…and, hiatus over. It's been a long five months, filled with international sabbaticals to internet-free locales, massive deadlines, needy, rambunctious children, and a broken hand which has significantly slowed my typing down. So that's cool. Given the core dynamic of this piece, I've elected not to take season 3's living situation into account—whether or not I will in the future depends on where CBS goes, I suppose. Thanks for your patience, support, and messages (and kindly note that the section with Moriarty was written before 3.3, and I didn't have the heart to take it out).
Winter drifted by, week after frigid week. The streets of New York were piled with an ever-shifting mass of dirty slush, and the salt and grit clung to Joan's boots no matter how often she cleaned them. Inside the brownstone the space heaters churned away, using an enormous amount of electricity to keep the otherwise drafty rooms cozy and warm, a trade Joan didn't have any qualms making. On the afternoons without cases to attend to she cooked rich soups and stews, warming them all from the inside out. Sherlock made pot after pot of coffee and tea, so many that the lingering scents of hibiscus and jasmine and dark roast were an intangible presence in and around the kitchen. Even Moriarty contributed, unearthing Joan's ancient crockpot that once belonged to a great-aunt to make some dish with chicken and gravy that Sherlock claimed exemplified everything that was wrong with British cuisine—not that that stopped him from eating three bowls of it.
Winter was drifting by, but Joan's world was peaceful. The work was interesting and productive without keeping Sherlock (and by extension, Joan) awake for more than a night at a time. Moriarty had settled somewhat, spending less time antagonizing Joan and more of it ensconced in her chair in the library, writing in her notebooks for hours as the snow swirled outside the window behind her, ink on her fingertips and a mug of tea at her elbow. The upstairs hall smelled of lavender soap and fresh paint, and Joan couldn't remember the last time she'd locked her bedroom door.
Winter drifted by.
Then, two weeks before the first day of spring, Ms. Hudson found Sherlock's stash of heroin.
Ms. Hudson was watching Joan almost regretfully as she stared with numb incomprehension at the tiny packet on the counter between them. "I was going to shelve that box of books that Sherlock brought home from the estate sale last week," she explained, wringing her hands awkwardly. "Since that meant moving half the library around anyway, I figured that I might as well get the dusting done today, too. But I tripped over the box and dropped a few of the texts that I was carrying, and, well…"
She gestured helplessly at the packet.
"Are you all right?" Joan asked automatically, her eyes not leaving the counter.
She could feel Ms. Hudson frowning at her. "I'm fine; the books got the worst of it," she promised. "But Joan, you—"
Joan sighed. "I know," she admitted, cutting off whatever no doubt sincerely meant platitude Ms. Hudson was going to offer, closing her eyes and turning slightly in order to lean back against the counter. "I just…I'm not sure what to do about it yet."
Ms. Hudson nodded sympathetically. "I'm sorry to put this on you," she apologized, a wrinkle forming between her eyebrows. "I just—I thought that you should know, even though you're not his addiction counselor anymore."
Joan nodded slowly. "I'm not," she agreed, not bothering to correct her former title. "But I'm his friend and his partner and his roommate, and you were right to show me, even if…thank you."
Ms. Hudson nodded in return, seemingly at least a little reassured by Joan's absolution. "If there's anything I can do to help, even if it's bringing over a few dinners or meeting you for a day out of the house, just let me know," she insisted, gathering her purse from the table and looping it over her shoulder. "Whatever you need, Joan, I mean it."
Joan managed a grateful smile. "Thank you," she repeated, looking down until her hair spilled over her shoulders. "I appreciate that."
As Ms. Hudson turned to leave, however, Joan looked back up. "Did you know him then?" she asked suddenly, surprising them both. "When he was using, I mean."
Ms. Hudson paused.
"I…it was hard for me to know, sometimes," she said slowly, after a minute. "He was always brilliant, obviously, and how erratic and sometimes unreliable he could be seemed…part of it, I suppose."
She paused again with a frown, and Joan could tell that she was choosing her words with care.
"I didn't see him that often, I'm sure you know," she continued, "so I didn't have much of a baseline to compare him to. Once I knew he had a problem, I tried to help where I could—make sure he was eating, taking care of himself.
"But I don't have his background, or yours," she added, motioning at Joan with a rueful smile. "I'm sure there was a lot that I missed. And he's so gifted at making you see what you want to see, when it suits him."
She reached out, tucking an errant lock of Joan's hair behind her ear in a maternal gesture that would have felt intrusive coming from anyone else. "He's so fortunate to have someone like you," she told Joan, who tried and failed to swallow the rapidly forming lump in her throat. "Someone who really cares about him, but who isn't so easily fooled. Everyone should be so lucky."
By some miracle, Joan managed to blink back the tears stinging her eyes before they had a chance to fall.
