* A/N: Hey everyone, thank you for bearing with the story, I hope it is okay so far. I have the entire plot and sub-plots planned, but I was just wondering whether you would like me to continue with this? It's very different from what I have written previously, and I am not too sure how to feel about it. If it isn't okay, I can always conclude it in a few chapters. Thanks, HQ21.
The next couple of days following their remarkably candid conversation regarding the development of their relationship were filled with investigation and analysis, with no further reference being made to the romantic elements of their partnership. Sherlock and Joan spent the majority of the days (and nights) either at the precinct with Gregson or at the brownstone with each other, surrounded by files, reports, pictures and CCTV videotapes, all of which proved to be frustratingly fruitless. In the three days following the discovery of the second victim, all that the team were able to ascertain was that there was no clear link between the victims, despite their physical appearance and profession. They did not have any mutual friends, attend the same functions, or use the same banks. There was absolutely nothing to suggest that they knew of each other, let alone had any form of communication with one another. On the second day, Joan suggested that they look into dating websites, as the person who killed them may have found them online, which could explain how two women of similar appearance and vocation could be linked without ever having met. This theory, although excellent, was disproved following an intense analysis of their computers and smart phones, none of which provided them with any useful information.
Frustrated at their lack of progress, and uncertain of how to proceed in both their personal and professional lives, Sherlock designed an elaborate surprise for Joan, which he hoped she would enjoy. Despite the fact that neither of them had spoken about the changes occurring in their relationship, it had been on both of their minds. Sometimes they would cast furtive glances at one another, or their fingertips would touch when passing files, filling each with an almost insatiable urge to forget the case for just a short while, and lose themselves once more. But the fact that the killer was striking with such frequency and such precision meant that Sherlock and Joan were forced to push their emotions to one side, and focus completely on the matter at hand. They both wanted to ensure that the guilty party was caught before any more women were killed. And so on the fourth day, a time when the folders had been analysed for the hundredth time, the ME and toxicology reports scrutinised, and the witness statements cross-references and linguistically analysed, Sherlock knew that it was time for himself and Joan to take a break. Not just for themselves, but for the case. Staring at the files for so long was making no difference: they needed to rest, relax, and do something which took their minds as far from the current case as possible, before approaching it once they were sufficiently rested and rejuvenated.
At six o'clock on the evening of the fourth night, Sherlock walked into the living area to find Joan comparing the personal items of the victims. She was sitting on the floor by the fireplace, with the bags of both women by her side, and their possessions arranged in front of her. She was just picking up the diary of the first victim, and flicking past the first 'details' page, when Sherlock's entrance into the room drew her attention instantly towards his looming figure. He was standing tall and confident, and watching her expectantly, with an expression which she recognised instantly: it was the look he gave her when he was about to suggest something which he believed could be crossing either professional or personal boundaries. She suspected it was in relation to the latter, and she was right.
"Yes, Sherlock?" she asked tiredly, removing her glasses as she placed the diary on top of the evidence bag on the ground.
"Watson, I-" he began, before drumming his fingers nervously on his left thigh, and leaning back briefly on his heels, before inhaling deeply and continuing to speak. "You need a break. We both do. And considering the nature of our as yet unfinished conversation from the other night, I felt that we could combine these two issues to come up with a suitable solution."
"Sherlock, what are you talking about?" she asked nervously, placing her glasses on the floor as she shifted uncomfortably on the ground. The fire behind her felt warmer than it had done before, and so she shuffled forward slightly, much to his amusement. They both knew that it was not the heat source from behind her that was making her feel flushed, but neither of them were willing to admit it, or able to do anything about it. Not at that particular moment, at least.
"I hope you don't mind, Watson, but I have taken the liberty of arranging for a brief excursion for us both this evening. Something to take our minds off the case, and allow us to relax, before approaching the materials with a fresh perspective in the morning." Sherlock paused for a moment, watching her closely for a reaction. Joan's eyes narrowed slightly, and he heard her breath catch in her throat.
"What kind of excursion?" He knew what her response would be before she did, but he was still unprepared for it, and uncertain of exactly how to deal with her question. "Do you mean... like a date?"
