Not dead! So so sorry. I love you all.
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: Language.
# #
The rest of the summer had come and gone with few new developments. Joan's blog gained more and more readers, and clients poured in. Sherlock's bouts of boredom became few and far in between – when there wasn't a case, there was always something in a previous crime that prompted new experiments (much to Mrs Hudson's chagrin). Joan had to visit her physician until July because of the damage done to the left shoulder, but it didn't stop her from tagging along on cases, typing out new blog posts and bickering with Sherlock on regular basis about case titles. It seemed to really annoy the man, and Joan tended to invent more ridiculous titles just because it was hilarious to see him cringe.
"Do people actually read your blog?" he asked once, trying to disguise his bemusement under an indifferent mask.
Her reply of "Where d'you think our clients come from?" put him in a foul mood for a day, until they managed to figure out what exactly killed the victim (red pepper).
At some point, the press started following them around, to the growing irritation of Sherlock (Joan suspected that it was all a sham and the consultant covertly liked the attention) and to the great delight of the NSY, especially Lestrade who seemed to enjoy the situation far too much. One night, Joan managed to join the DI at the pub after her shift in the clinic.
"Doesn't it bother you?" she asked after the first beer and small talk about rugby.
"What?"
"The media circus around your cases when Sherlock gets involved" the blogger elaborated, absently rubbing her neck.
Greg smirked in response. "I have no trouble getting approval for his involvement, now that he has good press." Joan blinked in realization that every time Holmes consulted for Scotland Yard, tons of additional paperwork would befall the DI. He really believes in Sherlock to deal with all the bureaucracy behind the scenes… "And doesn't it bother you?" he suddenly asked, with a mischievous wink that didn't befit his appearance at all.
The doctor stared at him in surprise. "What, people recognizing Sherlock?"
"The media speculating about you both."
She remembered several smaller newsfeeds spouting nonsense about their relationship and shrugged. "Nah, not really. It's rather funny, in hindsight."
Lestrade gave her a knowing look. "You realize there are betting pools going."
"And you're trying to get some insider information, aren't you, inspector?" Joan laughed good-heartedly. "I'm not dating Sherlock, if that's what you're asking, Greg."
He didn't lose his shit-eating grin. "You don't?"
"Definitely not. But I'm open to misleading the public and launching crazy rumors." It was her turn to wink now. "Since no one seems interested in the truth, why can't I have fun with everyone else? It's nothing major, no harm done."
Lestrade sipped his beer with a thoughtful look on his face. "I don't know, wouldn't it scare people off?"
"Didn't scare you, did it?" she shrugged.
"I work homicides" the DI retorted immediately.
"And I don't go around showing pictures of our fridge either" Joan continued. It made Greg chuckle.
After a minute of comfortable silence, the smirk was back in full force and the grey-haired man leaned forward on the table. "So, if not Sherlock, is there a special someone for you right now, doctor?"
Joan raised both eyebrows. There had never been a romantic tension between her and Greg, just friendly banter between adults with a similar sense of humor. He is head over heels for his wife. So, this is not flirting. "You are fishing for info to place the best bet, right?" The DI grinned shamelessly without denying. "How unexpectedly ruthless of you." The light tone of her voice and the salute with her beer clearly indicated that she didn't mind in the slightest. "I've had my share of special someones over the years. The game lost its interest for now."
"Do I smell scandal here, Watson?"
"I never took you for a gossip girl, Lestrade." They laughed, and the conversation steered towards commiserating about Sherlock's experiments.
When she got back home around nine-ish, she was met with a sharp glare from the couch. Too tired to deal with the usual nonsense, Joan rolled her eyes, hanged her coat by the door and plopped down on her chair.
"What did you tell Lestrade?" Sherlock asked out of the blue, sitting up abruptly.
The doctor attempted to quirk an eyebrow at him in surprise. "That I prefer dark beer. Be more specific, please."
The man huffed in irritation. "He just placed a large bet on us being 'just friends' and 'both single', after having spent two hours in a pub with you. Explain."
"How would you know that?!"
"I logged in the google drive the Yard uses to record their betting pools" he explained off-handedly, before leaning forward, staring intensely at her. "Explain."
Joan sighed. Of course, he hacked their records. Why didn't anyone notice? "He asked if we were a couple. I said no." The glaring continued. "Why do you care anyway?"
"Having my assistant engage in a romantic commitment with my primary client would certainly prove detrimental and distracting for the usual dealings with the police force, which are already tedious as is."
Huh? Just… what? It took her at least half-a-minute to realize what Sherlock was implying, and she just couldn't stop the hysterical laughter. Holmes kept on glowering from the sofa. "Sorry" Joan managed to gasp between bouts of giggles. "Just… even imagining it… just too funny."
