Sherlock stared at Joan for a moment, running his eyes analytically across her face, shoulder and the rest of her body, before preparing himself for what he felt would be a small argument.
"Are you quite sure, Watson? You've been-"
"I'm fine" she stated, exhaling audibly. "My shoulder's bandaged and it's no longer bleeding. As long as you don't plan on practising any of your covert-attacks on me to test my reflexes, I think we'll be safe."
Sherlock nodded slightly at this, hiding his mild amusement as he offered her a look of concern. "It's not just your shoulder that I am concerned about." There was silence in the room for a few moments whilst she stood perfectly still, staring up at him as she processed his words.
"I'm fine, Sherlock. I want to work on this case. I need to." She spoke gently, a small, reassuring smile lighting up her face. "Keeping busy and getting back into my routine is the best way to... to make sure that I stop-"
"You don't need to stop anything, Watson" he spoke gently, taking a step closer to her. "You just need to give yourself some time."
"And I will. But right now, my time is best spent helping you and the police to figure out what is going on. It will help the case, and it will help me. Okay?"
Sherlock considered this for a moment, running over her previous arguments, which he judged to be sound. He nodded regretfully, before meeting her eyes once more, before allowing his glance to fall to her shoulder, then back to her face.
"If you need a break, if you want to leave, you must tell me. Yes?"
"Yes." She stated simply, although neither of them believed her. Sherlock knew that this line of conversation was going nowhere, and he realised that Joan would not allow herself to spend time away from the case in order to recover. This reminded him very much of how she was the day after her kidnapping ordeal, when she insisted on accompanying him to the morgue, despite his wishes for her to remain in the brownstone. He knew from this experience that further attempts to make her stay, or to attempt to urge her to remove herself from the case temporarily, would not be met with agreement. He reasoned that, if she did accompany him on the case, at least he would be with her, and be able to monitor her behaviour and her current medical and emotional condition. Perhaps it wasn't such a bad idea after all.
"I just need to change, okay?" she spoke softly, looking up at him with warm eyes. "I'll meet you in the foyer. I won't be a minute." Sherlock nodded, stepping aside and opening the door for her as she passed him. As she reached the doorway, she turned around instantly, and found herself facing him once more, their bodies almost touching. "Sherlock I-" she faltered, her words deserting her as she gazed into his wide, inquisitive eyes, which were brimming with concern. After a few moments of silence, she stepped closer to him, the previous tension and emotions rising within them both once more, as she inhaled deeply and began to speak. "I'm so glad we... talked" she stated simply, leaning away from him once more, and turning to leave the room. Sherlock watched her for a few moments, his attention split between her movements and the tingling sensation and warmness he was experiencing. He nodded imperceptibly, before walking down the stairs and into the living area, offering a few words to Angus whilst he waited for Joan.
As soon as Joan entered her bedroom, she walked straight to her bed and sat on the end, leaning forwards and placing her head in her hands. This night, like the one before it, felt like a strange dream. One moment she had been nursing an injury in the bathroom, and attempting to conceal the fact from Sherlock, and then minutes later they had been kissing passionately and needfully for what felt like an eternity. She felt herself feeling warm and shaky at the memory, and her fingers subconsciously drifted towards her lips at the remembrance of Sherlock's kiss. He was so passionate and yet so gentle, so delicate and yet so full of desire. Just as she had been. Despite the pleasantness of the memory, she still found herself questioning how they had come to be in that situation. She knew that she had been considering her feelings for him for a while now, and the night at the charity gala had acted as a catalyst, throwing them into an unknown situation which required physical contact which bordered on intimacy, which clearly affected how they each saw the other. Or perhaps it didn't. Perhaps it simply helped to remove the boundaries that each had built around themselves, and created an atmosphere in which they were able to surrender themselves so completely to each other. Perhaps.
