A/N: Thanks for continuing to support the story, it really means a lot. I enjoyed writing the last chapter and, as a few people have requested more Joanlock, I have written this chapter, which I had not planned originally, so I hope it doesn't seem too out of place. I had an idea in my head of where I was trying to go with this chapter, but I'm not sure if I succeeded. Again, if there are any problems/issues/things you think could be improved, please let me know. As this chapter is longer than I intended, the killer will actually be revealed in Chapter 17. Thanks again, HQ21
The baseball game had ended, and people were pushing past each other in the aisles to leave the stadium, all rushing back to their cars or to the train station. The scent of buttered popcorn and greasy fried food filled the air, and the sound of the loud music and post-game cheers created the busiest and liveliest atmospheres which New York had to offer on that pleasant afternoon. Amidst this scene, Sherlock and Joan were completely removed from it all, and were still completely engaged in one another. Their kisses had become more breathless, whilst retaining their passion and their intensity, before a tired and weary Joan pulled herself regretfully from his lips, and perched herself on the edge of her seat. Sherlock slowly opened his eyes, glancing towards her as he lifted his fingers to his lips. The taste and texture of her lip-gloss and her kiss was imprinted upon his lips, and relished it. As he watched Joan collect her belongings, adjust her jersey and re-apply her lip-gloss, his mind went over each action and sensation of the past few minutes, until his eyes were heavy with desire, and his heart was beating faster than he could ever recall it having done before.
"Watson" he stated in a breathless manner, shifting himself in his seat slightly. Her head turned up instantly to meet his gaze, as she deposited her lip-gloss back into her purse, before slinging it over her shoulder and standing slowly from her seat. "Watson" he repeated, in a more controlled and confident tone, as his eyes adjusted themselves to the brightness of the day.
"Yeah" she returned, in a slightly breathless and animated manner, as she pressed her newly-glosses lips together, and turned to face him directly.
"If you feel up to it, there is something else which I would like us to partake in this afternoon."
Joan's eyes lit up for a moment, and she felt her heart race beneath her jersey. A slight shiver passed across her body, and she prepared herself to speak. "What did you have in mind?"
"The completion of something which we have, as yet, left unfinished." He replied simply, rising from his seat and standing by her side. She narrowed her eyes in confusion, giving him a perplexed look, which he answered with a pleasant and amiable expression of his own. Sherlock remained standing perfectly still, before reaching his arm out to the side, and offering his open-palmed hand. She took a cautious step forward, before accepting his hand, and lacing her fingers through his own. She felt the warm and comforting gentle squeeze of Sherlock's hand as he clasped hers firmly, and led her from the stadium.
Sherlock and Joan walked a few blocks, carefully navigating their way through the crowds of people leaving the game, as well as the other residents of the city, who were just leaving work. Driving through the city during rush hour was incredibly difficult, but walking was not much easier. And yet Sherlock led Joan through alleyways and side-roads that she seldom paid attention to, and she found herself surprised to end up at a small, run-down store in Queens. The partners paused for a moment, allowing themselves a moment of rest and recovery after their fast walk to their new location. After Joan had caught her breath, she stared up at the building in confusion, before casting a glance in Sherlock's direction. He was standing perfectly still, tilting his head back as he examined the building admiringly, as he drummed his fingers upon his thigh. His right hand was still holding onto hers tightly, and he was unaware of her calling his name. His attention was only drawn to her once she began to squeeze his hand lightly as she shook it, which drew his gaze towards her.
"Sherlock, what is this place?" she asked, watching him with an expression of confusion and amusement. She did not seem upset or disappointed, and nor was she. She knew that whatever this place was, and whatever Sherlock planned on doing here, it would be a representation of his care for her, and his desire to engage her in an activity which he felt that she would enjoy. But as she glanced from the building to Sherlock, she could not figure out exactly what it was that she was looking at.
"This used to be a bar, Watson" Sherlock stated by way of explanation. "Well, originally it was a small convenience store, which was then transformed into a bar-slash-gambling den." He stated in his usual animated manner, nodding enthusiastically, as if his statement had just revealed all that she needed to know.
