Thank you for reading! :)
Disclaimer: 'Sherlock' belongs to all the important people that you know. Also, credit to Ariane DeVere for her series transcripts that had been extremely helpful.
Warning: Get ready for an emotional rollercoaster (it certainly was one for me).
# #
On paper, the plan was perfect. He watched on CCTV as Joan progressively succumbed to the effect of the unknown drug, and Sherlock felt validated – he was right, there was a drug, and his reaction in the Hollow had not been a critical failure in the system.
Then he called the doctor to confirm the results, and the anguish in her voice made him fidget uneasily. Well, it was bound to be unpleasant. She just needs to confirm the hallucination, and we can stop this. But Joan stubbornly refused to see the hound. "Can you see it?" he insisted, getting impatient.
"Get me out…" was the only response before a loud noise. She dropped the phone. The cameras didn't go inside the cages, and he could not confirm Watson's state.
Dammit.
He took off, still listening to Joan hyperventilating on the line. He was almost at the lifts when she screamed, a long, agonizing wail of someone who just lost all hope. Shit! Sherlock tried to get her to react via the phone, but the connection cut as the lift descended. The door opened with one swipe, and the detective fumbled frantically with the lights before rushing towards the cages.
"John?" he called and pulled off the drape at the same time. The woman was kneeling on the floor, slumped like a marionette abandoned by its master, left hand caressing gently something he couldn't see. At the sudden movement however, she looked up, a hollow gaze, similar to the cold fury that ended their memorable sparring session last summer, and in a fluid movement a gun was pointed square at his heart. Sherlock gulped. "John." The gaze did not waver, neither did the weapon. "Can you hear me?" She cocked her head to the side, which was supposedly a good sign. "It's alright, you're safe now." Joan frowned slightly, the only indication that she was aware of him. "Can you put away the gun, please?"
Her gaze strayed back to the ground. "What about…" she fell silent in the middle of the sentence.
"What, John?"
The gun slowly started to lower. "It… isn't real?" she asked uncertainly.
"No, John. You have been drugged. We have all been drugged."
"Drugged?" she said, tasting the word like a new candy. The gun was definitely abandoned on the ground and her gaze grew more focused, aware of the surroundings, less ice cold. "Drugs." She looked up at him, an expression so raw and pained, it cut Sherlock's breath for a second. "Not real." Her confusion then quickly morphed back into a tightly leashed anger, and she stumbled up, ignoring his offered hand, and pushed past the detective out of the cage.
"Are you alright?" he tried.
"No, I'm not" she stated, breathing loudly through the nose. "What was it?"
"As I said, drugs. John… Have you seen the hound?" He needed to confirm it, after all.
"Hound…?" she turned to face him, full of disbelief now. "Why would I see a dog?"
"Um…" – he didn't think that explaining the experiment would go over well right now – "That's a no then?"
"Clearly" her eyes flashed with rage, that was not directed at him (for now, he thought glumly).
"What… what have you seen?" Sherlock inquired by pure scientific curiosity.
Joan's eyes flickered towards the empty cage, closing briefly in pain. "A war zone."
Ah. Stupid! A drug inducing a strong fear response was bound to trigger a flashback or a similar response. I should have considered it. Now the data is corrupted. Sherlock grimaced, unhappy with his blunder. Never mind. There is a drug. I can work from here. "Can you walk?"
Joan, who had been attempting breathing exercises to calm down, looked at him like he just spouted a second head. "Of course, I can walk."
"Let's go then." Driven by the excitement of getting closer to the solution, Sherlock strode away, not even checking if the blogger followed, too focused on the imminent solution to the puzzle.
# #
Joan slumped over a table while Sherlock did whatever he deemed necessary with a microscope. She felt understandably shaky and angry about the vivid hallucination, but the detective's presence and focus on the case somehow made these emotions fade a little, numbed by the upcoming excitement of an answer.
"Are you sure you're okay?" Dr Stapleton asked softly. At Joan's confused blink, the other woman shrugged. "You look very peaky."
"No, I'm alright" she lied by reflex.