Contrary to what her therapist, her mother, half of her friends, a sizeable minority of the department, and sometimes even Joan herself thought, Joan's life did not revolve around Sherlock. After Ms. Hudson's departure, Joan went on with the rest of her day: forging Sherlock's signature to pay the utility bills, going for a run, dropping off a stack of books at the library, stopping by the bodega to pick up a few items they were running low on.
It worked, for a little while.
Eventually, though, Joan ran out of distractions. Midafternoon found her in the same spot in the kitchen she'd been that morning when Ms. Hudson had sought her out, Sherlock's packet of heroin on the counter in front of her while a hot mug of tea seared the skin of her palms.
Joan knew, better than most, that having drugs in the brownstone didn't necessarily mean that Sherlock was using them. And while it had been a long time since she had been actively watching him for signs of a relapse, she was confident that between herself, Alfredo, and Captain Gregson, someone would have noticed if he was using again.
Joan also knew that there were any number of reasons why Sherlock could have bought and hidden the drugs in the first place, and even more for not telling Joan about them.
But she also knew that she wasn't Sherlock's sober companion anymore, and hadn't been for a long time. Many of her former clients still kept in touch, and as much as Joan liked some of them and genuinely wanted every one of them to do well, their relationships were still professional. If any of them called her because they were struggling or had fallen off the wagon, she could be disappointed for them, but could help them cope with their circumstances with clear eyes and a sense of distance from the situation.
But Sherlock wasn't a client, he was a friend, and any distance she had had from his struggles was well in the past.
Sherlock hiding the drugs in the library had nothing to do with her, not really, and it wasn't something that Joan would have advised anyone in her position to take to heart. But a small part of her couldn't help but think, in the privacy of her own thoughts, alone in her kitchen with the burning porcelain mug between her hands, that it felt personal.
That in some small way, it felt like Liam all over again.
And that for all her professional training and experience, not to mention years of living with Sherlock, she felt just as lost and bereft of answers as she had that first time.
The sky had gone dark, and the tea cold, when Joan heard the front door open and close, followed soon after by the sound of soft footsteps on the stairs. Joan, unsure about what she wanted to do but knowing that she wasn't ready to do it yet, snatched the packet off of the counter and quickly tucked it into the pocket of her sweatshirt.
And not a moment too soon—Moriarty entered the kitchen a few seconds later, cheeks light pink from the cold.
"Global warming is certainly taking its time," she grumbled good-naturedly. "Any hot water left?"
She picked up Joan's cup before Joan could answer and, frowning at the temperature, poured the contents into the sink and began refilling the tea kettle without pause.
Joan, far too used to Moriarty's frequently intrusive behavior, merely rolled her eyes. "That's not how climate change works," she pointed out instead, sliding the canister of tea leaves across the counter toward Moriarty.
She snatched them up and refilled the pot, glancing back at Joan with a smirk. "Tell someone who doesn't know, darling," she suggested, raising an eyebrow before turning back to the cabinet and taking down a second mug. "One of your politicians, perhaps; I'm given to understand that they're unusually open to receiving scientific education from their constituents."
"Ha," Joan responded dryly, settling back on her stool. She watched quietly as Moriarty finished making the tea, adding sugar and a pinch of cinnamon from the shaker that one of them had left out the day before. Her hair was mussed but dry, Joan noticed—either the snow that had been coming down earlier when she'd been out had stopped, or (more likely) Moriarty had worn a hat on the way home.
Home from where, Joan didn't know, and didn't care to find out. Though she hadn't really flaunted her work in front of Joan or Sherlock since the first few weeks of her stay in the brownstone, Moriarty had pointedly gotten better—or more considerate, really—about hiding any trace of her criminal empire from Joan's knowledge, and Joan preferred it that way.
Of course, given Joan's luck, Ms. Hudson would probably find some rival mastermind's broken kneecap in the library the next time she was over and blow that unspoken armistice to hell.
Thunk—Joan startled as Moriarty set her refreshed mug down in front of her with just enough force to get her attention. She smiled at Joan triumphantly. "Sherlock's done something, hasn't he," she declared almost smugly, and Joan bristled at her tone for a moment before realizing that her attitude was less schadenfreude and more pleasure at Joan's (apparently visible) turmoil being someone else's fault, for a change.
She shook her head slightly. "Nothing I want to talk about," she replied honestly, taking a sip of her still too hot tea and trying to keep her expression as neutral as possible.
Moriarty studied her face. "He's not home from the convention yet," she mused, referring to the orthodontic conference that Sherlock had planned to sneak into in the hopes of collecting bite impressions. "Not unless they've already discovered that he faked his credentials. So presumably, he either left something behind that upset you, or he's done something worthy of your disapproval that went undiscovered until after he'd gone."
Joan sighed, resting her temple on her hand. "I guess it was too much to hope that you'd pick up on my not wanting to talk about it," she muttered, tracing the shadow of her mug on the counter with her free hand. "Though I can see how you might have missed it; my directly saying so was pretty subtle."
