Joan remained seated, her shaking hands gripping the steering wheel, as she breathed in deeply a couple of times, and found herself relaxing more. The initial shock of the incident had worn off, and the sharpness of the pain had subsided slightly, being replaced by a dull ache. She wiped the tears from her eyes and drew in a deep, shaky breath, before exhaling quickly and turning the key in the ignition. As she pulled out of the parking space and into the road, Joan undid the window slightly and found herself instantly comforted by the cool evening air, and the multitude of familiar sounds coming from the street. She found herself driving on autopilot, her mind racing as she considered the events of the last few minutes. Even when she reflected upon the incident, she was immediately struck by the frightening memory of her kidnapper's large, powerful hands grabbing her harshly from behind, and pulling her towards him. She blinked a few times at this recollection, willing herself not to cry, and determined to compose herself before she got back home. She knew that this memory was nothing but a vague snapshot of her past, the remnants of a night which she wanted to forget. She had spoken to her therapist about the incident, making several appointments in the weeks that followed her ordeal, and had genuinely believed that she was alright. This confused and frightened her, and she found herself battling with her own inner thoughts. Thoughts of the kidnapping, of Sherlock and of her injury all entered her mind, battling each other for her complete and undivided attention. She was feeling very, very overwhelmed.
Joan stopped at some traffic lights, and used it as an opportunity to continue to calm herself. She was shaking slightly less than before, and her breathing was less ragged and pained. But her stomach and chest were still feeling tight, as if clenched with fear, and the dullness of her injury had been replaced with sharp shooting pains, which coursed down her left arm. Joan tried not to focus on this, on any of it. She breathed in deeply, forbidding herself from thinking about the kidnapping, or her injury, or her relationship with Sherlock. But as the light turned green and she drove slowly forwards, making a sharp right into her street, she found it impossible not to think of the consulting detective who had bade her goodnight just a few hours before. It was just before eleven, and she was fairly certain that Sherlock would still be awake.
As she pulled into the a parking space outside the brownstone, she found herself hoping that he was out, or downstairs, or so deeply engaged in his work that he would not notice her reappearance. As she removed the key from the ignition, she found herself suddenly feeling unwilling to leave the car. She felt comforted by the darkness, and the peacefulness of the quiet street. It was only the hot, searing pain which she was experiencing in her left arm that convinced her otherwise. It was too dark for her to see her injury, but she was certain that the bleeding had continued as she had been driving, and she was beginning to feel slightly breathless and light-headed. But she was determined to be as calm and as collected as she could be before entering the brownstone. She needed to be, to reassure not only herself, but Sherlock, should they meet. She inhaled sharply, before tilting the mirror slightly towards her, and staring back at her own reflection. She turned away almost instantly, before opening the door of her car, and easing herself from her seat. As soon as her feet connected with the pavement, she found herself experiencing the same sense of dizziness that she had just moments before, and leaned against her car for a few moments to steady herself. As she did so, she found herself staring up at the brownstone, which seemed to be enshrouded in darkness. None of the lights at the front of the building were on, and there was no sound of music, shouting or experiments. Joan felt relieved at this, pushing herself from the car and locking it with her keys, before slowly making her way up the stone steps.
She opened the door cautiously, standing still in the dark foyer for a few moments, her eyes darting around the rooms. After satisfying herself that Sherlock was not in the immediate vicinity, she quickly made her way up the stairs, leaning on the bannister with her right arm as she did so, in an attempt to steady herself. With each step she took, she felt the pain in her shoulder become less and less bearable, and she found herself inhaling sharply on several occasions, before biting her cheek in an attempt not to cry out in pain. As she reached the top of the stairs she paused once more, briefly surveying the scene in the darkness, and finding that everything seemed to be quiet and still. She immediately turned to the right, and made a beeline for the bathroom, dropping her bag and jacket upon the floor as she entered. She locked the door quickly before turning on the light, and moving towards the mirror to look at her reflection. Her eyes were wide and tearful, and slightly reddened from crying. She looked paler than usual, and wore an expression which conveyed a mixture of sadness and confusion. Her attention was quickly drawn from her reflection to her shoulder, which felt as though it was on fire. There were sharp, searing pains travelling down her arm, and Joan could feel that several pieces of glass were lodged in her shoulder. She inhaled deeply and calmed herself, before opening the medicine cabinet and removing a small medical box and some additional supplies, closing the door slowly behind her.
