Joan stared at the tall, looming figure ahead of her, and found a series of thoughts passing through her mind in just a few moments. As she gazed warily upon the poised, lithe young woman, she remembered the details of the person who attacked her by the elevator. That tall, strong individual who had pinned her against the wall, and almost made her one of his victims. One of her victims. As soon as this thought had passed through her mind, she found herself thinking of the previous crimes, and of the woman behind them, Maria Lennard. The young, meek PA whose heart had been broken by a lover was, in actual fact, a cruel, calculating and heartless serial killer, who was taking the lives of women who embodied some of the physical, psychological and career-related traits of her lover, with the intention of making the woman who broke her heart the final victim. Until now, she thought. As Joan's eyes dropped to the glint of the knife which the young woman was holding in her right hand, she felt her stomach tighten, and a nauseous feeling overcame her. How could she have been so wrong about this woman? When Maria had come to identify Jake, Joan had felt emotionally drawn to her, and had wanted to help her more than anything. Whilst they were talking in the coffee shop, her pain and her sorrow at her relationship troubles touched Joan, and she felt that she was able to relate to the younger woman on a deep, personal level. She had considered them kindred spirits, in a sense. United in the fact that they had both been left devastated by the actions of the person who they loved, and who they thought loved them back. As Joan's eyes left the blade and returned to the dark expression on the face of Miss Lennard, she found her fear and her confusion disappear as quickly as they came, and she found herself feeling something which both startled and perplexed her. She felt betrayed.
"The coffee shop" Joan stated simply, pressing her palm onto the ground in an attempt to steady herself. "When you were talking about your lover, it was... it was her, wasn't it?" She continued, despite already knowing the answer to her own question. "Your former boss."
"Yes" Maria returned, sucking in her bottom lip and lowering the knife slightly, causing Joan to relax slightly. "Not only did she dump me, but she forced me out of my job, too. She told me that I could either leave with a glowing reference, or leave in disgrace." Her eyes darkened once more, and Joan noticed that the hand holding the knife began to shake slightly, causing the blade to tap lightly against Maria's thigh. "Like she hadn't taken enough from me."
"She betrayed you" Joan offered kindly, which caused Maria's eyes to turn to her instantly. "Whilst we were talking, I got the impression you and your partner had been seeing each other for a while..." Joan stated, leaning back slightly, until she was resting on her kneeling legs.
"Three months" Maria returned, staring at the unconscious woman before her. "And then we... we almost got caught, once, here. By her husband. But she made an excuse, said I was just changing for a date which I was going to after work. He fell for it, too." She stated, her eyes narrowing in confusion and remonstrance. "But he would. He's a puppy-eyed fool who'll believe anything this bitch says."
"So she got scared, right? She ended the affair to protect herself. Her marriage, her reputation, her career." Joan continued, in a kind and gentle tone, despite the rising feeling of agitation which was permeating throughout her body. She knew that the police would be there soon, but she also knew that she was running out of time. Maria was conversational, but not calm. Behind her eyes, and in her expression, Joan saw just how unstable the young woman was. And, once again, she felt betrayed. Not by Maria this time, but by herself. With all of her medical expertise, and her experience in both her medical and sober-companion careers, she had missed this, so totally and completely. She found herself wondering what else she had missed, too. Not about the case, or even about Maria Lennard. But about Sherlock and, even more startlingly, about herself. Before Joan could consider this further, she was torn from her thoughts by a sudden awareness of how quiet the room had become. She knew that the silence would only increase the chances of Maria realising how untenable her current position was. Although she could not know that Joan had already informed the authorities, she was not in a position to be thinking logically. Right now, Joan was not a threat to her evasion of the police or criminal persecution. Instead, Joan was, quite simply, another target.
"You know what her last words were to me?" Maria asked, her face having adopted a vacant expression as she stared at the couch on the other side of the room. "She told me that if I ever told anyone about us, she would ruin me. She'd discredit me, and ensure I was blacklisted from all companies in New York, and then adjoining states." Maria blinked once, which seemed to draw her out of her temporary trance. She then tilted her head slowly to the left, and stared directly at Joan, who was watching her with a sympathetic yet wary expression. "As if losing my girlfriend and my job wasn't enough. She threatened to take my future, too." Maria Lennard's eyes darkened, and she lifted the knife in her left hand, and pointed it directly at the unconscious woman lying on the ground behind Joan. "She was wrong though" Maria said simply, her hand shaking slightly, causing the blade to tremour. Joan's eyes fell from Maria's face to the blade, before being drawn back to the young woman's face as she continued to speak. "She controlled me, she controlled the past, and our future. But I control hers."
"What Greta did was awful, it cannot be condoned, and she was wrong. But she does not deserve this, no one does" Joan responded, lifting her gaze to meet Maria's cold eyes. "What about Melissa?" She asked, her tone remaining gentle, yet adopting a notable degree of firmness. "And Alexis, and Alana? What about their futures?"