Stapleton looked sceptical but accepted the obvious unwillingness to discuss it futher. They stayed silent for a moment. "It was the GFP gene from a jellyfish, in case you're interested."
Huh? "What?"
"In the rabbits" the scientist clarified the cryptic statement.
"Oh" was the only thing Joan could muster to that.
"Aequoria Victoria, if you really want to know." She looked quite proud of it too.
"Not an easy thing to do, I suppose?" the blogger asked politely.
"We were the first to successfully isolate it. Anyway… there were a mix-up. My daughter ended up with one of the lab specimens, so poor Bluebell had to go."
"Your compassion's overwhelming" Joan quipped dryly.
"I know. I hate myself sometimes."
Watson glanced at Sherlock's hunched back near the microscope and sighed. He's onto something, I hope. "So, do your other colleagues bring test subjects home as well? Can make for a quite unusual pet."
"It was a one-time thing" Stapleton protested. "Interns…"
"You accept interns in here?" Joan was rather surprised – an underpaid student surely wouldn't be able to obtain the needed clearance.
"Rather trainees from other bases. Exchange of good practices and all that." The doctor's voice communicated all the good she thought of that particular initiative. "Empty heads, the lot of them."
Joan was about to commiserate when her flatmate stood up and hurled a slide against the wall, bellowing: "It's not there!"
"Sherlock!"
"Nothing here! Doesn't make any sense" he slumped back on the chair, fuming.
Stapleton looked not too shocked by the display, making one wonder about her working conditions. "What were you expecting to find?"
"A drug, of course." The detective slipped away from the table and started pacing around the lab. "There has to be a drug – a hallucinogenic or a deliriant of some kind. There's no trace of anything in the sugar."
"Sugar?" Joan prodded, confused.
"The sugar, yes. It's a simple process of elimination. I saw the hound – saw it as my imagination expected me to see it: a genetically engineered monster. But I knew I couldn't believe the evidence of my own eyes, so there were seven possible reasons for it, the most possible being narcotics. Henry Knight – he saw it too, but you didn't, John. You didn't see it." She slowly nodded, even if the detective wasn't even looking in their general direction. "Now, we have eaten and drunk exactly the same things since we got to Grimpen apart from one thing: you don't take sugar in your coffee."
Sugar. Coffee. Something cold twisted in her gut, but Joan forced her instincts to shut up. "I see. So?"
"I took it from Henry's kitchen – his sugar. It's perfectly all right." He glared at the microscope, unaware of the shock slowly taking over Joan as she stared at him rather fixedly. He wouldn't, right? He wouldn't? Without further input, Sherlock twirled in place and sat back down, hands tugging at the already mussed hair. "Then how did it get into our systems. How?" His eyes closed and his hands twitched in familiar gestures. "There is something… something… buried deep."
Recognizing the beginning stages of the thinking trance, Joan struggled to get up, wincing at the tingling in her legs. She needed time to process her suspicions anyway. Meanwhile, Sherlock imperiously ordered them to get out before sliding back into the mind palace. The doctor sighed and shepherded Stapleton away. "He's not gonna be doing much talking for a while. We may as well go."
# #
Watson stretched on the leather couch in the break room, staring at the white ceiling with an unwarranted level of aggression. Stapleton left about five minutes prior, and the spacious room was eerily empty, which served as a reminder of the thrice-damned lab. Joan frowned and closed her eyes.
Bad move, she decided immediately as memories of drugged hallucinations popped up. "Fuck." Trying to occupy her brain with something (anything) else, the doctor hoisted herself up and shuffled towards the coffee pot.
The hot liquid poured into the pot, the only noise aside from her breathing. Green eyes, dead, dead, my fault… The sharp pain on her forehead made the images back away, and Joan found herself crouched in front of the counter, nails digging into the wooden surface in an attempt to not fall. She had bumped her head against the handle.
"Coffee. Just get coffee" she muttered. The silence coiled mockingly around her shoulders.
# #
They all stared at the files with growing horror. Jesus Christ, this is insane… Quite literally. Sherlock pulled up the group photo of the project's team. "Maybe our friend's somewhere in the back of the picture – someone who was old enough to be there at the time of the experiments in 1986 ..." He stopped with a blink of realization. "Maybe somebody who says "cell phone" because of time spent in America. You remember, John?"
