***A/N: Hey everyone, sorry this is a little late, I hope you enjoy it. The next chapter will definitely be posted tomorrow morning, and it will be the one in which Sherlock finds out about the baby. Again, any comments/criticisms/advice are greatly appreciated. Thanks, HQ21.
Joan stared at Captain Gregson for a few moments, nodding a few times in acknowledgement, as she processed his words. She could not imagine what Maria Lennard was planning, or why she seemed so interested in talking to herself in particular. But in the few seconds Joan had to process and consider the information, she realised that it certainly constituted progress. If Maria Lennard did disclose some information which would help to clear up the remaining confusion and ensure her conviction, their case would be made. If she simply wished to see Joan, to test how much the police knew, or to torment her in some way, the chances were that she would give something away. She was intelligent, perceptive and highly capable, but she was not invincible. She had made mistakes, including failing to prevent Greta from making the phone call which led to her capture. Therefore, the result of the interview would certainly be in their favour. As Joan considered this, she also realised that if progress was made on the case, it would take a tremendous amount of strain off of Sherlock, which would enable them to have their much-needed discussion. She wanted him to be as ready and as stress-free as possible when she broke the news to him, and she felt that attending an interview with Lennard would be one step closer to achieving that for him. Before Joan could respond to Gregson's statement, the sound of Sherlock's voice from behind her drew her from her thoughts.
"Captain, would you please give Miss Watson and I a moment?" he asked, his voice low and gentle. Joan remained motionless, standing on the spot and averting the gaze of the police officers before her. Gregson glanced from Sherlock to Joan, before nodding in response. He didn't know what was going on, but it was clearly something that they needed to address before they headed to the precinct. Based on Sherlock's demeanour and Joan's notable unease, he and Bell had interrupted them in the middle of some kind of argument or discussion. It was hard to know with these two.
"Sure, we'll be out front" Gregson began, his eyes resting upon the face of Joan Watson, who was attempting to adopt a more confident, composed demeanour. "Take all the time you need." He then turned on the spot and left the room, closely followed by detective Bell, who shot a curious glance at the consulting detectives before departing. Joan stared ahead, fixing her attention on the large window in the room before her, as the sound of the front door slammed shut in the distance.
"Watson" Sherlock breathed, in a smooth tone which was heavy with concern. Joan had never heard him sound so distressed, and found her chest tighten at the sound of his voice. She breathed in, turned on the spot, and turned to face him. Sherlock's eyes were wide and alight, and he was staring at her with a curiously expectant expression, waiting patiently for her to speak. Joan lifted her eyes to meet his gaze, and instantly felt herself feeling flushed and light-headed. And yet, through her concern and her fear, she saw a shining light in the shape of an interrogation room. Securing a confession and making a case for the prosecution would take a tremendous strain off both their lives, and would mean that Sherlock would be better prepared to deal with the news. And perhaps, she pondered, so would she.
"We should head to the precinct" she spoke in a voice slightly quieter than her own.
"Watson..." Sherlock repeated, taking a step towards her and placing his hands at the top of her arms, causing her to lift her eyes to meet his once more, as the comfort of his touch caused her entire body to resonate with warmth. For the first time in the past few days, she felt a glimmer of hope amongst the fear and uncertainty of their present situation. His concern was practically palpable, and it broke her heart to refuse him the details which he clearly wanted, and which she was desperate to give. But she felt that it would be best for him if they waited, just for a little while. She did not want to hurt him. "Watson, I do not wish to pry, and I certainly do not wish to make you feel uncomfortable" he began, in his kindest, warmest tone. "But something is clearly wrong, and I want to help you." It took everything Joan had not to blurt it out then, to whisper the words through a haze of tears, before burying her head in the crook of his neck, and pray that he would tell her that everything would be alright. But she couldn't. She hated feeling this vulnerable, this confused and uncertain of how to act. She usually made decisions which affected her life after careful thought, and felt empowered by doing so. But this was different. Making decisions for herself was one thing, but right now she was making decisions for three, and it was overwhelming.