"Sherlock, I'm fairly certain you wouldn't have brought me to a bar" she stated simply, pronouncing the last word with care. "You said used to be" she stated in a low tone, as she narrowed her eyes in confusion. "So what is it now?"
Sherlock stifled a small laugh, before squeezing her hand gently, and leading her through the splinter-ridden doorway of the derelict building. As they entered, Joan found herself walking across creaking floorboards and discarded newspapers, with the scent of cigarettes and alcohol providing a stale musk to the otherwise empty room. Despite her trust in Sherlock, she found herself hanging back slightly as they passed through the room, and he clearly sensed her concern.
"It's quite alright, Watson" he stated in a pleasant tone, as he paused for a moment, turning to face her. "We are almost there. And I assure you, the atmosphere of our destination is quite different." Joan nodded slowly, before allowing herself to be led through the room, and towards a door at the back. Sherlock pushed the door open, which creaked and groaned reproachfully, before opening obediently. From her position in the doorway, Joan could see that she was now standing on what appeared to be a landing, with one set of stairs leading downstairs, and another leading up. The wood was as perilous-looking and antiquated as the interior of the former store, and yet she found herself feeling oddly relaxed. She glanced at the staircase which led upstairs, and noted that the steps were covered in a thick layer of dust and scattered papers, whereas the stairs leading lower were clean of dust, and looked as though they had been recently cleaned.
"Is there... wait, where do these stairs lead to?" She asked, taking a step in front of Sherlock, and tugging his hand gently towards the bottom steps. "The dust on the stairs leading up shows that they are currently not in use, but these ones are cleaner than any other part of this building, so are clearly walked upon with some frequency" she continued, before turning back to face him, and finding herself pleasantly greeted by Sherlock's infamous look of approval. "But... I mean, how is there even a downstairs? I don't-" she began, breaking off as she stared across the landing.
"My dear Watson, for once, please" Sherlock stated amiably, before taking a few steps ahead of her. "Will you allow me to do the worrying, hmm?" Joan cast him a sceptical look, before allowing herself to be led down the treacherous steps once more. As they reached the bottom, Joan could hear the gentle hum of music, and felt the vibrations of the rhythm through the floor. She didn't know how she hadn't noticed the music from upstairs, and was about to question Sherlock on it, when he took a few steps confidently forwards, and pushed open the door. As he did so, Joan took a few steps forward until she was standing by her side, and she stared in complete awe at the sight before her.
The room itself was quite dark, with the only light source being the numerous candles which were placed around the walls and floor, and upon some of the furniture. The candles providing a low yet notable light source to the room, and created a peaceful, romantic ambience. Instead of smelling musky and old, the room smelt noticeably of roses and calla lilies, with adorned several small tables which rested beside the walls, and which adorned the aforementioned flowers, as well as candles. At the back of the room was an old bar, which looked as though it had been constructed in the early twentieth century. There were some decorative bottles displayed behind it, of brands of whiskey and rum which Joan recognised as being both rare and expensive. Tea lights were placed along the length of the bar, and were burning brightly, commanding the attention of the new arrivals. As Sherlock took a step into the room, and gently encouraged Joan to do the same, she found herself being even more amazed by the new sights which she saw. Upon the walls were paintings and photographs of various landmarks of the city which, due to their condition and depictions, were several decades old. Joan briefly scanned these images, before finding her glance resting on the four silhouetted figures who were standing in the centre of the wall to the right.
After a few seconds, when Joan's eyes had adjusted themselves to the lightness within the room, she was able to observe more details of the figures who were in the room. They were three men, all fairly tall and slender, and dressed in what appeared to be old-style suits, complete with black bow ties and silver cuff-links. The suits they wore were formal and highly presentable, yet their design had notable age, as did the men's gelled-back hairstyles. Joan allowed her gaze to drift from their physical appearances and focus upon what they were holding. The men on the left and right were playing violins, which they had ceased briefly upon Sherlock and Joan's entrance into the room. However, they had now continued to play their instruments, and were filling the room with soft, classical music, which Joan found to be incredibly soothing. The man in the middle, however, was not holding an instrument. He was watching Sherlock and Joan with a pleasant smile playing on his lips, and was holding two large black bags over his right arm, which looked like the type you use to place suits inside when transporting them. Joan glanced across the room once more, allowing the sound of the music to comfort and soothe her as she once more considered the old-style bar, antique furniture, rare drinks and beautiful lighting. It was a truly mesmerising scene.
