I love writing about these two dorks

I love you all for reading this silly fluff
I love that I have three weeks left of college for my entire life (ie why i'm super behind writing)
Sorry I'm rambling I'll stop...

P.S. I made a blog for just my fics. So if you want to know why I'm late updating or if you want to message me you can look there, without having to scroll through everything on my fandom blog. :)
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Story Note:
In this version of history The Second Opium War ended with far more equalized trade agreements between the Qing Dynasty and the British and French governments, allowing for better diplomatic and trade relations between China and Britain during Sherlock and Joan's time.

Ch. 6

-M.-

Joan arrives on his front stoop looking slightly more careworn than usual. There is an ivy leaf twisted in her hair and a small snag in her stocking, which he can see just below the hem line of her dress. She is also dressed like a full English woman for the first time since he has known her. Sherlock surmises the brown on brown walking dress is more in the spirit of espionage than fashion though. Not that he would know much about it. Clothing is such a mundane commodity.

"You climbed down a trellis to get out of your house." Sherlock cannot help nodding in approval of her tactics. She will make an excellent detective.

Joan frowns then realizes what he is looking at and plucks the piece of ivy from her ebony locks. "No wonder the cabbie was staring at me like I was a mad woman." She flicks the offending bit of vegetation away with a roll of her eyes.

Sherlock has now calculated six variations of the expression on Joan and wonders if there are more. This one he would call 'good-natured self exasperation'. The one she uses most often would be the 'exasperation with things Sherlock says'.

He steps aside to let her into 221b. "I assume then your parents did not take yesterday's events well?" He says it bluntly, but he hopes he has not upset her.

If Sherlock wants Watson to stay he should try to be less of an ass. He can make an effort for her, can he not? Yes, if she is willing to accommodate his eccentricities then he can.

Joan's shoulders slump and she shakes her head causing the small brown and gray topper pinned to her hair to wobble precariously. "That is putting it mildly." Her lips turn up in a sad facsimile of a smile. "I have put my father's reputation in danger."

Sherlock stands ridged in the entryway unsure what to do. "You do not have to investigate -"

"No." Joan says firmly, the steel of her usual personality brushing everything else aside. Her tone brooks no further discussion on the subject for which Sherlock is grateful. It is something he would prefer to avoid as well.

"You just missed Detective Bell." He informs her, sweeping her into the parlor with a wave of his hands. "He had the information we were hoping for."

Sherlock goes to the paper strewn table and snatches up a pathetically thin file. Bell was equally irritated with The Yard's shoddy amount of information when he delivered it, yet at least it has a name attached. He hands it over to Watson for inspection, carefully watching her eager curiosity.

"Captain Sebastian Moran." Joan reads. "Dishonorable discharge, suspected assassin for hire. This is our bald man in the suit? I have never heard of him."

Sherlock scoffs. "Hardly surprising, assassins are not usually considered proper table conversation for young ladies."

She frowns at him over the file but does not argue his point. "So how do we find this Moran, then?" Joan challenges with a coy tilt of her head.

He grins, clapping his hands together, glad they seem to have returned to their odd natural balance. A partnership, as surprising as that is for Sherlock, but he felt it in their first conversation on the godforsaken dance floor as clearly as he does now. Joan Watson is part of his world.

"We speak to his employer."

Her lips part in revelation forming a bow. "And who pray tell would that be? Last night you had no idea who our mystery man was, yet now you know his employer?"

She is clearly upset by the thought of him withholding information and Sherlock finds himself feeling uncharacteristically guilty. That is idiotic, what did he do wrong? This time anyway.

"Last night, the latest I had heard of Captain Moran's exploits placed him in France with a full head of hair! I suspected, but did not wish to leap to such conclusions until speaking to Detective Bell, since Scotland Yard has been keeping tabs on the man for some time now."

"You might have at least told me what you suspected."

He cannot think of a proper retort for that argument. Huffing in frustration, Sherlock marches past her to the kitchen to start making tea with an unwarranted level of aggression. Lucky Ms. Hudson kidnapped Kitty this morning for a shopping trip or they would both be berating his abuse of the poor kettle.

