A/N: So... This is a cross-over with Nolan Dark Knight trilogy (don't ask, I don't know why).
# #
They had been a strange presence at the edge of each other's lives. A loose end flailing to the wind that neither wanted to sever completely.
Their first meeting had been rather dramatic. It was during Bruce's short stint in London. Sometimes his off time boiled down to drinking in a dingy pub and giving the stink eye to anyone trying to engage into a conversation. Apparently, it had irked the local thugs enough that they called him out on it, and he ended up in an alley, facing five drunk, angry and knife-wielding opponents. The runaway heir had been quite confident in his ability to take them down without much fuss, but was taken by surprise by a sixth thug coming from behind and slashing at his ribs. There was already blood from a split brow hindering his vision, and the unexpected pain made him lose ground, which his attackers took advantage of.
Bruce stumbled against a wall and slid down to avoid an impressive right hook. Blood was oozing from several rather deep cuts and definitely ruining his tattered clothes. That's a stupid way to die, he remembered thinking as a burly man smirked above him and raised the knife for a final stab.
The blond fireball that came out of nowhere and kicked the weapon away had not bothered to call out before jumping into the fray. Grounding the heavy combat boots into the dust, the newcomer stood over Bruce's slumped form, fists curled into white-knuckled balls. "Go away" she growled, ready to rip and maul. Bruce stared at the woman in horrified amazement. The sentiment had been shared by his assailants, who shifted uneasily, until the bravest of the set attempted to step forward. He got kicked into the balls and punched under the chin for his troubles.
"I said. Go. Away" she snapped, and surprisingly enough they scooped up their fallen friends and shuffled away, murmuring about the "crazy army chick" that had a reputation around here.
The woman glared at their retreating backs for a moment, before turning towards him and kneeling down. "You shouldn't pick fights" she said matter-of-factly, the gaze going from one bleeding cut to another. "Damn, mate…" she huffed and went to touch him, but Bruce was having none of it.
He swapped away the helping hand and attempted to sit up despite the dizziness that threatened to overcome him. He got pressed back against the wall by a firm hand to his chest. "Stay still, idiot." She glared at him half-heartedly. "I'm a doctor, let me check." Unable to contain a petulant frown, Bruce looked away while the woman ran gentle fingers over his vitals. "Nothing broken, lucky you. But this and this" - she pointed to the cuts on his leg and his brow – "will need stitches." She stood up, and to his surprise offered him a hand and a smile.
Hesitant, but too dizzy to complain, he took the hand and hoisted himself up with a wince. This was not a pleasant sensation at all.
"Right" she said, taking in the greyness of his face. "Follow me." He did.
She led him to a smallish flat (military lodgings, he noticed absently) with barely enough space for a bed, a couch and a desk. Bruce was ordered to sit on the old couch, that creaked ominously under his weight. His blond saviour rummaged through the desk drawers to extract a fully packed medkit. She proceeded to patch him up in complete silence, cutting the dirty cloth when needed, disinfecting, numbing and stitching with practiced efficiency.
He took the time to observe her, only to realize there was nothing extraordinary in her appearance. Average height, lean build, short blond hair bleached by the sun. Callouses on the small hands. Stubborn chin. Sharp blue eyes that seemed to switch from icy focus to summer warmth with ease.
The tug of the stitch on his thigh pulled Bruce from his musings. "All done" the woman smiled up at him, her hands busy to gather the medical supplies spread on her lap and the couch.
"Thank you" he choked out, having gotten unused to simple kindness during the past couple of years.
"So he talks!" The woman laughed lightly, and went back to the desk. Bruce attempted to get up, only to be stopped by a stern "Nope. You, mister, are going to get a full night sleep" she said, pointing to the bed.
He blinked. She frowned. Bruce shuffled towards the bed, tugging off his jacket. Once she made sure her patient was snuggled under the blanket, the still unnamed medic smiled (she did smile a lot), pulled out an enormous book from under the bed and settled on the couch. Bruce was thoroughly confused at this point. "Aren't you worried?" he finally asked.
