Joan Watson text to Emily Burke, NYC 2014
Am at crime scene with Sherlock. Scalpel definitely murder weapon. Sherlock definitely brilliant. And impossible. Will get a cab to florists. See you soon. Joan x
Notes in Joan Watson's phone:
This cab has WiFi. who'd have thought that, ten years ago. Internet on the go.
Ok. I know who would have thought it. He thinks of everything.
Sherlock.
God, just writing his name. I shouldn't even write this. I know he steals my laptop and hacks into it. No, not hacks. He just guesses my passwords. Even when I make them heybuttoutsherlock he still guesses them and goes in and reads my stuff.
My phone is with me all the time though. I sleep with it under my pillow, like some parody of a cowgirl in the old West with a gun under her mattress.
If he wants my phone, he'll have to climb into my bed at night to get it.
Why did I put that, for crying out loud, now he'll see that too. Except he won't because I am never letting this phone out of my sight.
Sherlock in my bed.
Ridiculous.
I know he's thought about it. No lady friends lately and he is forever looking at my legs. The general looking has increased a lot over the last month or so. The attempted thefts of my phone too. I mean yesterday he walked in while I was in the shower. Naked.
I grabbed the shower curtain round myself and yelled at him and he turned his back and made some excuse about looking for something. Yeah right, something. I know exactly what. My phone.
If he had taken a proper look when he sauntered in then he'd have seen my phone, in its waterproof diver's pouch, next to the shower gel, under the running water.
I guess his next move will be some kind of ninja leap across the room to thrust his arm into the pouring water and snatch my phone before I can stop him. His arm, inked from bicep to shoulder, dropletted and warm, shooting straight past me to the thing he really wants.
No, Mr Cab Driver, I am not smiling at you. God, can't a woman smirk to herself in this city without some guy thinking it is on his account?
Ok then. So the score at the moment is Joan: one, secret diary: Sherlock: about a million, constant staring and not at my mind.
If he didn't want me to know then he could hide it. So he does want me to know . He is interested in me, as a woman.
A woman who very conveniently lives under the same roof as him.
A woman whose mind he doesn't hate. From Sherlock that is a great compliment.
I feel as if we are very close, sometimes.
Huh. Maybe very close to me making a total idiot of myself.
My vision - of us reading, like we do, him full length, his head in my lap, turning his eyes up to me from time to time and giving me that wide eyed look, the look of checking me, making sure I am real, making sure I have not left -
My vision is bull. He doesn't need me. I think he wants me. As what though, I can't be sure. I'm nobody's convenience, thanks all the same. If he wants sex then -
I don't know. It's been a long time. My thinking is all blurry because it's been a long time. Captain Gregson, Bell, Alfredo - they all look pretty good right now.
(imagine Sherlock choking when he reads that part).
He's the one I'd consider though. But I can't because it could ruin what we have. I can't take that chance.
And actually, it's worse now, knowing that he can fall in love. Because if we did get involved, it couldn't last - nothing lasts, nothing persists, nothing is perfect and forever. And so it would end, and he would be hurt, and I couldn't stand that. And I'd have to leave, and then I would be hurt too.
So Sherlock, if you're reading this and you know for sure that I have been thinking about saying Fuck it and just jumping you even you look at me with those tie me down eyes, then this is why I don't and this is why I'm sorry, this is why not.
Oh great, what's happening now, there's always something in this city -
What the hell-?