Sherlock and Joan danced for hours, with their bodies moving rhythmically to the seductive sound of the music, which completed the atmosphere. The evening was more wonderful than Joan could have imagined, and more successful than Sherlock had dared to hope. It was nine o'clock at night before their tired and weary limbs bade them to stop dancing, and they paused in the centre of the tiled floor, with Joan leaning breathlessly into Sherlock's arms. He closed his eyes in satisfaction as he accepted her embrace, holding her tightly against him, as she breathed heavily into his chest. Although the dancing was over, and their feet were tired and aching, Sherlock and Joan would have both been willing to stand in that spot all night long, with the gentle music soothing them into complete and undisturbed peace and contentment. After remaining on the spot for a period of time which neither of them were able to define, they pulled themselves slowly out of the embrace, and took a small step back. Joan flashed Sherlock a tired smile, which he returned, before shrugging off his dinner jacket and wrapping it around her. The material felt warm and comforting on her shoulders, and reminded her very much of the strength exuded by his arms as he had held her tightly to him just moments before. The jacket contained the essence of Sherlock's seductive scent.
"We have an early start in the morning, Watson" Sherlock stated simply, as she pushed her arms through the arms of the jacket, and adjusted it so that it covered her completely. Sherlock marvelled at how small she was beneath his clothing, which fell to just above her knees. And yet, in her eyes and her features, was the unmistakable expression of strength and courage. It was something which had been gradually disappearing from her features in past few weeks. But now, beneath the dim lights of this idyllic scene, he saw the look he recognised restored to its full and indestructible strength. And he could not be happier.
"Do we?" she asked tiredly, stifling a yawn as she wrapped her arms across her body.
"Yes, Watson" he stated simply, his warm eyes not leaving hers. "Whilst you were changing earlier, I received a call from Captain Gregson, who informed me that Mrs Mathers has agreed to a second interview, which will take place at the precinct tomorrow morning."
"Why didn't you tell me?" she asked, her eyes narrowing with confusion. "If you've known for the past five hours, why would you-"
"As I said, Watson, I wished you to be freed from everything work-related, and everything that causes any degree of stress or uncertainty" he continued, his voice adopting a kinder and warmer expression. "If only for one night."
"It was a wonderful night" she breathed huskily, offering him a small and sombre smile. "And I am so glad that you thought of this. And that you shared it with me" she continued, glancing around the room as she spoke. "I'm going to miss this room."
"'Miss' implies that you will not see it again, or for a prolonged period of time" Sherlock stated, placing his hands in his pockets and taking a few steps forward, before turning back to face her. "This is not the only time you will be here, or experience this. You are welcome any time. In fact, I would be honoured if you would allow me to bring you here more often."
"You'd allow me to enter into your own escape from the world on more than one occasion?" she asked in a congenial tone.
"I hope that I am fortunate enough to be blessed with your company, here or anywhere else, for always, Watson." He spoke soothingly, taking a step towards her as he reached for her hand. As he laced his fingers between her own, Joan looked up into his eyes, and smiled. The music had stopped playing. "Now, should we take our leave before one or both of us turns into a pumpkin?"
Joan smiled widely at this, despite her tiredness, and her fears that this night would never be repeated, despite Sherlock's sincerest entreaties. She squeezed his hand gently in return, before tilting her head back slightly and speaking in a low yet alert manner.
"So in your analogy, which one of us is Cinderella, and which is the prince?"
Sherlock thought for a moment, his mischievous eyes shining brightly as he prepared himself to speak. "I'd hardly describe myself as a prince, Watson" he began, speaking in a rather off-hand manner. "But I must say that my sibling is much uglier than yours. So, make of that what you will." A flicker of pain crossed Joan's eyes, and for a moment Sherlock wished that he had not spoken at all. But then, her eyes lit up once more, and she stared at him with restored eagerness and hope.
"Then let's get you home, Cinders" she stated simply, turning on the spot and leading him towards the door. "Orange is not your colour."
