More Than A Woman
Authors Note: I reeeally tried to keep this based in the Elementary universe but I just can't fight my SiFi nature. I'll be keeping the supernatural elements (as in Science Fiction stuff, not in reference to the television show) to about a four on a scale of one to ten.
Also, the title of this story is a song title from the band the Bee Gees, one of my FAVORITE bands of all time. lol
P.S. IMPORTANT: As always, please know that any and all trigger warnings possible apply for every story I write. It's gonna get dark folks. That's just how the zombie bunny bounces….
OOO
'I'm so glad I wore sneakers today,' Joan thought as she and Sherlock chased the man they'd just confronted with killing his business partner.
He turned as they neared the middle of the Southwark bridge, pulling a gun from who knows where, and Joan shouted a warning.
"Gun!"
Fortunately for everyone out and about on the first sunny Sunday in three weeks, Sherlock was close enough to send the gunmen's arm flying upward as he pulled the trigger.
People began screaming and scattering in all directions as the officers of the Metropolitan Police Force fought through the crowds to advance on the scuffling men.
As the fight went on a few moments longer than she expected, and well before the officers had made their way through the turmoil, Joan made her move.
Her extendable baton whacked the man in the back of the knee and he lost his balance. Unfortunately he lost his balance shoving head long in to Sherlock, and as the two lurched over the side Joan grabbed hold of Sherlock without hesitation, going over with them.
In the seconds of their free fall several things happened. Sherlock kicked the killer just far enough from them that he'd land several feet away, and a split second later he grabbed hold of Joan, curling around her so he'd take the brunt of the impact when they hit the water.
As long as she lived Joan knew that she would never forget the look of panic and fear on Sherlock's face when he realized she was going over the edge with him.
The water hit them like a brick wall and when she breached the surface Sherlock was not with her. Immediately she pulled her phone in its brand new waterproof case from her pocket, flipped on the flashlight and took a deep breath before diving for her partner. She came up empty handed twice, more frightened each time, before making it deep enough to spot and grab hold of him.
Turning him so she could float him to shore on his back Joan was thankful for their new shared work out routine. It had been her idea to add swimming to their regiment, and a small voice in the back of her mind had to repeat that the idea was not in part a ploy to see the detective in a pair of speedos.
The MPF officers were scrambling to get to the end of the bridge and to the shore in pursuit of the criminal, but Joan kept her focus on smoothly making her way through the small waves with the most efficient strokes possible.
She was exhausted when she pulled the unconscious detective back on to the muddy shore, quickly checking his respiration and finding that he wasn't breathing, his heartbeat faint. Joan immediately tilted his head back to clear his airway before beginning resuscitatory breaths.
After the first set of breaths, listening to his lungs and feeling his pulse in between a creeping panic began to set in, her eyes beginning to water.
"Please…," she breathed into him again, inflating his lungs. "Please Sherlock…," another breath. "Please don't leave me…," she breathed in to him. "Not again…," her shoulders shook with tears on the next breath.
Sherlock coughed wetly with one more and she rolled him on to his right side to further help drain his lungs.
When his wheezing slowed she rolled him back prone on the ground, her hands shaking, and then she acted before she could stop herself.
"My God Sherlock," she whispered, her tears falling, further wetting his cheeks as she bent and kissed him.
The detective figured it was the lack of oxygen to his brain that made him reach up to caress her freckled cheek, his lips chasing hers for a moment when she pulled away.
"I'm...I'm so sorry Sherlock. I got carri…."
"No," he coughed and cleared his throat. "No apologies necessary Watson." He rest his head back on the ground. "As you've just saved my life...again," he chuckled. "I vow not to hold your sentimentality against you."
Joan laughed, dropping her forehead to his chest, somehow laughing and crying at the same time.
Sherlock rest an arm across her back in a weak hug as he fought to control his breathing. A few minutes later Joan was helping him to his feet, and he weighed heavily on her as they walked towards the sirens they could hear in the distance.
Both detectives hoped in tandem that this small crack in their platonic relationship wouldn't affect the peaceful rhythm they'd found in their first year together in London. But they knew better. After their declarations of love during their almost separation in New York, they'd felt something shift.
To Sherlock's steadily clearing mind it seemed, as Joan hugged him tighter, that she'd willingly thrown herself down a rabbit hole following him across the ocean.
And she was still falling.
As mad as a hatter Sherlock was increasingly worried that it would be his unworthy arms that caught her at the bottom. He frowned.