Joan hummed in agreement, not really following, trying to decipher the small print on the sweatshirts. By the time she abandoned this endeavour, Sherlock was already pulling out his phone, about to call their mad scientist. But it was interrupted by her own phone ringing.
"Hello?" she picked it up on autopilot. There was a sharp intake of air on the other side. "Who's this?"
"It's Louis" the caller finally said, in a shaky voice. "You've got to find Henry."
Henry. Dammit, Henry had been exposed to the drug far longer than we have been. Joan looked round to catch Sherlock's attention and pressed urgently: "Louis, what happened?"
"The session… Henry was remembering, and…" He was breathing heavily, in shock. "He's got a gun. He went after the gun and shot a mirror."
"What?!"
"He's gone, you have to stop him. I don't know what he might do."
The most nightmare inducing extracts from the research file flashed across Joan's mind. "Where are you?"
"His house. I'm fine, fine…" He didn't sound fine.
"Stay there" she ordered. "We'll get someone to you, ok?"
"Yeah… yes."
She lowered the phone, staring blankly at Sherlock. "Henry?" he asked.
"He's attacked Louis. With a gun." Where the hell did he get a gun in the first place?!
"Gone?"
"Yes."
Sherlock nodded briskly and hit a speed dial on his own phone. "There's only one place he'll go to" he explained while it rang. "Back to where it all started." A muffled voice rose from the line. "Lestrade. Get to the Hollow… Dewer's Hollow, now. And bring a gun." He disconnected without further ado and swept away like he owned the place.
Stapleton and Watson watched him go in shared disbelief, then Joan shook herself back into gear. "I'll give you the address of Knight's house, can you go there and check on the therapist, please? Or send someone?" she asked the other woman while scribbling down the address. "See if an ambulance is needed, but I doubt it, he would have said so if he was wounded. Someone needs to be there though."
The scientist nodded silently, and Joan left her there, running after Sherlock in the empty corridor, all internal turmoil momentarily forgotten in face of a rescue mission. She caught up to the detective at the door, which he seemed to have been holding for a couple of minutes now. He quirked an impatient eyebrow and she shrugged back apologetically. Sherlock sighed and let her go first. They walked quickly to the car, and to Joan's great surprise the detective tossed her the keys. "Drive" he ordered sombrely, buckling his seatbelt and clutching the overhead handle.
# #
She got the car as far as she could, then they spilled out of the vehicle and sprinted towards the trees, adrenaline washing away all the doubts and fears. Headlights flashed behind them, presumably Lestrade, but they pressed on, shoes sliding on wet grass and mud. Both almost fell several times before they got the Hollow.
Joan cursed under the breath at the sight of Henry with a gun in his mouth. "No, Henry, no! No!" Sherlock yelled, sliding awkwardly down the slope.
The man stumbled up and away, the weapon wavering dangerously in his unsteady hands. "Get back. Get… get away from me!"
Joan forced her best doctor voice to make an appearance. "Easy, Henry. Easy, just relax." Her heart was beating a panicked rhythm in her ears.
"I know what I am" Henry pleaded. "I know what I tried to do!"
"It's alright. You didn't hurt anyone. Just put the gun down."
The calming words didn't have the expected effect as the poor man's wobbled on his feet, shaking his head. "No, no, I know what I am!"
Thankfully, Sherlock took over. "Yes, I'm sure you do, Henry. It's all been explained to you, hasn't it – explained very carefully."
The distraction worked. "What?"
Sherlock's voice always commanded attention, even from distraught, drugged and confused clients. It was working, the measured, calm explanation, the nudge towards the memory lane. The gun was still in Henry's hands, and for a second it was too close, but Sherlock steered the memory up to the surface and finally the poor man was left gaping in shock on the ground.
"It's alright, Henry, it's okay" Joan said quietly as she pried the gun out of his trembling fingers.
"Sherlock!" Lestrade finally caught up to them, almost falling over on the slope.