"I..." he began, shifting slightly on the spot as he placed one hand in his pocket, and used the other to gesture as he spoke. "Well, yes, of sorts, I suppose" he began, his voice trailing off as he broke eye contact with her. There was a notable yet not unpleasant silence which hung in the air for a few moments, which Sherlock broke. "I apologise if I seem forward, Watson, I just-" he stopped once more, considering his next words carefully before continuing. "I felt that you needed a break, we both did, and as we do so enjoy each other's company, and have discussed the possibility of... of a development in our partnership, I thought that it was possible that you might care to-"
"I would" she stated simply, in a quiet yet amenable tone. "Thank you. What did you have in mind?"
Sherlock released a breath, relief overwhelming him, before he back towards her once more. There was a mischievous glint in his eyes, the same shine and sparkle that often made her gravely concerned of his conduct or plans. Her fears were not in the least bit alleviated by his response.
"It's a surprise, Watson" he stated nonchalantly. "Although I do hope it will be to your liking."
Joan watched him for a few moments, considering him with an impassive expression, before nodding perceptibly, in agreement to his statement. "So what would you like me to do?"
Sherlock looked at his watch briefly, before staring at her with a nervous yet animated expression, and offering her a small, warm smile. "If you could be dressed and ready to leave by seven, that would be wonderful."
"And what do I wear?" she asked, crossing her legs and leaning to the side slightly. "I mean, I'll need to know some details of what we are doing before I can-"
"I am sure that whatever you usually wear on such occasions will be perfectly suitable for the evening I arranged for you... for us" he corrected, before nodding towards her once more. She gave him a small smile, thanking him again, and assuring him that she would be ready on time. Sherlock nodded once, before turning on his heels and leaving the room immediately. Joan smiled to herself as she heard the rapidity of his footsteps as he went downstairs to his study.
Joan checked the clock above the fireplace briefly, before turning back and remaining seated on the floor for a few minutes, thinking over Sherlock's speech and conduct. He was attempting to hide his nervousness and uncertainty, which she found to be highly amusing, and which deeply touched her. He was clearly concerned that he had acted presumptuously, and feared that she would be offended by his actions or his conduct. But she wasn't, which reassured them both.
Although the case had been the focal point of their lives for the past week or so, the uncertainty of the nature of their relationship had an undeniable presence, and was certainly something which needed to be addressed. Separately, both Sherlock and Joan had considered whether the fact that this issue had remained unaddressed was having any influence upon their inability to find any plausible leads in this case. Joan was particularly self-critical on this point, blaming herself and her inability to control her emotions when Sherlock was tending to her injury for the current stagnation in the progression of the case. She remembered their brief dalliance with fondness and gratitude, but also with a notable air of concern and confusion. They had both enjoyed those few minutes, relished in them, delighted in the fact that they were able to let themselves go so completely. Afterwards, the event was not directly mentioned or alluded to, save for the conversation they had in the living room regarding the potential of their platonic relationship to become romantic. But despite this, neither of them felt as though these changes would happen. It did not feel real. The more Sherlock and Joan tried to reminisce about the dance, the kiss, the conversation, the further from reality and plausibility each of those events seemed. They were not doubting their feelings for one another because, despite their actions and their conversations, they were both still confused and uncertain as to what their feelings were. They knew something had changed, that as unquestionable. But whether their emotions and actions were due simply to an understandable reaction to their most recent traumas, or whether it was something much deeper than that, and much more natural, remained a mystery to them both.
Joan considered these points for a few minutes, running over the last week or so in her mind. Despite her uncertainty and her apprehension, one thing which she did not question or doubt was the fact that the time that she and Sherlock had spent together in a semi-romantic setting had been wonderful, and had not felt anything other than completely natural. In the moment, at least. But when she considered them in hindsight, she felt her memory and her mind become clouded and uncertain, and she questioned whether their partnership could survive such a development, and whether it was something that they were both prepared to risk. Despite her concerns, she decided that going on the date was something which would have positive consequences: they would have a distraction from the case, which would allow them to approach it with a renewed and clearer perspective, which was something. But her main consolation was that the date would either confirm her fears or alleviate her doubts. He dancing and the kiss had been spontaneous, unforeseen. But the date was not. It was designed, it was structured and, if she knew Sherlock, it was meticulously planned. Things which are spontaneous often feel more natural than things which are planned, as spontaneity is, by definition, free from artificiality: it contains only the most base desires, the most natural and basic of instincts, and the clearest of motivations. Joan was satisfied with this logic, and walked contently up the stairs and towards her bedroom whilst she pondered them further. She was completely oblivious to the fact that, in a room beneath her own, Sherlock was considering the very same thing.