Joan on the other hand berated herself as they walked, stopping for a moment for Sherlock to catch his breath. "Let me know if you need to sit," she told him, worriedly meeting his eyes, and he nodded.
She knew that singular moment of weakness was going to cost them. The kiss was more than a crack in their professional and fried wall, it was a step over the carefully drawn line in a vast desert of inconvenient emotions.
But Joan's mind wouldn't stop repeating a reel of Sherlock rising off the ground to prolong their kiss, and the velvet sensation of his caress. She took a deep breath, breaking their eye contact to try and focus on the task at hand. She had to get the now shivering detective to the warmth of the ambulance, but in the back of her mind she knew that they'd have to talk about what happened sooner or later.
Later it turns out wasn't that day, or that week, or that month. When the first snowflakes of winter came two months later the pair assumed the other preferred to let the sleeping dog lie.
And then, instead of his two cents, Sherlock's father decided to toss a grenade in to the situation.
"Sherlock, in light of recent events I find it necessary for us to have a conversation about the future."
He pulled a file from his desk and sat it before his son, rising to stand and watch London's busy streets as he prepared himself for the coming fight.
Sherlock flipped through the file, "This is our family's medical history."
"Including the records and blood work for your most recent stint in the hospital."
Sherlock's mind began calculating the millions of reasons his father had begun this conversation, and he didn't like any of his conclusions.
"What are you getting at? Please do spit it out. Watson and I are due at the Yard in an hour."
Morland turned with his chin high, looking down at his son, "Alright, I'll be blunt. You are reckless Sherlock, and with your brother gone it falls to you to continue on the Homes name."
Sherlock went silent and wide eyed.
"This...again," he replied with venom. "You want me to provide you an heir...I assume one more congenial than myself," he continued with quiet disdain.
Sherlock stood abruptly, buttoning his suit jacket.
His entire life he'd dismissed the idea outright, to afraid of passing on the genes of an addict to really consider it, even while dating Irene, even for the lovely limber Agatha.
"Clearly, your age has begun addling your mind. You may want to have your doctor screen you for an acute onset of dementia. Good day father."
He turned to leave but his father's words stopped him in his tracks.
"A few weeks ago Joan began looking into Britain's adoption laws…."
Sherlock kept his back to his father as he listened to him sit, but he didn't move.
"And, upon realizing there was no way for her to legally adopt a child she seems to have moved on from the idea." Morland pulled another file from his desk, dropping it on top of Sherlock's, who turned to eye the Manila wrapped bundle.
"What is that?"
"Those are Joan's medical records. She's been seeing a fertility specialist. It seems that she's still quite fertile Sherlock."
Morland's smile faded as he looked up at Sherlock from his expensive leather desk chair. He'd never seen that level of disdain in his son's eyes. It was a gross violation of their privacy, he knew, but a blind man could see how the two felt about each other. So he decided to get the ball rolling himself.
Sherlock's mind ran in multiple directions at once and looking at his own father the thought of spawning set his teeth on edge.
But Joan.
The thought of siring a child with Joan gave him pause, and his father narrowed his eyes as he watched the idea take hold.
But Sherlock would never allow his father to use her in such a cruel way, to exploit her love and kindness for the sake of having a healthy broodmare to carry on their name.
Snatching the folders off the opulent mahogany desk the detective spoke over his shoulder, completely unable to meet his father's eyes.
"The next time I lay eyes on you it had better be at your funeral. If I see your face again it will be met with violence." Finally he turned to him, looking him in the eyes. "And if you ever come anywhere near Joan again, I will kill you." At the doorway he turned and managed to kept his eyes mostly on the grey sky behind his father. "We Holmes's are nothing if not men of our word, are we not?"
Morland watched his son leave for what may be the last time and sighed. He swiveled in his chair to looked out over the London skyline and frowned. Against the will of most of his family he had married Sherlock's mother, and his father had been the one to force her signature on the dotted line of their prenup.
His father also, upon his deathbed, enforced its terms, a final show of dominance to his willful son.
Morland loosened his tie, he'd been a coward that day, putting his ambition ahead of his heart.
In the end it had cost his children their mother, and the love of his life her life.
He swore to himself that he would not become his father. That oath then taking the form of boarding schools and nannies, making his children cold, coming to him out of obligation or want but never love.
In his youth Morland had loved Sherlock's mother as fiercely as he knew in his bones Sherlock loved Joan. He had know within five minutes of meeting Joan she would be a stabilizing influence on his son, but within ten he knew she had the potential to be more. After nearly ten years together, not tolerating but thriving by Sherlock's side, Morland knew their roots were strong.
