*** A/N: Hey everyone, thanks again for your support on the story. I hope you enjoy this latest chapter. Again, any comments/queries/concerns/advice is greatly appreciated :) I've noticed some concerns over the fact that Sherlock did not pick up on the fact that Joan missed her period. My logic was that, as they had been so embroiled in the case, small things like this could have been missed by both Sherlock and Joan. Also, in the last season, Joan was in a romantic relationship with Mycroft, so I thought that it would be likely she was taking some kind of precaution. A known side-effect of the pill is that it can affect cycles, making them irregular/hard to predict etc, which could explain Sherlock not being aware/noticing. When writing these kind of fics, it can be so hard to make it seem realistic that Joan discovers she is pregnant before Sherlock does! So I apologise if this seemed unrealistic/unlikely, I guess I need to put some more thought into certain aspects of the plot. But thank you for your comments, they really are invaluable, and hopefully they will help me to improve. I hope you enjoy this chapter, and another one will be posted tomorrow, which will focus much more on Joan and Sherlock (and will probably be of a similar length). Thanks again, HQ21
Joan slept soundly that night, and was able to enjoy the benefits of a night of completely unbroken sleep. The moment that her eyes had shut as she leaned into Sherlock, she had been rendered completely unconscious, and there was almost nothing that could have awoken her from her much-needed rest. So deep was her slumber that she did not even stir when, a couple of hours after having first fallen asleep, Sherlock lifted her into her arms and carried her to her room. He gathered her up carefully in his arms, drawing her small, tired body to him as he carefully negotiated the stairs, pushed her bedroom door open with his back, and lay her delicately upon her welcoming bed. Joan moaned slightly as she left his arms, but was soon content when she was immersed in cushions and wrapped in the layers of blankets her bed offered. Sherlock watched her for a few moments, until he was satisfied that her sleep had been undisturbed by his movements. He would have gladly allowed her to sleep upon him for the entire night, if it had not been for the fact that he was aware of the level of discomfort she would experience in the morning. She had appeared so tired recently, and so lethargic, that he wished to ensure she had as much undisturbed rest as possible. As he gazed thoughtfully down upon her, his wide, glistening eyes resting upon her sleeping figure, he admired the look of peace and contentment on her face, and found himself smiling lightly in the darkness. "Sweet dreams, Watson" he whispered, before turning from the room and closing the door quietly behind him.
When Joan woke the next morning, she spread her arms gratefully into the cushions which were arranged untidily above her head, before drawing the blankets across her, and leaning to the side. At the feeling of the blankets and cushions, and the notable familiarity of her current location, Joan's eyes snapped open, and she sat upright in bed. It took her a few seconds to remember the events of the previous night. She did not recall walking to her room, but did remember leaning into Sherlock, and experiencing a moment of perfectly calmness and contentment, which allowed her entrance into the realm of sleep. As she glanced around the room, she correctly surmised how she had come to awaken in her own bed. And, as the cool air came flooding in from the slightly-open window, Joan found herself feeling more awake and alert. And, as ever, with consciousness came realisation. Joan froze for a moment, her hands pressed upon the mattress, as she released a shuddering breath. She found herself feeling flushed and panicky once more, as her concerns and suspicions from the previous night came flooding back to her, hitting her with an almost physical force.
Despite the fact that she was unsure whether she was pregnant, and that she had only been considering the possibility for less than a day, she found that she was now able to think more clearly. The cloudiness which had plagued her mind the day before was gone, and she found herself considering the possibility that she was carrying Sherlock's child in a much more logical and clear-headed manner. The things she was afraid of, including telling him, herself as a mother, and the decisions that they would need to make, were all pushed to the back of her mind for the time being. As she sat beneath the covers, running her hand tiredly across her face, she knew that the first thing she needed to do before anything else was to confirm her suspicions, or disprove them. Either way, she needed to know.