"As you wish, my prince" Sherlock returned, in a faux-posh accent, as he held her hand tightly and followed her across the room and towards the door. Joan smiled to herself, before turning towards the violinists and thanking them for their work. Sherlock seconded her notion, speaking to them kindly and with more sincerity than Joan believed he was able to convey. After thanking the musicians and wishing them a good night, the weary partners walked across the room and towards the door, which Sherlock pushed open with his free hand. "Your highness" he stated, adopting the same tone he had used before. At the sound of Sherlock's voice, and due to the amusing nature of his sentiment, Joan found herself laughing loudly and appreciatively. Sherlock viewed her positive actions and expression with relief, and smiled at her laughter as they ascended the stairs, passed through the rooms, and walked onto the dark and deserted street. A cab was hailed, which drove them back to their home within minutes, where the tired partners exchanged a few pleasant words in the foyer, bade each other goodnight, and prepared to go to their own rooms. Joan walked quickly up a couple of the steps, before pausing on the spot, and holding onto the bannister with one hand. Sherlock stood still for a moment, his eyes narrowing with confusion and concern as he watched her. A moment later, she turned sharply on the spot, descended the few steps she had walked up, and reached down towards the ground. By the time Sherlock had tilted his head to try and ascertain what she was doing, he felt an object being pressed lightly into his chest. His gaze fell down to this object, as he slowly lifted his hand, resting it beneath the item which he had just identified. It was one of Watson's 1920s heels.
"Sleep tight" she mumbled, staring at him with wide and alert eyes, before leaning forward and kissing him lightly on the cheek. Before he had a chance to respond, she turned on the spot once more, and walked briskly up the stairs. Sherlock turned the shoe in his hand for a moment, examining it briefly, before glancing up the stairs and towards the landing. As he did so, he just made out the back of Joan's white lace dress, as she entered her bedroom and closed the door behind her. His glance fell to the shoe once more, which he pressed slightly tighter to his chest, as he smiled.
Joan slept more soundly that night than she had done in recent weeks, which she was grateful for. She woke up the next morning to find that light had flooded into her bedroom, signalling that it was well past what she considered to be an 'inconvenient hour'. She rose one hand tiredly to her forehead, brushing aside some of her hair as she leaned from her side onto her back. As she did so, she became acutely aware of an object at the bottom of her bed, which was resting between her feet. She narrowed her eyes in confusion, before pushing herself up in the bed, and allowing her curious glance to fall upon the offending article. As soon as she realised what it was, all signs of tiredness disappeared from her features, and she gave a small, bright smile. At the bottom of her bed was the house pet, Clyde, who was attempting to push his tiny body up the front of a rather amply-sized pumpkin. Joan leaned forward slightly, reaching for the small nest of green lettuce leaves which Sherlock had evidently placed at the top of the pumpkin to encourage Clyde's exercise. Joan removed the cocktail stick which he had used to secure them, before scooping up Clyde with her free hand, and offering him some leaves. He accepted them gratefully, and continued to munch on them quite contently, as Joan eased herself off the bed and began to walk across the room, through the door and down the stairs. She walked through the living area and into the kitchen, where she found Sherlock eating a bowl of cereal at the table. He turned his head to face her as she entered the room, offering her his best 'innocent' look.
"Would you care to explain why Clyde was engaging in an early-morning root vegetable climb in my bedroom?" she asked, her voice conversational yet with a slight edge of light remonstration.
Sherlock finished chewing and swallowing the cereal in his mouth, before placing the spoon back in the bowl and standing up. He collected his bowl and spoon from the table, and was carrying to the sink as he spoke.
"Clyde simply wished to ensure that neither of us had been transformed into a holiday vegetable" he stated simply, placing the bowl and spoon in the sink and turning to face her. "And we are both very happy to learn that that was not the case."
"So am I" Joan responded immediately, her voice low and warm. Sherlock felt himself flush slightly, his cheeks reddening with mild embarrassment, before he tilted his head up confidently and began to address Joan.
"I assure you, Watson, that there will be no transformations of that description." Joan considered his words for a moment, before nodding in understanding, and passing Clyde to Sherlock, who accepted him willingly.
"I'm very glad to hear it" she stated, in the same low, husky tone. Their fingers brushed lightly during this exchange, causing each to gaze instinctively at the other, exchanging a brief look of comfort and reassurance. Joan allowed her hand to fall from his, before walking over to the stove and heating up the kettle. "What time does Gregson want us at the precinct?" she asked in her usual pleasant and conversational tone.
"In about forty-five minutes. Mrs Mathers is expected to arrive at ten-thirty" he replied, his voice adopting its usual tone. "Is that agreeable?"