"I..." she began, her voice cracking as she spoke. Sherlock maintained a reassuring hold upon her arms, and watched her with a look of kindness and warmth as he waited patiently for her to continue. As she looked up into his eyes, and found herself feeling marginally more relaxed and reassured, she almost told him right then. Almost. "It's been an odd couple of days, I... I haven't been-"
"I understand, Watson" he reassured her. "What were you about to tell me when you came into the kitchen?"
"What?" she asked, holding his gaze confidently with her own. Sherlock watched her for a few moments, not moving his eyes from hers, as she continued to speak in the same kind tone which he had been using. It was not interrogative at all, but one filled with compassion and concern. One which Joan was finding it increasingly difficult to resist.
"You were nervous, dejected and clearly frightened" he began, lowering his voice slightly. "And it was clear from your eyes that you had been crying" Joan's eyes fell from Sherlock's for just a moment, before returning to meet his gaze. "What was it that you wished to discuss with me?" he asked gently. Joan opened her mouth to speak, but found herself once more devoid of words. She sighed, and suppressed an awkward laugh, before lifting her eyes confidently to meet his gaze.
"I... it was nothing, I just-"
"My dear Watson" Sherlock interposed, the kindness in his tone drawing her attention back towards his eyes. "It was clearly not nothing. I have never seen you so... so fraught." Joan gave him a reassuring look, before shifting slightly on the spot, causing Sherlock's gentle hold on her arms to weaken.
"It's fine, Sherlock, really" she responded, her voice almost back to normal. "It can wait. This can't." Sherlock's eyes widened slightly, as he ran his gaze analytically across her features, before taking a small step closer to her. Before she could react, she felt his hands run gently own her arms and spread across her back, pulling her into a tender hug. She quivered slightly at the contact, finding herself frozen to the spot, her arms pinned to her sides. She had not expected such a gesture, and had not known Sherlock to make such an unprecedented move before. As she felt his strong arms hold her gently to his chest, she felt more reassured and more adored. She slowly raised her own arms, returning the hug, her forehead pressed lightly to his collar.
"I am not convinced that it can" Sherlock whispered, his breath grazing her ear as he lowered his head to speak. Joan felt herself becoming tearful, and closed her eyes tightly to resist such emotion, pressing her face further into his shirt. The scent of him, as well as his confident and strong hold upon her, gave her the reassurance that she needed. "Watson" he added, his voice low and slightly uncertain, causing Joan to re-open her eyes. "It's going to be alright." Beneath his hold upon her, Sherlock could feel Joan's entire body tense slightly, and so he ran one hand soothingly up her back, before allowing it to rest at the base of her neck. He was not used to comforting people, certainly not physically. He had had several discussions with Watson in which he had attempted to reassure her, mainly when discussing her deceased patient and his son. But somehow, he felt that his words would not have been enough this time. He did not know what possessed him to embrace her so suddenly and without permission, and the act itself felt rather unusual, and very unfamiliar to him. But it felt right, too, and he hoped that Watson would feel comforted by it.
"I know" she mumbled in response, before drawing her face from his body, and looking up towards his eyes. "Thank you." Sherlock nodded in response, before allowing her to untangle herself from his embrace. "We really should be going, you know." He paused for a moment, watching her carefully as she spoke. She appeared to be much more relaxed, her mood was elevated, and she showed no signs of the distress she had displayed just minutes earlier. In fact, she seemed to have improved markedly.
"And you are certain that you feel able to proceed with the interview?"
"Yes" she responded immediately, in a tone of conviction and certainty so strong that she almost believed it herself. "We shouldn't keep them waiting for much longer, you know" she muttered, glancing over her shoulder and towards the door.
"Yes" Sherlock began simply. "Who knows what they might believe we have been upto?" Joan smiled slightly, turning back to face Sherlock with warm, bright eyes.