"It's like stepping into the 1930s." She stated in a low tone, her eyes wide and alight with interest and amazement.
"The 1920s, actually" Sherlock returned pleasantly, before releasing his hand from hers and walking across the room and towards the bar.
"Sherlock, what-" she began, taking a few more steps into the room. The lights shone brightly and the music continued to play seductively, as Joan followed Sherlock towards the bar, before pausing in the middle of the room and watching him with interest. Sherlock reached the bar, pressed his hands on the side, and leaned over it. His jersey rose slightly at the back as he leaned over the bar, and began reaching for something on the other side. A few seconds later, he sighed with satisfaction, as he took a small jump back, before turning around to face Joan, and taking a few steps towards her. In his right hand were two wine glasses, which he was holding by the stems, and in his left hand was a crystal decanter, filled with a pale liquid.
"Relax, dear Watson" he soothed, as he removed the stopper from the decanter and began to pour the liquid into a glass, before handing it to her. "It is home-made lemonade. I know you have a particular soft-spot for the fruity juice."
"I do" she returned, accepting a glass from him, and taking a small sip before she continued to speak. "Sherlock, what's going on? And what did you mean about the 1920s?"
Sherlock nodded slightly towards her, smiling as he poured himself a glass, before placing the now half-empty decanter on the top of the bar. It stood tall and majestic in the centre of the bar, and complemented the décor of the rest of the room perfectly. It felt like Joan had stepped into a classic scene from a century ago.
"Do you recall a conversation we had about a year ago, about prohibition?" Sherlock stated conversationally, taking a small sip from his glass. Joan nodded in confirmation, and continued to glance curiously around the room, waiting for Sherlock to add to his statement. "At the start of the twentieth century, this building used to be a convenience store, owned by a man named Ernie Schultz. The room we entered upon first arriving was the shop floor, and the staircase leading upstairs takes you directly to what used to be the living quarters of the Schultz family. I was an acquaintance of Elliot Schultz, Ernie's son."
Joan nodded in understanding, before returning her gaze to Sherlock, and addressing him directly. "And this place?"
"Basement" Sherlock said simply. "It was used as a storage facility for the family's stock." He leaned back on his heels slightly, and placed on hand in his pocket as he took another sip of the cool and refreshing liquid. "That is, it was the storage area, right up until the third decade of the twentieth century. Prohibition had begun, and the owner of the store, who was morally opposed to the nature of the country's intervention in the alcoholic consumption of its people, transformed his storage cellar into this" Sherlock stated, raising his arms enthusiastically into the air, and gesturing around the room. "A small bar, concealed beneath his store, which provided the bygone locals of this wonderful city with small amounts of alcohol. Ernie was not in this solely for the money, you understand. No, he was a man of principle. He charged people just what it cost him to illicitly import the substance into the country. His brother and nephew worked at the docks, making transportation and acquisition of alcohol fairly simple. And so, the kind and generous Ernie created this room, where locals would relax, unwind and defy the state."
"Right" Joan stated breathlessly, glancing around the room with a renewed sense of approval at this new knowledge. "So... what happened to Elliot?" Sherlock smiled slightly at this question, before placing both hands in his pockets, and turning to face Joan. The soft and gentle light emanating from the candles lit up her face, and she appeared to him now to be more beautiful and transcendent than every before.