So he decided to wait. If he was right his son would be making a begrudging apology to him in the next couple years with a wife and child on his arm.
"Talimar, will you bring in the DRC files please," he pressed the intercom on his desk phone and a moment later a tall slender man came in wearing an impeccably tailored cobalt blue Brooks Brothers suit. His thick curly dark chocolate brown hair was twined into a long wavy braid that hung nearly at his waist. Morland smiled as he took the files, the man was irreproachably beautiful, with soft dark sandy skin and thick bow lips.
Though it was his bright sea foam green eyes that remained a constant distraction.
Those eyes were what originally advanced him in the interview process, his hiring manager becoming immediately smitten. But Morland found out quickly why he'd had such high security clearance on his resume. He was brilliant and he had a hell of a poker face. Morland was sure that even with his and his son's deductive skills they would never know more about his PA than he wanted them to.
"I also have an update about that other developing matter," he spoke with a deceptively soft voice while handing him a file marked confidential.
Morland's smile fell. He'd been waiting for news of Moriarty, knowing that she'd been keeping an eye on the pair. He smirked thinking of her face upon hearing the news of Sherlock and Joan's relocation.
For all his faults Morland loved his children, and all he could hope for was to keep one step ahead of his younger son's shadow.
OOO
Sherlock left his father's office in a bit of a stupor, reaching for his phone and hitting the first number on his speed dial.
He was completely unprepared when Joan answered.
"Hey, I was just about to text you." She laughed and Sherlock stopped walking, closing his eyes to listen to her voice. "How'd it go with your father?"
Standing in the middle of the busy sidewalk the flow of people broke around him for a moment before sweeping him in his chosen direction.
Joan spoke again when he didn't answer.
"Hello? Sherlock? Are you okay?" She was beginning to sound concerned.
"Where are you," he asked trying to sound normal.
"Just leaving 221A. How'd the meeting with your father go?" He could hear her locking the front door.
"My father's gone completely mad. I'll meet you at St. James Park," he said turning to get on the tube.
He stood with his eyes closed as the train lurched forward so his mind could race without the distraction of wanting to deduce the people around him.
Joan seemed to really have her heart set on being a mother. And Sherlock would never allow anyone or anything to stand in the way of that endeavor.
There were many things Joan made less difficult or frightening by her empathetic nature. Her very presence was a balm to Sherlock's persistently inquisitive mind and a reminder of the humanity he'd inherited from his own mother.
When board he'd often take to focusing on Joan, learning new things about her or deciphering her comings and goings when she was not with him.
He wondered what their offspring might be like, a small smile creeping onto his lips thinking of just how high an IQ their freckle faced child might be gifted with.
One thing he would wish for, if he believed in any higher power, was that their child have her heart.
Joan's tenacity and patience; a child with their combined intellects and her heart would undoubtedly change the world for the better.
He opened his eyes as they called his stop and exited the station to see Joan waiting for him at the entrance.
Her dark cyan blue hat and scarf stood in bright contrast to her fading blond hair, and her fitted black tweed coat looked very warm.
In her gloved hands she held two cups of coffee and she extended one out to him as he approached. It was perfect as usual and he smirked to himself as they fell in step towards the Yard.
Attempting to connect the dots of Sherlock's behavior Joan noted the smirk, his current silence, and his quip while leaving his father's office. "So," she began.
"I've noticed you've taken to wearing more sensible shoes Watson," he cut off her train of thought as she glanced down at her chosen footwear.
Pacific Mountain snow boots, black with a rubber waterproof outer layer, lined with faux fur. They were modeled after Equestrian Riding boots to be stylish but hard wearing.
"Yea well, the criminals in London seem to favor flight over fight. Literally running around town is not an option in any inch heels," she smiled. "Did your father need help with a case or something?"
"Never fear Watson." Sherlock took a loud breath through his nose before turning more towards her so he could speak without the people passing them hearing. "My father insinuated a rather cruel business venture, to which my answer was a recommendation that he see a doctor lest he be slipping into senility."
Joan raised an eyebrow trying to suppress her laughter. "You should also change the passwords to your accounts."
She looked at him and raised her other eyebrow, "Which accounts?"
"All of them. Ah, here we are."
Out of both instinct and habit he pulled the door open for her when they reached their destination, and stepping inside he paused a moment in realization of how much he'd changed. Watching Joan walk down the hall towards the elevators he knew why. She was the water that inevitably wore down his stony exterior. He nearly blushed at his compulsive want to please her. To shine as brilliantly as possible if for nothing more than to see her smile.