"Is it?" came the sulky comment.
Wiping the laughter tears away, she stated firmly: "I'm not interested in Lestrade. Or anyone at the Yard, for that matter. And vice versa. No one is going to spoil your Work with romantic mush."
It seemed to reassure the detective, since he laid back on the couch without a word, steepling his fingers under his chin. "Please inform me if the situation changes."
Joan snorted in mirth, but nodded faithfully. "I promise."
# #
One morning, they had been huddled on opposite ends of the sofa, each engrossed in their own phones. Joan wasn't sure what Sherlock was browsing exactly, but she was fending off Harry and her make-over offers. The quiet time was interrupted by a loud thud and Mrs Hudson calling from the kitchen: "You've got another one!" They exchanged a worried glance and rushed there, just to find a man passed out on the floor.
Once Joan managed to get the client back to consciousness, Sherlock bullied the full story out of him, seemed lost in thought for a minute, then turned to the doctor. "John, I need you to go on the scene."
"Aren't you coming?" she asked while getting her coat.
"No need. You can be my eyes."
She stopped in her tracks, eyeing the detective with suspicion. "That's new."
"Hmm? Why are you still here?"
"Why aren't you coming?"
"Told you, not necessary. Skype me when you're there." Still suspicious (he's being a lazy arse, I just know it), Joan attempted to hail down a cab for a good five minutes. Why does my flatmate have the cab-summoning superpower, and why can't I borrow it? The world is unfair.
# #
The world continued to remain unfair as she walked behind her escort through the palace, trying not to think about muddy shoes and expensive carpets. The alleged butler in a suit that must cost about three times her yearly income stopped in front of an open room and gestured for the doctor to come inside, before disappearing in an adjacent corridor. The room looked a lot like the rest of the palace… tasteful, expensive and somehow still comfortable. Joan didn't take too much time to examine the royal design though, because on the sofa in the middle of the room, there was Sherlock, wrapped in a bed sheet, looking at her with an expression of polite boredom.
Did he…? Seeing no information forthcoming from the flatmate, she slowly came inside and sat near him. Another glance at the sheet-wearing man confirmed her suspicions. He did. "Are you wearing any pants?"
"No" the half-naked detective replied calmly.
"Okay" was all she found to say before their eyes met and they dissolved into helpless laughter. "At Buckingham palace, fine" Joan gasped through a hiccup. "Oh, I'm seriously fighting an impulse to steal an ashtray." This made Sherlock chuckle again. "What are we doing here, Sherlock? Seriously, what?"
"I don't know" he shrugged slightly.
"Here to see the Queen?" Sound suggestion based on the location.
It was the moment Mycroft Holmes chose to stride in, welcomed by his brother's snide comment: "Oh, apparently yes." And they were dying of laughter again, this time under Mycroft's glare.
"Just once, can you two behave like grown-ups?"
It sounded like a rhetorical question, but Joan obliged nonetheless: "We solve crimes, I blog about it and he forgets his pants, so I wouldn't hold out too much hope."
"I was in the middle of a case, Mycroft" Sherlock chimed in, suddenly turning the 'serious' mode on. It lost some of the intensity considering the man was naked under a bed sheet at the moment.
Somehow, Mycroft managed to keep a straight face (I'll never play poker with him, that's for sure… Joan noted absently). "What, the hiker and the backfire? I glanced at the police report. Bit obvious, surely?"
"Transparent" Sherlock scoffed. Wait, what? Then why… Agh. Nevermind. I can ask later, this is just getting interesting. Joan made a conscious effort not to grin and sat back to enjoy the usual Holmes brothers' showdown. It never failed to entertain.
"Time to move on, then." Mycroft picked up the pile of clothes that had been sitting on the coffee table for a while now and offered them to his brother, who glanced at them with affected disinterest. "We are in Buckingham Palace, the very heart of the British nation. Sherlock Holmes, put your trousers on." Do not laugh, do not laugh…
"What for?" The answer was half-petulant, half-defiant.
"Your client."
"And my client is?" Sherlock stood up brusquely, somehow managing not to lose the sheet.
"Illustrious, in the extreme" said another tall man in an expensive suit that had just arrived in the room. Joan mentally sighed about being the shortest one again. At least, I'm not under-dressed for once. Difficult to top an imitation of a nudist ghost. "And remaining – I have to inform you – entirely anonymous." While the government officials exchanged greetings, the ex-soldier hoisted herself up, starting to get mildly uncomfortable among all the… posh. She was promptly distracted from the musings on the sofa's price by Harry-the-mysterious-equerry: "And this must be Doctor Joan Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers."
