Still not dead! Sorry ^^'
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.
# #
As winter loomed over them, Sherlock became more aware of Joan's sensitivity to the weather (it didn't appear relevant the previous year, when they just started flat-sharing).
She was frequently cold, a normal and boring reaction of a human body that got too used to a warm climate over time. She was also very stiff in the mornings, despite the regular stretching routine, and her left shoulder was not the only problematic area. He could have chucked it up to the age (they were both on the wrong side of their thirties now), but what he saw on that tape made him wonder. Almost a year in their flatshare, and Joan managed to never reveal her bare skin to him. It must have been intentional, Sherlock concluded with confidence. The next logical deduction was that there were scars, perhaps more than just the bullet wound, that the good doctor wasn't eager to show off to anyone. Which incidentally explained the lack of romantic prospects, despite a clear penchant towards inane love comedies on telly. All ridiculous, of course. Her scars were proud badges of honour that should be displayed to the world to admire, while his faded needle marks, reminder of weakness, should be hidden under layers of cloth. But there they were, army veteran and former junkie, doing the exact opposite of what should be done.
Once he had established the baseline of the new investigation, Holmes had gone to great lengths to get a peak under the jumper, disregarding all social cues. Watson cottoned up to his plan rather quickly when he tried to barge into the bathroom during her shower under the pretext of "an experiment!". The plan had miserably failed because of a strategically latched door and the laundry basket blocking the access once the latch had been removed. Considering the shrewd look she gave him after getting out (fully clothed), she must have been expecting this game to start for a long time already.
He eagerly kept on playing, since Joan proved to be an admirable opponent in this match. She didn't immediately remove her clothes when soaked in water or singed by a runaway blowtorch. Even the occasional drop of a relatively harmless acid had not been enough, since apparently the blogger happened to wear two layers of jumpers. The rant about destroying "damn good clothes" (the fashion assessment is debatable) had been more than informative though, in terms of the use of foreign curse words in an angry monologue.
It culminated when he innocently sneaked up to her room while she was (supposedly) changing and was met with the muzzle of a gun as soon as he pushed the door open. "You realize this is harassment?" Joan asked conversationally, not dropping her aim. To his dismay, she was not undressed.
While certain that the weapon was not loaded, Sherlock felt mildly uncomfortable being on the wrong side of it. "Pure scientific curiosity, I assure you."
The soldier chuckled and lowered her arm. "Why the sudden urge to see me naked? Is your text-pal not enough?" She wiggled her eyebrows suggestively.
He glowered, unwilling to discuss the Irene situation with her. "Oh for God's sake. Let's have dinner." was what he got that same morning, the last one in a long string of invitations. "You are intentionally concealing data" he decided to attack instead.
Joan's eyebrows went up in surprise. "Meaning?"
"Your skin."
"My… You've seen me in a hospital gown. And with torn trousers. Actually, you've seen more than the surgeon who operated on my shoulder." She had this slight frown that always appeared when trying to make him see reason (and often making valid arguments, not that he would ever admit it).
"And yet, I haven't seen your shoulder" the detective insisted.
"Do you really need to?" It came out like a whine and Sherlock grinned in anticipation of victory.
"For science, John!" Unfortunately, his enthusiasm did not have the expected effect. Watson looked utterly unimpressed and lifted her gun again.
"Out" she ordered flatly. "I am not a corpse to examine." She pushed the protesting man out of her room and locked the door with a resounding 'click'. Sherlock gaped at the wooden panel, dejected.
# #
She lingered at the counter, slowly sipping the cold beer. Her companions had yet to arrive to the pub, and the soldier didn't feel like facing the world just yet. She had been secretly moping around for days now and desperately needed to unwind. "A martini, thanks" said a tall man, dropping on the stool on her left, snowflakes melting on his dark blond hair. "Another one" added the second new-comer on her right.
"You're late" Joan said, examining closely the foam in her glass. "And martini, really?"
Seven arched an eyebrow at her, green eyes mocking. "Got to keep up appearances."
"What's your excuse then?" she asked Liam, who was busy cleaning the condensation on his glasses with a hem of his dark blue cotton shirt. His vision took a sudden turn to the worst about five years ago and he fully embraced the geeky persona with thick round spectacles, dishevelled chestnut hair and mismatched socks. Apparently, it gave him an element of surprise when an unruly colleague tried to get some free tech samples and had to be kicked out of the office. And he really appreciated the possibility to forget all about ties.
