Desire. Elation. Embarrassment. Regret. One feeling followed the other as Joan walked out of the kitchen and turned towards the stairs. What had she just done? She and Sherlock did not have that kind of relationship. Not yet anyway. Not at the brownstone. "But he started it!" the rebel teen inside her yelled, "and big deal so you licked cream off his finger." She could feel the blush spreading across her face. His eyes had lit with an intensity she had never seen before as she suckled his finger. Ugh! Good lord! Involuntarily her face squinched at the memory. She shook her head trying to erase the image from her mind as she quickly climbed the stairs. Under the tree they had made an agreement which she had just broken. The fear that this kind of behavior was going to upend their friendship and partnership resurfaced in her. That was absolutely the last thing that either of them wanted. Joan decided to be an adult about this and go hide in her room.
Sherlock was still standing in the kitchen trying to get himself under control. A lesser man would be following Watson upstairs right now. A better man would not be visualizing her lips repeating the action over and over, feeling the sweep of her tongue... He stopped himself and took a deep breath. "Keep to the task at hand," he told himself as he returned to scooping the cream into the jar. He was never going to be able to look at clotted cream again without a little twitch of a reaction. Sherlock realized a transformation of their relationship was underway. He wasn't sure if they were doing the right thing by allowing themselves the level of intimacy both of them obviously craved. He could not imagine his life without her in it and would never do anything to upset the balance of their friendship. As partners, they worked like a well oiled machine. He snickered to himself as the image of "well oiled partners" leapt into his mind. Sherlock shook his head. Part of him really was reverting to his teenage days, returning to being "Sean" in many ways.
As usual, work stepped in to stop any further rumination. The morning's incident was put away in light of the terrorist threat they were enlisted to investigate. The rhythms of their friendship and partnership resumed only slightly altered. They were a bit more apt to sit a little closer together, to allow the bump of a shoulder or the brush of hand, to let a gaze linger a degree longer. But it went no further than that. Most importantly, their work did not suffer in the least; perhaps, it even enhanced their working life.
- . - . - - . - . - - . - . - - . - . -
Spring was quickly giving in to summer heat. The tree had not received its visitors for a few weeks.
It was late afternoon and Sherlock was out for a few hours. They had been working extra long days, with no down time. How the man managed to keep moving with as little sleep as he had was beyond explanation. Joan took the opportunity of his absence to enjoy a bath, a real one, with bubbles, relaxing without the threat of explosions, doors being thrown open, or demands for her immediate presence bellowed up at her.
The phone chimed. She peeked over the side of the tub where she had left her phone on a towel. Sean: "Come play?" She smiled. He rarely used his inscrutable text style when he wrote as Sean. Joan dried her hands on the towel and Gianna texted Sean back: "In the tub right now." The returning text was almost immediate: "Naked, with bubbles?" She simply answered "Yes" as her smile widened. His response bounced back: "will b right over." Quickly she responded: "No! Meet u in 30 mins." A sullen little "k" was Sean's response.
They arrived at the tree almost at the same time. Walking towards each other and the shade of the tree. Sherlock looked almost carefree, jacket off and on his arm, hands in pockets as he strolled towards her. "Your hair's still wet," he noted as they got closer. His hand moved up to push the hair back from her face but stopped. An odd awkwardness settled around them. Joan half smiled and pushed her hair back. The soft warmth of summer surrounded them, a gentle breeze wafted between them and stirred the leaves overhead. They stood looking at each other not sure what was appropriate.
Sherlock reached out a finger and touched the white canvas bag that hung on Joan's shoulder. "What did you bring?" he asked.
"Oh," Watson looked at the bag, "the blanket, some water, some uhm, playing cards..."
"Playing cards?" Sherlock looked at her incredulously. "I don't think we'll need those." He moved a little closer.
An embarrassed Watson looked down and stuttered, "I uh, ... You said come play ... And I, ... oh I don't know what I was thinking ..." She sighed.
