Pale rose leaves have fallen
In the fountain water;
And soft reedy flute-notes
Pierce the sultry quiet.

But I wait and listen,
Till the trodden gravel
Tells me, all impatience,
It is Phaon's footstep.

(17)

It is a typical quality of Shirley's nature that she sometimes disappears, without bothering to let Joan know, and then sends her a text a few hours (or sometimes days) later, telling her to meet her at some obscure location in London for an adventure that invariably leads to questionable bruises, at least one life-threatening situation and a feigned disinterest in her ultimate write-up of the whole thing. She signs off every text with 'the game is on.'

Except for this time. This time, Shirley did not disappear, at least not in her typical way. Joan woke up to a note left on the table next to her mug, saying simply 'gone out, all safe, will contact later.' The note was significantly more verbose than her normal ones, which reassured Joan enough that she got on with her day, barely feeling the vibration of her phone through her coat pocket and only taking it out when standing in a long queue at the post office. This time, the text says 'meet me at the bench in the park, behind the statue but before the long walk home. This evening, when the leaves start falling and the sun threads itself through a needle.'

She stands in the queue considering the text, barely noticing anything until she reaches the cashier and has to apply her mind to the human world again. On the walk home she thinks about it again, turning it over in her mind – the park is obvious at once, behind the statue as well, but the long walk home and the bench require more thought, and though she can understand the sun and the needle, the bit about leaves falling makes no sense at all.

When she gets home, she cancels her mental plan for the day, which consists of mainly inanities anyway, and applies her mind instead to solving the riddle. She emerges a few hours later with a time, a place and a suspicion that she may need to arrive in something a bit nicer than jeans and the first shirt she found. It is also a typical quality of Shirley's nature that she can only express things in the most obtuse way possible, and while it does infuriate Joan it also makes her laugh, in the way that you only can regarding those closest to you. She turns this over in her mind, while looking through her clothes for something more suitable to wear, and ends up in an outfit maybe half a grade dressier than what she'd been wearing earlier. She doesn't doubt that Shirley will be wearing her sharpest fitted suit, her 'outdoors wear', and while she's used to being outshone by her, she still wants to impress a little.

She makes it to the appropriate spot well in advance, thanks to her habit of planning for getting lost, and decides that it would be the perfect moment to sit and reflect – if she were the sort of woman inclined to reflection. Instead, she reads for a while, then works, then simply sits and waits. It doesn't take her long to locate and line up all the parts of Shirley's riddle, and she finds herself distracted by the littlest things. The leaves off of a bush have fallen into the small fountain ahead of her, and despite it barely touching autumn they sit on top of the water, slowly browning. Somewhere in the distance she can hear someone playing, a soft and slow tune that worms its way through the quiet air to her, barely a disturbance on her radar as she sits, gradually tuning out the world to just her, the air and her breath, until her concentration is broken by the sharp clack of heels on cobblestone. Someone – Shirley, it turns out – sits down next to her and drops an inconspicuous bag between her feet.

'Next time, you could afford to be a little clearer. It's not a matter of state emergency – or I hope it's not, I should probably go change if so.'

'Don't worry, it's nothing so trivial. And I gave you something to do with your day, didn't I? What were you planning otherwise? Errands? Groceries? Cleaning?'

She says the last word with a tone of hatred only comparable to that said by teenagers and snobby women, and Joan can't help at smile – both at Shirley's tone and her astuteness.

'That it did – and a merry chase you led me on.'

'Enriched your mind. Exercised the grey cells.'

'How long did it take you to come up with that?'

'Oh, not long. I sat here and thought of a few phrases to describe the place and then moved on.'

Joan feels she ought to gape, or at the least feel a little outraged, but all she can feel is resigned amusement. She suspects it's the sunset.

'Why did you bring me here, Shirley?' she says after the silence stretches on a little too long. 'Was it really just a way of getting me out of the apartment?'

'An apology,' says Shirley, looking steadily ahead. 'I see you dressed for the occasion. I wanted…to make amends, if I could. I have not treated you well recently.'

Joan looks at her, barely managing to keep the surprise out of her expression, increasing infinitely as Shirley reaches into the bag and pulls out a small bouquet of flowers and a red box, the global sign for chocolates. She can't think of anything clever to say, so she goes for the obvious.

'You missed Valentine's day by over a week.'

'Discounted,' replies Shirley, not missing a beat. 'It's the thought that matters, etc, correct? Come, we're about to miss our reservation.'

Joan follows her, holding the chocolate and flowers, for a few paces, before she stops and calls out to her.

'Shirley. Is this an elaborate way of asking me out on a date, or a rendezvous between friends and an apology for an offense not taken. You haven't treated me any worse than usual lately, and while I'm grateful, I don't understand.'

Shirley turns, giving her a look that soars through Joan and she understands, for a second, the appeal Molly sees in her – she can be fierce, terrifying and poisonous, but once you fall under her spell you never really escape.

'It's whatever you want. You said it yourself – I'm your best friend. Don't best friends buy each other chocolate and flowers? Don't they book them reservations in restaurants known for never having a spare table? Don't they send each other cryptic text messages to entertain them during a boring afternoon?'

Joan stands, silent, puzzling through the words until she reaches a conclusion. She doesn't say anything, just smiles, and Shirley returns the smile and then holds out her hand, with the bag still in it. 'Come on, we really will miss our reservation. And they might not be happy with you walking in with a bouquet in your hands, even one as tiny as this.'

I basically have an established headcanon of how these two act - confession: I only ship fem!Johnlock.

Set...sometime pre-S3 I guess, late February.

Is it platonic? Is it romantic? Will I ever write a proper series with these two and include all my shorts...?