"I need something stronger today" he shrugged unrepentantly.
"Bad day?"
"I spent three weeks chasing the rotten apple in the archives, so yeah, you could say that" he snapped, face set in a usual scowl. Those who knew him well were used to the perpetual bad mood that followed gruelling work assignments and did not take it personally.
Joan brushed the glare off with practiced ease. "Did you get it?"
"Yep" Seven piped in, already sipping his drink (somehow, he always got served in record time). "The bastard was taken into custody a couple of hours ago. Someone I know will keep me posted later." Liam finally got his martini and gulped half of it in one go, shuddering from the burn.
"Good" Joan nodded with a faint smile and pretended to be alright.
"You ok?" Unfortunately, her act never worked on Seven.
"Fine." They all drank in silence for a while, letting the cheerful noise of the pub wash over them.
"I'll kill them for you, Jay" Sev said out of the blue, eyes skimming over the crowd, twirling the rests of martini around the glass with a lazy twist of his wrist.
Joan sighed and turned to face the crowd as well. "No need. It is done and gone, and I don't want to be reminded of it any more than necessary."
"Doesn't mean I can't kill the bastards."
"Please don't?" She sounded utterly unconvinced even to her own ears.
Liam reached over the doctor's head (tall gits, the lot of them) and swatted Seven's shoulder. "Let her be, man. She'll gut them herself in the end."
"I'm not killing anyone" she reminded them half-heartedly.
"You'll come around" Liam 'reassured' her.
"Piss off" the doctor sighed tiredly and gulped down the rests of her beer. "We haven't gotten together in ages and you're both talking about this shit."
Seven took a long moment to observe her (after almost a year of Sherlock's x-ray glances, it didn't faze her as much as when they first met), before dropping the serious face and grinning. "Alright, Capt'n, no business-talk tonight. Is that beer any good then?"
# #
"But how did he get here? There are fresh blood spatters in the bedroom and a corpse ten yards away" Sally called out, trying to keep all animosity from her voice. Just because Watson wasn't with Holmes that day (a shift in the surgery, apparently) did not mean she wouldn't get a lecture later on.
Sherlock pocked his head back into the living room. "Good point, Donovan. The angle of the wound suggest that he fell immediately and did not move around… Oh." There went that unsettling grin again.
Sally frowned. "'Oh' what?"
"It is not his blood" he announced and ran out of the crime scene, coat billowing in his wake.
"Not his…" She finally processed the information. "Oh. Hopkins! Get that blood sample to the lab, now!"
# #
Joan had tried to pull a blog post into existence for about forty minutes now. It was not working. She sighed and fell back into her chair, laptop perched precariously on her knees. The lazy lump on the sofa shifted in passing interest but kept any comments to himself.
Then "Aahn." The blogger felt a smug smile creep up on her face as Sherlock fumbled for his phone. "How's she then?" She watched him read the message and blush slightly from the corner of her eyes. "Are you going on a date?"
"No" was the glacial reply.
"Why not?" she turned her head to openly grin at him. I missed teasing teenagers about their love life. Harry was so hilarious. This is even better. She had seriously considered sitting down with Sherlock to explain why sex workers with a penchant for power-playing governments were not a safe choice for a romantic partner (because, com'on… he is at least mildly interested, and she is very into it), but caught herself comparing that plan to the older Holmes' behaviour. And that just wouldn't do. The ex-soldier didn't like Irene at all but couldn't help but admire her nerve. Then again, what ordinary person would continue flirting with Sherlock after he deduced the life out of them? Joan sometimes wondered if this is how it felt to watch her kid grow up and get a girlfriend. Except, he wasn't her kid and she didn't have to be (too) mature about it.
The man had extracted himself from the cushions and was glaring daggers at Joan now. "You are familiar with my eating habits. Why would I even consider sharing a meal with someone, unless it is for a case?"
Sharing a… Oh, she must be trying to be subtle. "Did you ever consider that sharing a meal may lead to conversation and physical interaction?" she answered in kind.