"Ernie earned the support of the local residents, some tourists, even the police. His bar was considered to be one of the city's best-kept secrets of the 1920s, and was a veritable haven. It was a small sanctum sanctorum for citizens who wished to regain the freedom which they had been so cruelly and unjustly denied. When the second world war broke out, Ernie volunteered to serve for his country. He lost his life six months before the war ended." Sherlock stated, his eyes slightly glazed as he spoke in an absent-minded manner. "After his death, Ernie's son, Elliot, discovered this room, and maintained it for as long as he could, as a tribute to his late father." Ernie's actions and his legacy had clearly had a profound impact on Sherlock, and it did not take long to ascertain why.
"It's amazing" Joan began, taking a step past Sherlock, and running her hand across the bar. "The history of the place. All the people who came and went, who spent time together defying the state in order to regain that freedom" she smiled slightly to herself, running her finger across the slightly dusty bar, which she considered to be a representation of strength and courage. "So how did you come to be here?" Joan began, her voice soft and her tone curious.
Sherlock pursed his lips together for a moment, before swallowing slightly and turning his head to face her. Their eyes met for a moment, and he held her gaze, as he addressed her question.
"Elliot was a friend of mine. One of the first I met in New York, actually. I assisted him with a few issues he had relating to the increase in vandalism in the area, and I helped to restore some of this" Sherlock stated, crossing the room to stand by Joan's side, as he leaned into the bar. "Elliot was extremely grateful to me and, as a result, left me this place in his will."
"This is yours?" Joan asked, her eyes widening. She nodded approvingly, before allowing her arm to rest across the smooth, dark wood of the century-old bar.
"It is" Sherlock returned. "I do not use the rooms upstairs, you understand. I left them quite as Ernie had them before he-" his voice trailed off slightly, and his eyes became slightly glassy. Joan took a step closer to him, resting her hand upon his own, as he tilted his head towards her, and continued to speak. "The only space in this building which I frequent is this very room. I helped Elliot restore it slightly, and have worked on it since his passing. Of course, I did not enter the building during the first few months after my stint in rehab, but after you consenting to becoming my partner I... I trusted myself more" he stated, adding the last phrase simply. "And I wanted to ensure that Ernie's legacy, and the wishes of his son to continue that legacy, were not forgotten."
"I see" Joan stated in a low and gentle tone. "I think that's wonderful." Joan gave Sherlock a warm and comforting look, she realised that the sound of the music that had continued to play was so soothing and so appropriate for the scene, that the melody had become part of the building itself.
"Yes. Well, it also has a slight irony to it, does it not? An addict restoring a bar" Sherlock stated lightly gesturing slightly with his free hand as he spoke. "But I find this place to be of considerable value. Not monetary, you understand, but of principle." Joan watched Sherlock carefully as he spoke, and tried to consider what it was that he was trying to convey. This place evidently meant a lot to him, and she felt honoured that he had shared his secret hideaway with her. But still, she found herself to be curious as to why he chose this moment to share it with her. "This place represents one person's attempts to fight against what he considered to be an unjust action, something which affected a nation for over a decade. It represents, in this sense, a single man's attempt at regaining the freedom that had been snatched from himself, and his fellows citizens. And he was successful. Although his actions would have been viewed negatively at the time by many, he created a microcosm in which complete freedom had been restored to the people of the city. Despite the illicit nature of his actions, he did what he believed to be right. And in doing so, he provided many people with a level of freedom and happiness which they would have otherwise been deprived of. It is not what they gained physically, but emotionally, and in terms of principle."
"You relate to him" Joan breathed. "You see yourself in the same way. A man finding himself fighting for what he believes is right, for what other people deem to be right, despite the fact that it often involves... bending of certain rules." Sherlock glanced up at her, and held her gaze for a few moments, but did not react to her statement. "So, why are you showing me this place? Why now?"
"Because, Watson" he continued, taking a few steps towards her, until their bodies were almost touching. "You are part of it. You are, quite simply, the bravest, most courageous and most principled individual I have ever had the pleasure of meeting. You and I work together, we thrive, we succeed, and we provide people with justice and with reassurance in a world in which an overwhelming amount of people seek to deny them both."
"Are you saying I'm Ernie?" she asked in a gentle and respectful voice, which caused Sherlock to smile slightly, and stifle a small laugh.