"Who knows" she repeated, before turning from him and walking briskly towards the foyer. Sherlock watched her for a few moments until, satisfied that she appeared to have temporarily recovered, he followed her. For the entire duration of the journey to the precinct, Joan talked to Gregson and Bell, whilst Sherlock considered her demeanour, her fear, and the frightening expression which she had on her face when she stepped into the kitchen. Joan was always strong, even when she was upset or frightened. The night he saw her after her kidnapping ordeal, and the evening when Mycroft announced his plans to fake his own death, had been the only times which he recalled seeing her resolve begin to fall slightly. But neither of those nights were anything compared to the Joan Watson who had walked into the kitchen, her face grave, her eyes tearful and slightly red, her whole body practically trembling with fear. He had no idea what it could be that would cause her to appear so vulnerable, so fragile. But he wanted to find out. He hoped that Watson would confide in him after the interview, that she would tell him of what it was that had troubled her, as she had been about to in the kitchen. If Gregson's loud, booming voice had not filled the air, he had no doubt that Watson would have confided in him. At this thought, Sherlock cast a baleful look at the driving Captain, who pulled into his familiar parking space outside the precinct.
After a brief de-briefing from Captain Gregson and Detective Bell, Joan walked confidently towards the interview room, casting a reassuring glance back at Sherlock, as she entered it alone. He watched her as she entered, nodding in response to her glance, before following Gregson and Bell to the observation room, where they would watch the interview. As Sherlock took up his seat behind the glass, staring at the back of his partner who was on the other side, he found himself completely unable to shake away the image of her distressed face. He swallowed hard, shifted slightly in his seat, and rested his head upon the top of his knuckles as Joan began to speak.
"Hello, Miss Lennard" Joan began, in a kind yet semi-formal tone. "I was told you had some information that you wished to-"
"Have you ever loved someone?" Maria interjected, her hollow eyes staring at Joan with a haunting look.
"I'm sorry?" Joan responded, watching the young woman before her with caution.
"I can't be much clearer" she returned, in a low, acidic tone which reminded Joan of Greta Mathers. "I asked whether you have ever loved someone."
"Maria" Joan responded in a low yet light tone, as she clasped her hands together and rested them on the desk. "What is it that you wanted to tell me?" Maria watched Joan with hollow eyes and a blank expression, before resting her own hands upon the desk and staring straight at her.
"When we were in the coffee shop" Maria began, glancing down at her hands as she spoke. "The way you talked to me about my break-up, you... you understand" she continued, before lifting her face to reveal tearful eyes.
"What is it you think I understand?" Joan returned, her voice calm and even.
"Love, Miss Watson" she returned instantly, her mouth breaking into a small, frightening smile. "You know what it is like to love someone who doesn't, or can't, love you back." From behind the glass, Sherlock's eyes widened, and he felt his chest tighten. Gregson squinted in confusion at this statement, and Bell stared at Maria with a look between confusion and scepticism. But Sherlock remained, as before, staring at the profile of his partner. Joan tensed slightly, just for a moment, as Maria spoke those words. But as he watched her through the glass and awaited her response, he found himself struggling to understand why. Was that what she was worried about, so upset about? Did she think that he did not love her? He frowned into his knuckles, his eyes narrowing as he discarded this thought. Even if she thought that, which he did not believe that she did, it would still not explain the magnitude of the fear and sadness which was etched upon her features earlier that morning. There was something else. Something bigger. He just couldn't see it. Yet.
"I don't know what you're talking about" Joan returned, her voice calm and even yet slightly lower than before.
"I think you do" Maria responded in a choked voice, her eyes glistening with tears as she nodded towards Joan. "What you... the way you were... how you spoke to me, you... you get it, don't you? You understand."
"You think I understand unrequited love?" Joan asked, her voice remaining calm and kind, without a hint of doubt or scepticism. Maria watched her for a few moments, analysing her statement, before continuing.