"What about them?" Maria spat, lowering her arm once more, and turning to face Joan directly.
"They were innocent women, Maria. They were young, they had their lives ahead of them, and they had absolutely nothing to do with Greta's betrayal. In fact, you were telling me about just how much Alana helped you, about how well she listened and was compassionate and kind" Joan paused for a moment, suddenly wary of how vulnerable she was at that moment. "But you killed her."
"They were all just like her!" Maria retorted, her voice rising as she took a step closer to Joan, who inhaled sharply, and felt her entire body tense. "They... she-"
"They were not like her, Maria" Joan stated simply, in a low and gentle tone. "They did not betray you. They were just ordinary women going about their daily lives, dealing with their own issues and their own problems and, in Alana's case" Joan paused for a moment, and detected a slight quiver on Maria's lip at the mention of her kindly boss's name, "tried to help you with your own."
Maria's right arm began to shake again, and the familiar sound of the blade tapping against her thigh permeated the silence, and filled Joan with dread. She knew the young woman was deeply troubled, and was concerned for the safety of her and herself. But she also knew that the best way to prevent the situation from escalating any further, and the quickest way of getting Greta the medical attention that she so desperately needed, was to try to prevent Maria from feeling trapped or pressured.
"It's not too late, Maria. It doesn't have to be like this." Joan stated, with drew the younger woman's attention back to her. "Greta hurt you. She abused you, and your relationship, and then she threatened you. But she does not deserve to die. You don't have to go through with this, you don't have to take another life. Instead, you can do the one thing that she was unable to do, and in doing so, you will be truly free from her" Joan continued, pausing for a moment while Maria turned her head towards her, a wary and sceptical expression gracing her features. "You can let her go without causing her any more pain."
"After everything I have done, after everything she did to me-"
"You should be aware of just how toxic the effects of betrayal can be on someone. It changes you, it makes you do things you never dreamed you were capable of doing. And, in your case" Joan stated, attempting to choose her words carefully. "In your case, innocent people were the victims of your betrayal. But killing Greta will not console you, and it will not give you closure" Joan continued, her voice low yet agreeable. "By killing her, you would be punishing yourself in the ultimate way, in a way far greater than the manner in which she punished you. You would be condemning yourself, you would be taking the life of yet another human being, of someone you were close to, who you had a connection with. And despite the animosity, despite everything that she did to you, you would never, ever forgive yourself."
"I don't want forgiveness."
"From others? Perhaps not. But from yourself?" Joan asked gently, tilting her head to the side for a moment.
Maria turned to face her, her eyes half-closed and glassy. She appeared to be in an almost trance-like state. Joan watched her with wariness and uncertainty, as she ran over her own words in her mind, and considered whether her candidness had been a grave mistake. Before she could continue to think, or continue her discussion with Maria, the uncomfortable silence in the room was replaced by a deafening, and dangerous sound. Police sirens, which were wailing in the distance, but rapidly approaching the current location.
Maria's eyes widened, and she turned instinctively towards the window. Her arms flew out by her sides, and she exhaled deeply, before turning around and facing Joan with terrifyingly cold, callous eyes. Before she even moved, Joan knew what she was going to do.
"You betrayed me" Maria spat, her hand clenched around the hilt of the blade, which was shaking uncontrollably in her trembling hand. "She did too. And, like you, she survived the first time" Maria's eyes darkened, and adopted a sinister yet absent expression. "But I won't make that mistake again."
Before Joan could speak, Maria rushed towards her, with the blade rose in the air. Joan acted immediately, pushing herself off the ground and grabbing Maria's right forearm, pushing it and her bladed hand as far away from her as possible. They struggled for a few moments, before Joan was pushed forcibly against the wall by the door, in a manner which reminded her vividly of her initial attack by the elevator. As soon as this memory entered her mind, Joan brushed it away, banishing it to the darkest corner of her conscience. Maria was strong, she was capable, and she was more than willing to make Joan her final victim. She pinned her to the wall with incredible force, and the knife she was wielding in her right hand was coming dangerous close to Joan's neck.
Despite having been in this position before, and having fought her off and successfully protected her own life, Joan found herself believing that, this time, she would not be as lucky. She was pushing against Maria's arm, and attempting to move the blade as far away from her as she could. But her hands were becoming clammy, and she could feel her grip loosen slightly. In the ten to fifteen that they had been struggling with each other, the blade had moved six inches closer to Joan's face, and was now mere inches from her neck. After a few more seconds, Joan's right hand lost its grip completely on Maria's arm, causing the blade to move further towards her. Fortunately, Joan was able to regain control of herself, and Joan caught her attacker's arm in a firm grip, just as the steel of the blade reached her neck. Despite her recovery, her loss was a costly one. At that precise moment, Joan was acutely aware of the fact that the tip of Maria's blade was pressed firmly into her neck. A slight trickle of blood down her throat caused Joan to fight harder, pressing her fingers deeply into Maria's arm, and pushing back with all her might. But it wasn't enough, and she knew it. But she had no intention of giving up.