"This bar is the physical representation not of Ernie's illicit activities, but of his principles. It represents how one man sought to deal with what he felt to be an injustice. It is, therefore, a tangible representation of justice" he stated simply, his voice husky and low. "As are you, Watson. You are a representation of justice. The greatest, most tangible representation which I have ever faced. This bar, like us, represents the difference that individuals are capable of making in the world, and of the nature and impact of legacy. This bar is the legacy of Ernie's attempts to achieve justice and fairness" he continued, shifting on the spot slightly as he prepared himself to utter his final statements. "And I am the legacy of yours." Joan looked up at him for a moment, and held his hand tightly and reassuringly as he continued to speak, uttering words which deeply moved her.
"I think we are both part of the same thing, Sherlock. We've changed each other, for the better, and perhaps more than we realise. We are part of each other's legacies."
"Yes" Sherlock began, his eyes wide yet slightly vacant. "Yes, I do believe that you maybe right." Sherlock held her hand tightly in his own, before relinquishing his hold, and walking towards the man holding the black bags. "So I hope you understand the reasons for me bringing you here, Watson" he called over his shoulder, as he accepted the bags from the man's arms. The middleman then bent down, picked up a violin, and joined in with the other two men. The sound of the music rose, filling the room with pleasurable and seductive sounds, as Sherlock draped the bags across his forearm and carried them over towards Joan. "I hope you understand how grateful I am to you, and how much I attribute any and all of my humanity and sense of justice and fairness, to your irreplaceable influence and unwavering support." Sherlock was standing just inches from Joan as he spoke, and was watching her with wide and loving eyes, as he revealed his true feelings to Joan. She returned his look with an expression of warmth and appreciation, and glanced towards the ground slightly, as she felt her own eyes prickling with tears. She turned her head up moments later, and gave him her warmest smile, before taking a step towards him, and kissing him tenderly on the lips. Sherlock returned the kiss, before feeling her nuzzling gently against his neck, and muttering words of thanks and gratitude into his ear.
"I know how hard this is for you" she stated gently, as she moved her body away from his, and held his gaze as she continued to speak. "I will never be able to tell you how much your words and your actions mean to me. I just hope you understand how happy and how inspired I am by you, here, now." Sherlock watched her for a moment, and found himself feeling a sensation which he was not familiar with. As he stared at the beautiful woman before him, he wondered what it was that she could be referring to, and was utterly perplexed as to how he had made her feel as she had described. He did not doubt her sincerity, not for a moment. And for the first time in his life, in terms of emotional capabilities and selflessness, he did not doubt himself.
"Yes, well" he stated, his voice slightly higher and in more animated a tone. "Another reason I wished to bring you here, Watson, was to free us both, temporarily, at least, from the shackles of modernity." As he spoke, he handed Joan one of the black bags, which she accepted immediately, and studied for a few seconds, before tugging the zipper on the side gently down. As the zipper reached the bottom of the bag, she parted the black material slightly, and gazed in awe at the contents of the bag. She rested the bag itself on one of the seats by the bar, and pulled out the beautiful white and beige sequinned dress which was encased within it. She could feel the softness and silkiness of the material beneath her fingertips, and marvelled at how delicate it seemed. She pulled the item completely from the bag, holding it up as she did so, and revealing it for what it was. It was a classic 1920s cocktail dress, made from high-end fabric, and decorated with sequins. It was a flapper-girl dress, a gorgeous and timeless piece of clothing from a by-gone era. And it was absolutely stunning.
"Sherlock, where did you-"
"I bought it from a vintage clothes store in Chelsea a few weeks ago. I believe that it will fit you perfectly. If, of course, you are happy to wear it" he added nervously, to which Joan gave him a small and grateful smile, as he reached behind the bar and pulled up a brown box, which he also handed to her. "Should you choose to accept my gift for this evening, you may wish to have these too." Joan accepted the box gratefully, thanking him as she did so, before prising the lid from the top, and opening it wide. Inside lay a pair of white satin court shoes, with straps across the front, and recently repaired heels. They, too, were genuine 1920s-era clothing, and matched the dress perfectly. Joan draped the dress across her arm as she extracted the shoes from the box, running her fingers over them in amazement, as she considered them from all angles.