Sherlock seemed to ponder this for a moment. "It is what she expects, isn't it" he drawled pensively. "Interesting."
Here we are, Joan repressed a shit-eating grin. "You like her."
His eyes went wide and round before he clammed up. "No."
"You do."
"I don't."
"You do!"
"You are enjoying yourself far too much!" he protested, hiding his phone in the pocket of the dressing gown.
"Not quite enough, if you must know" Joan quipped, absolutely delighted.
"Why?!" The detective looked completely bemused by her reaction.
The doctor thought briefly about how to answer that. Let's go with honesty. Otherwise he might get ideas. "While I'm not thrilled about Adler's existence, it is your choice to pursue whatever relationship there is between you two. I'm not Mycroft, I know when to let people live their lives. And if you really like each other, well… It might even work out."
He quirked an amused eyebrow at her. "Based on the social media and the Yard's assessments, you should be mad with jealousy at this development."
"Never been a jealous type" she smiled. "Not a sweetly supportive one either. I'm going to be annoying and nosy, like a proper good friend. Soooooo… Do you like her?"
Sherlock harrumphed and practically ran to his room (still in a very dignified manner). She still noticed the rather amused smirk before the wild curls hid it from sight.
# #
Joan wondered how on earth did they manage to bully Sherlock into participating in the Christmas party. He looked absolutely miserable while cleaning the kitchen that afternoon, and it didn't improve as the evening approached. The blogger managed to clean-up the dining table (move the mess under it), vacuum the floors and put up some paper garlands and colourful cards in the living room. She even pulled on the hideous green and red sweater someone gave her as a joke gift ages ago.
They had stocked up tea, beer and mulled vine in industrial quantities, and Mrs Hudson provided mince pies and cakes to feed a small army. The lovely landlady also insisted that they invite friends over. The consulting detective had looked painfully confused by the request. After some deliberation, Joan decided to call upon the ones less likely to provide any new deduction-friendly material to her flatmate. After a couple of heated phone discussions, Harry was vigorously scratched from that list and she negotiated a next morning visit with her father (Jen had insisted that she'd bring Sherlock along, but she really didn't want to push her luck).
And that's how they ended up with Greg Lestrade, Bill Murray and Mary Morstan awkwardly shuffling around their living room, Mrs Hudson happily sipping on the mulled vine (is that her fifth cup?) and Sherlock pacing from the fireplace to the window with an occasional intake of blueberry scones. After some prodding from both the doctor and the landlady (and a lot of open teasing from Lestrade), the detective agreed to demonstrate his violin prowess. His rendition of "We Wish You a Merry Christmas" had been unsurprisingly on point, and everyone listened on, enchanted. Joan stopped in the kitchen's doorway to watch the improbable crowd (now, that's what I call homely), balancing a tea cup and a tray of mince pies, then grinned. As the song came to an end, she handed the tea to her giggling landlady. "Bravo, maestro!" she winked at Sherlock who was busy examining the mince pies as if they contained the answer to all questions in the universe.
"I wish you could have worn the antlers!" Martha complained joyfully. Clearly, Joan's valiant efforts at decoration were not enough to satisfy the older lady.
Someone snorted in amusement (probably Lestrade but might have been Murray). Sherlock answered a bit testily: "Some things are best left to the imagination, Mrs Hudson." He snatched a pie and munched on it thoughtfully while Joan went to feed the rest of the guests.
"He's not that bad" Mary whispered to her with a small smile.
"Don't be fooled, he just wants cake" the doctor smirked.
"Cheers to that!" Bill joined in, handing Joan a beer once she put down the tray. "This is the best cake I ever had! Just don't tell Stephie I said that."
"Your secret is safe with us, Murray" she promised easily. "Your wife will never know of your terrible betrayal of her baking skills."
"Thanks, Capt'n" he gave a mock salute. "So, Mary, right? How do you know John?"
"We work together at the surgery" the blond nurse offered easily. They all missed a sharp calculating glance from Sherlock, but the detective clearly deemed the perceived inconsistency unworthy of further attention as he glued himself back to the laptop. "When she shows up, that's it."
"That's mean, Ry. I always keep to my shifts."
"Unless your flatmate shows up in the middle of the day and Sarah has to cover for you. She was pissed the last time, you know."