Joan continued to hold Maria's arm with a level of strength and conviction that she did not know she possessed. The police sirens which had been blaring in the distance, were becoming louder and louder, which gave Joan a renewed sense of confidence and strength. She pushed admirable against Maria's arm, causing the blade to depart from her neck, but at a cost. The strength of Joan's push resulted in both of her hands falling from Maria's arm, leading to the former falling against the wall. Joan closed her eyes in pain, but could feel Maria's left hand upon her shoulder, and opened her eyes in time to see the blade rose high in the air, before Maria prepared herself to descend it, accurately and fatally, into Joan's body. Joan struggled on the spot for a moment, but knew it was fruitless. She closed her eyes in apprehension of the blow, before pushing hard against the hand which was clasped around her neck. Joan then opened her eyes, staring directly at Maria, who drew her bladed hand back in one swift and terrifying motion.
Before the blade could be brought forward an inch, Joan witnessed the body of Maria Lennard being thrown to the ground, by a dark-coated figure, whose red scarf swam in his wake. Sherlock.
Joan leaned against the wall, paralysed and struggling to make sense of the events of the past couple of seconds. Maria Lennard had been poised and ready to attack, when the figure of her partner had appeared, and thrown the woman to the ground, and himself on top of her. As Joan watched the two before her, she found the sight in front of her a sobering one. Sherlock had pinned Maria to the ground, but she was kicking and flailing wildly beneath his grasp, as he attempted to secure her bladed hand. She was lying on her back and, as Sherlock moved to grab the blade, she directed her instrument at him, slashing him across the chest. Joan, drawn from her confusion at this sight, rushed towards the scene, pulling Maria's arm back, and pinning it to the ground, before extracting the blade from her grasp. Without a word, Sherlock turned the flailing woman onto her front, securing her hands behind her back with his scarf, which he wrapped tightly around her wrists.
Joan watched as he did so, before allowing her gaze to move up to his face, where their eyes met at precisely the same moment. Sherlock's eyes were wide and glistening, and his breathing was heavy and ragged. And yet, his expression was one of complete and utter relief, as he scanned her body quickly and had satisfied himself that she was not seriously injured. A stifled breath crossed Joan's lips, before she reached her hand across the space between them, and towards his chest. Sherlock's black coat was open, exposing the shredded and bloodied white shirt beneath it. The shirt was cut open, and blood had seeped through the material, and was spreading rapidly through its white fibres. Despite the four-inch long laceration to the shirt, and the sheer amount of blood it produced, the wound to Sherlock's chest was hidden and, to him at least, inconsequential. But not to Joan Watson. Joan was reaching towards him, her palm out and her fingers spread, as she whispered his name in an urgent manner. As her hand rested just an inch from his chest, the sound of several sets of heavy footsteps rushing towards the room brought Sherlock and Joan quickly and harshly back into the reality of the moment.
"Sherlock,-"
"Are you alright?" Sherlock asked, leaning across the bound woman between them, and reaching out to Joan, resting his hand comfortingly on her shoulder, as the footsteps hastened down the corridor and towards the room.
"Your chest" Joan breathed in response, placing her own hands upon the unbloodied areas of his shirt, before pulling gently at the material to gain a better look at the wound. "I need to-"
"Watson" Sherlock stated gently, placing both of his hands on top of hers. "Watson, stop" he spoke, in such a soothing and comforting tone that Joan's eyes snapped up from the wound on his chest, and met Sherlock's concerned gaze. He could feel her trembling beneath his grasp. "Joan-"
"Holmes, Watson-" boomed the voice of Captain Gregson, who was the first to enter the room, followed by Detective Bell and a legion of police officers. Gregson surveyed the scene quickly and, after seeing the blood on Joan's neck and the laceration to Sherlock's shirt, as well as the bound young woman who was battling against her restraints, quickly and accurately assessed what had occurred. "Get her out of here" he ordered, indicating towards the woman on the ground. Sherlock and Joan's glance moved from Gregson and to each other.