At seven o'clock Sherlock was standing in the foyer, and was dressed in smarter attire than usual, but not overly formal. He decided that maintaining some level of casualness would put Joan at her ease, and decrease any levels of artificiality or obligation that would cause both parties to feel uneasy. He was wearing a white shirt, black waistcoat and matching trousers, with patent leather shoes and his nicest black jacket. As he checked his watch and turned from the door to face the stairs, he found himself met with the figure of Joan Watson, who radiated elegance and beauty as she descended the stairs. Joan was wearing her hair down this time, and it was curled delicately at the bottom, whilst shaping her face perfectly. She was wearing a fitted white lace dress with a demure neckline and elbow-length sleeves, which she matched with black heels, a black clutch bag and a black scarf. Her eyes were bright and wary, and her lips were painted a shade of purple-brown which completed the look. Sherlock admired her beauty and her presence as he took a few steps towards her, offering her his hand as she reached the bottom of the steps, which she accepted readily.
"Are you still not gonna tell me anything about tonight?" she asked in a warm and slightly-amused tone. "Surely you can tell me something-"
"I assure you, Watson, the surprise will be worth it" he stated simply, before leading her towards the door, but turning back to face her before he opened it. "Would you mind?" he began, as he slowly removed her scarf from her shoulders, his fingers brushing her neck briefly as he did so, causing them both to stare at each other with wide and expectant eyes. Sherlock folded the scarf over lengthways, before taking a hold of each end and raising it slightly in the air. "I really would like this to be a surprise" he stated in a low, husky tone. Joan eyed him with curiosity for a moment, before taking a step closer to him and tilting her neck up slightly, her eyes not breaking their stare.
"Of course you would" she sighed, before turning on the spot and closing her eyes. She felt Sherlock move behind her, the tight muscles in his chest brushing her back, causing her to arch slightly. Sherlock noticed this with curiosity, before wrapping the scarf gently across her eyes, and securing it behind her neck.
"Are you ready?" he asked, placing his hands on her shoulders and gently easing her towards him, so that she was facing the door.
"Ready for what?" she asked innocently. "You haven't told me where we're going, what the plan is, or even how long-"
"Brooklyn Bridge, a surprise, about ten minutes" he stated simply, placing one hand on her back and leading her through the door. She felt the coolness of the air brush her flushed cheeks, causing her to stand still at the top of the steps and breathe in the night air. She found this incredibly comforting, and often stood planted on the spot like this for a few moments before jogging in the early morning or late evening. The sensation still felt as new and as fresh to her as it had done when she first moved into the brownstone, and she relished it every bit as much as she had done originally. Joan was only drawn from her thoughts by the feeling of Sherlock's right arm wrapping itself across her back and drawing her to his side, with a notable degree of caution and formality which caused her to smile.
"It's alright, Sherlock" she stated warmly, turning to face him. She could not see anything through the opaque material of the scarf, but could accurately deduce his location based on the position of his arm. She heard him sigh contently, before placing her right hand in his left, and gently guiding her down the steps. Their hands were clasped tightly, and she was so entranced by the familiar sensation of contentment and satisfaction which she currently felt, that she was surprised to feel herself eased onto the cool leather seats of a vehicle, which she could not identify.
"Sherlock?" she asked with confusion, as she felt him lean across her to connect her seatbelt. "Sherlock where are-"
"I took the liberty of hiring a driver for the evening, Watson" he responded immediately, before moving from her and standing by the open door. "Michael is a wonderful young gentleman who has assisted me at times in the past, and is completely at our disposal for the evening."
"Right" she sighed, turning her head from left to right, in a vain attempt to try to deduce something about her surroundings.