Joan glanced tiredly to the side, turning her alarm clock towards her, and squinting at the brightly-lit digital numbers which stared back at her. It was 5.53am, but her body was telling her it was much later. As soon as she had regained full consciousness, Joan found that the memories of her thoughts and fears from the previous night came flooding back to her, hitting her with an almost physical force. She felt worried, self-doubting and incredibly overwhelmed. Joan tossed aside her blankets, lowered her feet onto the cool ground, and eased herself out of bed. She decided to use the couple of hours she had between the present time and a socially-acceptable time to call her friend the way she always used her time when she felt stressed or worried or angry. She would go for a run.
Despite the tiredness and nausea Joan experienced the day before, Joan awoke that morning feeling revitalised. Whether it was the sleep, the clarity of her thoughts, or something else, she found herself feeling more alert and awake than she had in recent weeks. She felt well. Very well, in fact. So well, that she found herself questioning her own suspicions. Maybe I'm wrong she thought, as she walked slowly over to her chest of drawers and began selecting her running clothes. Maybe it was just a stomach bug. And yet, as she changed into her running clothes and tied the laces on her new shoes, she found that wrestling with the idea was both fruitless and unnecessary. As she ran the words over and over in her mind, she found herself believing them less and less. This conviction in her thoughts, her inability to concede that perhaps she was wrong, surprised her. Although she had experienced some symptoms which may indicate that she was pregnant, it was not certain, it had not been confirmed. As she tied her hair back with a black band, she found herself questioning why, despite the lack of certainty in her condition, her mind seemed to be without a doubt. Joan exhaled sharply, before plugging her headphones into her phone and selecting a play list. She swayed to the music for a few seconds, before walking quickly from the room, jogging down the stairs, and running from the building.
Joan ran for almost an hour, at her usual steady rate. She paid little attention to her surroundings, and none to her thoughts, focusing solely on the motivational music which was flooding her mind. At least, this appeared to be the case. Just as Joan was about to turn and head back to the brownstone, she found herself pausing on the pavement, and staring at the bright letters of the building on the opposite side of the street: a 24/7 chemist. As Joan glanced upon the building, she felt the breath leave her body, as the now familiar flushed sensation gripped her once more. She swallowed hard, before extracting her phone from her pocket, and glancing at the time. It was a few minutes after seven o'clock in the morning. As she glanced up from her phone, she found herself staring at the building once more, and felt completely unable to move. She was vaguely aware of a few pedestrians walking past her, a newspaper vendor calling out in the background, and the scent of freshly-ground coffee which swam in the air. And yet, despite this, she did not feel able to walk the fifteen meters across the street to go into the chemists, get what she needed, and leave. Joan remained standing for a few minutes, transfixed on the sight ahead of her, until the honking of a cab horn in the near distance drew her from her thoughts. She turned away from the sound, and faced the building once more, her eyes bright and alert, as she stared at the flickering green letters which appeared to be attempting to lure her in. After a couple of seconds, Joan conceded. She took a few cautious steps into the road, before finding herself feeling more confident and determined, and walking briskly across the road.
The door to the chemist's was stiff, and Joan had to pull on it with notable force before it opened. The persistent ringing of a bell above her head drew her from her thoughts, and she found herself glancing around the aisles of the small store. She was not familiar with this particular chemist's, which appeared to be an independent one. The store itself was quiet, with just a middle-aged woman sitting behind the till, pricing some individual packages of gum. She smiled politely at Joan as she entered, which Joan returned, before removing her earphones and lowering her hood, and walking down the first aisle. Now that she had no music or exercise to distract her, Joan felt increasingly nervous, with her previous thoughts and concerns flooding her mind. She walked briskly up the aisles, scanning each side quickly for what she needed, before stopping at the end of the third aisle, and staring at the items before her. One of the shelves was stacked with boxes of pregnancy tests. Different brands, types and shapes were staring up at Joan Watson, as she glanced across them each in turn. She briefly read the information on the front of the packaging, before turning her attention to the images portrayed, then quickly running her eyes across the shelf to the next test. After a few minutes, she selected a box, plucked it from its position on the shelf, and carried it with a notable air of determination towards the matronly-looking woman behind the counter.