"Of course" she returned, speaking over her shoulder as she poured herself a cup of tea. She placed the kettle back on the stove before wrapping her hands around her mug, and carrying it as she walked through the room. "I'll be fifteen minutes." Sherlock nodded in understanding, brushing past her as he made his way towards the stove, and pouring himself a cup of tea. By the time he had finished the cup, which he sipped slowly whilst going over the details of the night before, Joan Watson was once more by his side. "You ready?" she asked, as she moved between the kitchen and the living room, collecting her various items and putting them into her shoulder bag. Sherlock nodded in agreement, placing the cup on the table before walking through the living room and towards the foyer. Joan joined him moments later, and before she could reach for her coat, he plucked it deftly from the rack, and opened it up for her. She eased herself backwards into it, as he ran his hands down its arms, before she turned on the spot, speaking to him as she removed her hair from the back and began to secure the zipper. She gave him a grateful look, which he nodded at in acknowledgement, before they left the building and made their way to the precinct.
The precinct was fairly busy that morning, with officers, witnesses and detainees creating a busy atmosphere. Despite this, the tall and confident figure of Captain Gregson was easily discernible. As soon as Sherlock and Joan had entered the building, Gregson and Bell strolled briskly across the precinct and made straight for them, throwing his head back slightly as he prepared to address them.
"Mrs Mathers will be here in fifteen minutes" he stated simply, as Bell appeared from behind him and stood by his side.
"She's comin' in alone" Bell interposed, as he flipped the cover over his notebook before placing it in his pocket. "So, hopefully she'll be more forthcoming with information without the presence of her husband."
"Although I'm not holding my breath" Gregson stated forlornly, crossing his arms across his chest and leaning back slightly as he spoke. "But unless she comes up with the goods, we may have to let Thompson go."
"What?" Joan asked quietly, her voice adopting a low and nervous tone which instantly attracted the attention of Sherlock. She realised this, and sought to remedy the issue. "I thought he was still your strongest suspect..." she continued, speaking in a slightly more confident manner.
"He was. Is, I... look, this isn't somethin' I wanna do, okay?" Gregson began, speaking in a hushed tone. "But we have been holding him here for three days now. Unless we charge him with somethin', my hands are tied."
"Captain, this is a dangerous man with a history of stalking and violence" Joan stated, her eyes ablaze with fear and anger. "You can't just let him go."
"I'm not just letting him go, Miss Watson" Gregson spoke soothingly, uncrossing his arms as he addressed her. "I'll have a couple of my guys following him until we get something more concrete. But unless we can get some tangible proof of his involvement in these crimes, the only stuff we've got is circumstantial. And to be honest, I'm starting to have my doubts."
"What about, Captain?" Sherlock asked, hoping to assist in clarifying any outstanding issues without causing Joan any further distress. He did not want all the progress she had made in recent weeks to be undone. "What is it that has caused you to have doubts?"
"It's just... the evidence is too circumstantial" he stated, shifting uncomfortably on the spot.
"You believe that Mr Thompson is being set up?" Sherlock asked, a hint of incredulity present in his voice. As he spoke the words, he considered the evidence in his mind, and began to run over possibilities and alternatives in his mind. But, in all honesty, he could find very few. In truth, he had been considering the same thing as the Captain.
"I know he has connections to three of the four victims, and his history would certainly make him a person of interest. The fact his alibis are shaky or non-existent also don't do him any favours" Gregson rationalised, gazing from Sherlock to Joan as he spoke. "But I'm not convinced."
"Why?" Sherlock probed.
"It's too clean. Too circumstantial. Too... too obvious." Gregson stated, raising one hand in the air as he spoke. "Look, I get the personal link you guys have in this guy, but I-"
"There is no personal link" Joan spoke calmly. "We met, we went out, and that was it. I have no vested interest in the guy. I just think that the evidence we have against him cannot be ignored, and should not be undervalued" she continued, her voice adopting a low and gentle tone. "I think that releasing him at this stage would be a really bad idea."
"I don't like it any more than you do" Gregson said, shaking his head sadly. "But unless Mrs Mathers IDs him, I'm not gonna have a choice." Joan exhaled, closing her eyes and she nodded in understanding. She knew that he was right, and that the evidence they had against Thompson was far from concrete. But the evidence they had drew direct links between him and some of the victims, and was not something they could overlook.
"We must be missing something" Joan stated, placing one hand on her hip as she tried to understand the situation.
"I agree" Sherlock stated, clasping his hands together and resting them in front of him. "And I believe that it is something we should look into. But right now, we must focus on this interview. Mrs Mathers is certainly hiding something, and her safety, as well as the safety of others, is dependent on her telling us." Gregson, Bell and Joan nodded in response, all agreeing with his statement. Sherlock and Joan followed Gregson and Bell into an empty interview room, and ran through some of the files on the preliminary evidence of Mrs Mathers' attack, in preparation for the forthcoming discussion. A few minutes later, two officers escorted Mrs Mathers into the room.