"Just relax, Watson" he stated kindly, before closing the door softly, and moving around the back of the car towards the other door, and seating himself behind her. The ten-minute journey was passed in silence, with Joan's mind whirring with possibilities. She was considering all the buildings around Brooklyn Bridge: the restaurants, theatres, clubs, but she could not think of anything specific that he would have arranged. He was unpredictable, an enigma, and she liked that. But she still found her mind racing with ideas, and felt overwhelmed by the desire to know more about what was happening. She was never one for surprises, but she knew Sherlock, and she knew that, whatever he had planned, would be well-thought out and designed for her personal satisfaction. A bespoke date. She was grateful for this, of course, but also slightly concerned. As the car came to a stop, the sound of gravel and grit crunching beneath the wheels permeating the silence, she hoped that the evening would be pleasant for him too.
"We have arrived" Sherlock stated simply, unclasping Joan's seatbelt and then his own, before opening his door and getting out of the car, closing it behind him as he made his way over to Joan's side of the vehicle. Joan was aware of his movements and his actions, and turned her head from the left to the right, following the sound of his footsteps as he moved around the car and opened the door, before pausing for a moment and then beginning to address her. "Alright, Watson" he began, in a tone containing a barely-noticeable yet evident degree of apprehension and concern. Joan knew this tone, she knew his voice better than she did her own, and she could tell that he was worried about how she would react to whatever it was he had planned for her. "I am going to help you from the car, walk you forward a few paces, and then remove your blindfold, alright?"
"Yes" she replied instantly, turning her head to face him, and offering him a polite smile. "I'm ready."
Sherlock took a few steps towards her, before clasping both of her hands in his, and leading her slowly and with great care from the car, closing the door behind her. She turned her head slightly at the sound of the slamming door, before the gentle squeeze of her hands by Sherlock's own reassured her, and he removed one hand from hers and placed it on her lower back, leading her forwards. In this short space of time, Joan was trying to figure out exactly what was going on, and where she was. She could smell the familiar scent of the night air, and felt and mixture of gravel and dirt beneath her feet. As Sherlock led her forwards a few steps, she listened out for any sounds. She heard the familiar sounds of distant traffic, of horns and engines and revving motorbikes. She could not tell where this was coming from, though, as it seemed to be almost from above her. She kept her head faced forwards, and took a few steps more, before stopping without Sherlock's prompting, as she heard something else, something which confused her slightly.
"Is that... Sherlock is that water?" she asked, turning her head from left to right, before facing directly ahead and trying to focus on the sound of gentle ripples and the movement of a large, vast body of water. "You said we were going on Brooklyn bridge, are we... are past it, or-"
"I said we were going to Brooklyn Bridge, Watson" Sherlock stated, before removing his hands from her body and taking a few steps in front of her, until she could feel his presence directly in front of her. "I also said that this was a surprise" he stated teasingly, which earned him a small laugh and a smile from Joan, who continued to move her head from left to right. "For once, Miss Watson, your deductive skills are not required. If you remain still for a few moments, and cease your convincing impression of an avid Wimbledon fan, I will remove your blindfold."
Before she could consider a funny comeback or witty comment, Sherlock had deftly removed her scarf from her face, and she found herself staring up at him once more, accepting her scarf gratefully from him as she blinked several times, allowing her eyes to adjust to the darkness. Except, it wasn't darkness. At least, not completely.
She was standing beneath Brooklyn bridge.
Joan looked around for a moment, without actually moving, as her feet were planted firmly on the floor. She could see the water in front of her, the lights of the buildings, and the foundations of the bridge which held the traffic above her head. The vast body of water in front of her was a dark, liquid mass, which provided a comforting and almost therapeutic backtrack to the otherwise cool, silence and fairly desolate evening. After gazing at the beauty of the water, the brightness of the lights from the city, and the gentle and comforting rippling of the water, Joan tilted her head upwards to face Sherlock directly, giving him a look of confusion and bewilderment.
"This is a beautiful spot, Sherlock" she consoled, glancing around once more. "But what is it that you-"
"Turn around" he stated, in a voice somewhere between a whisper and an echo. Her eyes narrowed in confusion for a moment, before she turned slowly on the spot, and gazed in awe at what stood not twenty feet in front of her.