"Hello, yes." They shook hands. Sherlock's scowl intensified.
"My employer is a tremendous fan of your blog."
"Really?" Wait, his employer?!
"Particularly enjoyed the one about the aluminium crutch" Harry smiled.
Well, it seems my blog has a far wider readership than expected. She temporarily smothered the squealing fangirl part of her brain and grinned back: "Thank you!"
Harry's smile faded a little when he turned towards Sherlock. "And Mr Holmes the younger. You look taller in your photographs."
She could almost see thunderclouds gathering over Sherlock's head and cringed in anticipation. "I take the precaution of a good coat and a short friend." Good to know I do actually have an added value to him. The prat pushed past her, as dignified as one could be in his current dress-state. "Mycroft, I don't do anonymous clients. I'm used to mystery at one end of my cases. Both ends is too much work." A barely perceptible nod to the equerry. "Good morning."
The dignified march out of the room was promptly stopped by Mycroft stepping on the trailing end of the sheet. Only Joan's military training prevented her from face-palming at the sight Sherlock tugging at the cloth before it uncovered absolutely everything. His older brother seemed too angry to care. "This is a matter of national importance. Grow up."
"Get off my sheet!"
"Or what?" Oh, don't provoke him either!
"Or I'll just walk away." Ok, this was amusing while it lasted…
"I'll let you."
As Harry looked too bemused to react, Joan decided to intervene. "Boys, please." The older brother directed his Holmes-glare at her, which had long lost its effectiveness after months living with the younger one. "We all probably have better things to do. So why don't we all calm down, alright?" Both Holmeses sniffed indignantly at the suggestion. "Or at least discuss it as adults" Joan amended. "And Sherlock, I'm sure you don't care about giving heart attacks to the unfortunate people who'd cross your butt-naked path, but it is September in London, you'll catch your death like this. Please, put something on." She could see Mycroft swallow back a snappy comeback before he let the sheet go. Sherlock immediately pulled it back around him, then turned to snatch the clothes from the table and disappeared in the neighboring room.
He returned perfectly dressed just when a maid brought in the tea set, making it rather clear that he was doing Joan a personal favor by abandoning the bed sheet. And I'm the shortest and the under-dressed one again. The world is unfair, dammit.
After a new round of snippy comments, they actually managed to get to the point. "Irene Adler, professionally known as The Woman."
Given the print-outs Mycroft handed over, Joan already had her suspicions, but she had to clarify: "Professionally?"
"There are many names for what she does" Mycroft obliged without missing a beat. "She prefers 'dominatrix.'"
How is this my life? Meanwhile, Sherlock appeared intrigued. "Dominatrix."
"Don't be alarmed" his brother offered a fake smile. "It's to do with sex."
"Sex doesn't alarm me."
"How would you know?" Joan had started to sip the tea but inhaled it instead, and started coughing uncontrollably, trying to glare at Mycroft at the same time. That was so uncalled for.
The detective patted her back absently. "Do be careful, John." She waved a hand weakly, signifying that it was alright. The older Holmes ignored her completely and moved on with the explanations. It seemed to be a classic blackmail case, making one wonder why they needed Sherlock of all people to handle this. Joan was rather certain that the Secret Service wouldn't be phased by racy photos of royal descendants, or even tempted to land a scoop with some tabloid. They had probably seen worse.
"She doesn't want anything" Mycroft announced.
Joan winced. And of course, they are all over-thinking it. Things never need to be too convoluted. But still, does it really require Sherlock's skills? Her musings were interrupted by a gleeful: "Oooh, this is getting rather fun, isn't it?" At least someone's enjoying it…
"Sherlock…" she admonished for Harry-the-bemused-equerry's sake.
"Hmm."
Harry chose that moment to be a sceptic, the clueless man. The doctor watched with sympathy as Sherlock dissected him with his eyes and promptly doubled down. "Can I have a box of matches?"
"I'm sorry?" Yeah, you brought it upon yourself… Joan exchanged an understanding look with Mycroft, who had calmed down already and looked simply resigned to the whole debacle.
"Or your cigarette lighter. Either will do."
Harry still didn't know what hit him. "I don't smoke."
"No, I know you don't, but your employer does." What… Another thing to ask about later, yay.
To Joan's mild surprise, the equerry actually handed over a lighter. "We have kept a lot of people successfully in the dark about this little fact, Mr Holmes."
There was definite smugness in Sherlock's voice now. "I'm not the Commonwealth."
She made to follow the retreating drama-queen. "And that's as modest as he gets. Pleasure to meet you." They left the room under Harry's completely confused gaze and Mycroft's disapproving one.