Knight had tears in his eyes, trying to make sense of what was happening. "But we saw it: the hound, last night. We s... we, we, we did, we saw ..."
Sherlock's voice became softer, almost compassionate. "Yeah, but there was a dog, Henry, leaving footprints, scaring witnesses, but it was nothing more than an ordinary dog. We both saw it – saw it as our drugged minds wanted us to see it. Fear and stimulus; that's how it works." He paused for a moment, not breaking eye contact with their client. "But there never was any monster."
As if to mock him, an anguished howl filled the forest above them, sending Henry into another fit of panic. All those who were still standing aimed the flashlights at the rim of the Hollow, only to catch a big dark shadow stalking the edge. It can't be happening, Joan thought, recognizing the increased heartbeat of the unreasonable, drugged fear. "Sherlock…" she called out. The detective, however, was too busy trying to calm down Henry. The creature moved forward, snarling menacingly. Henry's screams reached another level of desperate terror. "Henry!" The hound's eyes were glowing bright red in the torch light.
Joan's brain decided to join the panic party as well, and she had to physically shake away the feeling of sand in her hair.
"Shit!" Lestrade swore and fumbled for his gun.
He sees it? How? "Greg, are you seeing this?" His face answered the question. It can't be happening! "Right, he is not drugged, Sherlock, so what's that? What is it?!"
Sherlock was on the verge of hyperventilating but was apparently trying to talk himself out of it. She wasn't really listening anymore, eyes riveted on the monster stalking them from above. Another howl. The sound of traditional mourning horns tried to pull Joan away from reality, but she clung to the panicked mutter of Sherlock's voice.
"Oh Christ!" The creature leapt forward, impossibly sharp fangs bared at them. They were locked in a stare down for what felt like ages, a first line of defence between unarmed Henry and Sherlock, Joan dropping the light torch and clicking off the gun safety. The detective scuffled with something (someone) behind their backs, but she didn't even glance at the commotion, there was a threat, a direct, terrifying threat right there, and she had to keep it at bay.
"The fog." Holmes' exclamation cut through the tentative stand down.
"What?"
"It's the fog! The drug: it's in the fog! Aerosol dispersal – that's what it said in those records. Project HOUND – it's the fog! A chemical minefield!"
Still the drug. Not real. The hound stalked forward, growling. Then what is this?!
"For God's sake, kill it! Kill it!" a new voice shouted, and Greg obeyed instinctively, shooting three times. His bullets missed, and the creature jumped towards them in retaliation, only to be met with Joan's bullet to the chest. As it fell motionless to the ground, she kept her aim, breathing heavily.
No sand. No heat. No monsters. Is it over? The fog twisted around their ankles.
Sherlock dragged a protesting Henry towards the animal. "Come on, look at it!"
The realization burnt through Knight's fear like a sparkle through a barrel of gun powder - "You bastard!" – and it took both Joan and Greg to keep him from outright murdering the mad scientist. "Twenty years! Twenty years of my life making no sense! Why didn't you just kill me?!"
They managed to pull Henry away, but he still struggled, seemingly intent to beat his father's killer to death. Sherlock sounded calmer than the rest of them as he explained on Frankland's behalf: "Because dead men get listened to. He needed to do more than kill you. He had to discredit every word you ever said about your father, and he had the means right at his feet – a chemical minefield; pressure pads in the ground dosing you up every time that you came back here." He held his hands out wide and spun in a circle. He's enjoying it, isn't he? "Murder weapon and scene of the crime all at once." That's some scary compartmentalisation skill alright. Sherlock laughed with delight. "Oh, this case, Henry! Thank you. It's been brilliant."
"Sherlock…" Joan sighed, too busy to hold Henry upright to do anything else.
"What?" the man looked confused.
"Timing."
"Not good?" How do I even start with this?
Henry Knight intervened. "No, no, it's – it's okay. It's fine, because this means… this means that my dad was right." Frankland rolled on his knees, glaring at them lot, but clearly not willing to provide an explanation. "He found something out, didn't he, and that's why you'd killed him – because he was right, and he'd found you right in the middle of an experiment." Bob looked like he was about to say something at last, but a low growl startled them all.