Blue eyes glanced at him with a mix of fond laughter and serious contemplation dancing under the carefully neutral surface. "These guys ran away from me. I think I can handle you" she said in a voice more suited to discuss sports than potential threats. And while Bruce tended to disagree with her assessment, he respected her abilities and confidence. They didn't talk for the rest of the night.
In the morning, when she had fallen asleep on the couch, still hugging the book, he quietly got up. After a quick inspection of the flat to determine the woman's identity, he left like a ghost.
A couple of hours later, Joan Watson woke up and was very miffed to find her patient gone. The irritation subsided a little when she discovered a red rose wrapped in a "thank you" note in her mailbox.
# #
The second time he'd seen her, she never knew of his presence.
Bruce had been basically hiking through the Middle-East, and ended up in a remote Afghani region. There were UN troops stationed in the city, and he watched them mingle in the open market for a while.
The peaceful scene was shattered by an explosion, wails and screams replacing the chatter of a normal day. Ears still ringing, but otherwise unhurt, Bruce ran towards the ground zero. A group of army blokes sprinted out of an adjacent street, and hurried there as well. Most of them wore red cross straps. A blond medic rushed past him, and Bruce froze in recognition. Meanwhile, Joan Watson already dropped near an injured man, hands applying pressure to the gaping wound on his side. "Bill!" she barked and another medic appeared at her side. "Pressure!"
The efficiency of the medical team under Joan's command had appeared impressive to an untrained individual such as himself. He stood back, feeling rather useless and fascinated at the same time. After a long hour, the injured were triaged and transported to the hospital. Joan had swirled around, slightly crazed eyes looking for another patient on the ground, in the crowd, and Bill (her nurse, Bruce surmised) put a calming hand on her shoulder. She stared at him for a moment, looking a bit lost, then sighed, a tired and crooked smile tugging at her lips. "Let's go, they'll want all hands on deck." She ran a hand through the short hair, smearing blood and dirt all over her forehead. Bill chuckled and passed her a tissue.
As they walked away through the abiding chaos, Bruce caught himself thinking that he had rarely seen a more beautiful person than Joan in that moment. The image burnt itself in his memories, and kept remining him over the years of why he was fighting. Of the right thing.
The next day, an exhausted Doctor Watson stumbled into the break room, looking for coffee and perhaps some biscuits. Her favourite mug was already there, filled to the brim with a suspiciously good coffee. Too tired to care, Joan picked it up and blissfully sipped the hot beverage. Her fingers caught onto something unusual though, and she unglued a post-it note from under the mug. It was skilful drawing of a red rose. Bemused, Joan slipped the post-it in her pocket. She never got the heart to throw it away, but after she had been shot, the little rose got forever lost in the desert's sand.
# #
"You're enjoying every second of it, don't you?" Joan asked, seemingly exasperated.
"Obviously" Sherlock snorted in reply, strolling towards their hotel. The doctor shook her head and followed the long strides with practiced ease.
They had been called to Gotham, of all places, by its mayor, as a huge favour to one Mycroft Holmes. While still sulking about being traded like a rare resource, Sherlock was rather excited by the challenge of identifying the masked vigilante. Both of them just spend several hours perusing the numerous reports and witness statements at the Gotham police station, and as a bonus, getting a wide range of glares from the assembled police force. Joan simply decided that it was a normal reaction of the law enforcement to Sherlock's arrogance, whatever the country they ended up in.
The vigilante they were tracking, the Batman, was smart, influential and clearly as crazy as they get. Glancing at the grinning madman walking at her side, Joan sighed. She wasn't exactly in a position to judge the craziness. After all, she spent her time tailing a man who kept eyeballs in microwaves.