# #
She looked up from her book for the third time in five minutes. Sherlock had just reappeared in the living room, this time in a bright orange vest. The previous costume included a fake beard. The one before that – a tie and thick glasses. "What are you doing?"
"I'm going to battle" the madman claimed. "I need the right armor."
"I'm sure Lestrade can lend you a bulletproof vest, if you ask nicely!" Joan called after him as he returned to wreaking havoc in his room.
"Don't be obtuse!" came the snappy reply, making the doctor chuckle a bit.
# #
"Punch me."
"Sorry, what?"
"Didn't you hear me?"
"Didn't you have enough last time?"
Subject is non-compliant. Implement protocol 13.01. "Oh, for god's sake…" Whack. Thud. Physical stimuli assessment. Satisfactory results confirmed. "Agh… Thank you, that was…" Whack. Unexpected stimuli. Assessment pending. Ow.
"You gotta remember, Sherlock, I was a soldier, I killed people!" Fact: John was in the army. Fact: John was medical personnel. Contradictory statement detected.
"You were a doctor!"
"I had bad days!" Updating file John Watson: Do not provoke, ever.
# #
After having been sent out in the middle of nowhere to be a Skype relay, then picked up by helicopter to visit the Buckingham Palace, and finally getting into a punching match with her flatmate in an alley, Joan certainly didn't expect her day to get any weirder. She had been wrong. As was clearly indicated by the sight of a stark-naked Irene Adler almost sitting in Sherlock's lap.
Joan blinked. "What did I miss?" That's way too much nakedness than I need in one day.
Irene looked slightly disappointed when she put some distance between herself and the consulting detective. Sherlock seemed to take a breath. "Please, sit down" The Woman gestured to the sofa, not bothering to cover herself. As far as provocation tactics went, this one was masterful. Joan carefully placed the bowl of water on the table. "Oh, if you'd like some tea, I can call the maid."
"I had some at the Palace" Sherlock blurted out. Is he… Joan frowned at him. Yeah, he is unnerved. I suppose naked women that are not murder victims are not what he's used to.
"I know." Irene's smile was positively predatory. She's playing.
"Clearly." They all continued to stare at each other, with Sherlock glancing from Irene to her and back, visibly trying to figure out something (Irene was too busy undressing Sherlock with her eyes to pay attention to Joan). It didn't seem to work out well, because he scowled after half-a-minute.
Slightly stunned herself by the turn of events, Joan kept her mouth shut. Much as her flatmate, she didn't have much experience dealing with this type of person – the ones who use their physical appeal as their main weapon and get into too many power plays for their own good.
"D'you know the big problem with a disguise, Mr Holmes? However hard you try, it's always a self-portrait." The ex-soldier winced internally. Oooh, lady, don't say that to the infiltration specialists… They're a bit touchy about their art.
"You think I'm a vicar with a bleeding face?"
"No, I think you're damaged, delusional and believe in a higher power. In your case, it's yourself." Joan's temper flared up at that. First Mycroft, then this… this… woman. What's this about people insulting Sherlock today? Even if he's a prat and clueless at times, this shit is not necessary. Her glare was missed by the other two people in the room. "Oh, and somebody loves you. Why, if I had to punch that face, I'd avoid your nose and teeth too." Joan's increasingly angry thought process came to a screeching halt. Wa… what… Oh, fuck this.
"Interesting conclusion." She forced out a pleasant smile. "Do you mind dressing up a bit now?"
Irene leaned forward with a smirk of her own, quickly checking out Joan's jumper-wearing frame. "Why? Are you feeling exposed?"
"I'm a surgeon. You've got nothing I literally haven't seen inside out already, Miss Adler." Joan kept up the smile while delivering the rebuke, making the other woman narrow her eyes slightly. "But for the sake of our renown British manners, please consider this napkin." She pointed to the cloth the maid gave her to 'clean the wounds'.
Sherlock chose this moment to suddenly stand up and shake off his coat, throwing it at Irene. Both women maintained eye contact for a bit longer than strictly necessary, Joan still smiling politely and Irene tilting her head to the side in silent assessment. She thought I'd be shaken by her game too. Oh honey, that must be quite disappointing. The naked brunette finally gave up on staring the doctor down into submission and begrudgingly pulled on the coat. "Well, never mind. We've got better things to talk about."
She skillfully steered the conversation towards neutral (as far as mysterious deaths go) grounds. Once Irene's curves were covered, Sherlock regained a bit of his composure, even if he sounded like a flustered teenager on a caffeine spree at first. Joan stood her ground near the door, having doubts whether the detective had really been played or was the plan still on, until… "So they are in this room. Thank you. John, man the door. Let no-one in."