"Watson, you're alright" Sherlock soothed, holding her hands tightly, and lowering them slightly, before encouraging her to stand up with him. As Bell and two other officers moved towards Maria, and began to haul her up from the ground, Sherlock gently guided Joan to her feet, before leading her away from the arrest, and standing with her a few feet away. Her hands were no longer trembling, and her eyes had lost their glassy and vacant expression, which were good signs. He was relieved greatly to know that Joan was coming round. Before he could call her name again, she lifted her eyes to meet his own, and he saw the look of determination and resolution which often defined her features. "It's alright-"
"You're bleeding" she stated, in a tone which was almost her own, as she placed one hand delicately upon the fabric above the laceration. The familiar footsteps of the approaching Captain Gregson caused Joan to speak quickly and without her usual filters, as she was desperate to speak to Sherlock. "She could have killed you" she breathed, her voice shaking. Sherlock reacted immediately, ignoring Gregson's presence, and taking a step closer to Joan, before placing his hands firmly upon her upper-arms, and squeezing reassuringly, before pulling her towards him. Joan was wary of his injury, and leaned back slightly, which resulted in their lower bodies being pressed tightly together. Joan's breath caught in her throat, and she found her senses heightened. Gregson observed this scene for a moment, and decided to stand three feet away, which he considered to be a respectable distance.
"Watson" Sherlock stated, in a kind yet firm manner. "Watson, you're alright, you are safe now."
"She could have killed you" Joan repeated, staring at him with wide eyes, which were brimming with tears. But she refused to cry. She found the present situation, the quickness with which her interaction with Maria had escalated, and Sherlock's injury, to be completely overwhelming. But she managed to breath in steadily, blink back her tears, and resume taking in her normal tone which, to anyone outside the room, would give no indication that Joan Watson had just been through a terrifying ordeal. "Sherlock, you-"
"She did not, Watson" Sherlock interrupted, lowering his hands down her arms, until they reached her wrists. "Nor did she fatally assault you" he continued, before raising his right hand to the small trickle of blood which was drying upon the left side of her neck. Joan breathed in tiredly and contently at the contact, and felt his touch cause warmth and comfort to radiate throughout her entire body. She marvelled at this once more, and found herself lost in amazement at the affect he could have upon her, even now, in these circumstances.
"Thank you" she stated simply, smiling tiredly at him, as she found her confidence restored.
"Are you guys alright?" Gregson asked, taking a few steps towards them, and lowering his gaze to Sherlock's bleeding chest, which was, by now, partly exposed. "I'm gonna call you an ambulance-"
"Allow the medics to tend to Mrs Mathers, Captain, I assure you I have no need of them" Sherlock stated simply, staring at Gregson as he spoke, before turning his head back to Joan. "I have an excellent doctor." Joan met his gaze for a moment, and found herself smiling up at him. After surveying him briefly she ascertained that, despite certainly needing some attention, his injury was superficial, and was certainly something she could deal with. She sensed that Sherlock had asked for her assistance, in a rather indirect manner, to distract her. He knew that tending to his injury would help Joan to feel as though she were in control, that she were repairing one of the physical fallouts of the case, which would help her to heal. And he was right.
"Captain, Watson and I will be in your office first thing in the morning, and will give you all the statements, evidence, and mundane explanations that you desire. But for now" he stated, turning back towards Joan, and then towards Gregson, "I am taking Watson home."
"I'm fine" she stated with conviction, turning to face Gregson and placing her arms by her sides, adopting a confident stance. "I need to deal with Sherlock's injury, but after that we can-"
"Watson, I-" Sherlock interposed.
"Go home, Miss Watson, rest." Gregson stated gently, as he watched her with a kind expression. "You've had enough of this for one day, you both have" he stated, glancing towards Sherlock. "So, go fix up your partner, stop him bleedin' all over my crime scenes" Gregson added, the levity in his tone lifting the mood slightly, "and make sure you call me if you need anything, got it?"
"Yeah" Joan responded, her voice low and more tired than it had been previously. She found herself battling exhaustion, both physical and emotional. She was running purely on adrenaline, as well as the desire to help Sherlock. "Thank you."
"You got it" Gregson returned, nodding towards her, and grateful that she and Sherlock did not put up more of a fight. He knew Sherlock wouldn't, as he would want to get Joan home. And, due to his injuries, Joan wanted the same too. "I'll have someone drive you guys home, alright?" Gregson stated, turning on the spot and summoning two vaguely familiar-looking officers. Joan nodded in assent, and felt Sherlock's hand move to its familiar position at her lower back, as he guided her from the room, past the scene, and out of the building.
Throughout this time, and during the journey to the brownstone, both Sherlock and Joan remained completely silent. They sat beside each other in the back of the police car, their feet touching, providing them both with all the reassurance and comfort they needed for the moment. They both used the brief drive as an opportunity to go over what had just happened, to consider the events, and to process them. Although they did not speak, each of them did, unbeknownst to the other, cast furtive glances at each other every minute or so. Sherlock would glance with concern at Joan's expression, and edged slightly closer to her on the one occasion where he believed she had become slightly tearful, but which she fought back. Similarly, every so often, Joan would cast a glance towards Sherlock's chest, to reassure herself that the blood loss was not increasing. During the final few minutes of the journey, both Sherlock and Joan sat, straight-backed and alert, in the back of the patrol car, staring straight ahead.