Joan opened the box and extracted a pair of scissors, some surgical tweezers and a small bottle of disinfectant, which she placed on the sink next to the gauze and bandages which she also collected. Joan shifted slightly on her feet, before staring down at her injured shoulder. The material of her blouse was completely shredded, and her left sleeve was saturated with fresh blood, more blood than she realised. She brushed a few pieces of glass from her shoulder, and plucked a shard or two from the material of her shirt, before using the scissors to cut away at the sleeve completely, pulling the material open so that it tore, revealing her bare arm and shoulder. She hissed in pain at this action, as the material from her blouse brushed her open wound and a piece of glass which was protruding from her shoulder. Despite the nature of her injury, and her previous ordeal regarding her reliving of her kidnapping, Joan felt herself feeling fairly calm and composed whilst tending to her arm. She found herself in familiar territory, with her medical training and instincts overcoming all other feelings and emotions which she was battling to suppress. She had learned the art of compartmentalisation during her residency, and was relieved to find that it had not left her.
Joan placed the scissors on the side of the sink and picked up the tweezers, and used them to attempt to remove the two-inch tall piece of glass from her shoulder. Her eyes narrowed in concentration as she held the tweezers carefully and steadily onto the glass, and tried to extract it with care and precision. As she slowly began to lift the glass using the tweezers, she inhaled sharply, watching as fresh blood began to pour from the wound as the piece of glass began to be dislodged. She hissed in pain and released a shaky breath as she pulled the piece of glass from her arm, placing it on the vacant soap-holder on the sink, before using a discarded piece of material from her damaged blouse to soak up some of the blood. She found herself breathing calmly once more, and was beginning to feel relaxed and at ease. However, her brief period of solace was not to last, and she was drawn from her temporary tranquility by the sound of gentle knocking at the bathroom door.
"Watson?" called Sherlock, before knocking on the door once more. His voice sounded concerned, and there was an unmistakable degree of urgency present in his tone. Joan turned immediately to face the door, holding the bloodied material to her arm, as she parted her lips and attempted to form words. "Watson, are you alright?" called the voice, after some seconds had passed without response.
"Sherlock, I-" Joan began, her voice sounding almost normal, but slightly weary and with a notable edge of fear. "I'm fine, is... do you need something?"
There was no immediate response from Sherlock, but she could hear him shifting slightly on his feet, before taking one step closer towards the door.
"Watson, are you okay?" He asked in a kind and gentle tone, which caused Joan's chest to tighten with fear and apprehension. She knew, at this moment, that she could not hide her injury. He would not be fooled or convinced into believing there was nothing wrong. But she would try. In the time it had taken her to ponder these thoughts, Sherlock had been waiting impatiently on the other side of the door, fear flooding his body and coursing through his veins, and his wide eyes were fixed on the outside of the door, as if he thought that he could glare at it until it opened. He had been reviewing some of the materials relating to the case in his room when he heard the door open downstairs, followed by her walking quickly up the staircase, and heading straight for the bathroom. He had opened his bedroom door and stood on the landing for a few moments, concerned by her strange behaviour, and glancing around to see if anything was amiss. It had not taken him long to spot a small blood trail which began halfway down the stairs and continued onto the landing. As he followed the trail to the door, he had heard Joan inhale sharply before hissing in pain. It was at that moment he began to knock on the door. "Watson, please" he continued, in the same pleasant and gentle tone. "Open the door."
Joan remained perfectly still for a few moments, her mouth slightly agape, and her eyes travelling from the door to her shoulder, then back to the door. Her injury looked worse than it was, and she was confident that she would be able to deal with it be herself. She also did not want to worry Sherlock, who she knew would be deeply unsettled to see her injured. She remembered his face when he saw her for the first time after her kidnapping ordeal, and the look of fear and pain which was etched into his features filled her with an indescribable agony, and she did not wish to inflict the same pain on him again.
"I'm fine, Sherlock" she stated confidently, and she found herself feeling surprised at the sound of her own voice. "I'll be out in a minute, okay? Can you wait?"
"Watson, you are not fine" he stated calmly, yet with a notable degree of care. "There is blood on the landing and you are clearly in pain" he explained tentatively, his voice remaining even. Joan closed her eyes in frustration for a moment, before adjusting the bloodied material on her shoulder, and realising that the bleeding had stopped. "Watson, please open the door."