She remained seated on the bed for a few moments, running through the events in her head, before the coldness of her exposed arm reminded her of the fact that she needed to get dressed and head to the crime scene. Regretfully, she stood from the bed and passed the memories aside for a moment, selecting a new shirt from her wardrobe and putting it on slowly and with great care. Her arm was still aching slightly, and she was feeling slightly light-headed. She wasn't sure whether this was due to the adrenaline which was currently coursing through her veins due to her recent romantic activity with Sherlock, or if it was injury-related. She pondered this as she picked up her bag from her bed and walked slowly over to the door. As she passed from her room onto the landing, she cast a cautious glance back at the bathroom, and was instantly struck by a small snapshot of recent memory. She remembered parting her legs slightly and wrapping them around Sherlock's waist, and pulling him closer to her as they kissed. She lowered her head slightly at this memory, partly out of embarrassment, but mostly due to her surprise at how strongly she had reacted to what began as a simple kiss. But as she descended the steps slowly, she corrected herself. Nothing was simple with Sherlock. Certainly not a kiss. Still, she was puzzled as to why she had reacted the way she had, why she had been so forward. Of all the confusion and the uncertainty of her thoughts in relation to their encounter, one thing pervaded them, overtaking them completely: her memory of how natural their actions seemed, and how right they felt.
"Ready, Watson?" called a voice from the bottom of the stairs, causing Joan to raise her head slightly to meet his gaze. Sherlock was standing near the coat-rack, dressed in his dark coat, scarf and gloves, and tapping the fingers of his left hand nervously upon his thigh as he watched her descend.
"Yeah, yeah I'm ready" she answered tiredly. Sherlock watched her for a moment, observing her with concern. She was clearly exhausted, and he wished that she would consent to remain in the brownstone. He knew this would not happen, though, and decided that pressing the issue would achieve absolutely nothing, apart from wasting the small reserves of energy which she did have, directing her attention and her power at arguing with him instead of being able to function. So as Joan reached the bottom step, Sherlock reached for her coat and scarf, pulling them from the coat rack gently, and slowly approaching her. She stood still at the bottom step for a moment, gazing up at him as he held out her coat for her, before turning on the spot and sliding her arms into it. She inhaled sharply as her left shoulder brushed part of the material of the coat, which Sherlock reacted to immediately, raising the material of the coat slightly before gently lowering it. As she did up the zip and fastened the belt, he unravelled her scarf for her. It was the warm, soft cream one which she bought recently, and seemed to pair with this particular coat. Instead of handing it to her, Sherlock took a step closer to her, and draped it over the back of her neck and over her shoulders. Joan inhaled deeply at the contact, at having him so close to her, and ministering to her so carefully. She looked up at him with warm and curious eyes as he slowly removed her hair from the back of the scarf, and watched as it fell elegantly over her shoulders. His fingers brushed her cheeks gently as he did so, and she felt her heart beginning to race. They stared at each other for a moment, their eyes wide and their pupil's dilated, with Sherlock's hands resting on the bottom sections of her scarf.
"We should-" Joan began breathlessly.
"Go. Yes, we should." Sherlock replied, his wide eyes fixed on her own. They stared at each other for just a moment before, before Sherlock turned quickly on the spot, walking towards the front door and holding it open for Joan, as they passed from the brownstone and began to walk towards a waiting taxi.
The ride to the crime scene was short and filled with a notable yet not unpleasant silence, with both consulting detectives sitting casually in the back and considering the events of the pass day or so. Remarkably, their thoughts followed the same lines: they began by going over the events in their head, before considering what led to said events, and then trying to understand why the events had occurred. It was at this last point that they both faltered, their eyes growing large and wild as they struggled to comprehend why they were feeling and acting in a manner which was so completely departed from the established norms of their pre-existing relationship. Before they were able to spend any more time on this thought, the taxi pulled up outside a large building, and the detectives left the car and walked towards the crime scene: a car park on the ground floor.