The car pulled up slowly beside the brownstone, and it was not until the vehicle had stopped completely that Joan was fully aware of her current location. She shifted slightly in her seat, before slowly unclasping her seatbelt and opening the car door. As she eased herself from her seat, and stood mechanically in the centre of the pavement, she found that the cool breeze, dark skies, and familiar scent of the street, provided her with a renewed sense of confidence and consciousness. She spoke a few kind words to the officers who drove them home, before crossing her arms and walking up the stone steps, closely followed by Sherlock, who was watching her intently, and remained just slightly behind her, just in case. As they both reached the top of the stairs, they could hear the police car driving down the street, although neither of them looked back to confirm the fact. They had not the desire nor the need to. They were home. Joan stood by the door for a few seconds, and was about to search for her key, when she felt Sherlock's body press lightly against her back. Her breath caught in her throat, and her eyes widened slightly, but she did not move. Behind her, Sherlock was unlocking the door, and pushing it gently forward so that she could pass through. Joan did not speak and, with her arms remaining folded, crossed the threshold into the brownstone.
The fear and anxiety which Joan had been battling abated notably as soon as she entered their home, and yet, she was still feeling very uncertain, and fairly on edge. She took a few steps into the foyer, before pausing for a moment, her eyes widening and her body quivering slightly. She heard Sherlock enter the brownstone, and the familiar sound of the door creaking, and then closing solidly, broke the silence. She could hear Sherlock's footsteps walking slowly towards her, and she turned on the spot, lifting her face to meet his gaze. Neither of them spoke, or asked permission, or did anything to indicate their intention to the other. And yet, they acted in the same manner, at the same time, for precisely the same reasons. As soon as Joan met Sherlock's gaze, and as soon as he recognised the same look in her eyes that she had seen in his, she uncrossed her arms, and they each walked briskly towards the other. Sherlock reached out his arms, placing one under Joan's own arm, and another up her back, pulling her towards him. Joan did the same, reaching one arm up his back and pressing her body tightly to his, pulling him as tightly as she could towards her, as they kissed. The kiss was unlike anything either of them had experienced before. They had kissed passionately, and in moments of relief and gratitude, but never in a moment like this. The power, passion, desperation and need which defined the kiss meant that it was so strong and so necessary that Joan and Sherlock felt they needed it more than oxygen.
Joan moaned slightly as the kiss deepened, prompting Sherlock to run his hand up her back, caressing her shoulder as he pulled her hips to his, the contact so strong and so seemingly explicit that Joan broke the kiss unwillingly, finding that her legs felt weak at such contact. Sherlock sensed this, and drew her closer to him, so that her chest was pressed to his but her back was arched. She tilted her head slightly, resting her left cheek against his left cheek, before covering it in desperate, breathless kisses. Sherlock, unused to such kissing, closed his eyes for the duration, and could feel himself beginning to lose control.
"Watson-" he muttered warningly, as she breathed into his ear. "Watson."
The sound of her name being called was enough to draw Joan from her reverie, and she planted one final kiss upon his cheek, allowing her lips to linger there for just a moment, before leaning back, and extracting herself completely from Sherlock.
"Your chest, we-" she began, before pausing, having realised how breathless she sounded. "I should tend to your injury. I'll go and grab the medi-kit, take a seat in the lounge." Sherlock nodded obediently, breathing heavily and unable to speak, as Joan turned on the spot and walked briskly up the stairs and towards the bathroom. Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment, rose his hand to his left cheek, and walked towards the living room, drawing small patterns across his cheek as he did so.
As soon as he entered the room, Sherlock was struck by its coldness, as well as the darkness. He glanced down at his phone, and realised that the evening was becoming late. He paused in the middle of the room, before throwing a cushion upon his armchair, and then crossing the room to the fireplace, which he began to light. By the time he had placed some wood and kindling upon the fire, and had it roaring healthily, Joan had entered the room. Sherlock turned to her as she entered, and found that her silhouette was bathed in the burning light which had now graced the room. She was holding the all-too-familiar green medi-kit under her left arm, and was clutching a bottle of disinfectant and some scissors in her left hand, and a small bowl of water in her right. They watched each other for a few moments, neither of them speaking, the need for words not being present at that particular time. Instead, they listened to the crackling of the fire, whilst gazing at the other. It was some time before either of them spoke.
"Your bleeding seems to have stopped" Joan stated simply, indicating towards his chest with her right hand. Sherlock blinked, before glancing down at his chest, and leaning back on his heels.
"I believe you're right" she returned amiably, nodding towards her, before turning towards the armchair. "Shall I-?"