She and Sherlock were standing on a platform surrounding one of the large beams beneath the bridge, which was holding them between the water and the road. Directly in front of her, to her surprise and complete amazement, was a boat. Boats were not Joan's speciality, but it appeared to be some kind of modern boat with an impressively large and recently varnished decking, which she estimated to be approximately twenty feet in length. It was white and glistening, with large sails which were drifting in the air, almost in perfect timing with the rippling of the water. Despite the fact that the city was almost completely covered in darkness, the boat shone due to an array of splendid candles which had been arranged around the decking and near the mast. It was beautiful, like something from another world, another time. Not, here, not now. And certainly not in relation to Joan Watson. As Joan took a couple of cautious steps forwards, she became aware of the fact that the boat, despite being perfectly still, was not uninhabited. Three men holding violins stood in the centre, with their backs against the small construction in the centre of the boat, where an associate of Sherlock's was sitting behind the wheel.
"Sherlock what..." she began, breathing the words as she turned to face him, her eyes alight and burning with anticipation and awe. "What is this?"
"Well, I-" he began, taking a few steps towards her and standing by her side. "The gentleman who will be taking us out this evening-"
"Wait, what?" she interrupted, turning towards him. "Taking us where?"
"Oh, just for a brief trip across the river. I remember you once telling me that you picked late-night jogging routes with a view of the Hudson, as you liked how it looked and sounded at night. You said it comforted you. So I thought, instead of taking you to a location near the Hudson, I'd take you to it. Directly to the source, so to speak" he stated, pursing his lips together as he continued to gaze towards the water, finding himself unable to meet her gaze. "The Captain's name is James Relliten. He is an associate of mine from London, who called me last week to inform me he was in the city, and that he was in possession of a rather beautiful boat. I helped him in London, and he offered me his services this evening."
Sherlock turned slightly, his clasped hands resting behind his back, as he watched Joan's face with interest. She did not seem averse to his surprise, quite the opposite. Her eyes were brimming with emotion, and she wore the same expression she bore the night when he told her that he would not harm anyone like he had harmed Moran because of her. He watched her for a few moments, and decided to wait for her to speak. She was lost for words for a while, gazing from Sherlock to the boat, and then back to him.
"And the violinists?" she asked in a low, almost breathless tone. She would have expanded on her question, but found herself completely and utterly devoid of her powers of speech. Instead she stood staring at the boat, mesmerised by the lights and the sounds, and staring in awe at the three well-dressed gentlemen who were standing silently by, awaiting instruction. She was so transfixed by this image that she did not see Sherlock raise one hand and signal to them, which caused them to begin to play immediately. The piece of music they played seemed remarkably familiar to her, and she closed her eyes for a few moments to take it in completely, before realising where she had heard it before. It was not a classical piece, nor was it something she had heard whilst out with friends. Instead, it originated from her own place of residence, and from the accomplished talents of her partner.
"Did you write this?" she asked, opening her eyes as she turned towards him. Sherlock was watching the violinists with wide and beaming eyes, inhaling deeply and closing his eyes as they played, before nodding slowly and gradually towards Joan.
"Yes, Watson" he stated eventually, opening his eyes and finding her staring at him with a look on her face which he could not identify. He took a hesitant step towards her, before holding out his right hand, which she accepted, allowing herself to be led to the boat. Sherlock stepped on first, before leading her onto it, and holding both of her hands as her feet reached the decking.
"I've never been on a boat before." She said simply, her hands remaining in his as she glanced around the vessel.
"I know" he mumbled, causing her eyes to meet his instantly, meeting his warm look with one of gratitude. "So, Miss Watson" he began, releasing one of her hands and walking with her towards the middle of the candle-lit decking, before turning towards her once more. "May I have this dance?" They were both struck by the familiarity of these words, and each smiled slightly at the memory of their first 'dance' together, when they had been working on the case involving the threatened politician.
"I would've thought our first Waltz was more than enough for you" Joan smiled, before taking a step towards him and allowing him to wrap one arm around her waist, as he held their entwined hands in mid-air, conscious of her shoulder injury. "I'm surprised that it is something you feel brave enough to revisit."