"I think you understand how... how people feel when the love isn't returned, and how... how it can drive them into desperation" she stated, lifting her eyes to meet Joan's. And, finally, it clicked. "We're the same."
"We are not the same" Joan responded in a light, gentle tone, wary of the distress Maria was exhibiting. She was clearly incredibly upset, and Joan was genuinely concerned for her well-being. "Maria, sometimes we do love people who don't, or can't, love us back. For whatever reason, whether it be because they don't feel the same, or because they can't" she continued, watching Maria with a kind and compassionate expression. "But it does not give us the right to hurt them, or to hurt anyone else."
"I didn't" Maria responded after a couple seconds of uncomfortable silence. Joan sat completely still for a few moments, staring at Maria with a kind expression, before continuing.
"Yes, you did" she stated. "Maria, you did something terrible, something that you will have to live with, deal with. But we can help you."
"I don't need your help" she spat, shifting uncomfortably in her seat.
"Then why did you call me here?" Joan asked, her tone remaining low and even. "Why would you want to talk to me if you didn't think I could help you?"
"I wanted to see what it would be like" she responded absent-mindedly, her face tilted to the side. "I wanted to know what I could have been like."
"What?" Joan asked, her eyes narrowing slightly in confusion.
"I wanted to know what would have happened if I could have dealt with it, handled the rejection better" she stated, before letting out a small, sinister laugh. "But now I see it, Miss Watson. Really, I do" she continued, staring at Joan with a hard and deeply unsettling expression. "You're hurting too, aren't you?" she continued, suppressing a small laugh. "You feel it, you understand."
"I understand that kind of pain, that kind of hurt" Joan began, her tone altering slightly. "But I do not understand how a person could hurt someone for not loving them back. And I certainly don't understand how that person could act as you did, cause the pain and the hurt and the devastation that you have." She continued, watching the shocked face of Maria from across the table. "So you're wrong. I don't understand."
"We're the same" Maria breathed, smiling at Joan as she spoke. Joan glanced at her for a moment, before standing up abruptly and pushing out her chair.
"No" she responded gently. "No we're not." Joan turned on the spot and walked quickly to the door, opening it gently and closing it firmly behind her, pressing a clammy hand to her damp forehead.
"Are you alright, Miss Watson?" came the familiar voice of Captain Gregson, who was followed by Bell and Sherlock. Sherlock took a step in front of the detectives so he was close to Joan, and his presence reassured her immensely.
"Yeah, fine" she returned, standing confidently before them. "Is that enough to constitute a confession?"
"Possibly" Gregson conceded, glancing towards the door. "It's certainly somethin' that her attorney is gonna be panickin' about."
"I'll say" Bell responded, giving Joan a kind look. "Are you sure you're okay? Cos what she said was-"
"Crap? Yeah, I know. Thanks" Joan responded, giving Bell a small, warm smile. She was grateful for the kindness of her friends, who were clearly eager to reassure her. But one thing she could not deal with, that she was not ready to handle, was the same level of kindness extended from Sherlock. Not because she would reject it, quite the contrary: because she would welcome it. She felt that she had taken enough of his kindness and consideration for one day, which reignited the guilt which was resonating throughout her body. If he said something kind or reassuring to her now, she felt certain that she would burst into tears, and be completely inconsolable. She couldn't do that. Not now. Not to him. "I think I'm gonna go for a walk" she stated simply, drawing her bag to her shoulder, before giving a reassuring look to the others. "You three will be fine without me today, right?" she asked, tiredness lingering in her voice.
"Of course, Watson" came the voice of Sherlock Holmes, who was standing just a few feet from her. He knew how much that interview must have pained her, despite how hard she was trying to hide it. After her distress earlier in the day, as well as this new burden, he felt that her desire to spend some time alone was understandable. It was the way she handled things when they became too much. It's probably why she went running so early this morning he reasoned, as he acknowledged the warm look in her eyes. "We will text you if anything urgent arises" he stated simply, drumming his fingers lightly on the side of his leg. He only wished he could go with her.
