, let it happen . . .
Joan's brain exploded in blue and white lights as she went over the edge in a final rapture and total capitulation. The next instant, Sherlock went over the precipice with her.
"Joan! Oh, God! Dear God!" he cried out at the supreme moment when he saw all the stars of the universe exploding in his brain.
They were both in exstase, babbling out of their heads, incoherent, as the most astounding sexual experience of their lives rolled over them and left them in its wake.
"My dearest Joan," Sherlock finally whispered into her ear as he regained the ability to speak, "My dearest Joan Watson. You . . . you are the . . ."
Joan put her finger over his lips.
"Please don't . . . don't compare me to . . . to anyone, Sherlock. That is my greatest fear."
"There is no one to compare you to, Joan." Sherlock said simply as he kissed her tenderly on her face over and over.
"I'm just taking care of you, baby," Joan whispered as she kissed him back. "I've wanted to take care of you for such a long time."
The sound of her calling him 'baby' stirred him so, made Sherlock feel so cared for that his eyes filled and he buried his face between her breasts and cried hard. He cried for his soul that he had nearly lost through addiction and he cried for the time lost in his ill-fated love affair with Moriarty, and he cried for the lonely times before Joan came into his life.
"I was so lonely, Joan . . . so lonely, before you came here to me. I . . . I just don't want to ever be lonely like that again."
"It's all right, baby. It's all right to cry. I'm crying too."
They fell asleep, slept hard and deep for the first time in weeks, and when they awakened again, it was nearly ten o'clock and sunlight was streaming into Joan's bedroom.
"Beautiful Joan Watson. . . beautiful Joan," Sherlock whispered into Joan's ear and soon they were passionately involved again.
There was no reticence on Joan's part now. They had come to terms with the need they had for each other and intercourse naturally happened. They lay holding each other for a very long time before they were able to get out of bed and try to begin their day. They were both naked but now it didn't really concern them. It seemed rather natural really. The final boundary between them had vanished and there was peace between them for the first time in weeks.
Sherlock held out his hand to her and they went into the bathroom together and got under the hot shower. Sherlock continued to explore Joan, easily lifting and pressing her against the tile walls of the shower as she embraced him. Then Sherlock kissed her and dried her off, insisted on towel drying her long hair, before he considerately left the bathroom for her to finish her own matters.
When Joan came back to her room, her clothes were laid out on her bed as usual. She smiled as she dressed, recalling the early morning moments when she and Sherlock had come together so ardently. Now they would have to try to keep all the other parts of their lives on the same track as before. That would be their challenge.
Joan went down to the kitchen and Sherlock had made eggs and toast and bacon for them both and there was coffee freshly brewed. Sherlock seated Joan beside him rather than across from him as had been the case in the past.
"I just want you as close to me as possible, Joan."
Sherlock looked at Joan and they shared a knowing secret smile.
"You look beautiful in the morning, Joan. You always do. Am I permitted to say that much?"
Joan flushed, unable to look directly at him.
"You can say whatever you want to say, Sherlock. I just feel that we should not talk about what is . . . is going on between us in the bedroom outside of this brownstone. It keeps things orderly."
"I will try diligently, Joan." Sherlock said. He was still trying to process all that had happened to him in the past several hours.
The two of them began to eat. They did not talk as they reflected on the change in their relationship that had taken place.
"Do you really not wish to speak about this? I must confess that I have so many things that I want to say to you."
"What do you want to say to me, Sherlock?"
"I want to say that I have wanted you from the beginning, that you have inhabited my erotic dreams for months, that, even so, actual coitus with you was a grand leap from what had been a preoccupation of my thoughts for so long a time."
Joan looked at him, trying to see where he was coming from as he continued to speak.
"And I wonder if you have wanted me for as long as I have wanted you. You don't have to answer if you do not choose to, but I deduce from the lovely flush on your cheeks now that you have nurtured the same desires as I for as long as I."
Joan looked up at him and nodded but her expression had turned very serious.
"I am going to say this, Sherlock, because before we go further, I have to say it. I was so angry at you for having sex with Jenn. I cannot tell you how angry I was. Not to mention that ballerina!"
"Because you viewed me as really belonging to you, didn't you?" He said simply.
"Hell, yes!" Joan shouted at him, her eyes welling up with tears. "Don't you realize I don't want to be with any one other than you. That is the one thing that being with your brother clearly showed me. He was no substitute for you . . . even though I may have subconsciously wanted him to be. I've been so pent up, Sherlock . . . so pent up . . . with all these feelings for you! My God, Sherlock, I'm only human! And then you let that ballerina come in here! You were so blatant with it all. You let her use you. She didn't even want a man."