"Yes" she stated, as she moved across the room and towards him. Sherlock adjusted himself in the armchair, perching on the edge and watching Joan with interest, as she dragged a small table from the opposite end of the room, and grabbed a cushion from the couch. She placed the cushion on the footstool to Sherlock's left, and rested her scissors, antiseptic and some bandages upon it. She then placed the medi-kit by its side, before pushing the small table directly in front of Sherlock, and sitting on it, her legs parted slightly. Sherlock allowed his glance to fall to her legs for just a moment, before looking back up, and finding himself staring directly into the eyes of Joan Watson, whose face was just four inches from his own. "Take off your shirt."
Sherlock complied, unbuttoning his shredded white shirt, and easing it off his shoulders. Joan helped him to pull it down his arms, revealing Sherlock's naked torso. She had seen him shirtless before, on countless occasions, but this was different somehow. She found herself gazing at his taught muscles, his lean physique, and the gentle movements of his chest as he inhaled and exhaled. Joan then directed her attention at the wound in front of her which, as she had surmised, had stopped bleeding. The laceration was about four inches long and fairly deep, and ran across the centre of his chest, about four inches beneath his neckline. Joan swallowed slightly, before opening the green case and removing a pair of gloves, putting them on, before pressing her fingers lightly onto Sherlock's chest. She could feel him quiver beneath her touch, from a mixture of pain and desire, but mainly the latter. Sherlock's eyes widened at the contact, and he battled in vain to control his breathing. After a few moments, Joan took some cotton wadding from the case, and soaked it in the warm water in the bowl, before beginning to clean the area around Sherlock's wound. The feeling of Joan caressing his chest with the warm, soft material alleviated any remaining discomfort which Sherlock had been experiencing, and he battled to keep himself in control; an effort which was assisted by Joan, who began to speak.
"The wound appears to be slightly deeper than I believed, but it's still fairly superficial" she stated, mopping up some of the trickling water that was running down his chest. "You won't need stitches." Sherlock nodded in response, and continued to watch her carefully as she cleaned the blood from his body. As she reached across for another piece of wadding, she felt something against her neck, causing her to turn instantly. Sherlock had acquired a piece of cotton wadding and dampened it, without her knowledge, and was cleaning the blood from her own small neck wound.
"Nor do you, I am relieved to say" he returned, dragging the cotton slowly down her neck, before tossing it into the fire. Joan's eyes widened slightly, and she pursed her lips together as she turned back to the medi-kit, and searched through it for some gauze. "I must say, Watson, I am glad to see you back on the other side of the tweezers" Joan turned back to him immediately, and watched him with curiosity, as she rose a pair of scissors to the gauze, and began to cut. "Well, the scissors, then" he continued, causing her to smile lightly, and look up at him for a moment with glistening and alert eyes. "I am relieved."
Joan stopped cutting the gauze for a moment, parting her lips slightly to speak, before continuing to cut. She put the scissors onto the cushion, and pressed the gauze to his wound, causing him to breath in sharply.
"You're relieved that I am patching you up after you were sliced by a serial killer?" Joan asked in a low yet slightly bemused tone. Sherlock allowed a moment to pass, before addressing her question.
"I am glad that I am the one on this side of the medical instruments, and you are not." Joan paused for a moment, her fingers leaving the gauze, before pressing it once more against his chest.
"It's thanks to you that I'm not" she stated, in a low and mumbling tone. "But at what cost?" Sherlock was puzzled, and narrowed his eyes in confusion.
"As you said, Watson, my injury is quite superficial, and-"
"But it could so easily not have been" she stated, looking up at him whilst continuing to apply pressure. "Sherlock, you ran into a room and threw yourself at a woman with a knife."
"I entered a room and removed a knife-wielding mad-woman from my partner" he stated in a simple manner, enunciating each word carefully. Joan glanced down for a moment, removing her hands from his chest, and picking up an adhesive plaster from the medi-kit, which she began to unwrap. "Watson, what is it?" Joan paused for a moment, placing the unwrapped plaster in her lap, before clasping her hands together and glancing up at Sherlock, who was watching her expectantly.
"You could have died." She said simply.
"So could you."
"It's different."
"How?" Sherlock demanded, his voice raising as his his eyes narrowed with confusion. "Watson" he continued in a gentler, softer tone. "How is it different?" Joan thought for a few moments, considering how best to phrase what she had been considering since seeing Sherlock's wound, which she was now in the process of tending. With each drop of blood she removed, each gentle application of pressure, each piece of shredded material than fell to the armchair, she saw failure. Her failure. Not only had she, once again, failed to ensure her own safety, but she had risked Sherlock's too. As she considered these thoughts, and shifted uncomfortably in her seat, Sherlock understood. Completely.
"I put myself in that situation. Gregson told me to wait, but I didn't. If I had-"
"If you had, Mr Mathers would be burying his wife, and Miss Lennard would have gotten away, and her identity may never have been discovered. She could have killed others, too, Watson."