Tentatively, Sherlock lightly placed a hand on her arm. "Why is this so awkward ..." he whispered. She relaxed a little at his touch.
"I'm afraid." She lifted her face to look at him. "I don't want to ruin what we have."
He looked down at her and nodded. "I know... I've thought on that as well ... But we have two choices here. We can spread out the blanket under this tree and we can sit ... and play cards..." He tilted his head and looked at her from the corner of his eyes. Joan fought a smile. Sherlock brought his face closer to hers so that their foreheads touched, "or we can admit certain desires..." His nose gently rubbed against hers, "certain wants and ... needs ..." his lips brushed her cheek, "... that only we can satisfy for each other ..." His hand came up and cupped her face. Joan responded by closing her eyes and leaning into his hand.
They spread the blanket on the west side of the tree so they could watch the sun set behind the Manhattan skyline. Sherlock lay on his back, propped up on his elbows, while Watson sat beside him, legs tucked in under her. She looked at Sherlock stretched out in the warm late afternoon sun. He turned his head and the golden light caught his eyes making the blue grey shine green. Her reticence was lost. Joan reached her hand towards him and undid the top collar button of his shirt. His eyes slowly closed as she did the same for the next two buttons and let her hand linger, her fingers playing with the soft hair of his chest. Sherlock took her hand and kissed her open palm. He laid back and gently tugged at her hand guiding her on to him. She placed her head on his chest as he brought his arm around her, stroking her back. The sun was disappearing behind the City, the golden light washed out and dimmed into greys and blues. The rustle of the light breeze playing through leaves above and the low whisper of their breathing, the only sounds to break the quiet.
Sherlock spoke softly, "You're feeling more comfortable with ... this." Reading physical clues in others was a rudimentary skill of consulting detectives. It made it easier and harder for them. There was no hiding arousal or nerves or fear from each other. She lifted her head to look at him and nodded, "It just all became real to me in the kitchen the other day ... with the cream on your finger and when I ..." He smiled broadly at the memory, making her grin as well. The dam that was holding them back gave way with the memory of the small intimacy they had shared.
The over-thinking stopped. He rolled her on her back no longer controlling his desire and need for her. Sherlock's hands found the small of her back and pressed her up and closer to him. Her hands found their way under his shirt, luxuriating in the feel of his skin and muscles. His lips at her neck rasped upwards till they found and joined her waiting mouth. She moved a hand to grab the back of his head and push him harder into her. What had been tender exploration gave way to passionate demands. He was there to do her bidding. The rest of the world disappeared for him until the vague nuisance of a child's giggle filtered into Sherlock's awareness. He ignored it. Watson heard the child also but could not ignore the sound.
Joan held Sherlock momentarily at bay and turned her head towards the giggles. A child, a boy of about 4 years of age, stood a few feet away in the quickly falling shadows. The child was alone, chasing fireflies and apparently greatly amused by them. By now Sherlock had succumbed to the child's laughter as well and turned to watch him. They heard the far off calls of a frantic woman, "Joseph! Joseph! Where are you?"
Watson and Holmes looked at each other and silently agreed what needed to be done. He rolled off of Watson reluctantly, as she moved to get up.
"I'll be right back," she told him. She walked over to the child, "Hi Joseph. My name is Joan. Why don't we go find your mama, hmm?" The child took her hand and they disappeared in the direction of the woman's cries.
Sherlock lay back, marveling at his partner, she had a way about her. Children, animals, surly Brits - she charmed them all.
When Joan got back to the tree, she found Sherlock fast asleep. The past few days had been exhausting. She lay up close beside him and watched the fireflies twinkle around them. Listening to the slow and steady rhythm of his breathing, she drifted off as well.
When she awoke, she found him sleeping on her breast, her arms encircled him, keeping him safe. The damp coolness of the grass seeping up through the blanket signaled it was time to leave the shelter of the tree. Watson roused him and they silently made their way home.