As she approached the counter and placed the item on the desk, the woman gave Joan an odd look beneath her glasses. It reminded her of the look a principle's secretary would give a naughty school child who approached the office covered in mud and torn clothing. Clearly about to confess, to face up to consequences of their actions. Of being caught in a situation which they had not expected. Despite her concern and her fear, Joan could not help but smile at the thought. She exchanged a few brief words with the woman, none of which were in relation to the item which lay between them upon the counter, before placing a twenty-dollar bill on the desk and telling her to keep the change. Joan picked up the box from the counter, placing it in the small zip-bag which was secured across her hips, replacing her earphones, and running all the way home.
Joan arrived at the brownstone just before eight in the morning, and found her body tingling with a mixture of revitalisation and apprehension as she slowly unlocked the door. She hadn't been running in a while, so the muscles in her legs and arms felt tired and heavy, but the rest of her felt very alert, very awake and very alive. Whether it was simply the endorphins released from the exercise, the combination of her night of rest with her concerns and fears, or something else entirely, Joan did not know. But her current state of calmness and detachment was put to the ultimate test by the tall, muscular figure standing before her. Between her position by the coat rack and the staircase stood the shirtless figure of Sherlock Holmes, who was dressed in sweatpants and brandishing his single-stick, whilst watching her with an unsuspecting look.
"Watson" he breathed, his voice husky from recent exercise. "How was your run?"
"Fine" she returned, unzipping her jacket and securing it around her waist. She felt the material of her sleeve tighten across the bag which held the pregnancy test, and her heart clenched slightly at the contact. She turned her eyes back towards Sherlock, offered him a small smile, and continued to speak. "You haven't practised your single-stick in a while."
"Work commitments have led to me neglecting the fine art" Sherlock began, turning the stick over in his hand, before raising it in the air, and pointing it at Joan. "Care for a spar, Miss Watson?" Joan watched him for a moment, before shifting slightly on the spot, her eyes widening slightly. As soon as Sherlock had made his suggestion, she found her hands wandering protectively down to her lower abdomen. She did not feel threatened by Sherlock or his motion, but found herself feeling a strange, innate draw towards her stomach, which she instantly covered by tying her jacket tighter across her.
"I'll pass, thanks" she returned brightly. "What time are we heading to the precinct?"
"Whenever you're quite ready, Watson" Sherlock returned, lowering his single-stick to his side, his taut chest glistening with a thin layer of sweat, which Joan found to be tantalising. "I was practising some single-stick until you returned. Take your time, and let me know when you are ready to leave."
"Sure" she responded, nodding briefly, before walking past him and up the staircase. Sherlock remained on the spot for a moment, turning his head to the side to watch her as she quickly made her way up the stairs. She appeared to be much more awake and alert this morning, which was upheld by the fact that she had been out for a long run. Sherlock nodded in relief at this thought. It was the first time she had been running since the incident with Maria Lennard, and he was glad to find that she appeared to have been getting into her routines once more. Routines and structure were things which, for reasons unbeknownst to him, Joan Watson seemed to thrive on. The fact that she was working within the framework once more was certainly a good sign. Sherlock nodded to himself in satisfaction, before turning on the spot, and practising his single-stick in the kitchen.