"It's okay, I..." she began, before finding herself faltering. She stopped mid-way through her sentence, but was unsure of why. She turned to face the door directly, before continuing to speak to Sherlock. "It's alright, Sherlock, I'm okay. Really, I won't be long."
"People who are alright don't tend to leave blood trails in their residences, Watson. Nor do they sound frightened and pained, and attempt to prevent others from helping them." Sherlock was speaking in a gentle yet authoritative manner, and using the kind of tone adopted by a teacher who was consoling a child who was denying a playground injury. Joan considered his words for a few moments, before sighing in defeat. He knew she was injured. Denying it would be pointless, as would refusing to allow him entrance into the bathroom. Not only was this not achieving anything, but it was probably causing Sherlock more worry and agitation than he was actually letting on. She was making it more difficult for the both of them. "Watson, please" he spoke once more, the kindness of his tone making her eyes soften and breathing increase. "Please open the door."
Joan pressed the material carefully to her arm, before taking a few unsteady steps towards the door, and unlocking it. She remained standing on the spot, and found herself just inches from Sherlock's face as he slowly pulled the door open, and took a step closer towards her. His eyes were darting analytically over her body, but it did not take him long to figure out the source of her injury. Joan was standing in front of him, one hand pressing some material to her shoulder, which had recently been bleeding. Her left arm was bare, with torn fabric hanging limply by her side, and trails of blood encrusted upon her skin. Sherlock's eyes widened and his breath caught in his throat. Joan watched him with interest, observing how his hands were by his sides and his fists were clenched.
"Watson" he breathed eventually, taking a step towards her and unclenching his hands, placing one on her waist and the other on top of her own hand on her shoulder. "Watson did he-"
"No" she returned immediately, speaking confidently as she stared into his eyes. It was an accident, and she needed to make him realise that. But at the same time, she did not feel ready to reveal the true cause of the incident, the catalyst which led to the events. She was tired and in pain, and wished for nothing more than to tend to her injury and retreat to her room. She was tired of thinking, of talking, of being awake. She needed to sleep. "It was an accident, Sherlock" she stated as calmly and as confidently as she could. "I lost my footing and fell into a glass cabinet by the door. He did not hurt me or push me or... or do anything, okay?" She looked up to his eyes as she spoke, which were wide and dilated, and splitting their attention between her face and her arm. "I am telling you the truth, Sherlock, I-"
"I know" he stated calmly, not breaking her gaze. He could tell when she was lying, and this was not one of those occasions. But something was wrong, and he knew it. He gave her a look of warmth and reassurance, before taking a step closer to her to examine her arm closer. They were still standing in the doorway, and Joan could feel the warmth of his breath upon her neck. As he moved forward, his leg brushed her thigh, and she felt herself breathing in deeply, and her tiredness being temporarily abated. She tilted her head up to face him directly as he continued to speak. "I know you are telling the truth, Watson" he stated confidently, before casting his attention completely towards her arm. "But how did this happen?"
Joan continued to stare at him confidently, but felt her hands go clammy and her heart begin to race with fear once more. She did not want to discuss it, not now, not here. She was tired and she was in pain, and the thought of having to relive her ordeal for the second time that night filled her with unspeakable fear. "It was an accident" she stated with conviction. "I told you".
Despite being certain that she was telling the truth, Sherlock detected the traces of guilt and confusion in her tone, and decided not to press the matter further. Clearly, there was more to her injury than she was revealing, and that she was finding it difficult to discuss. His immediate concern was not the cause, but the effect. She was clearly upset and in pain, and attempting to appear brave and confident in front of him. But the grip she had on her arm, the red-tipped glass on the sink, and the presence of the blood which had been pouring down her left arm all confirmed that she was not okay. And right now she needed medical attention and emotional support, not an interrogation.
"Alright" Sherlock spoke kindly, nodding as he lowered his arm from her hand and placed in on her lower back. "You should sit down, Watson" he instructed gently, as he led her across the room and past the sink, before indicating for her to sit on the toilet. She followed his instructions, easing herself down gently, before looking up at him with a mixture of confusion and gratitude. Sherlock knelt down in front of her, and was examining her with concern.