"I know" she said simply, reaching down and unwrapping the plaster. Sherlock watched her with interest as she did so, and waited patiently for her to continue. "But that does not justify what I did."
"And what did you do?" he coaxed gently, despite already knowing the answer.
"I put you in danger." She responded, raising the plaster and pressing it gently to Sherlock's chest, before smoothing down the edges. "I put you in a position where you entered a situation without any knowledge or understanding of it. You had no idea what you were walking into."
"Watson" Sherlock began, leaning forward in his seat, as he captured her hand with both of his. "I need you to listen very, very carefully." Joan looked up at his face, her wide eyes glassy and slightly tearful, as she waited for him to speak. As he looked at her pained expression, he found himself overcome with more guilt than he felt he could possibly bear. "You did absolutely nothing wrong. You did what I, what Gregson, Bell, and countless other members of law enforcement, would have done, alright?" he began, causing Joan to swallow and blink a couple of times, unable to meet his gaze. "You went into what you believed could be a dangerous situation, in order to do your job."
"My job?" She asked.
"As I told you the night of the charity ball, Watson, you are a protector. You care about people. It is what secures that bond between you and the police" he stated, his tone pleasant and conversational. "That adorable sense of public service, of duty. But more than that, it is your compassion that drives you, Watson." He continued, as she breathed in heavily. "By going into that room, the only person you were directly endangering was yourself." He stated, his tone low and evidently troubled. "I entered the building, of my own volition, as you did, without back-up. And I did it for the same reason, Watson" he stated gently, as Joan turned slowly to face him. "I was doing my job. A job which involves the same things yours does. To protect the people in that situation and, of course, to ensure your safety" he continued, squeezing her hands reassuringly. "Which, if I am completely honest, is the most honourable and revered job that I could ever hope to undertake."
"You shouldn't have been in that position" she stated simply, her eyes fixed upon his, as she spoke with certainty and conviction. "You shouldn't have had to risk your life to save me."
"And how many times have you saved me, Watson?" he asked gently, drawing her hand close to his chest, before spreading her fingers apart, and placing them on top of the newly-secured plaster. "You have saved me on countless occasions, and at great cost" he began, placing his hand over her own, which was now spread across the plaster. "And I am quite certain that the cost of your saving me by far exceeds the mere scratch I have upon my chest." Joan looked up at Sherlock, and gave him a tired yet appreciative smile. "I think it is fair to say, Watson, that during the entirety of the time I have been privileged to have known you, that you have saved me on countless occasions, because you are the kindest, most compassionate and most incredible person I have ever had to good fortune of meeting, and the honour of working with. But also, the most humble. Which, admittedly, is often seen as a strength. But in your case, it is sometimes a flaw. You don't realise how much you help people, how much you give to them, and how much they have been saved by you. You protect the emotional and psychological, the mind. And today, rather humbly, I might add, I was able to protect you physically. But let me assure you, Watson, the protection you have given my mind by far outweighs any protection I could hope to offer you, emotional or physical."
Joan's eyes warmed, and a small smile lit up her features, as she turned her head and stared confidently up at Sherlock. "Now who is undermining their worth?" Sherlock exhaled a small breath, before staring warmly at Joan. "You have saved me before now, you know. Several times before tonight. And not just physically." Sherlock considered her words for a few moments, before nodding appreciatively.
"Then let us consider the matter settled" he stated amiably, before raising her hand to his lips, and kissing it gently. "You matter, Watson" he stated afterwards, lowering their clasped hands slightly. "Not just to me, but to everyone. But most importantly to yourself" he stated, watching her intently. "You should never undervalue yourself. You have more admirable qualities than any other individual I have ever met. And you deserve to be happy" he continued, clasping her hand tightly between his own. Joan stared into his eyes as he spoke, and leaned closer to him until their faces were just inches apart, as she prepared herself to speak.
"As I told you before" she began, her voice trembling and slightly breathless. "You make me happy."
"Thank you, Watson, I truly hope so" he replied, removing his hands from hers, and resting them on her shoulders, before drawing them slowly down the tops of her arms. "That is the greatest achievement I could ever hope to accomplish" he continued, glancing at her arms for a moment, before staring into her eyes. "Because there is no one who deserves happiness more."
"And you?" she asked, edging forward until she was perched on the very edge of the table. Sherlock parted his legs, and ran his hands lower down her arms, before moving slowly to the centre of her back. Joan breathed out slowly, swallowing in an attempt to regain some of her composure. "Are you happy?"
"I ask you, Watson" he stated in a gentle, seductive tone. "How could I be anything other than happy, when we are here, now, as we are?"
"As we are?" she repeated, moving her own legs apart slightly further, as his hands ran down her back before resting at her lower back, causing her to arch her body forward slightly, closing her eyes in yet another vain attempt to regain her composure.