The dog (is it a bloody zombie?!) struggled upright, unhappy with being shot at. Shit! Joan's body acted before her brain could properly process the situation, and two shots found their mark. The animal went down for good. There was a rustle behind her and Sherlock rushing into the line of fire, and everything went so quickly, she almost forgot to breathe. Frankland booked it, demonstrating impressive running skills for an almost retired lab worker, and they all run after him through the woods, Sherlock even finding enough oxygen to shout after the escapee.
They saw him jump the fence and stop for a moment. Something's wrong, Joan's brain informed her the second before Frankland lifted his foot.
The fire rose into the night and the shock wave covered them in hot air. Sand, heat, fire… Henry made a whining sound, in the middle between anger and desperation, which yanked Joan back to the cold night. Oh bloody hell.
# #
It took them until three in the morning to clear everything with Barrymore and local police, and they stumbled into Cross Keys' parking lot, sleep-deprived and shaky. Henry had been accompanied at the hospital and Lestrade disappeared to his room immediately with a mumbled "night", which left Joan and Sherlock to go to their shared room in silence.
The door closed quietly behind them, and the doctor immediately switched on the light. The dark just made her thinking of the explosion, again, and again, and again. Sherlock shuffled awkwardly around her to get to his bed. The ex-soldier watched him for a moment while tugging off her coat, suspicions making a comeback (he wouldn't, right?), before finally voicing the thought that kept gnawing at her since the lab. "You thought it was in sugar."
Holmes froze mid-gesture and slowly turned to face her. "What do you mean?"
She was going to elaborate anyway. "In the lab. I hadn't been to the Hollow, so what happened to me in there?"
Silver eyes widened. "You must have been dosed elsewhere, when you went to the lab, maybe. You saw those pipes – pretty ancient, leaky as a sieve; and they were carrying the gas, so ..."
But he wasn't about to weasel his way out of an explanation. "What about the lights? The alarm?" Sherlock's fingers twitched nervously, and Joan's heart sank, finally accepting her own conclusion. "It was you, wasn't it? You locked me in that bloody lab."
The neutral expression he maintained so far quickly crumbled, and the detective took a step forward (which was a third of the distance between them, considering the size of the room). "I had to. It was an experiment."
"An experiment?!" she shouted furiously, momentarily forgetting it was the middle of the night.
"Shh!" Since when is he concerned about being quiet? Where did this consideration come from, and where was it this afternoon?
"You are saying…" – Joan lowered her voice, but it was still vibrating with rage – "that you deliberately put me in there, and also attempted to drug me with an unknown hallucinogenic compound?" Perhaps said compound was still running through her system, making her reactions harsher than usual, but she really did not care.
"It was all totally scientific, laboratory conditions – well, literally" the man attempted to justify his actions, sounding as if he didn't understand why she'd be so upset. "I needed to confirm its medium and its effects. Ultimately, there was no harm done."
No h… The last bit irked Joan more than anything. "No harm done?" she repeated in disbelief. The image of the dead child floated at the back of her mind. "You don't even…" She remembered quite clearly the numbing terror of being surrounded without any possibility of escape, and Sherlock's voice in her ear trying to pry out the details of the vision instead of offering help. Having received another dose of the drug in the last few hours, coupled with witnessing a mine explosion, really, really didn't help with calmly accepting the cold logic behind his words. The former soldier took a deep breath and tried to explain her point as best as she could with throttling her flatmate. "I am normally very forgiving with you. But you… don't even begin to consider the fallout of your actions." Sherlock paled at her words, correctly identifying that her anger reached a new level of dangerous. "No harm done, good joke. I am glad that you are able to process this experience with ease, honestly, congratulations, but us, mere mortals, cannot simply disregard literally living through a nightmare. I have quite enough of them while sleeping, you know."
"John, I…"
"Making me into a lab rat, especially after what you said this morning, just makes you look like a hypocrite, Sherlock" Joan snapped. He shut up, shocked. She pushed past him, aiming for the bathroom to just lock herself inside and... not see him. She didn't plan beyond that. The detective grabbed her arm, almost on autopilot – his eyes widened in surprise at his own actions, but he did not let go.