They had almost made it to the hotel when an expensive black car slowly came to halt in front of them. Sherlock scowled, and Joan fell into a defensive stance. "Mycroft didn't follow us here, did he?"
"No" her companion drawled, a hint of worry in his tense shoulders.
The passenger door opened, and an impossibly handsome man in an impossibly expensive suit got out. And strode straight towards Joan. Sherlock grumbled and prepared to fight, while Joan just stared at the newcomer with a sense of a twisted déjà-vu.
"It's good to see you, Doctor Watson" the unknown man said with a genuine smile, and something clicked in her mind, a memory so fleeting that she was surprised she still had it.
The stray in the alley, the red rose in the mailbox. She knew the consulting detective was now glaring daggers at the man, but somehow it didn't matter. Her eyes searched the familiar, yet foreign, face. She made an aborted gesture to touch his brow, where she had applied the stitches so many years ago. "Glad it didn't leave a scar" she smiled at him.
He nodded knowingly and held out a hand, finally introducing himself. "Bruce Wayne."
Joan's brain froze in a stunned stupor. Wayne? That Bruce Wayne?! She went to shake his hand out of habit, but Bruce caught it and bowed to press a gentle kiss on her knuckles. Joan blushed, unable to formulate a coherent thought, let alone a sentence. You don't meet playboy billionaires on a dreary street in a dreary city every day.
She was rather glad that her companion had had enough, and butted in: "Sherlock Holmes." Startled, Bruce briefly eyed the lanky detective before shaking the offered hand. The handshake took entirely too long, and the ensuing glares between the two men were nothing but hostile. "Um…" Joan started, but got interrupted.
"You will excuse us, but we have work to do" Sherlock declared, grabbed her hand and pulled her along.
"Wh… Sherlock!" she sputtered indignantly.
"The case, John!" was the only reply.
Exasperated, Joan wrenched her hand away and turned towards the bemused rich boy. "Sorry, but we are indeed busy. It was great to see you again, Mr Wayne." She nodded and hurried after her friend, feeling something squeeze uncomfortably in her chest at the thought of Bruce.
# #
Sherlock had arrived at the conclusion that Batman was a man in his early thirties, native to Gotham and insanely rich. They had been plotting to infiltrate the latest charity event held in the city that was sure to assemble all their suspects at once, when someone knocked at the door of Sherlock's room (for once, they had separate rooms while travelling). A delivery boy dragged a large box inside and left them with a wink.
Inside, there was a perfectly tailored suit for Sherlock and magnificent blue dress for Joan (and wasn't it creepy).
"Please tell me Mycroft doesn't know my measurements" she pleaded, while examining the high heels that came with the dress.
"No" Sherlock answered, his hands buried in the box. "But your rich friend does" he amended, pulling out an invitation for two to the party they wanted to infiltrate, a red rose printed in the left upper corner.
# #
Sherlock had accepted to attend, sulking all the way to the penthouse. Joan tugged at her dress again, not comfortable in the fancy clothes. "You look fine" the detective huffed when she fiddled with her ridiculously small bag for the umptieth time.
"How am I supposed to fight in this?" she hissed back.
"We're supposed to investigate, not brawl" he chided, but the barely concealed mischievous smile told her otherwise.
"I have heels and I will step on your feet, Sherlock."
"Fair warning" he laughed off the threat, and they entered the party.
They didn't mingle, but stood near the buffet, glasses of champagne in hand, and watched over the guests as covertly as possible. They witnessed Bruce's flamboyant arrival and speech with various degrees of disbelief. "He's faking" Sherlock whispered into her ear. "He is not an air-head everyone thinks he is."
"Don't I know" Joan whispered back. She remembered the bloodied man in the alley. She could imagine what the rest of his 'missing' years had been like.
They saw Bruce talk to a pretty brunette on the balcony, soon joined by Harvey Dent, the hero of the day. Sherlock's intent stare in that direction made something churn in Joan's stomach. She knew that stare.