"Dancing with you that evening, Watson" Sherlock began, as he led her slowly and gracefully across the decking to the sound of the violins, "was an experience which I would be honoured to repeat. However, as you are about to observe" he began, releasing his arm from her back before spinning her outwards, so she turned gracefully in small circles until she stopped near the side of the boat, extending her arm naturally as she gazed back at their still-entwined hands. She smiled briefly, but before she could respond any further, Sherlock quickly drew her back towards him, before releasing his hold on her hand and placing both his arms across her back, and leaning her towards the ground, so that the inches between her head and the decking were few, and her position was secured by his own strong arms, "this is not a Waltz". Joan smiled once more, and laughed slightly as Sherlock lifted her from the ground, resumed their original position, and began to dance with her around the decking. They continued this for several minutes, their eyes remaining fixed in a mutual gaze, as they clung to each other, their bodies pressed tightly together as they moved expertly across the decking, in perfect timing with the music. They were so completely enraptured in their dance and their company, that they did not notice that the boat had begun to move almost the second they reached the decking, and was currently positioned almost exactly halfway between the bridge and the city, the bright lights shining down upon the decking.
"Then what is it?" Joan asked some minutes later, after such a period of duration that it took Sherlock a few seconds to realise what she was referring to.
"This? Oh, this is what we do best, Watson" he stated, before drawing her as close to him as he could, before placing one hand on her thigh and dipping her to the ground as he had done a week ago in the ballroom. Joan breathed in shakily before finding herself being pulled closer to him once more, their bodies pressed together as her thigh rested over his, their faces practically touching. "Spontaneity" he murmured breathlessly, as they each felt the familiar sensation of their hearts racing next to one another, with their bodies quivering with anticipation and desire. They remained like this for a few seconds, their wide-eyes and dilated pupils focused so intently upon each other that their vision became slightly blurred. Ever since reaching the decking, both Sherlock and Joan had felt their previous reservations and concerns regarding the changing nature of their relationship abandon them completely. Instead, they found themselves overwhelmed by the familiar feelings of longing and desire, which they were both battling to suppress. Not because they did not want to be together, or to continue with what they had started. But because they were afraid of what would happen if they did.
"What are we doing?" Joan breathed, her eyes dropping from Sherlock's own for a moment. She suddenly became aware of how far out in the river they were, and how bright the city lights were. It felt as though she and Sherlock were in a limbo-like state, somewhere between the dream-like and idyllic life which the boat and their dance represented, and the bright lights of the city, which represented their duties, obligations and, in essence, their reality.
"We're dancing, Watson" Sherlock breathed huskily as Joan pondered her thoughts, staring past Sherlock and at the city lights. She felt his hold on her loosen slightly, and he took a cautious step back, whilst ensuring that his arms were around her, supporting her completely should she require it. "I'm sorry if I have been forward or inappropriate. If you would like us to stop this and head back, then that is precisely-"
"No, I don't want you to stop" she stated in an absent-minded tone, her eyes still fixed on the bright lights of the city behind them, before drifting slowly to meet Sherlock's gaze. "And that's what frightens me."
Before he could respond, Sherlock's phone began to ring in his pocket, causing Joan to sigh slightly in relief. She was feeling slightly anxious and confused, and welcomed the brief distraction. It would allow her a few moments to think, to process everything, and to consider what to do next.
"Yes, Captain?" stated Sherlock in a low tone, as Joan walked slowly towards the side of the decking, holding onto the rail and leaning forwards slightly. She could feel the refreshing and comforting breeze greeting her face, which revitalised her slightly, and sobered her desire-ridden mind, allowing her to think much more clearly. The nautical equivalent of a cold shower she mused, before pushing herself from the railings and turning to face Sherlock, who had become very quiet. "Yes. No, absolutely Captain, we will. Yes, straight away." He hung up then, placing the phone back in his pocket, before turning towards Joan, who was leaning against the railings slightly, and watching him intently.