Mrs Mathers was dressed all in black, and although her eyes were not red or aggravated, it was clear that she had been crying. Joan felt drawn towards the woman once more, and rose from her seat as soon as she set eyes on her forlorn figure. She took a few steps across the room, before resting an arm reassuringly upon the younger woman's shoulder, and escorted her to her seat. Although Mrs Mathers was attempting to appear as in control and confident as she always was, it was clear that she was far from it. She did not utter a word during these first few moments, and simply allowed herself to be led to her seat, whilst walking with a straight back and her head up straight, in an attempt to appear completely composed. As she eased herself into her seat, she adjusted her black jacket, before staring ahead directly at Gregson and Bell, casting a steely and almost icy glare at both detectives in turn. She then lifted her head slightly, giving Sherlock a piercing stare, before allowing her eyes to rest upon Joan. Instead of casting her a frightening and almost threatening look, she simply nodded. Joan took this as her cue to begin.
"Thank you for coming in, Mrs Mathers" she began, speaking in a soft and soothing voice. "I know it can't have been easy. And not just because of your injuries."
Mrs Mathers scoffed slightly, turning her head to the side and staring at the window as she considered Joan's words. She crossed her arms across her chest, inhaling sharply as she began to feel some discomfort in her abdomen, before adjusting herself in her seat and staring ahead at Joan. Mrs Mathers' expression was blank, impassive and virtually unreadable.
"I'm fine, Miss Watson" she stated simply, her voice adopting the same cold and almost arrogant tone which they had witnessed in the hospital. "I just wished to clear a few things up with you to save any further confusion."
"Alright" Joan responded, before clasping her hands together in her lap, and waiting patiently for Mrs Mathers to continue.
"My husband, you understand, is unaware of my... of the relationship I had outside of our marriage" she stated, her eyes widening as she spoke. "And I wish it to remain that way."
"It is not our job to out you, Mrs Mathers" Bell stated, in a simple yet gentle tone. "You're the victim of a violent crime, by a man we believe to be highly dangerous and a threat to numerous women. All we wanna do is protect you and them."
"I appreciate that" she responded simply, not looking at Bell as she spoke. "But I was not lying to you the other day. I do not know who attacked me. They wore all black, had their face covered by a mask. My memory is not... it is hazy, you understand."
"We know, Mrs Mathers. And I'm sorry for keep having to drag this up, and make you relive it all" stated Gregson, leaning across the desk as he spoke. "But we need complete disclosure from you, alright? It is essential that you tell us everything that you know." Mrs Mathers nodded hesitantly, before unfolding her arms and resting her clasped hands on the table, and staring steely at Gregson as he spoke.
"My husband's presence, combined with the... the affect of the attack itself, made it difficult for me to be completely forthcoming" she stated simply, in a cool and dismissive tone. "Now, what is it that you want to know?"
Gregson reached into a file by his side and pulled out a small selection of photographs. Amongst them was Jake Thompson, as well as the man Mrs Mathers recently dismissed from her staff. She stared at the images blankly for a few moments, before casting an accusatory glance up at the Captain, who met her gaze.
"Do you recognise either of these men?" Gregson asked, pushing the photos closer to her. Mrs Mathers pursed her lips, and tapped lightly upon the image of Mr Pierce, her former employee, before beginning to speak.
"Riley Pierce was... highly unsuitable. He was rude, he was untrustworthy. A thoroughly incompetent individual" she began, adopting the tone of voice she would use in the boardroom. "He was dismissed from his position several months ago" she continued, pushing his photograph back towards Gregson. "So why do I find myself staring at his image now?"
"Was he the man you were having the affair with?" Sherlock asked, as he leaned against the wall with his arms folded.
"Most certainly not" Mrs Mathers returned, staring coldly at him.
"Do you believe he could be the person who attacked you four nights ago?" Joan asked gently, wishing to relieve the tension in the room.
"I don't know" she said simply, casting her gaze onto Joan.
"Really?" Joan asked. "It's just... with every question we've asked you so far, you've given a fairly specific or certain answer. But not now" she continued, speaking gently as she probed the issue further. "Why's that?"
"As I've already said, Miss Watson" she began, crossing her arms once more. "My memory of that night is far from complete. All I remember about this individual is that he was tall, dressed all in black, slim, strong. Beyond that, I am afraid that I am utterly unable to assist you in ascertaining his identity."
"Alright" Joan responded eventually, nodding as she spoke. "And what about this man?" she continued, indicating the image of Jake Thompson. "Have you seen him before?"