Joan walked straight past her bedroom and made a beeline for the bathroom, locking the door behind her. She turned on the spot, checking the lock twice, before trying the door. After the third check, she was satisfied that the door was indeed locked, and that she would not be interrupted by one of Sherlock impromptu attempts at a conversation. Joan undid the jacket from around her waist, before removing the zip-bag and her phone, which she placed on the edge of the sink. After having been for a run, entered the store and bought the test, Joan found that her previous ability to run on autopilot had now deserted her. As she stood in the bathroom and drew the box containing the pregnancy test from the bag, she found herself instantly sobered by the reality of the situation. Joan paled slightly, before easing herself back towards the toilet, and sitting upon it. She remained motionless for a while, simply sitting on the cold seat, and staring at her the light blue box. As she lifted her eyes up, she remembered the last time she found herself sitting, alone and afraid, in this room. It was the night of her date with Jake, when she returned home and shut herself in the bathroom, before attempting to deal with her wounds alone. Before she could finish, Sherlock had announced his suspicions, enticed her to open the door, and helped her with her injuries. She smiled slightly at the memory, before turning her head towards the door, watching it for a few moments. She wondered whether, like that night, he would come to the door then. Whether he would have deduced her fears, her actions of the morning. Whether the scent of her skin, her posture, her body language, or the slip of a receipt from the chemist, would have somehow made Sherlock realise what it was that was occupying the mind of his partner. As these thoughts ran through her mind, Joan's breath caught in her throat at the possibility of such an occurrence. She then found herself wondering whether, if he came up the stairs now, and knocked on the door, spoke to her kindly, and asked to be admitted to the bathroom, if she would allow him to enter. But as she glanced at the door, and observed the silence of the room, she realised that that was not going to happen. Whilst part of her was relieved at this, the fact that she had managed to thus far conceal her concerns from him, and spare him the same worry and fear that she herself was currently experiencing, she could not help but feel that her relief was tinged by a notable degree of guilt and regret.
Joan took a few deep, shaky breaths as she gazed upon the box in her hands, before turning it over and reading the back. She pursed her lips together, before opening the side of the box, and sliding out the instruction leaflet and the test itself. Despite being a former doctor, and having run several dozen such tests on patients over the years, she still read the instructions cover to cover. Perhaps to make sure she didn't make a mistake, or to ensure she reminded herself of the procedure, or even to give herself more time before actually taking the test. Whatever the reason, Joan remained, sitting on the lid of the toilet, reading the instruction pamphlet, as a small and powerful plastic test stared at her from the side of the sink.
Once she had satisfied herself that she had read the pamphlet, which she knew from the outset was unnecessary, she placed the paper back into the box, and reached for the test itself. The small plastic device felt heavy in her hands, and staring at it before her made her once more realise the gravity of the situation, and how very real it was. The cloudiness of her mind, emotions and thoughts all disappeared, and for just a few moments, Joan felt as though all that was in the room with her, including herself, was detached from the reality of the world. It was just her, seclusion, and the test. Maybe it's not just me she thought, as she removed the cap from the end of the test. She breathed in heavily, before following the instructions, replacing the cap on the end of the stick, and putting the test back on the edge of the sink. Joan rose from her sitting position, and found herself feeling shaky and unsteady. She walked over to the sink, picked up the soap, and washed and moisturised her hands thoroughly and with precision, focusing her complete attention on her ministrations.
As Joan rubbed the moisturiser deeper into her smooth hands, she found herself looking into the mirror before her, and staring into the eyes of the reflection glaring back at her. If the result was a positive one, she would allow herself some time to think things over, and then discuss the issue with Sherlock. He has to know she thought, as she stared into the wide and fearful eyes in the mirror, it has to be as much his decision as it is mine. Joan swallowed slightly, her hands shaking as she gripped the porcelain sink, before biting lightly upon her lower lip. Despite the fear and the uncertainty, one thing that she was sure of was that, if she was pregnant, she had to tell Sherlock. And, more than that, she wanted to. Although the case was pressing, it was currently at a standstill. They were working tirelessly upon it, and making relatively little headway. As she considered this, Joan found herself wondering whether the current stagnation was a reason to disclose her suspicions, or to delay telling him, for a short time, at least. She turned from the mirror at this point, feeling guilty at the thought of deceiving him. If she was pregnant, he was the father, and she had to tell him. More than that, she wanted to. She had been thinking over the options if the result was positive, considering the positive and negative points for each and, although she knew what she hoped to do, she needed his input. Despite his flaws, his childishness and his denial of his interest in commitment, romantic or otherwise, Sherlock had demonstrated that he was capable of being kind, selfless and dedicated to human beings other than himself. Not that she had ever doubted this, of course. She had always known he was capable of it, and was glad to find that he too was aware of his potential. She smiled slightly at this thought, before picking her phone from her pocket and glancing at the time. It had been almost six minutes since she took the test.