# #
Burning magazines in a house was not the brightest thing she'd ever done. Struggling to put the fire out had promptly joined her 'never again' list too. "I said you can turn it off now!" shouted the cause of all here troubles behind the door.
"Hang on!" Should have thought it through. Joan's musings about the technical impossibility to switch the alarm off with her height were cut short by the arrival of three armed men. The hell?!
The leader stopped in front of her, backed by his goons. The doctor quirked an eyebrow at them. "I suppose you're not here for tea?"
"Very funny, Doctor Watson" the leader huffed. Earpieces. Not your average goons. Organized. Funded. "Please refrain from alerting your friend."
"Do you promise not to shoot him if I do?" was the first thing she found to say, still checking discretely for any form of identification.
"Only as a last resort" came the not-so-reassuring answer. American accent.
"How generous of you." Dammit, I knew we should have let Mycroft handle it on his own.
One of the subordinates stepped forward, gun pointed at her menacingly. "Now, hands behind your head, and lead on, Doctor Watson."
# #
Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Screech.
"For God's sake!"
"Oh, shut up. It's quick."
The git sent her away to check the entry points of the house (I just know that somehow, he already knows how they broke in). Joan felt uneasy leaving the clueless detective in the sole company of a woman who spanked people for a living, but he looked so smug about the whole debacle (a dead foreign agent, jeez) that it grated on her frayed nerves. Actually, both of them grated on her nerves. Just let them play.
As the good doctor progressed through the ground floor with no evident signs of breaking-and-entering, her brain started to catch up with the situation. No way in hell Mycroft was not aware of the Americans' presence. He could have underestimated their drive to get that phone though, but then why would they need it in the first place. Throwing the man in the middle of a turf war between international agencies was not a kind thing to do to his younger brother, anyway. She'd have to have words (or blows) with Mycroft about it.
She went up the stairs, goosebumps settling under the jumper. They were quite desperate to get the information too. The amount of paperwork to file for that one bullet in a fire alarm must be nightmare material, never mind if they had actually shot any of us. Her thoughts were cut short when she stumbled upon the unconscious maid in the bedroom. "Sherlock!" After a quick check, Kate the maid appeared to be out of danger.
The room was entirely too cold for someone who strode around the house naked. Joan glanced at the windows, and only then noticed the door to the en-suite bathroom. Trying to ignore the prickle of jealousy at the sight of an enormous bathtub, she confirmed the possible entrance before a still-smug Sherlock and a still-naked-under-the-coat Irene rushed in. "Must have come this way" Joan nodded towards the open window from the bathroom doorway.
"Clearly" the git huffed and went to look at it himself.
Irene approached her maid's unmoving form with a hint of concern on her face. Remembering that everyone has feelings, Joan momentarily put aside her wariness and pulled out her bed-side manners: "It's all right. She's just out cold."
Adler gave her an impenetrable look. "Well, God knows she's used to that. There's a back door. Better check it, Doctor Watson."
"Suuure." She wasn't particularly happy about the situation, but went searching for the back door nevertheless. The house was eerily silent. Joan hoped that Met would get there quickly. Irene was one tricky lady, and the perspective of explaining dead / knocked out spies to irate policemen without the house's owner present was not a bright one. Why am I doing this again? She chanced a glance into the boudoir, or whatever that room was called. The surviving Yanks were still groaning softly, cuffed to the heater. If I don't kill Mycroft first, the US ambassador certainly will, Joan noted grimly.
A loud thud echoed from upstairs. Heart dropping, the doctor sprinted back, only to see Sherlock flailing weakly on the floor, while Irene retreated to the bathroom, riding crop in hand. "Jesus. What are you doing?"
The Woman appeared utterly unconcerned as she dropped over her shoulder: "He'll sleep for a few hours. Make sure he doesn't choke on his own vomit. It makes for a very unattractive corpse."
Joan's vision darkened with rage. She drugged him, didn't she? Her focus zeroed on the empty syringe. She bloody drugged him. "What have you given him?" she growled, picking it up in a futile attempt to identify the substance. Sherlock's head smashed loudly against the floorboards as he tried to get up. "Sherlock!"
"He'll be fine" Irene drawled from the window sill, adjusting something around her waist. "I've used it on loads of my friends."
Who did not have a nasty drugs habit for years, the doctor wanted to point out, but Sherlock was trying to move again and she had to keep a hand under his head. She had to settle on a look of utter disgust that Irene brushed off like a fly. "You know, I was wrong about him. He did know where to look." Her voice was in equal parts proud, fascinated and giddy. And while Joan could understand the fascination (they were dealing with Sherlock kneel-before-me Holmes, after all), it didn't make her any less furious.