Despite it being just past midnight, the ground floor car park was filled with bright artificial lights, the sound of a camera clicking, and the presence of many busy police officers. The car park was large and enclosed by dark-brick walls, with stone pillars separating it into quadrants. The quadrant to the far left of the area was cordoned off using police tape, which Sherlock deftly moved to above his head to allow Joan to pass through, and then himself. As they did so, the familiar figures of Gregson and Bell turned to greet them, with the former dictating something to the latter, who was scribbling enthusiastically in his black leather notebook.
"Thanks again, guys. Appreciate it" began Gregson, his hands in the depths of his pockets. "We got the call literally a half hour ago, and contacted you guys immediately." Joan nodded briefly, her eyes glancing analytically across the scene. Directly in front of her was a small dark-blue sports car, with the driver's side door open and the lights on. On the ground beside the door lay the body of a well-dressed businesswoman, whose left arm was draped across her abdomen, which was the source of an incredible amount of blood, which had pooled from her body and beneath the car. From where Joan was standing she was unable to see the victim's face completely, but she saw enough to notice that she bore a striking resemblance to the victim they saw earlier in the day. As Joan tilted her head to get a closer view of the woman, whose body was obscured by two police officers and a medical examiner, Gregson passed her an evidence bag containing the victim's ID.
"Alexis Mathers, aged thirty-two. She was a partner at the law firm Hadley and Rae, whose officers are on the eighth floor of this building" Gregson began, as Joan observed the ID before passing it to Sherlock. The woman in the picture was very pretty, with the same delicate features and youthful skin as the first victim. She was dressed in a similarly expensive bespoke suit, and appeared to be in the same profession as the first woman. It was unnerving.
"Miss Mathers' body was found by her boyfriend, a Mr Kieran Matthews, at about eleven-twenty. He came here to find her as she had not returned home by ten as she stated she would, and was not answering her cell phone."
Joan nodded, her eyes leaving the scene in front of her and watching Gregson with confusion. "Ten? Why would she be staying so late?"
"She told her boyfriend that it was because she was looking over some CVs and other files in preparation for some interviews she would be sitting in on the next day, for the position of an internship. She assured Matthews that she would be home by ten, and he says she's as punctual and reliable a person as you can imagine. Her lateness was extremely unusual, as was the fact that she wasn't answering her cell. So he drove over, parked up, and found this."
Joan considered his words for a moment, her eyes leaving his face and drifting back over to the scene of the crime. She couldn't even begin to imagine what that poor man must have been going through, coming into his girlfriend's place of work and finding her like this.
"How is he?" she asked tentatively, fixing her eyes on Gregson once more.
"In shock. Poor guy was unable to talk at first, and just stared at... at this" Gregson began, tilting his head back towards Alexis's body. "He had to be escorted out by Bell and another officer, who called his sister. She came and picked him up, and took him back to her place. We'll interview him in the morning, it can wait."
"Yes, Captain" began Sherlock, pulling out a pair of latex gloves from his pocket. "The man has been through quite enough already." With that, Sherlock walked slowly across to the body of the woman, and was followed by Joan, who accepted a pair of gloves from Detective Bell and pulled them on slowly, before crouching down beside the woman's body. She was instantly struck by the feeling of familiarity, realising just how similar this woman's death was to the victim she examined earlier in the day. Joan ran her well-trained eyes over the woman for a few moments, before glancing around the scene astutely, and staring once more at the young woman's face. She was pale and her eyes were wide and slightly red, and contained the same expression as the victim she saw earlier in the day. It was an expression she recognised but could not quite place.
"Anything, Watson?" asked Sherlock after some moments.
"Yes" she began, pushing her hands on her knees as she rose to her feet. As she did so, she forgot about her shoulder injury until she was half-raised, and only just prevented herself from stumbling forward. Sherlock took an immediate step forward to prepare to assist her, which he found to be unnecessary. Gregson watched Joan for a moment after she stood, and was about to pose a question, before she continued to speak. "The victim was stabbed three times in the stomach, the same place and same pattern as the woman this morning. And from the size and shape of the wounds, I'd say you're looking for the same weapon. She also has some bruising to her left ankle, a grazed right knee, and some defensive marks on her wrists. Same victim type, same MO" she stated authoritatively, before turning to face Gregson directly and asking him a question. "Are you guys thinking this is the same person as this morning?"