"Is everything okay?" she asked, removing her hands from the railing and crossing her arms in front of her. After disentangling her body from Sherlock's, and ceasing to dance, she was suddenly aware of how cold it was. She looked around for her scarf, which she believed was in her bag next to the Captain. Before she could move towards it, she felt Sherlock's presence before her once more. He had removed his black jacket and was draping it over her shoulders in a chivalrous and utterly no-strings-attached manner, before taking a few steps back to allow her some of the space which he believed she was currently in need of. "Thank you" she mumbled, offering him a polite yet nervous smile. She felt slightly guilty about her semi-rebuff. Only it wasn't a rebuff, not exactly. She wasn't rejecting him per se, she was simply voicing her concerns as to what could happen if they allowed themselves to surrender to their emotions and their desires, instead of to their minds. To two individuals whose relationship revolved around logic and reason and deductions, surrendering completely to their emotions seemed painfully ironic. But their relationship, despite it's basis on logic and reason and rationale, was not defined by such. Nor was it devoid of all emotion. Quite the contrary, in fact. Joan found that the variety emotions and feelings she experienced in her partnership with Sherlock by far outweighed all the emotions she felt when with any other friend, male or female, romantically or platonically. Their relationship was an enigma, but not invincible, as recent events had confirmed. Like all things of beauty and mystery, it was shrouded in uncertainty and the need to be protected. The more time she spent with him, and the closer they became, the more she realised that she did not want to sever their connection in any way. She could not bear to lose him, and she knew that it would destroy him too. And yet, they had an undeniable romantic connection, which overwhelmed them both to the point of madness.
"That was Captain Gregson" Sherlock stated, interrupting Joan's thoughts, which she was grateful for. Sherlock's voice was normal and convicted, and did not contain any notable elements of sadness or dejection. She was grateful for that too. "Another victim has just been found, believed to have been dead for less than half an hour."
Joan was instantly sobered by this news, and forgot all about the musings of their current relationship, which she had been comparing to a Bronte novel. "What? How did they get the call so quickly?"
"The woman was found in the same building as victim number two." He responded immediately, before turning towards the Captain and gesturing to him. "Due to the recent incident there was an increased police presence in the building, and further security measures were installed. The latest victim was found by a security guard who was performing a routine sweep of the building. He found her fifteen minutes ago, and swears she was not there when he performed the same check fifteen minutes before that, so-" Sherlock gestured emphatically with his hands, before turning to face Joan directly. "Are you quite warm enough, Watson?" he asked, his voice adopting a kinder and more sombre tone. She nodded in response, drawing his jacket closer to her, before turning to face the bridge to which they were rapidly approaching.
"Two women in the same building, four days apart? That's brazen. I mean, it's borderline moronic" she stated, her eyes narrowing in confusion.
"And yet" began Sherlock, turning from the bridge to Joan. "The killer has eluded the police once more."
"We know next to nothing about this guy" Joan stated simply, crossing her arms inside the jacket once more. "He is the greatest elusion, an expert at being covert and yet accurate, present but hidden."
"I wouldn't say the greatest elusion, Watson" Sherlock responded as they reached the edge of the platform onto the bridge. "Life provides us all with a far greater elusion."
Before she could pose a question, Sherlock began to assist the Captain in mooring the vessel, before slowly approaching Joan and helping her to depart. She accepted his hand once more, and felt her body filled with the same longing and desire as their hands connected and their fingers entwined. He helped her from the boat and onto dry ground, before turning and waving to the Captain and the violinists, who Joan also thanked graciously. Sherlock then led her back to the car and the waiting valet, easing her into her seat before giving their driver some instructions, and they drove off into the night. The journey was silent once more, but not uncomfortably so. Although it was clear that there was much to be discussed, the words did not hang in the air, and no feelings of anger or ill-will lingered. Instead, confusion and uncertainty, so potent they were practically tangible, rode as unwelcome passengers on the brief yet troubling journey.
The sleek, black vehicle arrived at the familiar building which had become a crime-scene for the second time in just a week. Joan stared out of the window for a moment, before thanking the driver warmly and opening her own door, walking around the car and mounting the pavement before Sherlock even had time to unbuckle his seatbelt. She need air, she needed to walk, and she needed work. Her thoughts were confused and muddled, and she was surprised that she had actually found herself with less clarity and certainty regarding her relationship with Sherlock than she had possessed before their date began. She waited on the pavement for Sherlock, who joined her presently, and they walked towards the building together. A couple of familiar-looking police officers recognised the consultants immediately, and escorted them to the scene of the latest murder, which was in an office on the third floor.