Joan inhaled deeply, closing her eyes as she exhaled the breath slowly. With her breath, she also banished her fears, concerns and self-condemnation. For the moment, all that mattered was the five-inch long piece of plastic to her right. Joan lowered her head, before reaching for the test, drawing it close, and holding it beneath her eyes. Positive, 6 weeks.
Joan swallowed once more, before feeling her hand begin to shake. She felt flushed and dizzy once more, and incredibly unsteady on her feet. She moved around the sink and back to the toilet, sitting herself down on the lid, as she continued to stare down at the test, her eyes not leaving the words which were staring up at her. As she read them over and over again, she found herself remembering the night she and Sherlock shared together, completely together, six weeks ago. As her mind played over the scene in her head, the kisses, caresses and sensations replaying themselves vividly in her memory, she found herself experiencing a moment of complete calmness. Not because she was relaxed with the result, but because, deep down, she already knew what it would be. She had had almost twelve hours to mentally prepare herself for it, making it seem slightly less daunting, somehow. And yet, as she placed the test back into the box, and zipped it into her bag, the familiar feelings of fear and guilt returned to her with force.
She had considered her options since first realising that she could be pregnant. Although she knew where she stood on each one, she could not accurately predict Sherlock's responses. They had discussed the topics of abortion and adoption in relation to various cases they had worked on, and she found that he was open-minded about them both, and expressed opinions upon them which she felt were considerate and compassionate. They had never discussed his feelings or desires to have children, although the subject was briefly alluded to when Joan pranked him into thinking that Jen was using him to get pregnant. She remembered the look on his face, the fear and disbelief in his eyes, which had caused her to reveal her trickery almost instantly. Whether he had negative feelings towards having children, or having them with Jen, was unclear. But what was clear, and what was certain, was that their romantic relationship had only just begun, and had been, until now, progressing at a steady and manageable pace. As she stood by the sink, her hands resting upon the bag containing a positive pregnancy test, Joan considered how ironic it was that they had both agreed to take it slow, and now they were about to become parents. Or were they? What if he was angry by the news? Or disappointed? Would he blame her, resent her? Would he be open to discuss the issue fully, consider their options, and arrive at a decision? Since first considering the possibility of her pregnancy, Joan knew what she wanted to do if the results were positive.
Joan placed one hand on her forehead, and using her free hand to steady herself against the sink. She remained standing still for a few minutes, allowing herself some time to process the news, and consider her next move, before releasing a deep, long breath. As she did so, Joan lifted her hand from the sink, and rested it upon her lower abdomen, and felt her whole body radiate with warmth as she did so. The comfort she felt at that moment was breathtaking, and almost beyond any type of description. For just a moment, Joan felt incredibly connected to her child, linked to him or her in a strong, unbreakable way. Unbreakable she thought, releasing a shaky breath as she considered the word. She looked into the mirror, staring at her reflection once more, before running through the thoughts which had been troubling her recently. As she stood, alone and afraid in the bathroom, she found herself comforted and reassured in the knowledge that she loved her baby, and wanted to keep him or her safe. She had been considering her options over the past few hours, and had been trying to run through a list of positive and negative points for each of the potential choices she had. But somehow, until this very moment, none of her previous thoughts seemed to be 'real'. In hindsight, they seemed to be false, hypothetical, poorly thought out and not backed up by logic or by reason.
The primary issue she was concerned about was telling Sherlock that she was pregnant. Despite the fact that they had discussed a magnitude of issues, with personal ones being discussed more openly since the romantic development of their relationship, they had never discussed children. Joan supposed that Sherlock considered it an unnecessary topic to discuss, as neither of them expected it to happen. She smiled to herself slightly at this thought, and found herself reminded of how many times her patients had said something similar to her when she asked them about the possibility of them being pregnant. She had taken precautions, she reasoned, but they were not as careful as they should have been. As she thought this through, she found her hand tightening slightly across her abdomen. Regardless of the fact that neither of them intended for her to get pregnant, she did not believe her baby was a mistake, and he or she was certainly not unwanted. Unwanted. Joan sighed slightly, clutching her abdomen protectively with one hand, as she felt her eyes welling with tears. She rose her hand to cover her mouth as she stifled a sob, before using her other hand to turn on the cold water tap, which flooded the bathroom with noise, drowning out the sound of Joan's cries.