"It's him" Sherlock suddenly not-quite-shouted, making some heads turn in their direction.
"What?" she tried in vain to delay the inevitable.
"It's Wayne" the detective chattered excitedly, if not a bit quietly. "Our mysterious crime-fighter."
Joan stared at him in disbelief, then at Bruce who smirked mindlessly at some dignitary on the other side of the room. "Oh, bloody hell" she managed to breath out, so many things making sense now. "What do we do?"
Sherlock looked conflicted. But their indecisions were cut short when armed men invaded the party. Joan's instincts took over, and she was about to jump to the defence of the hostages, but Sherlock's firm grip on her arm held her back. "Let go!" she growled, watching in growing horror as the newly arrived maniac threatened an old man with a knife.
"No, John" Sherlock hissed, looking tense and pale. "You'll only get yourself killed." The pretty brunette that had been with Wayne and Dent drew the attention to herself, and Joan tried to intervene again, only to get pulled back by two strong arms around her shoulders, the detective almost glued to her back. "John, please, no" he pleaded. "There are too many of them."
She watched helpless as the Batman made an entrance, and the lady got thrown out of a bloody window, immediately followed by the masked fighter. "Oh god." She sagged into Sherlock's arms as the armed criminals quickly fled from the scene.
# #
She caught a glimpse of him, still in costume, lurking in shadows while the guests filed out of the penthouse into awaiting ambulances. Sherlock had been too busy snapping at the poor local policemen to notice her give him the slip. The Batman seemed to stare in disbelief as she made her way into his hiding corner, but it was difficult to identify any of his expressions under the armour.
"Nice party" she stated, unsure whether she should feel angry, amazed or confused. "Next time, let me know to bring a weapon." He didn't say anything, but didn't leave either. Joan locked her eyes with his dark ones. "Can I help?" She knew that she could be of use. She knew that Bruce knew.
They had met only twice, and exchanged only a few phrases before that night, but she could let everything go to help that man. It was a painful feeling that coiled tight inside her chest, something similar to what Sherlock made her feel sometimes, but different, much more gentle and bitter at the same time. The 'what ifs' formed an endless chasm between them.
He remained silent, something soft and sad flickering behind the mask, and Joan knew that they were not going off their chosen paths. They were just passing by, again, just another chance encounter in the vast ruins of their respective lives.
"Right" she nodded, breaking the eye contact. "Stay safe then." And she went back to the orange lights, and the bored consulting detective that had not noticed her brief absence.
# #
The next morning, Mycroft finally called, and practically manhandled (i.e. sent his minions to pack and drive) them both to a private jet heading back to London. "You have solved the puzzle, Sherlock, there is nothing for you to do there." And only the prospect of Joan being involved in a gang war had made the younger brother yield.
Standing on the tarmac, duffle bag in hand, Joan remained still. Just one last look, she kept repeating in her head, expecting something (anything) to pop up and spirit her back into Gotham's underbelly. It was utter madness, but she was unable to abandon it.
"John?" Sherlock's voice, slightly panicked, made her snap back to reality.
"Coming."
# #
A year later, Joan stared at the telly with growing horror, tears finding their way down her cheeks. The footage of the explosion, and the speaker repeating that the Batman heroically flew the bomb out of Gotham, were like burning needles under her skin. She didn't know why she cared so much, but Bruce's death felt like a terrible blow. Her insides felt like ice, and it was painful to breath. Joan curled on the sofa, eyes glued to the screen.
Sherlock found her in that spot an hour later, having been to Bart's for an experiment. He frowned at her distressed state, then at the telly, and snorted in derision. "He's alive, you know?"
Barely able to process, Joan stared at him blankly. "What?"
"He clearly got away" Sherlock stated while draping his coat over a chair. "Why do you care anyway? You've known him for a total of fourteen hours."