Joan cringed at the memory. "Don't remind me."
"He comes to your job?" Lestrade asked from his spot near the kitchen door.
"All the time!" Mary assured.
"I'm right here" the detective called out, eyes not leaving the computer screen.
"Tell me more" Greg grinned, completely disregarding the now sulking consultant. Joan left them to gossip and went to fetch some tea for Sherlock.
Just as she handed over the cup with an apologetic shrug – she really hoped he didn't take her slightly drunk friends' comments badly – there were steps on the stairs and a flushed Molly Hooper walked in with two bags full of presents. "Hello, everyone" the pathologist greeted with an awkward smile. Bill, always the gentleman, rushed over to take the bags off her hands. "Sorry, hello."
"Hi, Molly" Joan smiled, making her way through the tidied-up mess of their flat to take her coat.
"Er, it said on the door just to come up." There was a tour of cheerful greetings and introductions while Sherlock muttered something undoubtedly rude in the background. Molly's gaze became rather fixed on the detective and Joan had a feeling that something unexpectedly embarrassing was about to happen. She was not disappointed as the shy doctor revealed a stunning cocktail dress under the coat. All the men froze, and Bill even whistled appreciatively, earning himself a cold glare from both Joan and Mary. Slightly encouraged by the effect produced, Molly attempted a wide grin: "Having a Christmas drinkies, then?"
Sherlock, who remained outwardly unaffected by the frankly successful make-over, quipped testily: "No stopping them, apparently."
Ignoring the unsociable git, Joan tried to shepherd Molly towards the chairs by the fireplace where Mrs Hudson was all ready to chat. The pathologist kept staring longingly at the detective but let herself be seated and took the offered glass of wine. Mary joined them as well, unimpressed by Bill's slip. "Where did you get that dress? It is beautiful!" the blond nurse asked, trying to start a normal, boring conversation.
Before an answer could be formulated, Sherlock called out: "John?"
"Yeah?"
"Look." Sighing, she stumbled to his side. The browser page the detective had been staring at for a good five minutes by then was her blog. "The counter on your blog: still says one thousand eight hundred and ninety-five."
Joan stared briefly at the top of his head in disbelief. "Are you really that bored?"
He chose to ignore the question. "And you've got a photograph of me wearing that hat!"
Derailed from her current bemusement, Joan shrugged: "People like the hat."
Silver eyes narrowed at her with suspicion. "No, they don't. What people?"
"The ones writing articles about you, to cite a few."
Sherlock was about to snap back when they caught the tail of Molly's mortician joke. The blogger almost face-palmed. Though, it is kinda funny… The detective, however, didn't have any qualms about squashing the girl's budding confidence: "Don't make jokes, Molly."
The conversation stirred towards others' plans, with Sherlock being increasingly annoyed and annoying people in turn (he is that bored, huh). Mary and Bill, who were spared the biting comments due to their relative anonymity, were staring at the detective in wide-eyed shock. The man, however, was just getting started. "I see you've got a new boyfriend, Molly, and you're serious about him."
The poor girl looked like a deer caught in headlights. "Sorry, what?"
"In fact, you're seeing him this very night and giving him a gift."
Getting flashbacks of the horrible train-wreck of a conversation about Molly's latest date (Jim bloody Moriarty parading as a closeted IT technician), Joan attempted to prevent the disaster. "Sherlock, stop."
Greg took the hint and tried to push a glass of wine into Holmes' hands. "Shut up and have a drink."
Unfortunately, Sherlock Holmes was like an avalanche once on a roll – unstoppable. "Oh, come on. Surely, you've all seen the present at the top of the bag – perfectly wrapped with a bow. All the others are slapdash at best."
"Sherlock…"
"It's for someone special, then." Joan started to consider physically knocking him out when he picked up the gift in question from the pile. "The shade of red echoes her lipstick – either an unconscious association or one that she's deliberately trying to encourage. Either way, Miss Hooper has lurrrve on her mind. The fact that she's serious about him is clear from the fact she's giving him a gift at all." Molly was looking at him in horrified fascination, almost like under a spell. Joan exchanged an anxious look with Lestrade. "That would suggest long-term hopes, however forlorn; and that she's seeing him tonight is evident from her make-up and what she's wearing." He had the gall to offer a smirk to the room at large. "Obviously trying to compensate for the size of her mouth and breasts..." Oh crap. The clueless idiot trailed off, and you could hear a pin drop. If Joan didn't want to throttle him before, the idea suddenly seemed much more appealing, and shared by at least two thirds of the people present. This absolute dimwit. His eyes were going up and down from the small card to the devasted Molly in mute shock. And I thought our discussions about being considerate had stuck for once…
The girl was on the verge of tears. "You always say such horrible things. Every time. Always. Always."