"Thank you" she stated simply, as she removed the saturated material from her arm, and dropped it into the bin opposite.
"That's quite alright, Watson" he stated in a low tone, his wide eyes not breaking her gaze. For a moment Joan forgot about her pain, and found herself completely lost in his eyes. Her heart beat faster once more and her breathing became deeper and more ragged. But it was not because of the pain. It was because of something quite different. "Will you allow me to tend to your injury?" he asked tentatively, drawing her from her thoughts.
"Sure" she responded, tilting her head up slightly as she spoke, hoping that it would make her appear more confident than she felt. Although, at that moment, she found her proximity to him, and the feelings she was experiencing, to be the ultimate remedy.
Sherlock nodded in response, turning from her and picking up the tweezers, antiseptic, gauze and bandages from the sink, and placing them on a silver soap dish, which he drew to his side. He then knelt in front of her once more, and found himself just inches from her face. They exchanged a mutual look of consent, before he turned to her left arm and began to gently examine the wounds. He placed one hand beneath her arm and the other near the main laceration, and lifted her arm carefully. She inhaled sharply, causing him to pause immediately, turning to face her once more.
"Are you alright?" he asked immediately, his eyes brimming with concern.
"Yeah, sorry, I just... it was a glass cabinet and I think there's... still some glass in the wound."
Sherlock turned from her and looked back towards her injuries, nodding in understanding, before leaning down and picking up the tweezers, and glancing up at her for permission to proceed. She nodded, tilting her head to the side to watch him as he slowly and delicately extracted several small pieces of broken glass from her arm.
"It's strange" she began in a conversational tone, which instantly drew his attention back towards her. "Being on this side of the tweezers." He smiled slightly at this, the reference to all the times she had given him medical aid when he had injured himself. He continued to work on her arm as they engaged in conversation, which filled them both with relief and calmness.
"Well, Watson, I daresay it was certainly your turn to be the recipient."
"Yes, yes it was." She stated, observing him with warmth and gratitude. Sherlock removed about fourteen pieces of broken glass from her arm, before checking her over carefully to ensure that he had not missed any. As he was examining her closely, Joan could feel his warm breath travel reassuringly across her arm, and found herself quiver slightly at the sensation. He moved his head from her arm as she shook slightly, running his fingers gently down the back of her arm, before turning to face her directly.
"Watson, I... will you tell me how this happened to you?" he asked tentatively, watching her carefully for a reaction. She breathed in deeply, before offering him a nervous and apologetic look, and casting her glance from his eyes to her arm. She adjusted herself slightly in her seat, before returning his look with confidence, and continuing to speak.
"I will, but just... not right now, okay?"
Sherlock nodded slowly, and felt relieved that she was willing to discuss it with him at a later stage. Although she was clearly suppressing her sadness and fear, she was notably more calm and relaxed than she had been a few minutes ago, and he was glad of it. He found seeing her in any amount of pain to be almost completely unbearable. He did not know what had happened, or why she did not wish to discuss it, but he was certain that she had been telling the truth about it being an accident. When he first saw her injuries, and considered her covert behaviour, he assumed that Jake had harmed her. But from her demeanour and her words, it was clear that this was not the case. Still, something was wrong, and she was finding it difficult to discuss. As he pondered this for a few moments, he wet some tissue and proceeded to clean the dried blood from her shoulder, and then from her lower arm. The water was cool and his movements were delicate and precise, both of which caused Joan to feel comforted by his touch. Sherlock observed her for a moment, and began to consider ways that he could help her. As he discarded the bloodied tissues and began to dry her arm with a small towel, he thought of a way in which he would be able to reassure her, and make her realise that he was there for her. He would confide in her.
"Do you remember earlier, Watson" he began, drawing her attention to him immediately. As he was speaking, he was continuing to adjust her arm, tilting it gently so that he could dry it completely, and remove any small traces of blood that he missed. "With Mr Rogers, the CEO who was sleeping with the victim?" Joan nodded immediately, her eyes widening with interest as he spoke. "You asked me what my problem was with him, what it was about him that I... disliked."
"Yes." She said simply, in the same kind tone she always used when talking to him during the few occasions in which he had embraced her so completely into his confidence.