"Thanks" she returned, turning on the spot and walking briskly towards the door, exiting the precinct and heading down the street. She breathed out heavily in relief as she left the stifling precinct, filling her lungs with the morning New York air. She walked quickly through the street, navigating the crowds with remarkable accuracy until, twenty minutes later, she reached her destination. The park.
Joan walked slowly into the large, open-area of the park, walking along the path and towards a bench, as the late-autumnal leaves clung to the bottom of her leather shoes. She walked past a couple of dog-walkers, three teenagers who had clearly just skipped school for the first time, and two office-workers who were apparently engaged in an illicit relationship. Joan averted her eyes from the young secretary who was adjusting her blouse, and leaned back onto the bench, crossing her arms comfortingly across her chest, as she processed the events of the past half an hour.
Joan often came here to think. Sometimes, during her jog, she would run to the park, doing several laps, before sitting herself down at her favourite bench and allowing herself to remove herself completely from her own world. There was something reassuring about watching countless other people, strangers who she did not know and would never talk to, walking through the park, going about their days, and probably encountering similar issues to herself. Perhaps not she reasoned, smiling to herself slightly. Joan drew her jacket closer around her, before crossing her arms across her abdomen, the contact of which brought her back to her own reality. During the interview she had, for just a few moments, her attention had been focused entirely upon the nature of her own character. She had not entertained Maria Lennard's statement that they were the same, not even for a moment. She knew it was untrue. She knew that whatever it was between herself and Sherlock, although it was difficult to define, it was definite. It was mutual, it was empowering and it was, perhaps, even stronger than love. What had unnerved her, and frightened her, was the thought of the other type of love she was considering. The love a mother had for her child.
As Joan drew her arms tighter across her abdomen, she felt her whole body overcome by the very feelings of fear and doubt which she had been so desperately trying to suppress. She had been so focused on telling Sherlock about the baby, that she had not spent too much time considering the issue of her own parenthood. Joan realised how odd this sounded, how strange it was. Since finding out that she was pregnant, all she knew was that she felt a deep, inexplicable connection to her baby. She wanted to protect him or her, to guard them, to provide the safest and most secure environment in which they could develop and grow, before and after her pregnancy. Despite her fear, the feelings that Joan had for her child were, without a doubt, love. It was the strongest, most unbreakable and empowering feeling that she had ever experienced, and it made her feel indestructible. But as Maria was talking about the reciprocal nature of love, she found herself thinking not of Sherlock, but of her child. Whilst she loved the baby beyond words and description, she wondered whether that was enough. She had spent so much time worrying over how to tell Sherlock that he was going to be a father that she had given fairly little thought to whether she could be a mother. What if she wasn't capable of it? What if she, because of her experiences and her decisions, would be a negative influence on their child?
The thought made Joan feel flushed and nauseous, and she removed her jacket hastily, placing it on the seat beside her, as she allowed the cool morning air to refresh her body. She allowed the air to pass over her flushed skin, revitalising her, as dozens of thoughts clouded her mind at once. She loved her child, she knew that. And she was certain that she loved Sherlock. Or, at least, she felt something equivalent to love, but different to how she felt about the baby. But as she sat on the bench, inhaling the scent of the nearby plants and the freshly cut grass, she found herself wondering whether that was enough. Was loving her baby reason enough for her to become a mother? Was it the right thing to do for the baby? As she sat wondering this, she found her thoughts drifting back to Sherlock, to their work, the danger they were constantly in. Even if he wanted the child, how would they keep him or her safe? Was love enough? Joan felt overwhelmed once more at her inability to think. She was becoming frustrated at the fact that, unlike many other decisions regarding her life, this one was so multi-faceted and so frightening. Whatever avenue she went down, whatever option she considered, she found herself facing a tall, immovable wall which stood between her and her baby. As she re-evaluated the situation, and ran through the possibilities in her mind, she found that one word kept coming up. One word was drifting through her mind, and imprinting itself firmly in brightly lit letters upon the walls which were constructed. Adoption.