"She's not been dead long, Miss" one of the officers stated to Joan as he pressed some buttons in the elevator. "The Captain reckons she can't have been dead for more than forty minutes. I mean, this place was crawling with cops and security guards, I just don't get why someone would risk coming in and doing this. In this building, at this time, in this situation."
"A more pertinent question would be 'how'" interjected Sherlock, turning towards the officer as he spoke. "How does an individual enter and exit a building with such a pronounced police presence? And how does he act out such a brutal and callous act without attracting any attention?"
"I hope you're not suggesting that-"
"He's not suggesting anything, officer" Joan stated immediately, in her kindest and most placating tone. "We're just thinking out loud, is all. Figuring out the answers to these questions will help us to understand the killer, and kind a way of stopping him." The office's red face paled slightly, and he nodded in understanding, before casting a wary look at Sherlock, whose gaze was fixed firmly on the doors in front of him. As the elevator came to a stop, Sherlock turned towards the officer, posing a final question.
"There have been no reports or sightings of anyone on this or any other floor within the last hour or so?" he asked in a much more respectful and considerate tone, which Joan was grateful for.
"No sir" the officer replied curtly. "The Captain ordered a sweep of this floor and the ones directly above and below it, but we didn't find anything. No trace whatsoever. We're looking into getting the CCTV footage, but we aren't hopeful. This guy seems too smart for that."
"They always do, Officer" replied Sherlock. "Until they are caught." The officer nodded in agreement, before leading Sherlock and Joan down the corridor and ushering them towards an office at the bottom of the hall. The door to the office was wide open, and the familiar figures of Gregson and Bell could be seen inside. The corridor was eerily quiet, with the infrequent sound of the flash of the cameras occasionally punctuating the silence. To the right of the office was a door to an adjacent office, which the officer informed them was locked. To the left of the office door was a small corridor, leading to two more officers and an out of service elevator. The corridor was dark and uninviting, but as the trio reached the door to the crime scene, they triggered one of the motion-sensing lights on the ceiling, which illuminating the small corridor in a synthetic glow. Joan stared down the corridor absently for a moment, before finding that her gaze was fixed upon the out of service elevator at the end of the corridor. The sign was at an angle, and there was something about it that did not seem quite right. Moreover, the light above it was on, with the number '3' printed on the screen to indicate the floor number. Joan stared at it for a moment, her eyes narrowing in confusion, as she found herself considering what could be wrong with an elevator which appeared to be working just fine.
"I just need a minute, so I'll meet you guys inside, okay?" she asked, directing her question at the door rather than anyone in particular. Sherlock watched her with confusion for a moment, before nodding politely and verbally affirming her statement. He thought that she may need a few moments to collect herself before entering the room which, based on the confusion of the past hour or so, was not unsurprising or unreasonable.
"Join us when you are quite ready, Watson" he stated amiably, causing Joan to turn from the corridor to face him directly, and offer him a reassuring smile which he willingly accepted, before entering the room with the other police officers, and leaving Joan quite alone in the corridor.
Joan tilted her head to the side slightly, before walking slowly down the corridor and towards the elevator, the sound of her heels on the ground muffled by the cream-carpet which she found herself sinking into. She glanced briefly at the artwork on both walls for a moment, admiring one piece in particular, before trying the handles on both office doors: they were locked. Joan paused for a moment, standing a few feet away from the elevator, and considering it with interest. The sign was lop-sided, there were no signs of maintenance equipment or action, and the lighting and sounds associated with elevators were still present. From a purely layman's perspective, she could not figure out what the issue was at all. But she would find out.
Joan took a few steps casually towards the elevator, running her fingers down the 'Out of Order' sign, and finding herself surprised at the fact that her fingers felt notably sticky. Although the corridor was lit by some artificial lighting, the bulbs were flickering angrily, occasionally blacking out for a couple of seconds at a time, before beaming bright light down upon her just seconds later. As she looked down at her hand, she found that the stickiness was residue from the black ink used to make the sign. A sign which, for some reason, had been hastily hand-written and pinned up rather haphazardly. In the few moments it took Joan to realise the significance of this fact, the elevator doors were prised open quickly, and she found herself facing a dark, hooded figure brandishing a bloodied knife.