"It was not because of his job. Despite being a banker, he had other features which irked me even more so. If that is even possible" he punctuated his sentence with a statement of levity, which earned him a small smile from Joan, whose eyes appeared to be slightly weary, yet fully focused and alert. "It was because of the victim."
Joan's eyes narrowed in confusion for a moment, as he slowly moved the towel up her arm, and pressed it lightly to her shoulder. She shuddered slightly due to the small amount of pain she experienced at the contact, but was reassured instantly by Sherlock, who placed a reassuring hand on her other arm, squeezing it tightly, before releasing his hold and continuing his motions with the towel. They were both silent for a few moments, allowing Sherlock's words some time to take effect, before continuing.
"He had been invited in for an interview to discuss the brutal murder to the woman he loved. Instead of coming in and attempting to assist us, he stormed in with a bunch of over-priced attorneys in painfully expensive suits, treated the precinct and the police with contempt, and proceeded to exert his authority over every person in the room." Sherlock paused for a moment, dampening the towel slightly and using it to gently remove some blood from beneath Joan's elbow. As he dried her arm with the soft, warm towel, he continued to speak. "Those attorneys are from a company out of state, I've had the displeasure of working with them before. It would have taken them over an hour to get here, possibly longer considering the mid-morning traffic." Joan nodded in understanding, giving him a warm look which urged him to continue. She believed she knew where this was going. "The woman he claimed to love, a woman he was willing to break up his marriage for, had been brutally slain in his office, and his immediate concern was his reputation." Sherlock stated acidly, dropping the towel on the ground before examining Joan's arm once more. It struck her, at that moment, how incredible it was that he was being so delicate and so gentle with her, whilst his temper at the man who they interviewed earlier was rising. "When you think you lose someone you love, the last thing that should matter, the last thing that does matter, is your reputation" he stated coolly, his voice becoming calm once more. "Otherwise you do a complete disservice to the person you claim to adore."
Joan nodded in understanding, and allowed the silence to sit comfortably between them for a few moments, before addressing his statement.
"I understand" she began gently, her voice kind and warm. Sherlock did not watch her as she spoke, and was focusing instead on folding up the towel and collecting pieces of discarded medical paraphernalia. "You're not like him, you know that, right?" Sherlock paused for a moment, his hands briefly hovering over the towel, before he continued to fold it into a neat square.
"Watson, I-"
"Not one bit" she continued, determined to make him realise it. "When you believed that Irene had been murdered, you did absolutely everything to-"
"I wasn't referring to Irene." He stated simply, resting his hand on top of the towel, which he had folded for the third time. He stared down at the bloodied article for just a moment, before looking up towards Joan and meeting her gaze. "I meant how I was with you."
Joan stared at him in disbelief for a moment, her eyes wide and curious, her lips slightly parted. She did not say anything, knowing that to do so would simply make it more difficult for him. Instead, she sat quite still and silent, waiting for him to continue. Sherlock moved slowly on his heels, lifting himself from his kneeling position and taking the towel and some other items to the other side of the room, before picking up the silver soap tray with the remaining medical items, and kneeling before Joan once more. Their eyes met for a moment, each holding the gaze of the other, before Sherlock turned away slowly, glancing down at the medical supplies he was holding. He unwrapped some gauze and a bandage, before taking a piece of cloth and the antiseptic, and holding it steadily in front of Joan.
"When... when you were taken I" he paused, sighing slightly as he stared down at the items in his hands. "Words cannot describe how... how helpless I felt, how desperate I was to find you. Despite everything I am, everything we do and are capable of doing, for the entire day that you were gone I was tormented by the thought that I would never see you again. That you were in some unknown location going through some terrifying experience, all alone. I wasn't there to protect you and I should have been. You should never have been taken. I should not have allowed it to-"
"Sherlock" she interposed gently, wishing to spare him any more unnecessary self-condemnation. "You helped to find me. Without you, Mycroft would never have made the link. You saved my life."
"I endangered your life."
"No." She said with certainty, in a tone of such absolute conviction that Sherlock almost believed her. "What happened to me was not your fault." Sherlock looked up at her at that moment, watching her with an intensity which she did not recognise. He lowered his head slightly, and poured some of the liquid in the bottle onto a cloth, before moving slightly towards her.
"This will sting, Watson" he said in a low, sad tone. "Are you quite ready?"