"Sure looks like it" Gregson replied immediately, nodding his head towards the body. "If so, our guy acts fast. He is methodical, precise, and fairly controlled. And the fact that he struck twice in the same day is... it's not something you see every day."
"Quite so, Captain" stated Sherlock simply, turning to face him. "The fact that our victims could be sisters, and had similar occupations, is also something we must consider. Whoever our killer is, they certainly have a type."
"What are you saying?" Gregson returned, caution and concern clear in his voice.
"I'm saying what we're all thinking, Captain" Sherlock said simply, removing his gloves as he did so. "I'd say we're looking for a serial killer."
"It's too early to confirm that" Gregson responded immediately.
"Okay, fine. When you find the third well-dressed businesswoman lying with penetrating abdominal wounds, then I will re-state my point." Sherlock returned, his voice heavy with a mixture of sarcasm and frustration. "I know it is too early to formally state that we have a serial killer, but based on this pattern, I'd say it was a virtual certainty. We know his type and we know his MO. And those are what we need to focus on."
"I agree" Gregson stated, tilting his head to the side slightly. "Our guy preys on attractive businesswomen in their mid-thirties, who are workaholics and are working late."
"Is there anything else that connects the victims?" asked Watson, turning from Gregson to Bell.
"Not that we can find so far" Bell stated simply. "They both live in different parts of the city, have no known business connections, no friends in common. The boyfriend also doesn't recognise the name of our first woman." Joan nodded, before narrowing her eyes in frustration.
"So how does he find these women?" she asked. "There must be a connection somewhere. There's something that we're missing."
"You're right, Watson" Sherlock stated, glancing towards her. "And establishing that connection is the fastest and most effective way of stopping this person."
"But what is there that connects Melissa van Vale with Alexis Mathers?" Joan asked. "Their physical features, age and line of work are consistent, but that can't be it. I mean, it might be why they were killed, but it doesn't fully explain how he found them. There must be something."
"There will be, Watson" Sherlock stated simply. "And we will find it." She nodded, before moving aside slightly as the medical examiner passed her with a couple of assistants, who were carrying a black body bag over to the car. Joan watched them with a sad, meditative expression as they slowly zipped up the bag, and lifted her onto a gurney. She turned back at this point to face the detectives, who had been busily engaged in conversation with Sherlock.
"So, from the scene, I believe we are able to deduce some of what transpired here this evening" Sherlock stated, turning back towards the scene and indicating enthusiastically as he spoke. "The victim came down from her office and approached her vehicle, unlocking it and placing her briefcase and bag in the front passenger seat. She opened the driver's side door, and was at least partially seated, before she was pulled out by the killer, held against the car, and stabbed three times."
"Whoa, whoa whoa" began Gregson, holding up a hand as he spoke. "How can you possible know that?"
Sherlock sighed in frustration, and Joan gave him a brief remonstrative glance, which urged him to speak appropriately and less acidly than before. He accepted.
"Miss Mathers' car key is in the ignition, and the back lights are on. With this particular car model, the lights are only able to be turned on once the keys are in the ignition. Miss Mathers must have been seated in order to reach across to the right of the steering wheel and place the key in the ignition, and turn on her lights. As to her being pulled from the vehicle and not leaving it voluntarily, the open door was the first sign. If she left to greet someone, she probably would have closed the door behind her. It's natural, instinctive, most of us would" he continued, pressing his hands to his chest as he spoke, then allowing them to fall by his side. "Also, there is slight discolouration to her left ankle, which appears to be slightly swollen." With this, he glanced towards Watson, who was nodding earnestly.
"An injury which could have been sustained if her foot was jammed against the side of her car as she was dragged from it." She stated, nodding in understanding. "The blood pattern would be consistent with that theory. There's no spatter or spray, or blood running vertically down her clothes, which indicates she was lying down when she was stabbed."
