"Where did you learn to bellydance?" Sherlock finds himself asking as the cab trundles towards Baker Street.
"Turkey," Joan answers with a far-off look on her face. "Spent a semester of uni abroad, for some reason Turkey appealed. I met a man there, he told me I looked like I'd be good at it, so I thought hell, why not."
Sherlock purses his lips and envisions a sleazy Turkish man leering at Joan. It doesn't help the anger and jealousy that still seethes in his gut after Everard's behaviour.
"Hmm," is the only answer he gives. Joan shoots him an odd look, shifts in her seat a bit, and draws the coat closer around herself.
"What did you think?" Joan inquires after another few blocks.
"Of what?" Sherlock knows she can tell he's playing dumb. She reads him far too easily, these days.
"Of my dancing! I mean, it's been a while since I've done it, did I live up to your fiendishly high expectations?"
Oh God, yes. "It was passable. It fooled Everard, that's all that really matters, I suppose." Joan gets an indignant look on her face.
"Well, as long as it did the trick," she bites out. Sherlock doesn't understand what he'd said wrong. It was the closest thing to a compliment he could pay, what did she expect? For him to fall all over himself praising her dancing and feminine wiles in the most poetic language his tongue can muster? Well, he'd honestly like to, but he's sure he would make an absolute mess of it and that would put her off, so he restrains himself. The rest of the cab ride is spent in silence.
Upon reaching Baker Street, Sherlock tosses the fare to the cabbie and gets out of the vehicle without a backwards glance. All he wants is to shower, get the stink of incense out of his hair, and retire to bed, most probably to have a good hard wank. He takes the stairs two at a time, already unbuttoning his suit jacket, and hears Joan padding quickly behind him. Guilt swoops through him as he realizes that she's still barefoot.
He's dropping his jacket onto the back of his chair as he passes through the living room when he feels a firm hand on his shoulder. He turns to see Joan smiling tentatively at him.
"What, no post-case Chinese? I can just change and we can…" Joan starts to take off Sherlock's coat.
"No, I don't want a sodding Chinese!" Sherlock – well, okay, he snarls it a little. Joan steps back, a look of guarded confusion on her face. Sherlock feels bad immediately, but he's not sure if he can handle an entire hour or so more of looking at Joan with doing something about it. Besides, she is still clutching his coat, and it reminds him that it probably smells like her around the collar now. A few days of exquisite torture heaped on top of all the rest, then. He scowls.
"What is the matter with you?" she asks, as well she should. Sherlock is all over the place, and he knows he probably looks rather mad. He moves to retreat to his room without answering, but Joan moves to block his path. She looks up at him with that defiant, stubborn expression he's come to love. He feels his expression soften somewhat under her scrutiny, and hers changes accordingly. "What's wrong?"
He will not give in. She's so close, he can almost feel her body heat, but to act on the impulse that rages through his nervous system would be a betrayal of their friendship, of her, and Sherlock rather suspects she only moved in with him because of that stupid "married to my work" line he'd spouted that first night. He wasn't a threat. It made Sherlock's throat knot up, but he'd rather have her here, and keep his secret, than put everything on the table and watch her leave.
"I am fine," he grits out between clenched teeth, and even as he says it he knows she isn't buying it. "I'm absolutely fine."
"Bullshit." Damn. Called out.
"Leave it, Joan."
"Sherlock," she says, and her voice is gentle. "Are you hurt? Did one of them actually get a hit in?"
One of the men had delivered a rather nasty punch to the lower part of Sherlock's back, and he'd likely feel it in the morning, but he isn't about to tell Joan this. It isn't threatening to his overall health, and she worries about his well-being enough as it is. She continues to look at him, blue eyes full of concern and a hint of annoyance, like she expects Sherlock to tell her if he is injured. He never has before, why should he break their streak of her noticing eventually and reprimanding him soundly?
"No, I'm quite fine." Other than my rather insistent erection, Sherlock thinks, and you're going to notice it any moment now, so if you would kindly allow me to pass and take care of it, I would be much obliged.
"Sherlock..." Joan just shakes her head and breaks his gaze. When she looks back at him there is resignation in her expression, and her shoulders slump minutely.
"Fine, fine," she says, backing out of his way with her hands raised in surrender. Sherlock is loathe to have her further away from himself but acknowledges privately that it is for the best. Joan's proximity is driving him to distraction, and his iron hold on his own libido is slipping fast.
Sherlock moves to flee past her. At his doorway, he gets an unanticipated stab of guilt. He was rude. Usually he likes to be rude, prefers it, but he suspects his behaviour may have alienated Joan, at least temporarily. He stops, turns.