He hurried to catch up with her and when they were alone in the elevator she spoke with a small knowing smile, "So what business venture did he propose that has you so frazzled?"
"Frazzled, I'm not frazzled," he sneered without any real anger.
"Your call was a stress response, probably didn't even think about it until you heard my voice. You didn't speak when I answered because the call was an unconscious decision."
He stared at the buttons on the elevator so long he had to stop the doors closing and catch up with her again after becoming suddenly lost in thought.
She knew him well.
The captain beckoned them into his office to give them a rundown on the case and three hours later they sat in the study of 221B surrounded by crime scene photos.
"Yes thank you, and yes we'll share any new information we get," Joan hung up with a sigh. "Sherlock, this is bad, really bad, like Jack the Ripper bad," she said running a hand through her feathery hair.
"Jack the Ripper was an upstanding member of the royal family who compulsively murdered prostitutes in a mad obsession with human experimentation."
"Whoever this man is he's murdered at least four families all across England."
"Five, I've found another family matching his MO in Middlesbrough." Sherlock looked up from his laptop.
"All four families we found had three children, two parents and a dog." Joan put her hands on her hips as she looked up at the victim board. "That's a lot of people to try not to wake up during a home invasion," she looked over at Sherlock who's eyes betrayed his wonder. "What?"
He blinked and tried to cover his distraction, "We need to look for similar homicides that don't fit this pattern." He looked back down at his laptop, minimizing all of his windows. Staring at the screen in thought he didn't quite register Joan's question, nor did he hear her approach his desk.
"Sherlock? Did you hear me," she asked as she began walking around the desk, but the detective popped up out of his chair so fast she had to take a step back. "Lunch! Yes, I'm famished." Sherlock pressed a warm hand to the small of Joan's back as he guided her towards his kitchen, not realizing she had already glimpsed the wallpaper on his laptop, a photo of Moriarty's portrait of her.
She turned to stop their walking and placed a soft unthinking hand on his forehead and he closed his eyes soaking in her warmth.
"Sherlock are you feeling okay, you've been acting strange today?"
The detective sighed, "Yes...no, no I seem to find myself...distracted as of late."
"Well you don't have a fever." Her hand moved to his neck, "you feel a bit clammy though." She looked at her watch, "Your pulse is a bit elevated too." The detective kept his eyes closed, feeling a strange unrecognizable sensation where their skin touched. He looked almost dazed when he opened his eyes to look down at Joan's concerned face. She was standing so close he could count her freckles, and he realized absentmindedly that her proximity was due in part to his hand at her back holding her there.
Her eyes flitted briefly to his lips before she spoke, "Sherlock, when's the last time you slept?"
"I don't know, what day is it," he mumbled.
"It's Saturday."
He thought for a moment, "Monday...no Tuesday." He swayed slightly.
"My God Sherlock! Why...you know what never mind. Come on." Joan maneuvered his right hand from her back to over her shoulder to guide him to his room.
When they reached it she sat him down on his bed and pulled off his jacket and shoes, yawning despite herself. As she turned to leave he grabbed hold of her hand.
"Watson…," he blinked, something was strange, off, but he couldn't get his mind to focus.
Joan knelt down, "Sherlock what's wrong?" She was getting more concerned. Since their tumble off that bridge they'd had pockets of weirdness, but nothing like this. In nearly ten years Sherlock had never instigated as much physically contact as he had in the last half hour.
She felt almost guilty touching him so much as she cupped his cheek, knowing she was the rare exception to this particular unspoken rule, the semi conscious man turning slightly in to her hand. Joan knew that, despite his many irregular playmates, he seemed to recoil at anything more than a handshake from most people.
Now he was openly leaning in to one of her hands and gripping the other. His drowsiness seemed to be a symptom of his sleep deprivation, but his clammyness was not.
"Stay...please...Joan…," she lay him down but he wouldn't let go of her hand, so she sat on the side of the bed and stroked her free hand through his hair as she yawned again.
Looking around she realized that her mind was also starting to fog and that she shouldn't be nearly as tired as she was after the large cup of coffee she'd had only a few hours ago. She shook her head, the carbon monoxide detector wasn't going off so she dismissed the idea of a leak.
Which more than likely meant some sort of knockout gas they'd failed to detect.
She tried to stand but her legs were like jelly and her body was quickly running out of steam.