Joan swallowed hard, turning her head to the side and exhaling heavily as she ran the word over in her mind. Was it what she wanted? No. She wanted to be with her baby, that much she knew. That was all she knew. In moments of fear and panic, of worrying that Sherlock would reject the situation and their child, she found herself feeling head-strong and determined that she would take care of the baby. If he did not feel able to help her, she would do it by herself. She felt both frightened and empowered by this thought, knowing that she had another option if Sherlock could not deal with the situation. But, unlike before, she now found herself doubting even that decision. Would it be the best thing for the baby? Would she be the best thing for the baby? Before she could consider her thoughts any further, she felt her phone buzzing against her thigh. She blinked herself out of her reverie, before extracting the phone and glancing at the screen. She was shocked when, after having glanced at the time, she realised that almost four hours had passed, and it was currently almost 3pm. She blinked away her confusion, before unlocking the phone and staring at the screen, finding that her heart stopped beating as she saw the small message in the centre. It was from Sherlock.
The message read: 'Wtsn, eth is fine. Wld lk 2 tk u smwhr I thnk ul njy. Pls cm bk epc. SH'. Joan squinted at the message, narrowing her eyes in confusion as she attempted to decipher it. Sherlock was clearly inviting her to some kind of event, but he did not specify what. The only part of the message she did not understand was the final abbreviation, 'ebc'. Joan rose from the bench, walked from the park and hailed a cab, which brought her to the doors of the brownstone less than fifteen minutes later. As she stepped through the doors and into the living area, she found Sherlock reading a book in his favourite chair. She gave him a confused look, before raising her phone in the air and preparing herself to speak.
"At 'epc'?" she asked. "What does that mean?"
"Earliest possible convenience" Sherlock answered genially, offering her a small smile, as he practically lept out of his seat. Joan nodded in understanding.
"Ah, yes, of course" she responded with levity, turning to face him as he approached her. Sherlock reached into the cover of the book he was holding and passed her a small leaflet, which she scanned with interest, having recognised it immediately.
"The gallery on the upper-west side is having an exhibition of some of the most famous eighteenth and nineteenth-century European oil paintings in the world this weekend" she stated, running her eyes across the leaflet. "I remember reading an article on it online."
"So do I" Sherlock responded, his tone low and kind. "As it happens, the gallery is opening tonight, for some of the city's richest and most elite."
"Right" Joan answered, lifting her eye from the leaflet and handing it back to him. "And what? You wanna gate-crash the rich men's party?"
"No, Watson" he stated, pulling two tickets from the back of his book. "I want to join it" he stated, watching with interest as Joan's eyes widened slightly at the big reveal. "The party, not the social parasites."
"I see" Joan responded, nodding towards the tickets. "I tried to order some of those weeks ago, I thought we could go together, but they sold out in seconds. How did you get those?"
"Well, for all sold-out tickets there are some which are sold, Watson" he stated amiably, surveying Joan's features and feeling relieved that she appeared to be feeling slightly less distressed. "Although, this particular pair were a gift from a former client, whose wife's indiscretions threatened to cause him the utmost embarrassment."
"I don't even wanna know-"
"No, no you don't" Sherlock responded in a low, absent tone, his nose wrinkling as he considered the size of the metaphorical hole which he had dug this particular client out of. "Anyway, the opening begins in just over an hour and so, if you are feeling up to it, would you like to attend it with me this evening?" He asked kindly, his voice quivering slightly with apprehension as he extended the invitation. He knew that she seemed upset and felt unable to confide in him at the moment. But he wished to organise something relaxing for her, where she did not need to worry herself, or feel afraid. He wanted her to be able to have some peace from whatever burden it was that she was insisting on carrying alone, even if it were for just one night.