Moriarty smiled sweetly. "You shouldn't listen to your mother," she offered supportively, patting Joan's hand and picking up her own mug. "I find your hourly use of sarcasm both delightful and endearing."
She reached into her sweater pocket as Joan sputtered incoherently, pulling out a phone that Joan had never seen before. "Right, then," she said distractedly, unlocking the screen and tapping a few buttons. "Get your coat, would you? The car will be here shortly to take us to the cinema."
Joan stared, still recovering from Moriarty's idea of a 'your mom' joke (or worse, Moriarty's sly hint that Joan needed to borrow her mother's cell phone and 'accidentally' delete all the contacts she didn't personally recognize). "…what?" she managed faintly.
Moriarty glanced upward, looking mildly surprised. "The movies," she clarified unnecessarily, as if it was the wording that was tripping Joan up. "I'll even let you choose the film, if you like, with the caveat that I will not hold myself responsible for my actions if you attempt to make me sit through something…animated."
She pursed her lips slightly, filling the word with a withering disdain that anyone else might have reserved for 'baby murderer' or 'tech support holding music'.
Joan…wasn't any less confused. "Why are you taking me to the movies?" she tried again, watching as Moriarty sent another message with her phone before dropping it back into her pocket.
Moriarty shrugged artlessly. "You're upset but don't wish to discuss it, Sherlock is not home to face the consequences of whatever ridiculous thing he's done this time, and I've no wish to either avoid your company or bear the brunt of your displeasure this evening," she explained in a casual tone that would have fooled Joan if it hadn't been for the visible tension in her hands. "Therefore, the movies."
When Joan hesitated, Moriarty's face grew uncertain. "We don't have to go out, if you'd rather not," she offered, looking away from Joan. "I—we could…hug…if that's what would make you feel better."
Joan blinked, just to make sure it was still Moriarty in front of her instead of Sherlock. "You want us to hug," she countered skeptically, not entirely certain that she wasn't hallucinating the entire conversation.
Apparently she wasn't, because Moriarty was scowling defensively. "I want us to shoot people; that's what I do when I'm unhappy," she clarified irritably, as if Joan's not-quite-a-question had been a personal affront. "You're the hugger in this household, for all the good that it does."
It was both true and not true, Joan realized. She would never have described herself as a tactile person, before. Compared to Sherlock and Moriarty, however…
Joan shook her head. She had no doubt that Moriarty would hug her, if Joan said yes—undoubtedly she'd done it before, as Irene or any number of identities she had worn in the past and shed as easily as clothing.
But Joan didn't want any of those other personalities to touch her, or for Moriarty to go somewhere else inside her own head just to fulfill a clumsily-made proposal that Joan wasn't sure she even wanted to accept.
God, she was so tired.
"No, the movies are great," she sighed, looking back up at Moriarty and offering her a tremulous smile. "Let's do that."
Moriarty beamed in return, awkwardness immediately gone. "Excellent," she replied, taking a final sip of her tea before dropping the mug into the sink. "I'll get my things. Perhaps if there's time on the way back, we could stop at the art supply shop, as well—I'm planning on painting something that Sherlock will hate, and nailing over his evidence wall the next time he steals my clean clothing out of the laundry room for an experiment."
Joan couldn't help but roll her eyes.
Which Moriarty must have seen. "You can select the colors," she called over her shoulder, entering her own room and leaving Joan in the kitchen. "I see no reason why you should have to suffer as well."
Dumping her own tea in the sink and heading upstairs to grab her purse, Joan decided not to mention that Sherlock had gone out that morning in a pair of lilac colored socks that were at least a size too small for his feet.
It was her evidence board too, after all.
In the end, Joan disposed of the evidence in the most efficient way she knew how: dumping the powder down the kitchen disposal (chasing it with several gallons of water, then a round of drain cleaner), thoroughly cleaning the bag of any residue and fingerprints, and burying the torn plastic in a restaurant dumpster four blocks away from the brownstone. It was a decision she'd struggled over, but in the end, practicality won out—there were countless ways to prove to Sherlock that she trusted him not to relapse, but heroin possession was a deportable offense. And given the number of police officers—not to mention judges—that Sherlock had irritated over the past two and a half years, a probable cause warrant with their address on it was certain to come up in their future.
In the tiny hidden compartment that had held Sherlock's stash, Joan tucked one of the sobriety chips he'd palmed at a meeting ages ago to prove whatever ridiculous point he'd been set on making. Along with the chip went one of her necklaces, a cufflink that Moriarty had abandoned on the desk the week before, and one of the glittering origami stars that Ms. Hudson had used to decorate the tray of cookies she'd brought them at Christmas, and that Joan had thought too lovely to throw away.
Maybe Sherlock, observing the missing layer of dust on the shelves and the displacement of half of his library, would check on his hollowed-out book and notice the switch right away. Hopefully, it would be years before Joan's actions came to light.
Whenever the discovery took place, Joan knew she'd given him enough to see the invitation for what it was.
Until that happened, she could wait.