The body lay in a small, empty lot surrounded by trees and buildings that stood vacant, battle-scarred and adorned with graffiti.
Sherlock studied the red clay on the soles of the victim's shoes. "Joan, come take a look at this." She was no longer his Watson. She was Joan to him now, just like she was Joan to everyone else. Once she left him, left their home, she ceased to be his partner, his Watson. Now they were just two people who worked together; still friends, he supposed, in the same way Marcus or Alfredo were friends, but that was all. "Joan?" he called to her again.
She knew what he was doing, how he was purposefully distancing himself from her when he called her Joan; belittling her importance to him. He was such a child. She tried to rise above it but it irked her. "I'll be right there, Holmes," she answered casually over her shoulder.
His eyes narrowed and his mouth tightened at the sound of his surname coming from her lips. Damn the woman, how was she so capable of seeing through him and yet not see into the heart of him.
The captain watched his consulting detectives and sighed. He understood the game they were playing and pitied them both. From first hand experience Gregson knew that this game had no winners.
Pop, pop, pop. The sound of gunfire sent everyone scrambling for the protection of the few rocks and trees on the lot.
Joan fell to the ground and stayed down. Pop. Pop. More gunfire.
"Watson!" Sherlock in an instant was on top of her, shielding her body with his. "Are you alright?"
"It's okay, I'm okay, Sherlock." Her voice was strained. "It just grazed me. I'll be fine." Joan tried to comfort him, staving off the panic she heard in his voice. She was grateful, though, for the sense of safety, illusory though it was, the weight of his body around hers gave her.
"Stay down both of you and don't move," the captain spoke softly yet with a reassuring firmness. "I've got guys moving in on the sniper."
Joan was on her side, curled into a ball with Sherlock wrapped tightly around her. He covered her head with his. "I'm sorry, Watson." His words a faint whisper.
"I'm sorry, too." Joan replied. They waited out the minutes, holding on tight, listening for further gunfire and, in a perverse way, enjoying the closeness that the threat of further violence had provided them.
"Clear!" The sniper was in custody. Gregson called for paramedics as he approached Watson. "Don't move Joan, I've got EMTs on the way."
Sherlock sat up, remaining next to her in the dirt. Contrary to orders, Joan also sat up holding her shoulder. "It's just a scratch, barely bleeding..."
Gregson shook his head at her and turned his ire on Sherlock. "What the hell was all that about Holmes? You do realize a bullet would have gone straight through both of you? You put yourself in jeopardy for nothing."
"Not for nothing," was all that Sherlock said. He turned and carefully helped his partner up, holding on to her until the paramedics came up and sat her on the gurney.