"No" Mrs Mathers responded, her gaze not leaving Joan's face. "I have never seen that man before."
"You are quite certain?" asked Sherlock from the back of the room, as he shifted slightly on the spot.
"Yes" she answered instantly, tilting her head to the side to watch him as she spoke.
"So you weren't having an affair with him either?" Sherlock added.
Mrs Mathers' eyes were alight with rage, and for a moment Joan thought she was actually going to stand up and cross the room to approach Sherlock. Thankfully, her fears were allayed when the businesswoman began to address the question.
"I was not" she began, staring at him with such intensity that Joan felt as though she could feel the power behind the woman's stare. "And I do not understand your obsession with... with the person in question. I assure you, the information you are trying to obtain is irrelevant."
"How can you be so sure?" Gregson asked.
"Because the person in question most certainly did not attack me."
"How do you know?" asked Sherlock incredulously. "I mean, you said yourself, that your recollection of the events of that night is hazy, and that you know relatively little about the characteristics or features of the person who attacked you. So, how do you know that it was not your lover?"
"The description does not fit" she returned immediately, looking towards Sherlock with disdain.
"In what sense?" he asked, his eyes narrowing in confusion.
Mrs Mathers' temper, which she had been attempting to control, was not lasting. She was growing incredibly impatient with what she deemed to be a tiresome line of questioning.
"Are you asking me this because you genuinely believe the person to be a suspect, or simply because you want the details on my extra-marital affairs?" she asked coldly, staring at Sherlock once more.
"Affairs?" He repeated. "Plural? More than one?"
"No" she returned immediately. "No, Mr Holmes, I assure you. One was quite enough."
"Bad break up, was it?" he returned, but Mrs Mathers did not take the bait. She simply scoffed once more, before giving him another of her now trademark cold glares.
"Mr Holmes, believe me, you are wrong. Why are you so invested in this particular line of enquiry?" Sherlock pushed himself from the wall slightly, uncrossing his arms and placing them by his side as he spoke.
"Because your attack, as well as the attacks on the other women, was personal. It was cold, it was cruel, and it was calculated. It was carried out by an individual with a passionate hatred of the women. A passionate hatred of you, Mrs Mathers. Now, I ask you, what could inspire such hatred more than a jilted lover?"
"Any number of things, I presume" she returned, having been seemingly unaffected by his words.
"Mrs Mathers, forgive me for the question" Joan began, drawing the irate woman's attention back towards her. "But do you think it's possible that your husband could have found out about your affair."
"Absolutely not, no" she returned immediately, shifting slightly in her seat as she recrossed her arms. "In any case, my husband is not a violent man."
"Which, unfortunately for him, may be a sign of his guilt" Sherlock stated simply, as he began to gesture with his hands. "The person we are looking for appears calm and patient, but beneath that exterior is burning hatred and extreme anger. Anger which, if not dealt with, will only lead to the deaths of other women, and a possible second attempt on your own life." He continued, staring back at Mrs Mathers with conviction. She seemed completely unaffected by his words, and he was growing frustrated at her attempts to stonewall them at every possible opportunity.
"My husband is not the man you are looking for. In any case, he was out of town the night it happened. He arrived back this morning and came straight from the airport."
"Actually he didn't" Joan stated, in a soft and respectful tone. "We checked with customs. Your husband did not return at 7.56am as he claimed. Instead, he took an earlier flight, and touched down in the city at 8.47pm the night before, almost twelve hours before he said he did."
Mrs Mathers seemed to be visibly taken aback by this news. Her calm exterior had begun to break down, and her eyes adopted a wild and frightened look. But within moments, this was gone, and her cold and aloof expression had returned.
"That's impossible" she stated in a low tone, her voice slightly shaky.
"We've double checked, Mrs Mathers. He arrived at the airport the evening before." Sherlock stated simply. "Now, can you think of any reason why he would lie to you?"
"No" she replied, shaking her head as she spoke. "But there will be an explanation."
"Indeed" he stated, nodding her head slowly. "And one explanation that we must consider, is whether he caught an earlier flight in order to attempt to make you pay for your indiscretion."
"You're wrong" she stated, her voice slightly choked. Sherlock was slightly taken aback by this, and leaned back into the wall as he considered her words. It was not just the words, but the sentiment, and the tone. They reminded him very much of Joan's use of the same words just a few days before whilst on the roof, when he rebuffed her beliefs and statements regarding the nature of their relationship. He shook this memory from his mind, and attempted to suppress the feelings of guilt which were rising within him. As he did so, he turned back to Mrs Mathers, and continued to talk.