"I didn't think…" he started again.
"You always think" she cut him harshly. "Don't pretend being an idiot, that won't fly with me. For some reason, you just don't bother imagining anything beyond the puzzle." She pried his fingers off her arm. "And it fucking hurts." Joan took a step back, watching his expression go from mildly apologetic to properly horrified. "I might not be in a right state of mind right now, but even so, how am I supposed to trust you after this?"
Am I a fool? Joan wondered while Sherlock fumbled for words. He never was anything but himself, and I kept forgiving his callousness. Do I want him to be 'good' so badly? But he doesn't need to be. And I don't really want him to change. What am I even hoping for? A modicum of respect? Just a fraction of the trust I put in him? I don't know, i don't know anymore...
"Don't" he finally said in a strangled voice, face pale like a ghost.
"Don't what?" the doctor snapped back.
"Please don't cry."
What?! Surprised, Joan brought a hand to her eyes. Hot tears were streaming down her cheeks and she didn't even notice. "Oh. That thing really messes you up" she said, clinically examining the now wet fingers. Sherlock groaned, and before she could ask him what was wrong, he engulfed her into a stiff (but very tight) hug. The drug must be making him maudlin too, she thought before burying her face into his chest and sobbing uncontrollably.
# #
Fear and stimulus, it said. While it explained the visceral dread instilled by the hound in the Hollow the first night, and the subsequent increased aggression levels, it did not prepare Sherlock to his body and mind's reaction to seeing Joan lose it. He'd seen her tears before, of course, be it pain or laughter, but there was a whole new universe of hurt in her voice, and the doctor was so angry at him that she did not even notice when she started crying.
Fact: We had all received another dose of the drug. Fact: The drug heightens the perception of negative inputs, specifically fear, and encourages a violent reaction to the input. Conclusion: Both John and I are not in the best mental shape right now. Fact: She is crying. Fact: …
His silent observation log trailed off with a panicked screech. Seeing Watson so miserable had somehow blocked all lines of thought. "Don't" he pleaded, desperately trying to make everything better.
"Don't what?" she glared at him fiercely.
"Please don't cry."
The angry look briefly became one of surprise, as she finally became aware of her own state. "Oh. That thing really messes you up."
A random information popped into his mind. Fact: People hug each other to offer comfort. As no other ideas were forthcoming and as his heart threatened to just stop and jump out of his ribcage if he continued to do nothing, Sherlock moved forward and made the best attempt at a hug in his life.
Despite the awkward grip on her shoulders, Joan just grabbed handfuls of his shirt, shaking with silent sobs. She had tried three times to stop and push away, but all attempts ended with a helpless hiccup and a weak punch to his chest. Minutes passed, and she didn't seem to ready to calm down. Sherlock started to panic again. "Sorry" the blogger mumbled into his collar. "Can't stop, sorry, just…"
"It's alright" he tried to soothe her, picking her own words from his memories. "It's all fine." However, he didn't expect the weight shift when Joan's knees gave out, and they tumbled on the nearest bed in a heap.
"Sorry" the sobbing doctor huffed again but didn't move or let go of his shirt.
Sherlock stared at the top of her head in confusion, a tiny panicky voice still rambling nonsense in his head. In the end, he just tightened his hold and let her cry.
They were both so drained, physically and emotionally, and without noticing, they drifted into a restless sleep, despite the uncomfortable position or the electric lights in the room, clinging to each other like a lifeline.
# #
Joan woke up with a tension headache, still fully clothed but without shoes and tucked under a blanket on a bed, with no memory of getting under said blanket. Judging by the sounds in the bathroom, her roommate was taking a shower. Her brain helpfully supplied the scene-by-scene byplay of their argument last night, and she cringed. That was… not pretty.
The water stopped. Feeling like it was far too soon to face Sherlock after the last night's meltdown, Joan implemented her next brightest idea – pretending to sleep. The detective took at least fifteen more minutes to get out of the bathroom, time which the doctor spent with eyes closed, trying to identify the small noises from the other side of the door. Finally, he stepped out. There was a small pause, where he didn't move at all and she tried her best to breathe evenly.
