Hey guys! When I first published this story, I intended it to be a quick one-shot, but this chapter just kind of wrote itself, so I had to add it :) I'm changing the status of this to in progress because I might add more if you guys like it. Thanks for reading and enjoy!
Joan watched Sherlock as he practiced with the single stick; he was shirtless, glistening with sweat, and as of yet unaware of her presence. She figured she only had a few seconds to watch before be felt her eyes on him and turned around.
Joan admired the way he put his complete and total effort into his practice with the stick. She had always marveled at the way he gave everything he had to each and every thing he put his mind to, no matter how large or how inconsequential it may be. It was just one of the things she loved about him.
No, she corrected herself, one of the things she admired about him. Admired. That's all.
Joan Watson did not love Sherlock Holmes.
She would not let herself.
Joan knew better than to let herself explore the depths of how she really felt about her partner. Doing so only led to frustration. It was impossible to define what she felt for him. She had never had such intense feelings about someone the way she did for Sherlock, but she refused to put a name to those feelings. She feared what she would find if she truly took a look at herself, and besides, what good would that do?
In the midst of their strange relationship, Joan knew she had to be strong. She could never fall in love with Sherlock. She knew how he felt about love. Romantic love is a delusion, he had told her once. A hedge against the terror of mortality. Sherlock did not believe in love, hence would never return it if bestowed upon him by someone else. So, Joan thought, she would never let herself fall for him.
And yet.
Could Sherlock love another person? He had fallen in love with Irene. Despite how Sherlock may feel about that relationship now, Joan could tell that at the time, he really had loved Irene. But now? Sherlock had told her he would never love again. Post-love, was what he believed himself to be. He would never let himself love again, so to love him would simply lead to heartache.
And yet.
Joan could not completely deny what she felt for him. She was constantly pulled in by his gravity, always orbiting him, forever bound to him somehow.
Sherlock Holmes wasn't like other men. He was somehow more. Whenever Joan went on a date, she was inevitably disappointed, because compared to Sherlock, everyone else was boring and drab. I have more interesting conversations at home, she had found herself thinking on more than one of her dates. It was becoming a problem, so she had simply stepped going on dates. In her mind, no one would ever compare to Sherlock.
Joan thought about all the things Sherlock was to her. She had to admit that he was more than just her partner; he was her friend. Her closest friend. He was her roommate, and though he drove her absolutely crazy at times, she found she never wanted to live with anyone else.
He was the person who knew more about her than anyone else, and accepted every part of her without question. He was the only person who had promised never to let any harm come to her, and she trusted him with her life.
He was the only one who never looked at her with pity, silently questioning why she gave up her career as a surgeon to be a sober companion and eventually a police consultant. Everyone else in her life thought she was crazy for giving up that life, and whether they said so or not, Joan could see the judgment in their eyes. It always made her feel as if to them she was only a piece of her former self. But not Sherlock. Sherlock saw the potential she had that no one else saw, and it made her feel whole again. Made her feel like she mattered, like she was accepted for who she was now, no questions asked.
She had changed Sherlock's life, he had told her so. But what she had not told him was that he had changed her, too. She wasn't the same woman who had walked through his door for the first time all those years ago. What was different about her?
The plain and simple answer was him.
But Joan Watson did not love Sherlock Holmes.
She wouldn't let herself.
She couldn't.
The last thing Joan wanted was to lose him, and she feared that if she ever let herself fall for him, she would eventually scare him away. She was sure he could never feel the same way, could never return her affection.
Could he?
Joan shook her head to clear it. She couldn't keep thinking this way. Of course he couldn't. Or wouldn't. Sherlock would never let himself love anyone, so in return Joan could not let herself love him. That's how it had to be.
Right?
Stop, Joan commanded herself. She needed to be strong. Sherlock needed her here, whether or not he admitted it, and whether she had ever told him or not, Joan needed him. She couldn't think about this any more, it was too dangerous. She would NOT lose him. If that meant suppressing whatever it was that kept pulling her into his orbit, then that's how it would be.
However, despite knowing she needed to be strong, Joan let herself stand there a few moments longer, her eyes softening as she watched the way his muscles tensed and rippled as he smacked his target. She found it impossible to turn away, so she let herself admire him for a few seconds more. A small indulgence, but one she rarely allowed herself. A moment of weakness that cracked her strong resolve.
After all, Sherlock Holmes was becoming Joan Watson's greatest weakness.