"And you are quite certain that-"
"He does not know about the affair, and he did not attack me last night" she stated acidly. "He couldn't have."
"Why?" Joan asked tentatively, unclasping her hands and resting them on her lap.
"He's my husband" she stated simply, her voice choked by anger. "He is not capable of something like this."
"People are often capable of things other never expected. Even things that they themselves never expected, Mrs Mathers" Sherlock stated, his voice low and almost respectful. "But it is something we must consider."
"Consider it all you like" she spat, pushing her chair out as she rose from the table. "But you are wrong. And all the time you are spending accusing my husband, my former employee, and this guy-" she paused, raising the picture of Jake Thompson from the table, before throwing it back down in anger. "You are allowing the true perpetrator to evade you. It is you who is running out of time, not me." As she turned to leave, Captain Gregson rose from his seat, and took a step towards her.
"Mrs Mathers, please sit down, we need to-"
"No, thank you Captain" she stated simply. "I would like to go home."
"Home?" Joan asked. "As in your apartment?"
"Of course" she responded obliviously. "Where else would I go?"
"Mrs Mathers, will you accept police protection? I wanna have a security detail ensure that-"
"In case my husband tries to kill me again?" She spat, staring back at Gregson with a hateful expression. "Thank you, but I'll take my chances."
With that, Mrs Mathers stormed out of the office, causing the forlorn detectives in the room to sigh in frustration. Joan rested her head in her hand, closing her eyes for a moment as she considered the turbulent events of the previous few minutes. She snapped out of her thoughts as the door slammed after Mrs Mathers, which shocked her into action. Joan began collecting the papers which lay across the desk, and was placing them back into their relevant files. As she did so, she ran her fingers over the image of Jake Thomson, before raising the image from the table and staring at it for a few seconds.
"You're letting him go, aren't you?" Joan asked, in a low and slightly tired tone.
"I don't have a choice" Gregson shrugged, running a hand through his hair. "But I'm gonna have him tailed. If he so much as runs a red light, I'm gonna haul him straight back in here." Gregson grabbed some files from the desk and made his way to the door, with Bell following close behind. Joan sat motionless and silent for a few moments, her hand resting upon the closed file in front of her. She considered the exchanges of the past few minutes, and her mind felt alive with thoughts and possibilities. She was considering some of the statements made by Mrs Mathers, before the sound of her own name drew her from her thoughts.
"Watson" Sherlock called gently, taking a few steps towards her. "Are you alright?"
"Do you think she could be covering for the husband?" Joan asked, drumming her fingers upon the closed file. "I mean, it would make sense, wouldn't it? Outing him would involve revealing her own dirty little secret. And maybe she loves him, deep down. I dunno." Sherlock walked around the table and took up the seat opposite Joan, where he sat for a few moments, observing her with interest.
"Watson" he repeated, as he placed his hand upon her own. The warmth and security of his grasp comforted her almost completely, and she found herself closing her eyes and savouring the moment, before forcing herself to immerse herself in their investigation.
"I think we should look into the husband" she replied, lifting her glance to meet his gaze. Sherlock watched her for a moment and, upon realising that discussing anything which was not case-related would be pointless at this particular moment in time, he decided to assist her in the best way that he could.
"I agree" he stated, squeezing her hand gently as he spoke. "There could be a perfectly reasonable explanation as to why he lied to his wife about his arrival back in the city. Perhaps he is having an affair of his own." Joan considered this for a moment, before shaking her head confidently.
"He doesn't seem like the type" she reasoned, her voice returning to its normal state. "I mean, you saw him, right? He is totally devoted to her?"
"They never do seem to be 'the type', Watson" Sherlock returned. "And his devotion, whilst deeply touching" he began, pronouncing the last two words with clear scepticism which bordered on disdain, "could be easily faked." Joan sighed as he spoke, and Sherlock could feel her hand go limp beneath his own.
"Do you really believe that?" she asked, raising her eyes nervously to meet his own.
"I believe that... anything is possible." He stated simply, before grasping her hand tightly. He squeezed it gently once more, before moving his hand under her own, placing his fingers between hers, and drawing her hand closer to him. He bent his head slightly, and closed his eyes, before planting a gentle kiss upon the back of her hand. She smile subconsciously at the action, and derived a much needed confidence boost and sense of reassurance from the sensation. She smiled at him gratefully, before allowing their hands to fall to the table, where they rested for just a few more seconds, before disentangling themselves.
"Thanks" she spoke softly, smiling as she did. Sherlock nodded in acknowledgement, before sliding the file away from Joan's grasp, and placing it at the other end of the table.