"Sure" she returned instantly, nodding gratefully at Sherlock as she spoke. Grateful for both the invitation, for what she knew to be the reason behind it, and for the fact that she had not pressed that matter further. Despite her concerns and her worry, as well as the soul-searching she had undertaken in the park, she felt sure that removing herself emotionally from her fears for just the one evening would enable her to approach the issue with a fresher perspective. And, after Maria unquestionably revealed at least part of her guilt in the interview room, perhaps the case would be wrapped up soon, and she and Sherlock could talk. Perhaps.
Less than an hour later, an elegant Joan Watson and bespoke-suit-dressed Sherlock Holmes were walking arm in arm through the elegant gallery, admiring the paintings which hung imposingly upon the walls. They spent over two hours discussing the first wall of images, laughing to themselves and having a wonderful time, detached from all aspects of their current lives. Joan felt that she was in an inspiration-filled bubble, surrounded by talent and by beauty, as she admired each painting in turn. Although she was having a wonderful time, she felt oddly detached from the event itself, and from her current position within it. Although she promised herself that she would allow herself one evening where she would not worry about the things she could not deal with immediately, her concerns about the baby were unable to be quelled, even temporarily. The reality of this situation hit her at full force when she approached a painting at the end of the second wall, which was created at the end of the eighteenth century by a little-known Italian painter.
The picture was of a trio of young children, who Joan believed were between the ages of two and five, playing together by the side of a river. There was a bridge which went over the river, linked to a small village, and surrounded by fields of corn and tall grass. The picture was idyllic, serene, and depicted a much happier more innocent time, where the children played side by side, all day long. Even though the painting was over two hundred years old, and the children were not particularly big, it was clear that they were happy. As Joan smiled warmly to herself, she felt her stomach tighten slightly with fear, as a question played on her mind. Before she could think, or stop herself from doing so, she uttered her question, which she regretted as soon as the words had left her lips.
"They look happy here, don't they?"
"What?" Sherlock asked, his eyes drifting from side to side, as he analysed the picture with an expert eye. Despite having regretted asking her question, Joan knew that it was too late to turn back now. She had to press on, otherwise he would become suspicious. She just had to be careful.
"The children" she stated, nodding casually towards the image. Sherlock nodded in agreement, scanning the painting as Joan watched him with an eager anticipation, before continuing to speak.
"What do you think about it?" she asked in the same non-committal, casual tone. Sherlock did not seem suspicious of her question, but simply continued to view the image before them, nodding at it approvingly.
"It is a pleasant piece" he stated slowly, nodding as he spoke, his eyes not leaving the painting. "The colour of the water seems slightly off, though. It would not be quite such a vibrant shade of blue. Nor would the tall tree to the right have-"
"I didn't mean the colour or the composition" Joan stated genially, her voice calm and level, as Sherlock turned to face her. "I just... do you think it's possible to see that they're happy, to know they were happy, even if it isn't clear?" she asked conversationally, as Sherlock watched her with interest. He seemed to be confused by her question, which amused her slightly. After a few seconds of thought, he turned back to the painting, responding to her question as he stared at it.
"I believe you need more than one image to accurately assess whether a person is happy" Sherlock stated, as he ran his eyes across the image. "I think that we often want to see happiness in paintings like these. In situations where we see young children especially, we often seek to assure ourselves that they were happy, that they were content, that they were looked after" he continued, as Joan nodded in agreement, attempting to conceal the growing concern which she was experiencing. Had she said too much? "But I also think it is important to realise that these children may not have been happy. They may have been orphaned, had cruel or inadequate parents, or been mistreated in some way. Who knows the pain and the misery behind the masks these children wore during the painting" he continued, causing Joan to swallow hard. He was answering her question a little too much, she thought. And perhaps he was right. "But, at least the little darlings are not tormenting their elders or setting fire to famous landmarks" he added genially, smiling lightly at Joan, who returned it. He then walked past her and towards the next painting, which seemed to interest him greatly, as Joan case one final forlorn glance towards the image before her. Perhaps she had fewer options than she thought.