Joan looked down at Sherlock with worry, placing her free hand on his shoulder to shake him, but it was getting harder to keep her eyes open. Grabbing Sherlock's cell from his nightstand she quickly dialed the emergency 999 button before it slipped from her hand.
Her body losing the fight to whatever chemicals were in the air, Joan could only fall back against Sherlock to keep from passing out on the floor, the detective already unconscious, sprawled out on his back.
OOO
When Joan woke it was with a start, gasping as she sat straight up in bed, and with a blurry look around she realized she was in a hospital.
"Good morning Ms. Watson," a deep masculine voice greeted her.
"Morland," she sighed wiping a hand over her face to clear her vision as he set a no doubt obscenely expensive crystal vase full of bright colorful flowers on her side table. "Where's Sherlock," she asked, yawning as she pulled back the covers to stand on unsteady legs.
Morland reached out a hand to steady her when she swayed, and she wondered at his smirk as he inclined his head towards the curtain that separated her double room. He lent her his arm as she walked over to his bed and he watched intently as she reached out for his son, hesitating and glancing at the wealthy businessman.
In the end she reached for his chart. "They found Sevoflurane in his system." She sat on the end of her own bed and reached for her chart hanging off the end. "And in mine…. How the hell did someone gas us without us knowing. There are cameras outside each entrance of our houses, as well as in the foyers, alarm systems, conventional and not." She looked up at Morland. "Someone got past all of it."
"I am aware…."
"I'm glad the call went through, I wasn't even sure I pressed send before I passed out"
Morland smiled. He knew she'd been the one to insist Sherlock add his name as an emergency contact, but that wasn't how he'd been informed about their plight. The second they'd landed in England he'd had his contact inside Everyone hack their phones. His office was alerted the second Joan had typed in 999.
Morland sent Talimar to their home immediately, and rightly so. The first two officers who'd entered Sherlock's house had passed out in the second floor stairwell. Talamar had had the since to call the station for back up when he approached the open door, before grabbing the gas mask from his trunk and going inside.
Morland had been as close to shocked as he'd been in the last ten years at the picture he received. It was Shakespearean in its beauty. Sherlock looking ever the part of a poisoned Romeo with his face drifting away from the light, and Joan's rosy sleep soft lips; her head resting on his son's chest and her hair a shiny ink and wheat spill across his white button down in the midday sun.
Though their clasped hands spoke the loudest of the bard's tragedy.
"Joan there's something I'd like to speak to you about," the older Holmes began.
"Okay."
"Though I'm not sure that here, now is the best time to discuss it."
"I can come to your office in a few days," she said curiously.
Morland nodded.
Just then a sharp intake of breath caught the pair's attention, and Joan was at Sherlock's side in an instant.
"Sherlock...hey, it's Joan," she spoke softly, taking his hand.
The detective blinked blearily, squeezing back with a sleepy smile. "Joan…"
The surgeon blushed hard at the rough warm way he spoke her name, and she cleared her throat before she continued her greeting.
"Your father is also here," she said with an apologetic smile.
Sherlock met his father's eyes and all his earlier mirth drained away. "What did I tell you…."
"It's alright my boy, I was just leaving." He gathered his coat and nodded to Joan as he left. "Ms. Watson."
Joan nodded to him, but she watched as Sherlock's eyes followed his father to the door with a scowl, and his hand that wasn't gripping hers tightly was pressing the button that lifted the back of his bed.
When his father was gone he turned to his partner, breathing hard through his nose, his grip not loosening.
"What did my father say to you," he began questioning her immediately.
Joan's eyes were shiny when he met them, and he swallowed. "I'll kill him," he said looking at the door again.
He didn't know what to make of Joan's laugh, nor of her sudden hug.
"Someone got in to the house and gassed us." She buried her face in his neck, her tears wetting his hospital gown. "By the time I realized what was happening it was to late. I tried to wake you but you were out cold and... all I could think to do was call for help…."
At first Sherlock didn't move. He took a deep breath and his body went on autopilot when he smelled her perfume. His arms encircled her, hugging her to him so tightly her small feet came off the floor till she was sitting fully on his bed, nearly in his lap.
"You did the right thing Joan," he whispered to her. "By calling the police you no doubt foiled an enemy's plot to abduct or harm us," he spoke softly close to her ear.
Sherlock's nerves were set on edge when his father was in the room, and even out of sight his plots plagued his sons mind. But Joan was quietly crying in his arms, so for now his priority was Watson, and he pulled his blankets up to cover her shoulders as they clung to each other.