"As us" he replied simply. Joan opened her eyes for a moment, and found herself gazing deep into Sherlock's. Without a word, and without warning, their actions when they returned to the brownstone were repeated, but with much more intimacy. As Sherlock spoke, he applied gentle pressure to her lower back, drawing her forward slightly. It was the final degree of consent she required, before allowing herself to surrender completely to her own desires. Joan closed her eyes, and allowed Sherlock to draw her towards him, pulling her from the table until she was on his lap. She gasped slightly, before he leaned up and kissed her upon the lips, as he moved one hand up her back, pulling her deeper into the kiss, and used the other to draw her closer to him. She complied willingly, pressing herself onto his lap, pressing herself down upon him. She moaned at the contact, and felt a breath catch in Sherlock's throat, as he guided her upon him. Sherlock was perched near the edge of the armchair, and was kissing Joan passionately when he became aware of her moving slightly. He opened his eyes slightly, momentarily pausing in their kissing, as he became aware of what Joan was doing. She wrapped her arms beneath his, and began to kiss his cheek, neck and shoulder blade, caressing his exposed flesh with her gentle lips. Sherlock sighed heavily at the contact, and buried his head between her neck and shoulder, which he proceeded to kiss voraciously. Joan reacted immediately, arching her back slightly, as she pulled Sherlock closer towards her and further off the seat, until he was on the very edge of the armchair. She then rose slightly from his lap, which he mourned temporarily, before adjusting herself in his lap, and pressing herself directly upon him, causing him to moan in response, as she ran his hand up her back, gently, yet with notable strength. Joan drew his face towards her and resumed their passionate kissing, as he moved his hand beneath her blouse, and felt the softness of her skin beneath his strong hands. Joan gasped at the contact, pressing her chest to his, wrapping her arms around his back as she leaned into him, as he continued to run his hands up her back.
"Sher-" she breathed, sighing contently as she moved on top of him, her skirt rising up slightly as she felt him beneath her. "Your... chest..."
"Fine, Watson" he muttered breathlessly in response, as he drew his hands up her back and towards her sides, where he ran his fingers gently across her abdomen, before placing one hand on top of the fabric. "May I?"
"Mm" she moaned, leaning into him, as she pulled at her blouse, unbuttoning it quickly and deftly, exposing her stomach, as she moved her arms to allow the silky material to fall to the ground. Sherlock drew Joan closer to him, as she adjusted herself on his lap, causing him to quiver slightly, and press her body tightly onto his own. The feeling of their skin against one another, of Sherlock's strong hands pressing her smooth skin onto his chest, removed all the barriers and remnants of self-control which they both had left. Joan arched her back, before leaning into Sherlock, and pressing her body as tightly against his as she was able. They were both losing control, and neither of them were able to wait much longer. Joan felt Sherlock pull her tightly onto his lap, before he raised one of his legs, and kicked aside the table that Joan had been sitting on. He then placed one arm across her back, and gently shifted forward, before lowering her to the ground. Her legs were wrapped around his hips as he did so, and his lips did not leave hers for the duration of this action. Sherlock then reached to the side, picking up the cushion which Joan had used, and shaking the remaining items from it. He tossed the pillow a few feet ahead of him, near the centre of the room, a comfortable distance away from the fire, before guiding Joan over to the spot, and placing the pillow beneath her head.
Joan leaned into the comfort of the pillow, inhaling deeply as she rested comfortably upon it, before kicking off her heels, and wrapping her legs around Sherlock, drawing him closer to her. He complied with her actions, and allowed himself to be guided on top of her, kicking off his own shoes as she pressed herself firmly against his hips. Sherlock moaned in response, opening his eyes to ensure she was alright, before assisting Joan with removing his trousers, as they both felt the comforting heat from the fire warm their bodies. After Sherlock's trousers were cast aside, they quickly removed Joan's skirt and tights, before resuming their passionate kissing and uncontrolled and unrestrained activities. Joan pulled Sherlock towards her, pressing herself firmly against his hips. He pressed himself on top of her, placing one hand on the cool floor, and the other upon her cheek, which he used to draw her attention to him.
"Watson" he muttered breathlessly, causing her eyes to slowly open, as she ran her hand down his biceps. "Is this what you want?" he asked, in the same husky and desire-filled manner.
"I want you" she replied, equally breathlessly yet with notable confidence. Sherlock watched her for a few moments, and could feel himself becoming lost in the moment. Her next words gave him all the encouragement he needed. "Don't stop" she breathed, running her hands up his arms and drawing him closer to him. He kissed her delicately upon her lips, running his fingers through her hair, before nodding in response, and kissing her chastely upon the forehead. They then assisted each other in removing their remaining clothing, before pulling each other tightly upon the other, and spending the entire night entwined beside the comforting glow of the fire, which burned brightly with them.