Sherlock made to walk away but was met by a stern glare from his blogger. Don't you dare, you tosser, or at least that was the message Joan tried to communicate. The detective seemed to reflect and turned back towards Molly. "I am sorry. Forgive me." Everyone stared. Revealing an unexpected depth to character, he stepped forward with a soft: "Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper." And kissed the quickly melting pathologist on the cheek.
Everyone kept staring until… "Aahn."
And only growing up with Harry and the military training prevented Joan to dissolve into a laughing mess at the absurdity of the situation. Poor Molly…
"No! That wasn't ... I – I didn't ..."
"No, it was me" Sherlock cut short to the sputtering.
Greg found his voice: "My God, really?!" at the same time as Molly exclaimed: "What?!"
Mary and Bill continued to stare with eyes wide as saucers, though Joan suspected they would explode in laughter in a couple of minutes. Here goes the illusion of me having a normal life after the discharge. Mrs Hudson looked vaguely disapproving but kept on sipping her tea in silence, clearly more entertained than shocked.
Glaring in passing at the DI, Sherlock elaborated: "My phone."
"Fifty-seven?" she quipped, hiding a smile behind the glass of wine.
Holmes looked up in confusion: "Sorry, what?"
"Fifty-seven of those texts – the ones I've heard."
It earned her a glare that could be interpreted as My opinion of your intelligence just dropped below the sea level. "Thrilling that you've been counting" he grumbled, stalking towards the fireplace, gracefully avoiding the piles of 'something probably very useful' that littered their living room. In the ringing silence, he picked up a small package, made a thinking face and disappeared into his room with a quiet "'Scuse me."
"What was that?" Bill summed up everyone's thoughts.
Joan shrugged, placing her wine on the dining table. "Your guess is as good as mine." Lestrade quirked a sceptic eyebrow at her from his place in the kitchen doorway. "I'll go check."
Her own way through the living room was way less graceful, and she stumbled over a stack of books before even reaching the hallway. She got there just in time to hear Sherlock say "No, I mean you're going to find her dead" in a neutral voice. What? Who? Oh, god, the text… Is Irene dead?
"You okay?"
His face was completely expressionless when he slammed the door with a brief "Yes." Oh damn.
The doctor examined the closed door a bit longer than necessary. He really liked her. The sudden loss of someone was something all veterans were familiar with, but she seriously doubted Holmes knew how to deal with it. Joan sighed and meandered back into the living room where their guests were talking in hushed whispers.
"Sorry, I think the party's over." This was followed by a collective round of understanding murmurs and glasses being put down on a solid surface. Joan went to Molly and quietly apologized for Sherlock's behaviour again.
"Oh, don't worry about it…" the pathologist shrugged with a defeated grimace. "You think I'd learn." She grabbed her bag and pulled another red-wrapped package from it. "Here" she attempted to smile while handing it to Joan. Two green-wrapped smaller gifts followed for Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. Then Molly looked apologetically at Bill and Mary. "Sorry, I didn't know…"
Murray, always the charmer, grinned: "Don't worry, love, we just met." Mary rolled her eyes at him.
Joan glanced worriedly at the closed room while everyone shuffled to get their coats. There was no noise indicating any activity from its occupant, and it was concerning in itself. "I'll walk you out, Dr Hooper" Greg offered softly. Molly nodded absently, trying to get back into her coat without ruffling the dress.
"Oh wait! I almost forgot, we got gifts as well!" Joan dived behind Sherlock's chair and pulled out her own bag of presents. They were not as well wrapped as Molly's, but she had happily used Sherlock's insights to choose them and hoped they would be appreciated. "Greg, Molly" she presented the boxes to them.
The DI narrowed his eyes. "We got gifts?" he asked mockingly.