"Hot shower should help with your headache" he said in a mild voice, and Joan quickly sat up, frowning.
"How did you know?"
"You stopped drooling."
Her eyes widened in shock and she felt her face heat up from embarrassment. The detective, who had already changed into fresh clothes, had that small satisfied smirk, that just screamed mockery. Joan muttered "Git", threw a pillow at him and started the long process of locating a change of clothes.
# #
As Joan was finishing the breakfast, Louis Mortimer sat down at her outdoor table. "Morning."
"Hi" she smiled, quickly swallowing the piece of toast. "How do you feel?"
"Shaky" he admitted.
"It will take time to process" Joan chose her words carefully.
"I know. I'm a therapist" he offered a crooked smile. They lapsed into an awkward silence. "So, you're leaving?"
"In a couple of hours, yeah." I know where this is going. And this is why I'm not dating.
Louis leaned forward and lowered his voice to avoid curious eavesdroppers (the whole damn village). "Uhm… about the other night…"
She smiled tightly. "We live on opposite sides of the country and I doubt either of us is willing to uproot. Let's say it was a pleasant experience and leave it at that?"
The man sighed in obvious relief. "So, we're good?"
"Yes, Doctor." He returned her smile this time. "Gimme a call if you ever visit London."
"Will do, Doctor."
She watched him leave, sipping the cooling coffee. Well, that went rather well.
# #
Greg offered a ride back to London, but they had to drop off the rental in Exeter first. "I'll pick you up there then" he promised, hopping into his red Toyota.
That left them riding in tense silence through the countryside. They still needed to discuss boundaries and trust issues, more calmly this time, but neither was willing to start the discussion. Sherlock kept glancing furtively at her, before finally caving in for a slightly less controversial subject. "So, you and Mortimer…"
"Parted on good terms" she finished the sentence.
He looked surprised. "Really?"
"Yeah."
"Why?" Joan gave him a look that said Seriously? Sherlock shrugged, eyes not leaving the road. "Not my area, remember?"
Oh. Makes sense. "We both have completely different lives, and we both do not want to change that. I'm sure you have some statistics on long-distance relationships, so yeah… It was a nice one-time thing, but not worth continuing."
"You didn't 'continue' with anyone in London either" he pointed out after a brief pause.
"I didn't want to" Joan admitted. It was another mess in her life she didn't have the courage to clean out.
"But you are a romantic" Sherlock mused out loud. "Given your preferences in movies and quite pertinent advice to other people regarding their love troubles, you would thrive in a long-term relationship."
The blogger blinked at the detective. Gosh, talk about being nosy. Though, I suppose it is pure scientific curiosity in his case. "While I like the idea, it's not always so black-and-white" she tried to explain. "My love life had never been high-up in my bucket list, and my career choices didn't improve the odds of meeting Mister Right either."
Sherlock hummed sceptically. "I am 91% certain that you will not meet him on a dating app."
She barked a laugh. "Yeah, well. I'm not actually trying, you know."
"Why not?"
"You are way too curious for your own good" she muttered without malice. Before he could protest, Joan said: "Because I'm not even sure I'm over my previous relationship." It was not exactly a secret, she just never talked about it. There was never an occasion to bring it up with Sherlock.
The detective frowned thoughtfully. "Meaning that it was not a clean break-up. But the matter never arose during our flat share. After so long with no contact, shouldn't it be considered as finished?"
Whatever possessed me to bring it up… Well, in for a penny, in for a pound. "Well… It is a bit difficult to define, this relationship. We had worked together, got along well, and never really noticed when it became more than just friends. It was never official or anything. At some point, we agreed that it would not work out, but… when we meet - and we still do, by the way - it still clicks. It's kinda bittersweet." She glanced at Sherlock with an apologetic smile. "Sorry, it's a bit confusing, even for me."
He narrowed his eyes at her. "It is valuable data."
"How am I supposed to take that?" Joan asked suspiciously.
