The meetings grew more fleeting, and intermittent. Topics changed from death and carnage to boring domestic matters. The 'happy couple' were busy planning their first home, the things they needed to buy, wedding plans, flower arrangements, the kitchen sink and some taps. A strange quality would suffuse her features; make her eyes glow and sparkle with something that almost approached life. Her desire to know the intimate details of his crimes waned and trickled away, and she could barely summon interest. That made two of them. He hardly found wedding chatter scintillating conversation.

During this period he finally discovered where she lived, a tiny bedsit (that seemed to have been converted from a previous owner's walk in warderobe) on the outskirts of London which was decorated solely with packing crates and flimsy scarves. There was a fug of incense and blood in the room so thick it might have been possible to cut it for use as building materials. The room, like her, was utterly devoid of signs of life. This was somewhere a person came to sit, that was all. There was nothing unique and identifying, nothing that would make him swear it as belonging to her. Beanbags that wept their innards across the wooden floorboards were piled up against the plain white walls. A plain watercolour in a cheap pine frame. A single mattress on the floor. A chipped sink, the porcelain turned the colour of tobacco spit, the taps rusted and squeaky. Multiple washing lines had been set up around it, little flimsy things made of string, displaying her limited rotation of clothes. It was a dead room, abandonned a long time ago, and wheezing with age at the edges. It was empty and unloved; after all, Joyce didn't sleep. Or eat. Or do much. That was how she could afford the things she did buy; she didn't need heating, water, food, and all those other things that build up. She could squander away what she owned on fashion magazines, faux pearl necklaces that smelt of someone else's Chanel perfume, head scarves and French cigarettes if she wanted.

It became somewhat of a bolthole for him; when he needed to hide, or provide a diversion, she could be relied upon to let him up into that box room, whatever the time, whatever the reason. She genuinely didn't seem to care - or was glad for the distraction.

She visited Baker Street many, many times. Unfortunately. She was like a stray cat, in that she refused to leave and hankered down into the furniture. And shed hairs. He answered the door, finding her stood there entirely unannounced. Sorry, I felt lonely, thought I'd follow your scent. She waltzed into the flat, introduced herself to John, and fully ingratiated herself into the apartment. To his disgust, they shared John's beers and got themselves thoroughly tipsy, watching James Bond movies late into the morning and loudly discussing the relative quantum mechanics of villainy in the visual media. That seemed to involve whether or not the character had facial hair, or was played by Christopher Lee. How did she drink? How on earth did she drink? What logic there was to her state didn't seem to apply. She just sat there, conducting her argument with the neck of her beer bottle, waving off diagnoses of anaemia. He tried banning her from the place, he really honestly tried but she never listened, just kept slinking back when he didn't expect it. He blamed Mrs Hudson. He honestly did. She seemed to think there was something in it all and kept inviting her round whenever she could. Sometimes he'd be in the middle of something, and turn around and there she was! Just sat in one of the armchairs, reading some trashy magazine with her knees tucked up under her chin.

He tripped over the coffee table with surprise the first time that happened. He actually did. He didn't let her surprise him after that. It was personal, and professional, pride. He couldn't keep letting Joyce get the better over him. She was worse than Mycroft. Not intellectually speaking though. She was dumber than a box of hammers. Couldn't even write. That was a surprise development. She could read readily enough, quite happily, but quaked at the thought of writing something.

"It's a basic skill. How is it that you can read, but not write?" He felt like such a hypocrite with those words but ignored the nagging worries.

"I dunno. It's much easier to read than to write, and I never learnt much at school. I left when I were thirteen, got married when I were seventeen. Kid at eighteen. That was my life, set up for me." They'd uncharacteristically gone out for milkshakes in a garishly decorated fast food outlet, filled with screaming kiddies and balloons. He didn't know why there were there and suspected Joyce of mind-altering powers (not for the first time mind; she had a skill for making everything around her go how she wanted). She chewed the top of her straw between those sharp teeth, deep in thought. The 'rule' about whether she could eat or not appeared to be reliant on her mood. She snaffled sugar lumps at the coffee shop when she thought no one was watching and often appeared to rifle through his fridge at home.

That was not a good day.


Yes, there actually is a plot; this isn't just some random scribblings. And I think you can tell that it's not going to be good, and it certainly isn't going to be happy. Thank you for your reviews, and please, as always, bring up anything you have a problem with.