Joan held her hand tightly to her mouth, but it was not enough to suppress her cries. She sobbed uncontrollably for several minutes, a sad, inconsolable, pained cry. What if Sherlock didn't want the baby? What if he resented her, or their child? What if he was angry? Joan squeezed her eyes shut tighter at each painful thought, wrapping her free arm across her abdomen once more, before turning on the spot and gently easing herself into a sitting position upon the lid of the toilet. Usually, she could predict how he would react to certain events or pieces of news, certainly the major ones. She knew how to placate him, how to approach him, how to talk to him calmly and rationally, and how to make him feel comfortably enough to open up to her. But this time was different. This was something new, something unknown, and something very frightening. She had no idea how Sherlock would react to knowing that she was carrying his child, and the prospect of telling him terrified her. She was not afraid that he would hurt her, she knew that he would not, it was not in his character. She was afraid that he would be angry or disappointed, or overwhelmed by the information. Their relationship was so new, and still developing. She had no idea of how such a huge, life-changing factor would influence it. But as she stood alone in the bathroom, listening to the sound of the running water, one thing she could be certain of was the fact that she wanted to continue with the pregnancy, she wanted to keep her child. Their child. But what if Sherlock did not? Would he be willing to discuss the pregnancy with her, discuss how he felt openly, his fears and his concerns, as well as his desires? Or would she be alone?
Joan calmed herself instantly at this thought, wiping her eyes with a cold flannel, before turning off the tap. She bowed her head slightly, clasping her hands in her lap, as she continued to think. Sherlock was not cruel. He was not unreasonable or unkind, nor was he in the habit of abandoning those whose sought his help or advice. When issues had arisen for her in the past, he had always provided her with emotional, physical and even monetary support. He was, without question, one of the kindest, most generous and most capable human beings she had ever had the pleasure of meeting. The past couple of months they had spent together were blissful, and she adored every single moment. But this was, by far, one of the largest challenges that they had faced as partners. Partners.
The thought of the word 'partners' brought Joan quickly to the second greatest thing she feared in relation to her pregnancy: her job. What she and Sherlock did was dangerous, both physically and emotionally. The hours were long, the days were unstructured and unpredictable, and they frequently found themselves placed in physical (even mortal) danger. How could she bring a baby into that? As she struggled with the question, she also considered whether she would even be able to carry the baby to term, amidst the dangers that they faced. In the past year alone, Joan had been kidnapped, attacked and assaulted. Physically, her body had been through a tremendous ordeal. Emotionally, it had been through more. Would she be able to ensure that her unborn child was protected? And if not, what were her options? Joan closed her eyes in confusion, leaning back and placing her hands on her knees, as she thought through her options. She could take a hiatus, perhaps. Leave her job, leave the city, until the baby was born. But then what? Could she really bring a baby into the chaos and confusion of their careers, of their lives? Even if it were possible, if there were a way, would that be what Sherlock wanted?
Suddenly, Joan began to realise the precarious nature of the situation. Whatever decision she made, they made, the baby's safety and well-being had to be paramount. But what if Sherlock doesn't want the baby at all? She thought, crossing her arms across her chest as she attempted to calm herself. Amongst all the confusion and uncertainty, Joan knew that the only way she would be able to answer any of these questions was to do the thing she was most afraid of doing at this particular moment: she needed to tell Sherlock Holmes that she was carrying his child. She had no idea how he would react, but she hoped that he would sit down with her, that they could talk, discuss the options together, and come up with a solution. As she eased herself into a standing position and began to gather her things, she found herself thinking about the imminent conversation she was about to have with Sherlock, and the possible outcomes it could have. The man in question had a brilliant, remarkable mind, and he was capable of things that neither of them realised was possible. Between them, they would be able to figure this out. It would be alright. It had to be.