"And this is mine" Sherlock stated simply, pulling a bespoke black suit from the bag which he held in his arm. "From the same store as your articles. The suit and the dress were placed on mannequins, which were displayed side-by-side. I felt it would be appropriate for tonight."
"What is tonight?" Joan asked, holding the shoes to her chest as she adjusted her hold on the dress.
"The night that we finish what we began" Sherlock answered simply, his voice adopting a slightly nervous tone as he spoke, wish Joan wished to alleviate at once. "I understand that I often become...obsessed with work that we do, and the cases that we immerse ourselves in. I also know that you understand and accept this, and for that I am truly grateful. But tonight, I would like to show you my appreciation fully. I want to demonstrate to you that I am capable of, and comprise of more than, my work. Our work" he corrected, placing his suit over his forearm as he spoke. "I wanted to bring you somewhere that we could escape not only the work, but the time. I restored this room, found the clothing, and arranged for the music, in order to take us as far from this place and this time as I am able to. I wanted there to be no distractions, no danger, and no obsessions" he stated simply, before meeting her gaze with confidence. "I wanted it to be us. Just us. I wanted you to be able to be free, Watson, from everything. And, mostly, from the things which our work and, more specifically, my influence, has subjected you to. In truth, what I hoped for, Watson, was one night, alone, with you."
Joan did not respond immediately to his statement, but simply stared at him with wide and glassy eyes. She had never been so touched, and completely amazed by one person before. She knew that Sherlock was full of surprises, and capable of things which she never believed him possible of. But to have done all that he had done tonight, to have orchestrated something so elaborate and so thoughtful, was so wonderful that it almost reduced her to tears. Instead, she fought back her emotions, and addressed him in a warm yet slightly husky tone.
"So what happens now?" she asked, her bright eyes meeting his own.
"Of course, that is up to you, Watson" he began. "But I was hoping that, if you consent, of course, we could turn off our phones, change into these clothes, and enjoy the evening."
"And what exactly did you have in mind?" she asked in a gentle and inquisitive tone.
"I was hoping that we could dance" he stated simply, as he watched her features light up with his words. "We were interrupted twice before. Both times by crimes that we helped to foil. Although, admittedly, the first occasion was partly hindered by my own weakness and childishness" he stated, pausing only briefly, not wishing her to make an excuse for him. "So now, if you permit it, I would very much like to make it up to you."
Joan smiled at his words, before nodding slightly and returning his gaze. "Where can we change?"
"There is a bathroom just through that door" Sherlock stated, indicating to a door behind the bar, which Joan had not noticed before. "We can change in there, if you wish."
"I do" she replied immediately, gathering up her dress and shoes, as she smiled at him warmly. "I'll just be a minute" she continued, holding the items close to her as she walked around the bar, past the violin-players, and through the door.
When she returned, she found that Sherlock was already dressed in his suit, and was standing proudly, his hands behind his back. As he caught his first glimpse of her, his eyes widened and his breath caught in his throat. The dress fitted her perfectly, as did the shoes, and she looked truly beautiful. Whilst in the bathroom, she had also fixed her hair, which was now plaited and wrapped into a bun, which was secured at the back of her head, in true 1920s-style.
"I feel like we just stepped into a '20s silent film" she stated nervously, as she crossed the room to join Sherlock, who had been waiting for her in anticipation. "But thankfully, it isn't silent" she continued, as Sherlock took a few steps towards her, holding one of her hands tightly, and placing his other hand on her lower back. "We get to be surrounded by this beautiful music."
"Indeed we do, Watson" he stated, pulling her close to him as he spoke. He felt her breath catch in her throat as he did so, before her whole body relaxed into his, and they began to dance across the room in time with the music. "Fortunately for our dance, and for ourselves" he paused for a moment, pressing his cheek against hers as they spoke, "we are no longer restrained by our silence."