Sherlock sat back, as stunned by her sudden outburst of emotion that was as if she had struck him, as he was thrilled by the revelation of her feelings for him.
"Then you rightly feel that what happened with Jenn was an act of unfaithfulness as well. I'm very sorry. It was stupid of me to leave myself open for that. I hope that you can find it in your heart to forgive me. Jenn . . . Jennifer was a mere dalliance. I couldn't put my heart into it. But it was a miscalculation on my part. When she came on to me, I became aroused. I was in dire straits. I had no reason to believe that you . . . you and I could be a real possibility. And she took me like that. I don't blame her. I would never want to blame her for my lack of control. That was wrong. I'm only human. My only excuse for the ballet dancer is my own lust and stupidity."
Sherlock made no attempt to explain his lack of good judgment. He was completely rattled and shaken by Joan's passionate declaration. He knew there was no excuse.
"Well, I told you that we would have to be exclusive if we did this. I can't wonder about this, Sherlock."
"It will be an honor to attend to your sexual needs. You have suffered this past year. I can't bear to see you go off with some dweeb you've found in some dating service on the internet. I don't want you with another man. I don't want you with my brother. I never have. I may have pretended that it didn't matter, but I don't ever want another man's hands on you, Joan Watson. I may have no right to want it to be that way but I do."
"Then don't pretend that you feel otherwise. Don't throw me at Mycroft or any one else that comes along that you think might come on to me. Do not ever tell me that you are wondering if Mycroft is in my bed. That chapter is closed. I mean that, Sherlock. I am not a dolly mop 'up for grabs' and you know it. You have thrown a monkey wrench into every attempt I have made to explore a relationship with any other man. I just want you to be honest with me. If you want me to be exclusive with you, I will not think about another man. Why would I lie down with someone else if I have you, Sherlock?"
"I just told you that I don't want to see you with any one else. My remarks pushing you toward Mycroft were crude and insensitive. I know that you are a woman of integrity. I respect you, Joan Watson, but I do want you. I admit it. I want you on every level that it is possible for a man to want a woman. I admit that I have wanted to extend our partnership to the bedroom for a long time.
"When I wake up in the morning, the first thing I think about is you. I listen for the sound of your footsteps on the stairs; I delight to the scent of you in our bathroom; I ache for the sound of your voice when you are not here. What we have found is beyond what I could ever have imagined sharing with a woman and I promise you that I will not act so foolishly as to jeopardize it again."
"So . . . so we have that all clear?" Joan attempted to be stern in the face of his stunning declaration and the stare from his clear blue eyes.
"Yes, ma'am," Sherlock said softly as the whole tenor of the conversation changed into something so tender and unmistakable that it sent shivers up and down Joan's spine.
"The sexual component is all that was missing, wasn't it?" Joan said.
"Yes. I will never seek satisfaction with any other woman, Joan."
"Don't make promises that you cannot keep, Sherlock."
"I will keep this promise."
The two of them resumed eating breakfast. There were no more words necessary as they reflected on the change in their relationship that had taken place. Joan got up and took their dishes to the sink and Sherlock's eyes followed her as she stood there washing them. He got up and came and stood behind her, so close that he could breathe her in.
"You lurk," Joan said softly, smiling to herself, but not turning to look at him.
"I lurk . . . and other things," Sherlock said huskily, grazing her waist and her hips with just his fingertips.
Joan turned to look into his eyes and smiled the smile that completely opened up his heart. His clear blue irises were tiny rings around his dilated pupils as he pressed urgently against Joan at their sink.
"You don't want to work on a cold case or practice with your locks, or . . . something?"
"No, not now, my dear lovely Joan . . . My mind is a blank slate in need of data of a very specific nature. May we go back upstairs . . . please? I don't want to violate our agreement by carrying this part of our partnership over into the more prosaic parts of our life together, but I feel that I need to further express my apologies for being indiscreet and . . . insensitive . . . and stupid. I think it will take the rest of the day, and I fear even the rest of my life, to fully express my regrets."
Sherlock bent and pulled Joan up into his arms to kiss her tenderly first on her cheeks, and then upon her forehead and finally upon her open mouth, before he easily picked her up in his arms and carried her up the stairs.
End of chapter one