"Until Captain Gregson has some news on the surveillance operation on Mr Thompson, there is relatively little we can do" he stated simply, clasping his hands together and resting them on the table. "I suggest we head back to the brownstone, and look into Mr Mathers. His work, his hobbies, his personal life. But, most importantly, his reasons for deceiving his wife about the time in which he arrived back in the city."
"Sure" Joan stated tiredly, pushing herself out from beneath the table. Sherlock was surprised at her easy acquiescence, but did not wish to question it at this stage. Instead, he simply led her from the room, through the precinct and onto the street, where they hailed a nearby cab and headed home.
Sherlock and Joan spent the next seven hours researching Mr Mathers, looking into his employment history, his finances, and his personal life. Whilst yielding fairly interesting and, on occasion, slightly unexpected results, the consulting detectives could find nothing to suggest that Mr Mathers was hiding anything, had violent tendencies, or had any designs upon the life of his wife. From his recent actions, credit history and employment reports, there was nothing to suggest that he his actions were unusual or irregular. Nor did the partners find anything to suggest that he was aware of his wife's infidelity. Whilst they had been looking into the reasons behind his early arrival into the country, and his decision to keep this fact from his wife, they found that this was one of the easiest mysteries to solve. The day after she was attacked, Mrs Mathers and Mr Mathers celebrated their fifteenth wedding anniversary. Mr Mathers had flown back earlier than he told his wife in order to orchestrate a surprise dinner party for her and some close friends which, after her attack, was promptly cancelled, and not discussed with her. This fact was confirmed by the catering company, musicians, and half a dozen close friends of the Mathers'. Mr Mathers spent part of the late evening, as well as some of the night, discussing the final details of the elaborate engagement with various organisations, all of which had been confirmed.
By seven o'clock in the evening, Joan's mind was racing, and filled with nothing but grainy images, quotes from witness statements, descriptions of the man they were looking for, and a menu for the anniversary dinner. All of which, she was sad to admit, had caused her to feel rather confused and tired once more. As she pondered this thought, she removed her glasses, eased herself up from her spot on the floor in the lounge, and made her way into the kitchen, where Sherlock was preparing yorkshire puddings for the fourth time that evening.
"I'm gonna go for a run" she said simply, her voice normal but slightly tired. Sherlock turned to face her immediately, and she smiled slightly at the sight of the consulting detective wearing a blue batter-sprayed apron, as he held a whisk in mid-air. "I won't be long. I just need to clear my head, then come back to all of this with fresh eyes."
"You should rest, Watson" he said soothingly, lowering the whisk slightly. "You can always come back to this in the morning."
"I'm fine, really" she assured him, shrugging her shoulders as she spoke, in an attempt to undo the knots which had been forming in them, due to the fact that she had been sitting in the same position for such a prolonged period of time. "I haven't been running in a while, it'll be good for me. For you, too. And the case." She stated, raising her arms as she spoke. "I'm gonna go and get changed, and head straight out. I won't be more than an hour, okay?"
"Yes, Watson, of course" Sherlock responded, nodding enthusiastically, before turning from her and continuing to whisk the batter to batch number five. Joan smiled once more at the sight, before turning on her heels and walking slowly up the steps, conviction shining in her eyes.
Joan dressed quickly and left the brownstone within minutes, and was determined to run off her concerns, and approach the case with a new perspective. As she ran, she considered the victims, the evidence, and the issues they were currently facing. Earlier in the day, when she had been talking to the others before the meeting, she said that she believed that they had missed something, and she still did. There was something so subtle, and yet so grand, that they were yet to see it. As she ran through the park and along the side of the river, she began to worry whether it was too late.
At that moment, the music Joan had been listening to stopped suddenly, and the sound of her ringtone filled the air. She stopped running for a moment, breathing heavily as she leaned on the rails, before extracting the phone from her pocket at glancing at the caller ID. Her eyes narrowed in confusion as she stared at the unfamiliar number, before accepting the call and raising the phone to her ear, speaking breathlessly as she addressed the person on the other end of the call.
"Joan Watson" she stated, breathing deeply as she spoke.
"Miss Watson" came the low, frightened tone of a woman whose voice it took her a few moments to recognise. "I... I need you to... I need your help, I-" the voice broke off, and descended into painful, unrestrained sobbing. Joan found that her breathing was suddenly very much in control, and her senses were as keen and alert as they ever had been, forced out of hibernation due to this new sense of imminent danger.
"Mrs Mathers" Joan stated calmly, in a gentle yet confident voice. "What's happened? Are you alright?"