"He commented on my every decision" she stated drily, repressing a shudder at the memory of the constant stream of criticism over her shoulder while browsing amazon for ideas.
"Fair enough" Greg chuckled. "Thanks."
Molly muttered her thanks as well, examining the ribbon on her box (it was actually something Sherlock deigned to pull from his closet for the occasion) with faint interest. "Guys, for you" Joan threw their gifts at Mary and Bill who both caught them effortlessly. "Sherlock didn't get a say in those."
"That's good news, I guess?" Mary scoffed.
"You have no idea!"
Everyone left rather quickly after that, leaving Joan with a room to clean up and Mrs Hudson gushing quietly over her own gift (a set of new top-of-the-line pans and oven mittens). "Right."
"What's going on, John?" The landlady sounded unexpectedly sober.
"I'm not sure. Nothing good, probably." She offered Martha a hand up.
"Keep me in the loop, dear" she chided.
"Of course. Can we keep the mince pies?"
"Help yourself." There was a hint of a fond smile in Mrs Hudson's voice as she disappeared downstairs. Joan took one look at the mess around her, sighed, grabbed a mince pie and flopped heavily into her chair.
# #
A couple of minutes after a gloomy Sherlock stormed out of the flat, Joan's phone started ringing. "Yes?"
"You asked to be there for him when needed" Mycroft's posh voice drawled on the other end.
"I did."
"Now would be the time, John."
Joan winced at the implications. "I'll ask Martha to help looking."
# #
"He's on his way. Have you found anything?"
Joan stopped from her inspection of the biological hazard under the sink and put Mycroft on loud speaker. "No. Did he take the cigarette?"
"Yes."
"Shit." Mrs Hudson appeared in the doorway, tooting disapprovingly at the language. The doctor chose to ignore it. "He's coming. Ten minutes."
"There's nothing in the bedroom" the older woman shrugged.
"Looks like he's clean" she said to the phone. "We've tried all the usual places. Any creative ideas we can check before he gets back?"
"I trust you have it covered" was the subdued response before the older Holmes disconnected.
Joan stared at the now dimmed screen with surprise. "Thanks, I guess?"
# #
She even managed to find a convincing medical journal to leaf through by the time the detective stepped into the living room, sharp gaze scanning the surroundings. "Oh hi" Joan attempted a small smile. "You okay?"
The blank expression despite the obvious alertness in his eyes continued to bother her on a level she hadn't thought possible. And she had dealt with things worse than grief in people close to her and herself. Sherlock did not spare her a glance before turning towards the kitchen. "Hope you didn't mess up my sock index this time."
# #
Sherlock didn't come out of his room for the next day, aside from a brief stint in the bathroom, although Joan couldn't be sure about the morning – she had dropped by her father's place, keeping the visit as short as possible in a polite society.
The following day the detective emerged from his lair in pyjamas, drank a gallon of water and disappeared again. The doctor left a plate with a sandwich near his door before going to sleep. The meagre meal had disappeared by the morning and judging by the absence of the said sandwich in the garbage (she checked), it had been actually consumed. Joan wondered if that was a bad sign, and if she was going insane by pondering this kind of questions.
On the third day, after a short phone conversation with Mycroft, she knocked on his door. "Sherlock? You alright in there?"
"I'm fine!" he shouted irritably. Relatively certain that he was not bleeding out on the carpet, she let him brood in peace, but left another sandwich and a cup of tea by the door anyway. The empty dishes were in the sink in the morning.
On the fourth day, the man stomped into the kitchen and started cleaning out rotten thumbs from the refrigerator. Joan watched him wide-eyed for a couple of minutes before asking: "You sure you're okay?" He swirled around, glaring bloody murder, and ostensibly dropped the paper bag full of mouldy appendages on the floor before stomping into the bathroom. "Guess not" she shrugged and went to pick latex gloves and bleach. He didn't touch the small food offering that night, but deigned to appear at lunch the next day, drank a cup of tea in silence, nodded and spent the rest of the afternoon imitating a statue on the couch.
Apparently, he stayed like that the whole night, because he was still there when Joan meandered into the kitchen to get some coffee before going last-minute grocery shopping. She left a cup of tea on the low table and some toast on the kitchen counter before leaving. When she got back, Mrs Hudson pulled her forcedly into 221a to announce in hushed tones that she found a pile of untouched stale sandwiches on the fire escape outside of Sherlock's room. That wanker… "We have to do something."