Everything is spiraling out of Sherlock's perfectly controlled world. Watson challenges his every word and it is wonderful, she is better than any mystery or puzzle he has ever come across. And for all her intellectual stimulation his gaze still lingers on the flush of her cheeks.

Sherlock seriously considers throwing himself out the second story window so he does not have to deal with this situation any longer.

Wordlessly Joan follows him into the kitchen and starts setting out the tea cups, waiting pointedly for him to continue with his explanation. Every line of her body is a dagger amid directly at him.

Again Sherlock reminds himself to be less of an ass. It is not her fault that he is (god forbid) acting like an average overly emotional fool. Sherlock is also unaccustomed to explaining his methods or slowing down for anyone. Except that really is not the correct word for it. Joan forces him to step back and widen his gaze, to see details he might otherwise have missed. Even in so brief a time together Sherlock would have to have been blind not to see that.

"Apologies, Watson. Though I did not have the full data I should have told you where my thoughts were headed." He meets her gaze seriously, and then carefully pours the tea.

"So then who is his employer?" Joan settles into one of the mismatched dining room chairs, arranging her cumbersome skirt so she can sit properly. With the way the whale boning pinches in the waist and swell of her breast it is a wonder she is able to speak, let alone breathe.

"Moriarty."

They meet Captain Gregson and Detective Bell outside the offices of King Shipping. Its black and gold imperial façade is crammed between an insurance agency and a law firm. The scent of old money practically wafts down the cobbled street warding off the unwanted lower classes.

The Captain steps forward to help her from the carriage, while Bell tips his gray top hat to her. "Miss Watson it is a pleasure to see you again."

Odd as it is Joan actually believes him. Gregson does not appear to find her leaving the domestic sphere threatening in the least bit. Most men would nearly die of outrage at the thought of a woman leaving behind such little accomplishments as painting and stitchery to 'invade' the work force. It is far worse than her already socially detrimental blue-stocking tendencies.

She smiles in gratitude and steps out of the way as her partner leaps from the cab without any attempt for decorum. Honestly, people complain about her behavior while he acts like a wild man! And he is being obtuse on purpose, Joan can tell by that mischievous glint in Sherlock's eye.

He revels in being an affront to society - which is probably why there is a bee colony on his roof and he is so willing to marry her.

Christ, that is the last thing she wants to think about. Because the more she thinks about it, the more it does not seem like such a terrible idea. In fact - if Joan is being honest with herself - as she watches Sherlock's brow furrow in exasperation at whatever Captain Gregson is heatedly whispering at him, she finds the thought rather exciting. For several reasons she cannot quite admit to yet.

Also Joan is sure her reputation is the subject of the current argument her male companions are trying to prevent her from overhearing. Chivalry and gallantry can often grate on her nerves but at least the two men, glaring disapprovingly at her partner, are well intentioned. Ignoring their concern seems the best option for the moment at least.

They are shown into a meeting room and told to wait. Joan takes in the space with its dark wood paneling and heavy oil paintings. Everything screams dominance and money, and it makes her feel uncomfortably small. A feather light touch on her wrist distracts her swirling thoughts. Joan glances down in shock to find two of Sherlock's fingers resting carefully on top her gloves. He is not looking at her; instead his eyes are trained on the opposite door.

Since he does not acknowledge the gesture Joan does not either, yet she feels emboldened for it.

The door swings open and Sherlock removes his fingers as if they were never there. Everyone stands as Hubert King's second in command steps into the room. Alistair Mason is King's mirror opposite; tall, scarecrow thin, and balding. He has nervous twitching mannerisms and his watery eyes keep flicking back to Joan.

"My assistant tells me you have further questions, Officers? I do assure you I have already told you all I know of this unfortunate matter."

"I rather doubt that." Sherlock says wryly.

"We were wondering if you would mind telling us the name of one of your investors." Captain Gregson intones, pressing his full authority. "A Mr. Moriarty."

"Or you might have him in the books as a Miss Irene Adler." Joan put in demurely watching Mr. Mason go pale.