"Yes" she whispered breathlessly, as his face rested just inches from her own. Sherlock nodded instantly, and gently placed the antiseptic-covered cloth over her wound. Joan gasped, shifting slightly on her seat as she inhaled sharply, before slowly releasing the breath as she felt the pain subside. "Thank you."
Sherlock nodded, his eyes unable to meet hers. He blamed himself completely for her past experience, and for her current discomfort.
"You're very much like it, you know" she stated after a short while, causing Sherlock to raise his head and look at her with confusion. "Antiseptic" she stated simply, as he passed her a piece of gauze which she placed over her wound. "Causes some slight stinging, some temporary discomfort, but then alleviates pain and protects the person who comes into contact with it from further harm." She explained, her eyes not leaving his. "You didn't condemn me, Sherlock. You protected me." Sherlock watched her with interest as he considered her words, breaking their shared stare to reach for a bandage, which he delicately began to secure to her.
"A very interesting analogy, Watson" he stated in a slightly more uplifted tone. "But not one that I am certain I can fully endorse" he continued, as he slowly eased Joan's arm up, and continued to wrap the bandage across her, his fingers dancing lightly across her skin. Joan watched him with interest as he gently wrapped the bandage across her shoulder and upper arm, which were feeling much cleaner and less painful.
"I endorse it" she stated simply, which caused him to pause momentarily in his tentative care of her, before continuing without a word. "I believe it, Sherlock. And I..." she paused, thinking over her next move very carefully before deciding to run with it, and preparing herself to speak. "I can't even begin to tell you how much comfort it gives me. Knowing that you... that you're here." She stated simply, looking from his face to her arm, placing her fingers on the bandage to adjust it slightly, as he continued to work around her. "You asked me how I hurt myself" she stated in a low tone, which drew his attention instantly to her face. He secured the bandage, finishing his work, and then placed the medical items back on the sink, before moving in front of her, kneeling by her as she continued to speak.
"Yes, Watson" he asked kindly, his expression one of compassion and encouragement. "Are you ready to discuss it?"
She nodded briefly, before moving her left arm slightly, and holding it to her body, before continuing to speak. "I... I was leaving the apartment. Jake followed me out, and he put his hands gently on my shoulders. He was behind me at the time and I didn't see or hear him coming, and I-" she broke off, her eyes becoming glassy. She could feel her emotions rise as she spoke, and she struggled to acquire the necessary level of detachment from her words to allow herself to continue. "He did not hurt me, he wasn't being forceful. But feeling someone's hands on me, from behind, it just... I had a flashback. A memory, of... of that night. When I was taken." She stated simply, swallowing as she lowered her head slightly, her gaze drifting to the ground. Sherlock waited for a few moments, before shifting slightly towards her, and placing one hand on her leg and the other on her right cheek, causing her to turn immediately towards him. Their eyes met for a moment, and each of them felt themselves completed absorbed in the eyes of the other.
"It's alright, Watson" he said kindly, his fingers gently caressing her cheek, as his other hand gripped her own, applying gentle and reassuring pressure. "You are quite alright" he continued, as Joan felt herself relaxing slightly. His presence and his touch were the ultimate comfort, and she wished that she could make him realise this. "It is perfectly understandable that you experienced that, but as frightening as it was, and as much as it tormented you, it was not real. It was nothing ore than the shell of a former experience. Something which you got through, that you survived."
"Something that you helped me to survive, Sherlock" she stated in return, watching him with a stare of certainty and conviction. "You helped to find me then, and you are helping me to find myself now." Sherlock watched her for a moment, his eyes meeting her warm stare, and he lowered his head. "You must understand that, Sherlock" Joan stated, placing her own hand on top of the one that was resting on her cheek, which drew his face immediately up to hers. Their eyes met instantly, and they could both feel their hearts race, and their breathing become heavy once more. Now that Joan's injuries were tended to, and they had each confided in each other, the tension and fear had left them both, and they found themselves faced with familiar feelings of longing and desire.
"Must I, Watson?" he asked breathlessly, leaning closer to her, so that their foreheads were touching.
"Yes, Sherlock" she stated, in a low and equally breathless tone, as she moved closer towards him. "Yes."
She closed her eyes for a moment, breathing in deeply, as she felt his head tilt slightly to the side, and he leaned towards her ear. They removed their clasped hands from each other, and Sherlock ran his now free hand down her back, allowing it to rest at her waist, as Joan placed her hand upon Sherlock's broad, muscular shoulder, running it across his chest and allowing it to rest on his heart.