"Quite so" Sherlock stated approvingly.
"Right" Gregson stated, his eyes clearing. "Okay, well, we've got just as much as we can from the scene. Do you guys wanna head back to the precinct with us?"
"Sure" Joan responded immediately, aware of the fact that Sherlock would almost certainly use the Captain's question as an opportunity to 'take some work home' with them and urge her to relax. "We'd be glad to."
"Right" he continued, fixing his glance on the curious expression which had begun to form on Sherlock's face. "You guys can ride with me."
Sherlock and Joan spent the next five hours at the precinct, going over the medical reports, witness testimony and all other evidence available in relation to both victims. The team were looking to find connections in the lives of the two women, are immediately arranged for their personal possessions to be brought to the precinct. After trawling through evidence and discussing possible links which often proved to be fruitless, the team agreed to work separately and reconvene in the early afternoon. Gregson reasoned that there would be little else they could do before the ME's reports were in, and the evidence at the most recent scene had been analysed by the lab techs. Sherlock was glad of this suggestion, which oddly enough was not his own. He realised that Gregson had sensed Joan's tiredness, and that he knew something was not quite right, but he did not ask about it directly. Instead, he surveyed her covertly on a few occasions, watching her as she moved across the room, and trying to figure out if she was hurt at all. His efforts were to no avail, as Joan hid her injury from the detectives very well. She was almost foiled once, as she reached up to pin a photograph of the second victim to the noticeboard, but managed to conceal her injury still. She did not want them to know because she knew it would require her answering a series of questions, facing their genuine concerns, and attempting to convince yet more individuals who knew her well that she was fine. She meant what she said to Sherlock earlier, about needing to work, and she would not do or say anything that would endanger her chances of continuing to do so. So it was with the greatest relief to Sherlock that the Captain suggested private consultation with the files.
"Here" Gregson stated simply, handing Sherlock a stack of files. "You guys take 'em home and put 'em up or tear 'em down, whatever it is you do." He waved his hand emphatically, causing Joan to smile briefly, before pulling some of the files from the stack and helping Sherlock to carry them, much to his consternation. "We'll regroup at, what, two o'clock? Go home, eat, rest, review, and then come back. Any issues, any major breakthroughs, and we call each other, alright?"
"Yes" replied Sherlock.
"Of course, Captain." Echoed Joan.
"Good." He responded, his eyes moving over Joan's arms as she held the files close to her chest. He noticed that her left shoulder was tensed, and raised a little higher than the other, and correctly deduced that this was the location of her injury. Although what had happened, and why she hadn't mentioned it, confused him greatly. Sherlock would know, of course. That guy knew everything.
"We'll see you soon, Captain" Joan stated, as she noticed him watching her with concern. "See you at two."
"Yeah, yeah. See you guys then."
Sherlock and Joan left the precinct immediately, each laden with files, and stepped out into the dimly lit early-morning street of NYC, with the scent of freshly ground coffee and pastries filling the air. Sherlock hailed a cab, holding the door open for Joan, as she considered this familiar scent. It was from the coffee shop just across the street. She sat in the taxi for a moment, feeling hazy and light-headed, as she pressed her seatbelt into place and leaned back against the seat. Joan considered the night with Jacob, her injury, and what followed between herself and Sherlock. She couldn't quite believe it was real, but each time she considered the events as being too odd and unexpected to be reality, she was instantly reminded of the burningly intense feeling of need and desire which she experienced when she was with him, and which they had both found themselves victim to just a few hours before. Nothing that incredible, that intense and that all-consuming could be anything other that reality. She was lost in her thoughts for so long that she had to be prompted by Sherlock when the taxi pulled up outside the brownstone, and she had continued to remain quite still.
"Watson, is everything alright?" he asked in a low and concerned tone.
"The first victim was sleeping with her boss, and the second had a boyfriend" she stated simply as she unclasped her seatbelt and got out of the cab, which Sherlock did too. "Perhaps the connection is with them?"