That was painfully true. But it didn't change the feeling of loss. "I don't know" she answered the curious detective. "It's… like a bridge I've never crossed, and now it's collapsed, so I will never have the chance to go to the other side."
For once, her flatmate understood the metaphor. "Nonsense, John. You just have to cross the next bridge down the stream."
# #
The pain from Bruce's presumed death was nothing compared to the torture of seeing her friend up on that roof. "Don't. Please, don't" she pleaded on the phone.
"Goodbye, John."
"Sher…" She saw him throw away the phone. "Sherlock!" Joan yelled in desperation, but her words were late, too late, and he was falling, falling, oh gods, no, no, no…
# #
They had wheeled away the gurney with Sherlock's lifeless body, but the blood, still fresh and red and shiny, nagged her from the pavement. Joan had collapsed on some type of box piled along the wall, and hadn't moved since, staring at the proof of her friend's mortality. There was a crowd, and sirens, and mutters, but she just remained a breathing statue of shock.
"John?" A familiar voice tugged at her consciousness. "Jesus, what happened here? John?" A warm hand fell on her shoulder, making her startle violently.
Blue eyes met tired brown. "Greg?..." she breathed out. Once pulled from her stupor, the reality started catch up to her.
"You alright?" Lestrade eyed her worriedly. "Where's Sherlock?"
The question broke the floodgates. "He… he's…" Unable to talk or even breath, Joan curled into a ball, shaking with dry sobs. She vaguely felt a distressed Lestrade draw circles on her back, trying to find some sense in her muffled whimpers. Then he must have noticed the blood on the pavement, and it clicked. "Oh god." He sounded broken, so broken. "Oh god, no, he didn't. No."
His pain made her own shock fade back, and Joan straightened slightly. "I gotta go" she whispered to no one in particular. "Gotta go home."
# #
There was a void in her chest that nothing could fill. Losing the eternal 'what if' of her odd relationship with Bruce was like losing a finger or a toe. She could live without it and forget most of the time, and still occasionally crave the missing part of herself. Losing Sherlock was like being forever stuck just a beat away from cardiac arrest.
"Are you sure?" Greg asked again. They were standing near the EuroStar, her bag at their feet.
"Yes" she sighed. "I need a change of air."
He nodded, managing to be understanding and sad at the same time. Minutes later, Joan boarded the train to Paris, uncertain of when and if she would come back.
# #
Joan wandered around the city of light, bored and restless. Her middle-school level of French didn't get her too far, but she managed to get some groceries and an ice cream from a street vendor. The days stretched into a continuous walk, sight-seeing, eating, sleeping, crying silently on a bench.
She didn't want to grieve.
One day, she stumbled upon a young girl crying by herself in a park. Joan stopped and talked to her. She accompanied the girl (Marion) home to pack up her things, and swiftly disposed of the violent boyfriend who tried to protest. She left Marion at her parents' place, at the other side of the city, with a soft smile and a promise to visit.
Helping someone in need made her forget just a little. Just for a little while.
"Still picking up strays, I see?" said a voice she had never expected to hear again.
Slowly, Joan turned to face a grinning Bruce Wayne. The initial surprise morphed into happiness, and she was about to hug him when her mind remembered Sherlock's impertinent voice saying: "He's alive, you know?"
And here was the gaping hole in her chest again, howling, and making her curl upon herself instead of smiling. Bruce shifted uneasily at the quick succession of emotions on her face.
"Well, I didn't expect the silent treatment" he shrugged, looking a bit disappointed.
"Oh, sorry, no…!" she stumbled upon her embarrassment and ever-present pain. "I'm so happy to see you." She managed a teary-eyed smile. "He said that you were alive."
Elegant eyebrows shot up to the hairline. "He?"
Joan closed her eyes, because it took everything she had to even whisper that name. "Sherlock."
There were strong arms around her, and a smell of an expensive cologne. "I'm sorry, John."