"And is there-" he began, as she opened her eyes wide and tilted her head slightly, her nose brushing his cheek she drew herself closer to him, their lips practically touching. "Is there anything else you want me to understand?" He breathed against the side of her mouth, as he too leaned slightly towards her. Joan felt warm, very flushed, and was certain that she could hear the sound of her heart beating. Her breathing became heavy, and her eyes were closing slowly, as she leant in towards him. As their lips met, she felt Sherlock's hand move from her cheek towards the back of her head, guiding her forward as she leaned into him, pressing her lips against his, and kissing him gently. The effect this had on both of them was quite remarkable, and was as complex and as beautiful as their relationship. They each closed their eyes, guiding the other towards their lips, pulling each other desperately into the kiss. They kissed tentatively for a few moments, before the emotions and chemistry of the past few days consumed them completely, and the kiss turned passionate. Joan raised her injured arm and placed her hand upon Sherlock's cheek, tilting her head slightly as she continued to kiss him breathlessly, and running her fingers through his hair as he pulled her slightly forwards. He pushed himself up on his knees, leaning towards her, as he pulled her close to his chest as they continued to kiss passionately. Joan reacted immediately, moving her legs further apart and wrapping them around him, pulling him closer, and holding him tightly against her. Sherlock welcomed this movement, running his hand from her neck to her lower back, and holding him tightly against him. And so they remained, for several minutes, their bodies entwined as they kissed passionately, allowing themselves the pleasure and the freedom which they had been denying themselves.
They continued to kiss, to caress and to hold each other for several minutes, with neither of them conscious of the passing of time, or anything else that was going on around them. After a few minutes, a tired and weary Joan regretfully tilted her head away from Sherlock's lips, resting her forehead against his shoulder, and breathing heavily against his neck. Sherlock mourned the loss of her lips immediately, and as he felt her legs go limp and fall from his side, he placed one arm around her waist and the other onto the back of her neck, holding her safely in place. He held her for a few moments, breathing just as heavily against her cheek, before running his hand along her back. He opened his eyes slowly, resting his head on top of her own, and gazing down at her with adoration. As he looked down, he became aware of the fact that their passion had led to the wound on Joan's shoulder to become aggravated.
"Watson" he breathed, his lips brushing gently against her forehead as he attempted to tilt her head up to face him. She acted immediately, her wide eyes watching him with anticipation. "Watson you... you're bleeding." She looked at him for a moment, slightly confused and partially dazed, before casting her glance towards her shoulder, and finding that a small amount of blood had begun to seep through the bandage. She laughed slightly, in a breathless manner, before looking back up at him with wide eyes, which he met. Before either could respond, their thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Sherlock's phone ringing. Sherlock sighed in frustration, glancing down at his pocket as he withdrew the offending article, before glancing back towards Joan.
"It's fine" she stated, her voice a breathless-imitation of her own. "Answer it, it could be important." Sherlock nodded at her in agreement, glancing down at the caller ID, before answering the call. As he spoke on the phone, Joan began to undo the bandage which Sherlock had so carefully fixed to her just minutes before, and began to replace it with another. She struggled to manage it alone, and was grateful to feel his hands next to her own, assisting her with it, after he ended his conversation.
"Is everything alright?" She asked, her voice normal and conversational. He looked up at her slowly, meeting her gaze with a mixture of weariness and concern.
"That was Captain Gregson" he stated, securing the bandage to her, his eyes not leaving hers. "Another woman has been murdered." Sherlock's words lingered in the air for several moments, their impact removing any of the remaining traces of passion from the intentions or voices of the consulting detectives.
Joan nodded in understanding, flexing her arm slightly, as she shifted on the seat. Sherlock moved back slightly, holding her hands and gently easing her into a standing position, before looking down at her with concern as she stood. She seemed to be feeling very unsteady on her feet which, she knew, had nothing to do with her injuries. Joan remained still for a moment, standing just inches from Sherlock, whose hands lingered by her sides, as if frightened she would fall. After a few moments of staring at each other with a mixture of curiosity and unspoken desire, Joan broke the silence, watching him with warm and reassuring eyes as she spoke.
"We should go."