"What are you talking about?" she asked, more to keep Adler in the room while the blaring sirens approached than to hear her answer.
"The code to my safe" the brunette said with a smirk. Joan looked up briefly from checking Sherlock's pulse and pupil dilation. The 'are you kidding me?' glare had been lost on Irene, who eyed the detective like a piece of steak. "Shall I tell her?" The man continued to struggle under the doctor's firm hold. The Woman smiled ruthlessly, taunting Joan. "My measurements." And with that, she dropped out of the window.
"Bloody irresponsible, dangerous, show-off" Joan grumbled under her breath, still trying to placate her floundering flatmate. "I hope you dislocated a vertebra with your theatrics." Sherlock's wild gestures began to die down. "Sherlock, mate? Can you hear me?"
"Hmph."
"Alright. What did she give you?"
"'Stetic…" he mumbled. Well, that was worth a try.
The sirens finally reached the building and loud footsteps approached the front door cautiously. Joan sighed heavily. I have about three minutes to think of an excuse. "Hmm." Her eyes fell on the detective who resumed his feeble attempts to get up. Yep. Let's do that. "Over here!" she yelled with as much fear infused in her voice as possible. "We need help!"
The footsteps stopped, then someone cursed before scurrying up the stairs and into the room. "John?" Lestrade gaped at the scene before him. It did look quite bad. An unconscious maid in a very short uniform, a drugged consulting detective and a harried ex-army doctor trying to hold the man in one piece. All that without counting one corpse and two beaten CIA agents downstairs.
"Hey" she nodded calmly. The scared victim act wouldn't have survived long with Greg anyway.
"What happened?" Reasonable question.
"Would you believe me if I said that we got taken hostage by the idiots downstairs and that Sherlock got literally whipped by a professional dominatrix?"
Lestrade looked like someone slapped him with a fish. The pair of assault specialists in bulletproof vests that came to check around chuckled in the corridor, earning a half-hearted glare from the DI. "I must be crazy, but I would." He frowned. "What were you doing here in the first place?"
"Running an errand for the government" Joan shrugged helplessly. "Can you help me out? And call for an ambulance?" Together they managed to get Sherlock upright and maneuver him to the stairs.
He had been surprisingly docile, but the sight of a busy entry hall seemed to upset him. "The scene…! Not good. Shoes… hmph. Untied. Rings… many rings and collars… John, get the suit!" Watson exchanged a bemused look with Lestrade.
"Calm down" she tried softly. "It's alright, Sherlock."
"Ts. Not. White" the disgruntled man punctuated each word with a sharp nod, making his heavy curls fall onto his eyes. "Ist night?"
Greg smothered a laugh. Joan pinched him lightly in retaliation. "It's not funny. He's unwell."
"Oh, trust me, that's him on a good day" the DI stated. "Orson! Come here and help us." A tall dark-haired and expressionless man in a forensics suit joined them, and with his help, Sherlock had been brought downstairs and outside. Orson helped Joan to settle the mumbling detective on the back seat of an available car, while Lestrade whipped out his phone with a grin.
"Thanks" Watson huffed once Sherlock had been seated and secured. Orson nodded and left, not having said a word during the whole ordeal. "What are you doing?" she asked Lestrade.
"Nothing" he replied a bit too quickly, hiding the phone. "Are you taking him to a hospital?"
Joan had considered the idea, but there were other options. "Nah, we have adequate equipment at home. I'll draw a blood sample for the lab. That way Mycroft will have to show up."
The DI stared in surprise. "You actually want to deal with Big Brother tonight?"
"I actually want to punch Big Brother tonight."
"That, I can relate to." He looked over at the rapidly growing crowd behind the police tape and rubbed a hand over his three-days stubble. "Get in, I'll drive you both."
# #
Lestrade left after having taken another video of a mumbling Sherlock, and Joan's shoulders sagged. She had acted on pure adrenaline until then. With a heavy heart, she went to draw a vial of blood from her now snoring flatmate. Once finished, she cautiously tucked him in and closed the bedroom's door.
Time for a phone call. Mycroft answered after two rings. She didn't wait for him to talk: "Send someone to collect the blood sample and run a full range of tests asap. Adler injected Sherlock with something, and we both want to know exactly what it is, don't we?"
There was a heavy silence on the other end, interrupted only by rustling paper. "Consider it done" Mycroft finally capitulated.
"Consider coming in person with the results" Joan ordered and hung up.
# #
Anthea came and went, and Joan tried to distract herself by reading a fantasy book. "John!" called a muffled voice. The book didn't hit the ground when she was already at his door.