Sherlock paid the driver and walked from the road and onto the pavement, joining Joan as they walked up the steps and towards the brownstone. "In what sense, Watson?"
"What if-" Joan sighed, staring upwards slightly as she spoke, which she often did when she was playing out a plausible hypothesis. "What if the boyfriends are the connection? What if the women were seeing other people, or if the men were? Perhaps Rogers was also romantically involved with Alexis, and seeking to eliminate all of his... his close female friends."
"What would make you think that, Watson?" Sherlock asked, slightly perplexedly, as he opened the door and moved aside to allow her to enter. "There is no evidence to support your theory."
"The attacks were personal" she returned immediately, her voice becoming confident and animated. "Three stab wounds to the stomach, the victim facing the attacker. There is such a strong, physical nature to these attacks I find it hard to believe that there is no-" she paused for a moment, her hands lingering over her scarf as she prepared herself to remove it, "romantic connection".
Sherlock watched her for a moment, his wide-eyed stare observing her with interest, before nodding slowly. "Alright, Watson. You explore that avenue of thought, I will look into the personal and professional lives of our victims. I suggest we then swap information, and consider each other's data from our own angle, which should create the broadest of analyses. Agreed?"
"Agreed." She stated simply, the tiredness returning to her voice. She stifled a yawn as she removed her coat, which Sherlock took from her instantly, hanging it up for her. He did not wish for her to aggravate her injury again.
"Take a seat, Watson" he stated kindly, indicating the front living area. "I'll make us some tea." She nodded obediently, too tired to argue or resist, and walked slowly into the front room, leaning gratefully into the comfort of the red couch. She glanced at her watch for a moment and, noting that it was just after half-past five, closed her eyes briefly, and enjoyed the sensation of the warm morning sunlight which danced upon her face.
By the time Sherlock brought the fresh tea to Joan, he found her lying across the couch, her entire body quite still. He watched her for a few moments, and found himself, for one of the first times that he could remember, unwilling to rouse her from her rest. Joan was lying on her right side, and her legs were bent slightly, her feet tipping over the edge of the couch. Sherlock put the tea tray onto a small table, before reaching over her and picking up a thick woollen blanket, and draping it carefully across her sleeping figure. She seemed so content right now, so completely free of fear and pain, and he was glad of it. "Sweet dreams, Watson" he mumbled, before leaving her side and taking up his familiar seat in the armchair, sipping his hot tea as he looked over some of the case files.
To her amazement, Joan found herself waking up in the middle of a dimly lit room with a gently roaring fire. She felt warm and relaxed, and almost completely content as she woke, and clung gratefully to the blanket which provided her with comfort. She glanced furtively around the room, noting Sherlock's absence, and trying to figure out why she was in such darkness. She pushed herself slowly up from the couch, allowing the blanket to fall from her to the ground, as she glanced over towards the window. Sherlock had closed the curtains and lit several small lights around the room, banishing the bright light in favour of the dim, and shrouding the room in a comforting glow. Joan moved her legs to the edge of the couch and planting her feet on the floor, but further movement was prevented by her recognition of a familiar scent: the chicken soup her mother used to make her, and that she had often made for Sherlock. She cast her gaze immediately towards the kitchen, and was not surprised when the familiar figure of her house-mate approached her, carrying a tray containing delicious bowls of freshly-made soup, and what appeared to be crusty white rolls. As he walked into the room and observed her in her semi-upright position, he nodded at her politely.
"Watson, I thought I heard you wake" he stated pleasantly, before dragging one of the small ornate coffee tables to her side, and placing a bowl of soup and some fresh white bread onto it. To Joan's surprise, the bread appeared to be home-made, and looked absolutely incredible. She looked up towards Sherlock, her eyes weary yet alert.
"Did you make this, Sherlock?" she asked, nodding towards the food. Sherlock watched her for a few moments, his eyes not blinking, before nodding and shrugging his shoulders dismissively.
"I was hungry."