Joan gathered her belongings and left the bathroom, looking behind her to make sure that she had not left anything behind. In the twenty minutes that followed, she quickly showered, dressed and applied some make-up, before heading slowly down the stairs, and pausing in the foyer. The sound of the 'thwack' of the single-stick could no longer be heard, but the unmistakable sound of the boiling kettle greeted her. She exhaled deeply, before walking confidently through the rooms, and towards the kitchen, devoting all of her attention to the room which she was walking towards. As she approached the doorway, she saw the familiar figure of Sherlock, who was now fully clothed, preparing four cups of tea. His back was to her, and he was pouring the boiling water as she entered the room. She paused for a moment, watching him as he prepared the drinks, and found herself experiencing familiar feelings of apprehension and fear. But as she watched her partner from across the room, she knew that she needed to tell him. He had to know, to be aware of the situation. She only hoped that he would not resent her or their child for it.
"Ah, Watson you have returned. Excellent" Sherlock called over his shoulder to her, the sound of her heels announcing her entrance. He placed the kettle back on the stove before turning to face her, his features alight with excitement and animation. But as soon as he saw her expression, the unmistakably tear-stained eyes, the nervous countenance, the fear upon her features, his expression changed. His soft eyes widened, and his smile fell immediately. His forehead wrinkled slightly, as he gazed upon his partner with concern. "Watson, what is it?" he asked, his voice low and filled with genuine concern. Joan parted her lips to answer him, but found that no words escaped. She turned her head to the side slightly, unable to meet his gaze, and certain that going so would cause her to cry once more. She did not wish to cry. She wanted to approach the subject confident and with conviction, and make him aware that she valued his input, and held his advice to the highest esteem. But as soon as she had entered the kitchen, and heard the pleasant, genial tone he used with her, her guilt and her fear returned, and she felt instantly overwhelmed. After she did not answer his question after a few seconds, Sherlock took a few brisk steps towards her, pausing once they were only feet apart, and running his eyes across her with concern, before resting his gaze upon her face. "Watson, what's wrong?" he asked kindly, his voice warm and compassionate.
"Sherlock, I-" she began, glancing across the kitchen as she spoke, unable to look at him for fear of breaking down. As she briefly scanned the kitchen, her eyes were drawn to four steaming hot cups on the counter behind them both. She narrowed her eyes in confusion for a moment, before speaking in a low and notably distant tone. "Why are there four cups of-"
"Miss Watson" came a familiar voice from behind Joan, causing her to instantly on the spot, to find herself facing Captain Gregson and Detective Bell. "Sorry for calling so early, your partner explained you'd just returned after your run."
"Right" Joan returned mechanically, nodding as she glanced from Gregson to Bell. "I thought we weren't meeting at the precinct until later. Has something happened?" she asked, her voice returning to normal, as she adopted a calm, composed stand. Gregson watched her for a few moments, before allowing his attention to rest upon Sherlock. Miss Watson seemed fine, but Holmes was looking at her as though she was about to break.
"I'm... we're not interrupting something are we-"
"No" Joan responded immediately, offering Gregson a weak, reassuring smile. "So, how can we help?" Gregson glanced once more from Joan to Sherlock, before placing his hands deep in his pockets, and beginning to speak.
"I got a call this morning from Jonas Livell, Maria Lennard's attorney" Gregson began, watching the concerned Sherlock Holmes as he spoke. "Now, Livell tells me that Lennard wants to be interviewed again, says she has some important information that she wants to disclose, in relation to the case."
"Right" Joan stated after Gregson was quiet for a few moments. "The timing is odd, don't you think? Why now? It can't be to do with Greta Mathers, she didn't tell us anything, and Lennard probably knows that she won't."
"That's what we're thinkin' too" Bell answered. "However, that isn't the only odd thing about Lennard's desire to talk to us."
"What else is there?" Joan asked, her voice lowering slightly with apprehension.
"She says that she has important information pertaining to the case, which needs to be acted upon immediately" Gregson continued, addressing Joan directly as he spoke. "But she says that the only person she will disclose this information with is you."