She hiccupped in the crook of his neck: "I'm fine. Sorry." They parted, and she finally ran her fingers over the faint trace of stitches applied by them eons ago. "You look great" she managed more steadily. "What have been up to?"
Bruce studied her face for a long moment before smiling back, a genuine happy smile she suspected he didn't offer often to the world. "Oh, this and that. Selina was rather insistent to visit Paris, and it seems to have been a great idea, after all." Joan scrunched her nose in an effort to remember who exactly 'Selina' was, before the extracts from files Sherlock had so helpfully forgotten on the dinner table came to mind. Oh, right, Catwoman.
She smiled, leaving aside her own grief and pain for now (on the backburner, always there, always simmering). "Oh, you lucky man. Did you escape from the shopping session?"
It turned out that yes, indeed, Bruce had left Selina with a limitless credit card in the Printemps mall. He had an estimative three hours to spare, and practically dragged Joan to a small café. He looked healthier and happier that she had ever seen him, in life or in tabloid stolen photos. She thought that Selina must have helped a lot with that, and smiled to herself. They talked about small nothings, Italy, and Alfred moving to Florence in secret, carefully avoiding the topics of Gotham and consulting detectives.
A street vendor with hands full of flowers popped into the café, and to Joan's surprise Bruce beckoned him over. A banknote changed hands and the doctor was presented with single red rose. Feeling her heart twinge in half-remembered yearning, she chuckled and accepted the gift. "Thank you."
Bruce's mischievous smile faded to seriousness. "You saved me once, a beaten-up man without a name. Two flowers and a gown is the least I could offer as thanks."
Joan ran a gentle finger over the soft petals, not looking her coffee companion in the eyes. "I didn't do it for the eternal gratitude or anything. It was simply the right thing to do. I'm sure you understand that." He nodded. After all, this man had died for the right thing. Feeling suddenly out of place, Joan pushed her half-empty coffee cup away. "Why didn't you let me help?" She didn't know that she was still salty about it until that very moment.
Bruce's dark eyes dimmed a little. "I'm not certain" he finally said, the steady gaze never leaving her face. "You were one of the few I truly trusted, despite knowing you for less than a day." That, she could sympathise with. Pink! shouted the ghost in her heart. "And if we had let it grow…" He stopped to stir his cooling drink. "It wasn't there yet, but I was terrified of losing it already."
"And then we both changed too much to ever click together again" she finished for him with a sad smile. That bridge collapsed long ago, perhaps already gone by the time Joan talked to the Batman. And Sherlock had been wrong, for once – there was no "next bridge downstream" for them. Only fond memories of things that had never been.
They sipped their cold coffees in friendly silence. It was a conclusion, not the one they ever expected, but a closure nonetheless. At least one of us ended up happy, Joan thought with longing.
Bruce's phone chimed with a text alert, and Joan lost herself in memories of short texts signed "SH" for a second. Prying herself from the omnipresent reminders of the glorious past, she asked: "Time to go?"
"Yes" her friend replied absently, typing something on the small screen. "You should come to diner with us, John" he added, tucking the device back into his pocket.
"We'll see." They paid and made it out on the street. Joan twiddled with the rose, almost getting pricked by the thorns. "Stay safe then" she smiled, kissed his cheek and turned to leave, already half-way lost in her circling thoughts. She missed the flicker of resigned determination in Wayne's eyes, and stopped only when he grabbed her forearm.
"He's alive, you know?"
Joan's world came to a halt, then started spinning madly again, while she stared at Bruce and a crazy, untameable hope exploded where the void had resided. "What?"
The man had the gall to smirk. "Takes one to know one" he said with a shrug.
And with that, Joan chuckled weakly through tears that kept running down her cheeks.
# #
A/N2: I have half-a-mind to try writing Sherlock getting saved and yelled at by a Batman & Joan combo (can't get more badass than that), but I'm not very good at action scenes. So if the idea ever takes form, it will take some time.