Sherlock was awake and struggling to sit up on the floor. "You okay?"
"How did I get here?" the drowsy flatmate demanded to know.
"Well, I don't suppose you remember much" she said, observing the uncoordinated movements. "You weren't making a lot of sense. Oh, I should warn you: I think Lestrade filmed you on his phone."
"Where is she?" the mess of a consulting detective asked.
"Where's who?"
"The woman. That woman." Oh, Irene made quite an impression.
Still, she felt the anger flare in her gut. Adler had done nothing but harm Sherlock so far and did not deserve his attention. "What woman?"
Holmes paced unsteadily in the room. "The woman. The woman woman!"
Idiot. "What, Irene Adler? She got away. No-one saw her." He stumbled to the window. "She wasn't here, Sherlock." It didn't seem to deter him, as he rather clumsily dropped to the ground and almost crawled under the bed in search for a runaway escort-girl.
"What are you…?" Enough is enough. "No, no, no. Up you get." She somehow hauled the surprisingly heavy man high enough to push him on the bed. "Back to bed." Feeling a little like a deja-vu, Joan fumbled to shift his legs before tucking him under a blanket. "You'll be fine in the morning. Just sleep."
Sherlock was already half-asleep and slurred petulantly: "Of course I'll be fine. I am fine. I'm absolutely fine."
"Yes, you're great. Now I'll be next door if you need me."
"Why would I need you?" the git muttered.
I'll let it slide this time. "No reason at all" she sighed and exited the room on her toes.
# #
The quiet steps of leather shoes woke Joan up from her uncomfortable slumber in a chair around midnight. "What took so long?" she inquired casually. The steps froze for a second, then the light clicked on. Joan squinted at the ceiling light with distaste.
"The lab had to be thorough" Mycroft said holding out a white envelope and a brown paper file. Watson felt quite proud of herself, having made the older Holmes not only comply with her order and actually come to the flat, but also bring what she really needed to see, Sherlock's medical history. It seemed to pain him greatly.
"Thank you." She pulled out the results first and scanned the long list of tests. They were thorough. Irene's mysterious drug was only a strong sedative laced with a muscle relaxant. No significant side-effects. Her sigh of relief prompted a condescending huff from the still-standing Mycroft. "Oh, sit down, why don't you? I have to read and remember all this, after all." The government official looked like he sucked on a lemon, but sat in Sherlock's chair nevertheless.
"I have other matters to attend" he said haughtily.
"You will make time for this" Joan cut sternly, already engrossed in the file.
"What makes you think your behavior is acceptable, Doctor Watson?" Mycroft drawled with an affected indifference.
That made the doctor briefly look up. He knew about the interest Americans had in Adler. Chances are, there was a joint operation of some importance, but Holmes-almighty decided to strike on his own to gain political cookie points. It is a bloody mess, quite literally, and he knows it. "Because you messed up. No one is infallible, I give you that. But when your schemes result in Sherlock being sedated, be grateful I didn't punch you in the face and sit tight." She finished reading the file in tense silence. This… is unpleasant, she winced, dropping the last page on her lap. Her shocked gaze caught Mycroft's own pained one. "He OD'ed two times?" Saying the words made the fact tangible. Joan gritted her teeth in anger, unsure who was the cause of her ire at this point.
Mycroft leant forward in an uncharacteristic show of concern. "He had been clean for a year now. The last stint in rehab had more impact than the last four."
"Four…" she breathed out. "This was not just boredom, Mycroft."
His expression closed off. "This is none of your concern, Doctor Watson."
"I won't pry." She straightened up, trying to drive the point across. "I want to know what to watch out for. I want to be there when he needs me."
The man blinked, slowly. "It… can be arranged."
"Good." They sat in silence for a minute, studying each other with equally calculating eyes. I believe he is surprised. "Don't feel so bad" she offered a conciliatory smile. "I gotta have some brain cells to survive Sherlock."
Something akin to amusement tugged at Mycroft's lips. "Obviously."
Joan assembled the scattered pages into the original file and stood up. "I believe you have some more allies to placate tonight."
He rose to his feet with polished grace and took back the documents. "Indeed. Thank you for your cooperation, John."
She blinked at him. It was the first time the older Holmes had called her name without any hint of disdain. "Good night, Mycroft." With a parting nod, he sauntered towards the door and disappeared into the night.
Shaking her head in quiet disbelief, Joan went to check on Sherlock.
# #
Sherlock emerged from his room around eight, after Joan took a shower and drunk her first cup of coffee. About nine-thirty, Mycroft showed up again. How did he manage to look fresh and pristine after having spent the night covering an international spy scandal, Joan would never know. He greeted her with a brief nod and started nagging, quite convincingly, at Sherlock about the lost photographs. Distracted by the bickering, the younger brother did not pick up on the subplot.