"You are contributing to my ongoing qualitative study of an average person's emotional milestones. Necessary to improve the motive assessment for any case."
The doctor gaped at him in disbelief before noticing the small grin. "You absolute twat" she laughed, swatting him lightly on the shoulder.
"Careful, I'm driving" he chided mockingly, before sobering up. "John… About the lab. I am sorry."
Taken aback by the sudden change of subject, Joan slumped back on her seat. She was too used to Sherlock's leaps in conversation to ask why they suddenly stopped avoiding the topic, though. "Good" she finally said, deciding that her anger regarding the incident had cooled down enough to attempt forgiveness. And he is trying. I think... "I will need time to get past it. But I probably will."
"That's all I ask" he said so quiety she almost did not hear it. Joan nodded and looked away, missing the rather anguished glance Sherlock sent her way.
The rest of the trip was spent in a more sedated silence.
# #
Lestrade was finishing a cigarette in the parking lot by the train station when they arrived. "Didn't you quit?" Joan asked.
"I think I'm allowed one after last night" the DI protested.
"More like three or five" Sherlock chimed in with a sniff.
"Piss off! You barely hold a day without one."
Deeply offended, Holmes went to sit in the back in a massive sulk. Joan sighed and opened the passenger door. "He is doing well" she attempted to defend her friend. "Haven't touched a cig in a week." Except the time he sniffed the smoke out of Henry Knight's mouth, but let's not mention this...
As they pulled away from the city centre and towards the highway, Greg's phone beeped with an incoming message. Joan glanced at the screen and noticed the seven unread texts. "Uhm… Greg? Shouldn't you check that?"
Before the man could answer, the pouting consultant piped up: "It's his wife. Didn't leave a note about where you were going, did you, inspector?"
"As a matter of fact, I did" Lestrade gritted through his teeth. "Apparently the dog ate it."
"That's what they say" Sherlock smirked.
The phone beeped again. "Do you want me to take the wheel for a mo?" Joan suggested. The all caps in the last message were worrying.
"NO!" Holmes protested vehemently. They glanced at him via the rear-view mirror with twin raised eyebrows but did not comment.
"It's fine, just… Can you reply I'm going back right now?"
"Sure" the doctor agreed easily and after a minute of pointless struggle to unlock the device, managed to type out an answer. The following text informed the DI that there will be a serious discussion about running off into the night the minute he got back. Greg groaned.
"Marriage seems like too much effort with little to no benefits" Sherlock commented snarkily.
"Depends on your priorities, I suppose" Lestrade managed to say without snapping.
"Weren't you sulking?" Joan tried to redirect the conversation.
"This is more entertaining" the consulting menace chirped and tried to reach for the radio with his impossibly long limbs.
"Hey, stop that!" the doctor, who quite liked the song currently playing, protested. Holmes didn't relent and placed his head on Joan's shoulder to get a better view. "Sherlock!"
Lestrade got so side-tracked watching them that he almost missed the car in front braking and whirled into the next lane with a curse. Holmes bumped his head against the headrest and cursed too. "Bloody hell!" the DI looked a little pale. "Would you children behave?!"
"Yes, sir" they muttered in synch.
"And for Christ's sake, Sherlock, buckle up!" He didn't respond, but they could hear the distinctive click of the seatbelt being properly secured.
# #
A couple of days later, Joan was out to Tesco when Sherlock received a call. "I would ask how you managed to enter the Baskerville facility, but it would undoubtedly make me fire a good employee" Mycroft said instead of a greeting.
"Your minions are not my concern" Sherlock snapped back, stretching on the sofa.
"The plan M is proceeding as expected. We are releasing the subject today."
Sherlock's eyes narrowed on the ceiling. "Good. The groundwork on my side is underway."
"Be careful, brother dear. It would be terribly inconvenient to announce your untimely death to Mommy so close to her birthday."
He didn't dignify this with an answer and tossed his phone towards the chairs with a snarl. The game is on.
# #
A/N: Let me tell you, it had not been easy to write. Not as much as Irene, but damn... Next part needs some adjustments, but should be coming up soon enough.