"You were right, you... my God, you were right..." she continued, panting breathlessly between the sobs. "I... it's happening again, Miss Watson, I.. I need you to-" before she could continue, Joan heard the smashing of glass, and the scream of Mrs Mathers, before the line went dead.
"Mrs Mathers? Mrs Mathers?" Joan called desperately into the phone, despite knowing that the low beeping tone she was receiving as a response was the only answer she would get.
Joan glanced around her for a moment, before placing one hand on her hip and dialling a number into her cellphone, and placing it back to her ear.
"Captain Gregson?" she stated, her voice calm yet authoritative. "I just got a panicked call from Mrs Mathers, she needs urgent assistance, please send officers immediately, and meet me at her apartment. I'm just a few blocks away, so I'll be there in a couple of minutes." Joan hung up the phone before Gregson had a chance to respond, as she knew that neither of them had the time for the argument that was bound to happen. And, regardless of what he would say or do to try to entice her to remain where she was, she would not be following those instructions.
Instead, Joan placed the phone back in her pocket, and sprinted the four blocks to Mrs Mathers' apartment building, dashing across the busy roads and deftly avoiding being struck by oncoming traffic. As she entered the apartment complex, she made straight for the elevator, pressing the buttons quickly, before leaning up against the cool glass as the doors closed firmly behind her. She leaned into the coolness of the glass, tilting her head back as she took in some breaths, and tried to calm her racing head and heart. Throughout the entirety of her short journey to the building, she felt her phone ringing constantly in her pocket. She did not have the time or the ability to answer any of the calls, most of which she was certain would be made by Sherlock who would, by now, be rushing to her. She sighed at this thought, of the idea that she had caused him to worry. But at the same time, she realised that it was the only choice that she had. As the elevator came to a stop and the doors opened in front of her, she stepped onto the familiar landing, and found herself free from the thoughts of the last few moments. Instead, her mind was focused completely and intently upon the frightened woman behind the door just fifteen feet away.
Joan walked slowly and cautiously towards the door, which was opened a few inches, but revealed no immediate signs of a struggle. By the time Joan reached the door, her breathing was completely under control, as was her ability to think calmly and rationally. She placed her warm hand upon the exterior of the door, and pushed it lightly, so it opened halfway. She leaned forward slightly, peering into the rooms, and identifying the emergency which Mrs Mathers had evidently predicted. Less than ten feet from the front door, in the space between the kitchen and the living area, lay Mrs Mathers, silent and motionless, her phone clutched in her open hand. As soon as Joan registered this sight, she pushed the door open completely, before rushing forward to the injured woman. As soon as she had seen this sight, her years of medical training and experience had kicked in, and leaned over the bloodied body of the younger woman, reaching to her neck to find a pulse. Mrs Mathers was breathing, but her pulse was extremely weak. It was clear from her position on the ground, and the blood which was pooling around her head, that she had been struck with a heavy object, and rendered unconscious. Joan realised the need to assess the woman's head injury, and so adjusted her kneeling position in order to study her ailment closer. Before her fingers touched her bare skin, she heard the sound of footsteps behind her, and found herself frozen to her spot, crouched upon the ground.
"Don't move, Miss Watson" came the sound of a familiar voice from behind her. Joan's eyes widened in shock, and she allowed her hand to hover slightly over the exposed neck of the unconscious Mrs Mathers. "Try anything, and you'll end up the same way." As soon as Joan heard this second statement, she turned her head slowly around to face the figure behind her. The familiar figure stood tall behind her, dressed all in black, holding a large knife in one hand, and a bloodied paperweight in the other. As soon as Joan saw these articles, she felt her heart beat slightly faster, and her breath catch in her throat. She found herself thinking back to the incident by the elevator, where the killer had attacked her, pinned her to the wall and almost made her one of the victims. And yet, despite that, despite everything, she had still not recognised the perpetrator. But now, as she found herself gazing at the exposed face of the person responsible, she found herself having a near perfect understanding of all of the past events, which now seemed to be so simple, so obvious, and yet so completely and utterly unexpected.
"It's alright" Joan stated eventually, her voice calm and confident, as she raised her eyes to meet those of the attacker. "We can talk about this, okay? But I need you to put that knife down." The figure behind her suppressed a slight laugh, before allowing the paperweight to fall to the ground, where it shattered into hundreds of tiny pieces.
"I can't do that, I'm afraid" returned Maria Lennard, before taking a few steps closer to Joan, and holding the knife just inches from her face. "I'm not quite done yet".