They decided on a united front and made their way upstairs, to find the man engrossed in a mournful melody on the violin, toast still untouched on the coffee table. Exchanging a worried glance, the two women set to clean up the plates. He didn't eat again. It's been six days. This can't be healthy.
Mrs Hudson decided on a subtle approach. "Lovely tune, Sherlock. Haven't heard that one before."
Joan chimed in: "You composing?"
This time, the man deigned to gratify them with an answer: "Helps me think." Further poking and prodding resulted in a short spike of enthusiasm regarding the blog counter of all things, but it died down in a matter of seconds. Joan stared at his back, straight as an arrow, while he played his lament on the violin, then at the opened laptop with slight confusion. "What?" Sherlock snapped, stopping to mark something down on the musical score.
I don't think he ever lost someone with whom he had a good relationship. Wait, was their relationship good? She drugged him… He was glaring now. "Nothing" Joan said quietly. He huffed and turned away. Irene had been clever, oh so clever, and Sherlock likes that in people. He doesn't know much about emotional attachments and grief, though. Oh god. It's… it's his first time grieving, isn't it? She swallowed down the tears that threatened to make a guest appearance (since when I empathize that much) and folded her arms tightly around herself, hiding from an inexistent cold. "I'll go for a walk" she finally decided to give him space. Marching to the coat rack, Joan made signs to Mrs Hudson to talk downstairs. Coat already in hand, she turned towards the detective one last time. "Call me if you need me." He didn't respond.
# #
After another hushed conversation with Martha ("We should get him some time to process"), Joan spilled into the cold December day. She felt shitty, a feeling of not-quite sadness lodged deep inside her ribcage. She was eyeing the direction of a nearby park when a perfectly dressed woman stepped closer: "John."
Joan eyed the stranger warily. "Yes?"
"Someone would like to have a chat with you" she announced, and as if by magic a black car pulled to the curb. What the mystery woman didn't know is that Mycroft had become rather cordial (in his own way) in the last couple of months, and stopped resorting to surprise kidnappings with Joan, preferring discreet phone calls and occasional coffee breaks at Diogenes'.
So, while masterfully executed, the game was up from the get-go. "Really? Now?" Joan pretended to be exasperated. The nameless woman had been well-trained in Mycroft's henchmen's habits, as she offered a sphynx-like smile and gestured to the car. Not armed, the doctor noted in passing while climbing into the backseat. Neither is the driver. Not professionals, then.
The car drove at a sedate pace through the city, all occupants dutifully silent. The mysterious kidnapper that joined Joan in the backseat even pretended to text, just like Anthea did. The doctor sighed and concentrated on the scenery. We don't have any active cases, and it starts to look like a mild prank. Oh well. At least, it's distracting. They finally rolled over to one of the entrances of the Battersea power station. Isolated place, very secretive. Smells of drama. Did Sherlock piss off someone in a theatre recently?
The woman led her through empty corridors, up to a certain point where she just waved condescendingly. "Through there." That's right, scurry away, sweetie.
The ex-soldier stepped into the large room with no haste, eyes scanning for possible threats. "I know you're not Mycroft" she called out, noting the echo reverberating under high ceilings. "Let's have that chat, and maybe I won't hurt you… much."
The distinctive click of high heels made her narrow her eyes. A woman. More drama, I knew it. Then Irene Adler walked out in the open and Joan's had that awful sinking feeling in her stomach at the same time as her world exploded into an incandescent rage. Unaware of the doctor's inner struggles, Irene nodded in greeting: "Hello, Doctor Watson."
How dare she. How dare she! "Tell him you're alive."
"He'd come after me."
"I will if you don't. And you won't be able to text once I'm finished."
The Woman tilted her head, looking amused. "Mmm, I believe you."
The light tone made Joan growl in a dangerously low voice: "Do you even realize what you've done?" She kept herself in place by sheer willpower but relaxed her stance into a ready-to-fight position.
Iren shrugged, at least looking a little sheepish. "I needed to disappear."