"The photographs are perfectly safe."
"In the hands of a fugitive sex worker" Mycroft sounded incredulous. Joan took a bite of her eggs and enjoyed the show.
Sherlock shared his thoughts without filter. "She's not interested in blackmail. She wants ... protection for some reason. I take it you've stood down the police investigation into the shooting at her house?"
The older brother glowered. "How can we do anything while she has the photographs? Our hands are tied."
"She'd applaud your choice of words." Joan smirked. He jokes about it. Didn't take the defeat too hard then. "You see how this works: that camera phone is her 'Get out of jail free' card. You have to leave her alone. Treat her like royalty, Mycroft."
"Though not the way she treats royalty" she couldn't help but quip. The dry humorless smile of the government official expressed utter world-weariness. The moment was interrupted by an orgasmic female sigh. Joan and Mycroft stared at each other, then at Sherlock, who swiftly got up to pick his phone. "What was that?"
"Text" the git replied as if nothing was wrong.
"With that noise?" Oh my god. His phone was in his coat. Oh, fuck. Irene had been in our flat.
Meanwhile, Sherlock 'artfully' shifted the attention away from his suspicious correspondence. "Did you know there were other people after her too, Mycroft, before you sent John and I in there? CIA-trained killers, at an excellent guess."
"Yeah, thanks for that, Mycroft" Joan added, still sore about the whole affair.
Mrs Hudson decided to add her two pence to the conversation: "It's a disgrace, sending your little brother into danger like that. Family is all we have in the end, Mycroft Holmes."
The workload must have gotten to the man after all, as he unexpectedly snapped: "Oh, shut up, Mrs Hudson."
"MYCROFT!" both occupants of 221b exclaimed, revolted.
"Apologies" he cringed from his spot in the middle of the room.
"Thank you" the older lady huffed before going back to the kitchen.
"Though do, in fact, shut up" Sherlock added as an after-thought, before his phone moaned again, to Martha's embarrassment. After a brief acerbic exchange, Mycroft left the room to take a phone call.
Joan watched her flatmate pretend to not care about the texts. "Are you keeping that text alert?"
His ears flushed slightly. "I seem to have deleted my password to change the settings."
"Oh, did you now?"
"Yes" came the defensive reply. Joan raised her eyebrows. Well. It appears dear Sherlock is smitten by the mysterious sexy lady. While she held no warm feelings towards Adler, she could see the appeal. And she recognized the signs of attraction when the Woman looked at Sherlock. The phone sighed again. I've seen worse relationships work out, Joan forced herself to be reasonable and not go strangle the dangerous woman right away.
"I'm wondering who could have got hold of your phone, because it would have been in your coat, wouldn't it?"
Sherlock hid himself behind a paper. "I'll leave you to your deductions."
Uh oh. Now he sounds like Harriet trying to hide her new girlfriend when she was nineteen. "I'm not stupid, you know."
"Where do you get that idea?"
Mycroft's return was met with a barely noticeable sigh of relief behind the paper. "Bond Air is go, that's decided. Check with the Coventry lot. Talk later." Watson's thoughts derailed from the worrying perspective of a love-struck flatmate to the even more worrying problem of a joint operation with Americans that they got themselves mixed up in.
Apparently, Sherlock's thoughts went into the same direction: "What else does she have?" In the face of his brother's stubborn denial, he pressed: "Irene Adler. The Americans wouldn't be interested in her for a couple of compromising photographs. There's more." Is he intrigued by the puzzle or by Adler's involvement, I wonder? "Much more" the detective stated aggressively in his sibling's face. To Joan's surprise, Mycroft clammed up, which only prompted Sherlock to continue. "Something big's coming, isn't it?"
The older Holmes gave her a fleeting glance over Sherlock's shoulder. She shrugged, as if saying 'what did you expect?'. Mycroft straightened up, image of authority. "Irene Adler is no longer any concern of yours. From now on you will stay out of this."
The detective glowered. "Oh, will I?"
"Yes, Sherlock, you will." There was a pleading insistence laced in that order, that seemed to soften the blow. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a long and arduous apology to make to a very old friend."
"Do give her my love" the consulting menace commented while picking his violin. Mycroft rolled his eyes. Joan shrugged to no one in particular, all too used to their antics, and gulped down the rests of her tea.
# #
A/N: I am so sorry. It took me all this time to write that out. Irene is not cooperative at all. Also my brain went on a lot of tangents during that time, so look forward to updates in Alternate Plots.