"Yeah, but-" she began, staring down hungrily at the deliciously-scented food in front of her. "Usually when you're hungry you have cereal or spaghetti, not home-made soup and bread" she stated, eyeing him inquisitively. "This must have taken you hours to prepare and bake, how long was I-"
"Six hours, Watson. It is coming up to midday."
Joan stared at him in disbelief for a moment, before glancing around the room, and then fixing her glance firmly upon Sherlock. "No, I... it can't be, that's... why is it so dark in here?"
"Because I closed the curtains and dimmed the lights" Sherlock responded immediately, in the same simple tone which he had used just moments before to answer her first question. She was watching him with an odd expression on her face, but her weariness and the return of the pain in her shoulder prevented her from speaking at that moment. Sherlock decided to spare her the thought, and himself the interrogation, by answering her next three questions for her. "You were tired, Watson. Exhausted. I dimmed the lights to allow you to rest for as long as you needed, and I used the time I had free after completing our agreed tasks to make some food. I was bored."
"Baking isn't what you do when you're bored, Sherlock" Joan responded eventually, as Sherlock pushed the table closed to her and placed a hot mug of tea besides her bowl. She reached forward instantly, clasping the tea in her hands, before sipping from it with caution. Her eyes closed immediately as she recognised the familiar and comforting scent of the food which she associated with well-being and revitalisation. She opened her eyes at that moment, to find Sherlock sitting in his armchair, the soup-spoon in mid-air between the bowl and his mouth.
"Sherlock" she began slowly, in a cautious tone which caught his attention immediately. She knew that he cared for her deeply, and would always attempt to alleviate any pain or distress she was feeling, in his own way. But this was different, this was new. She was considering how much their relationship was changing, and yet how little either of them understood of it. "What is this?"
"Lunch, Watson" he responded, raising the spoon to his lips as he did so, before replacing it in the bowl and beginning to stir.
"That's not what I meant." She returned immediately, watching him with concern.
"I know."
There was silence in the room for a few moments, and the detectives found themselves surrounded by nothing but the pleasant smell of their food, and the comfort which the presence of each gave to the other. Eventually, however, Sherlock began to speak.
"After the events of the past couple of days, I thought that you would appreciate a lunch engagement that was free from fear, injury and corpses" he stated in his usual simple yet animated fashion, before gesturing to the food with his spoon. "So..."
Joan continued to watch him with curiosity for a short period of time, before glancing down at her food and then back to his face. He was stirring his soup and staring at it intently, whilst patiently waiting for Joan to talk.
"Fear, injury and corpses" she repeated eventually, before raising the spoon to her lips. "Do you think that is really something that we can avoid?" she asked tentatively. Sherlock's head rose immediately, and he met her gaze, before placing his spoon back into the bowl and moving it to one side. They both knew that she was referring to more than the lunch.
"In our line of work, Watson, it is difficult to avoid any of those three things" he stated simply and yet with conviction, his hands clasped together on his lap. "But this isn't work, is it?"
"No" she conceded, glancing down at her own bowl before placing the spoon into it, and turning to face Sherlock. "But what we do, how we... how this works is... it involves a high level of fear and injury and corpses" she began, pausing at the realisation of how odd her statement was. "can something that is so established, is so fixed, really be changed?"
"Everything has the capacity to change, Watson. Every arrangement, every person, every relationship. Nothing is fixed, nothing is certain and nothing can be so firmly established that is remains unchangeable" he stated simply, his eyes fixing themselves on the floor for a moment, before moving back to her own. "The course of that change, and the route that it takes, depends on the variables involved."
"And would both variables need to change to enable this to work, Sherlock?"
"I believe they already have" he returned immediately, before leaning back towards the table, and continuing to stir his soup as Joan watched him with interest, her heart beating slightly faster as she picked up her tea and drew it to her lips, before turning towards him to speak.
"I think you could be right."
Sherlock's head snapped up immediately, and he watched her were interest for a few moments, before drumming his fingers nervously on the arm of his chair.
"That is wonderful news, Watson" he stated in his usual tone. "And quite unexpected."