Joan swallowed back the instinctive response of Well, I can certainly help you with that now. The 'how' didn't even matter, she wanted to know 'why' it was necessary to pull her friend through that kind of ordeal. She bit out a condescending "Something changed?"
Bright grey eyes narrowed suspiciously. Apparently, Miss Adler started to realize that Joan actually had a brain. "Look, I made a mistake. I sent something to Sherlock for safe-keeping and now I need it back, so I need your help."
I must look really stupid, that's the only possible reason people keep coming to me with idiotic plans… "No."
"It's for his own safety."
So we're playing this card, huh? "Allow me to disregard your opinion. Tell him you're alive."
She frowned, exasperated. "I can't."
Really? You can't? "You can't?!" Joan voiced the last thought with as much disbelief instilled in her voice as possible. "Tough. I will." Right about now. Yep. Before I end up really killing this…
"What do I say?" Irene cut short to her silent decision-making process.
This is bloody ridiculous! "What do you normally say?! You've texted him a lot."
The Woman pulled her phone out and shrugged. "Just the usual stuff."
"There is no 'usual' in this case."
Irene sighed heavily and started reading out her text. "Good morning; I like your funny hat; I'm sad tonight. Let's have dinner; You looked sexy on 'Crimewatch.' Let's have dinner; I'm not hungry, let's have dinner."
Joan stared at her in utter shock. And she still dares to pretend that she did nothing wrong? "You flirted with Sherlock Holmes."
"At him" the other woman corrected lightly, still skipping through her doubtlessly risqué texts. "He never replies."
Figures. "Colour me impressed. Sherlock always replies, to everything, to the point of being mildly annoying."
Adler leered at her with a smug smile. "Does it make me special?"
Joan's inner voice shrieked in rage Yyyyoou…! The ex-soldier took exactly three steps forward, putting her in reach of Irene's throat should the urge to throttle the dominatrix win over reason. "You made bloody sure that you are" she hissed.
To her credit, Irene didn't even flinch at the clear threat of an angry military-trained medical professional getting too close to her. She smiled at her instead. "Are you jealous?"
"We're not a couple."
"Yes, you are. There" the phone glinted at Joan with an unsent text. "I'm not dead. Let's have dinner."
Disregarding momentarily the absolute worst way of announcing a miraculous survival, Joan stated quietly. "For the record, just because I am furious now doesn't mean I am jealous of every person that catches his interest."
Irene raised an eyebrow at her. "Well, maybe I am." And I am going to bludgeon her face in if she doesn't stop being bitchy.
"Aahn." The text alert took them both by surprise and they stared in its direction with similar looks of shock. Joan jerked towards the direction of departing steps, thoughts jumbled into an odd litany of No, no, no, don't, don't be sad, but Irene's extended hand stopped her. Adler's eyes shined suspiciously bright as she said: "I don't think so, do you?"
The doctor glared full force at The Woman, fists clenched tightly. "I would kill you, but that'd be counter-productive." Irene started to make a comment, but Joan didn't let her. "Just give me a reason." She stepped even closer, invading the other's personal bubble. Adler was not much taller than her, but the high heels gave an unfair advantage. The knowledge of pressure points and vulnerable joints evened it out, as the brunette finally seemed to realize, her face paling a little under the perfect make-up. "You will either make it right or will never show your face around him again. Am I being clear?"
The dominatrix quickly regained composure as she licked her bright red lips. "So you're his guard-dog, aren't you, John?"
"Apt definition" the soldier nodded instead of being offended. "And if he decides that you shouldn't be in his life, I'll be happy to assist. So. I repeat, is it clear, Miss Adler?"
Irene attempted to glare condescendingly, but it was rather difficult to outdo Watson on a bad day (and bad day it was). "Crystal clear" she finally said.
"Great." Joan fell back and offered a fake smile. "Nice chat here. Bye."
As she stormed through the deserted power station, the retired soldier repressed the urge to punch a wall. I certainly hope she thinks twice before attempting anything else now. Irene, left behind, seemed to hesitate before sending a short text to a number registered as M in her phone.
# #
A/N: Irene's back :)
Also, I posted a separate story "Story of her life - Bonus chapters" that can give some insight on what happened in the previous chapters. It is graphic and kinda gory, and isn't essential to follow the main story, so check it out only if you're up to it.