He shook his head no in response to an incoming nurse, holding up a hand in a silent plea for them to have more time alone. The dark sandy skinned shamrock green eyed woman nodded with a small smile as she closed the door behind herself.
Half an hour later saw Joan fast asleep tucked in next to Sherlock on his bed. She felt small in his arms and he'd just begun to doze off to the smell of her hair when the nurse knocked, gently opening the door.
"Enter," he whispered.
"Hello Mr. Holmes. Would it be alright if I gave you a once over now," she asked with a quiet welsh accent.
Sherlock nodded and began untangling himself from Joan, slowly sliding his arm from under her head. She stirred for a moment but settled after the detective pulled the blanket back up over her shoulders, whispering in her ear, "sleep."
He noted that the nurse was trying hard to appear not to be watching them, as she readied the items she'd need for the exam.
Her lusciously curly hair was pulled back in to a bun on the back of her head with a few long swirling strands falling to obscure her left eye, and after listening to his breathing and checking his blood pressure she spoke.
"Your wife is very beautiful, and she clearly adores you."
"We are not wed as it were…," Sherlock corrected her. "She's my partner," he continued, looking back at Joan as the nurse began drawing his blood. "And my best friend." He was quiet a moment. "I value her opinion above all others." He watched as the nurse switched vials. "At the beginning of our relationship she'd been sent to me as a guide of sorts, a companion to help me reintegrate back into the world as a functioning member of society. But that quickly changed," he glanced back at the former surgeon. "She can't abide the conventional but she's too stubborn to admit it. I often suspect that particular quirk was the final push in to the life we now share."
The nurse smiled, "I was told she use to be a doctor, she must be really smart too."
"A brilliant surgeon, and a brilliant detective."
Sherlock wiped a hand over his face as the nurse filled in his paperwork. "We're like minded in our love of a good mystery, and under my tutelage she has became an accomplished detective in her own right." He smiled closing his eyes, "She's the best student I've ever had. Diligent...smart...brave…." He met the nurse's green eyes, "Believe it or not this isn't the first time she's saved my life." He scoffed, "this isn't even the first time she's saved my life this year."
"She seems like an amazing woman," she leaned over to better view Joan's gentle sleeping face and raised an eyebrow. "So...just to be clear, when you said "partner"," the nurse held up her fingers. "Did you mean business partner or like lover partner?"
Sherlock swallowed thickly, blinking several times before his brain was able to formulate an answer. "Yes…."
"I'm sorry?"
"I mean no. We...we're…."
"Um okay, can you let me know when you figure that out. A woman like her isn't one I'd pass up." She chuckled. "Alright! We are all done here Mr. Holmes." The nurse stood, clearly excited about the prospect of wooing Watson.
"If you need anything else just press the button with the red cross on it, oh and my name is Olivia but everyone calls me Bunny."
Sherlock looked at her with an arched eyebrow and she answered his unasked question.
"I love marshmallows," she smiled and slipped out the door.
Sherlock stared at the door for a few moments after it closed. There were a million and one questions buzzing around in his head but at the moment both his mind and body were exhausted.
He'd clearly had a negative reaction to the gas they'd been exposed to, and his head ached at the thought of reading anything at the moment. So he decided to give in to his human needs. Laying back down the detective reached an arm back over Joan's shoulders and she took a deep breath as she burrowed in closer to him, her small hand resting over his heart.
Sherlock lay awake for a few more minutes contemplating "Bunny's" assumption.
He'd never given any real thought to marriage, with his early exposure being his parents relationship that ended with his mother's exile and death. He'd considered it while he was with Morearty, aka Irene Adler, but in his heart he knew it wasn't meant to be.
At least not with her.
Joan Watson was the exception to many if not all of his rules, and he wondered if she had even the slightest idea the power she could wield through him.
The connection to his father alone would be worth gaining his confidence.
But she genuinely loved the work. She understood the lure of a good mystery, and he wouldn't begrudge her her hero complex, she'd earned the mantle of herion many times over.
It worried him though, the thought of how far he knew he was willing to go for her. He hadn't been joking when he told his brother he would kill him if anything happened to her.
He would have slit Mycroft's throat and, prison or not, he estimated he'd have OD'd within a matter of weeks.
Sherlock closed his eyes hugging her closer. 'Love like this is dangerous,' he thought to himself, and again he felt his kinship with Moriarty.
The monster that falls in love with the human.
Could Joan finally make him "one of them"?
The answer to his question struck the detective almost as soon as he'd thought it.
Joan would never try to make him "one of them".
Joan Watson saw him, saw all of him….
And she loved him anyway.