The motorcycle's growl parted the early morning quiet, coursed up the street and came to a precise stop in front of the brownstone. The air was still cool and Joan had enjoyed the ride home holding Sherlock's warm body close to hers. As she pulled away from him to take off her helmet, he felt a small pang of loss; their adventure was over, a new day was starting. Exhausted, they dragged themselves into the brownstone. The night had been active, very active, and neither had gotten much sleep. Standing in the barely lit entryway, an awkwardness settled around them. They were back home now, not under an oak, not wrapped around each other on the back of a motorcycle. Unsure of what was appropriate and what was not, Sherlock quietly stacked the blankets they brought home on the coatrack table while Joan hung up her coat.
Joan broke the silence first, "I'm going to take a quick shower."
He nodded, reached his hand towards her hair and pulled out a small piece of dried grass. "Probably a good idea." A nervous smile played on his face. They stood for a second again, unsure of what to do, other than stare at each other. The stillness of the house pressed around them.
"Hmm..." she took the grass from his hand, nodded and turned and walked upstairs. Sherlock stood and watched her, then made his way downstairs.
The rush of the warm water on her tired frame and the white noise it provided was exactly what she needed physically and emotionally; a solitary moment to process the night, to begin to acknowledge and accept the deeper connection that she and Sherlock had made. She lingered in the shower remembering the intimate moments between them, each memory producing repercussive sensations and thoughts that left her content that the right decision had been made. Joan left the bath in her cotton tshirt and shorts and headed towards her room.
Sherlock passed her in the hall, clothes in hand, on the way to his shower. She smelled of lavender and honey and his face just softened at the sight of her. He looked down at the clothes in his hands, embarrassed at not knowing what to say or do.
Joan lightly took his wrist and stroked the back of his hand with her thumb to let him know they were alright. He brought his eyes up to meet hers and then proceeded to the bathroom for a shower and his own moments of solitary rumination.
In her room, Watson closed the shutters tight and drew the curtains, flimsy though they were, over them, in an attempt to shut out the early morning light. Just a little more sleep was all she wanted at this point and the bed lured her in. She lay on her side, partially covered in a sheet, face turned towards the open door. Even though she was exhausted, Joan found she couldn't close her eyes. She was waiting for him.
Like a summoned ghost, he appeared in the doorway, tentatively looking in, not knowing if or how to proceed, was she even awake, was he asking too much of her too soon. His eyes wide, his face somber, he stood.
On seeing him, Joan's arm instinctively moved up, inviting him towards her. Relief washed over him and he approached the bed. She picked up the sheet to let him in. Sherlock hesitated for a second making sure he understood. He lay on his back beside her. The scent of his soap and her lavender shampoo filled Joan with comfort.
A sigh escaped him, "It's going to be awkward for a while isn't it?" He spoke to the ceiling. "... I'm a novice at this whole ..." he struggled for a word, "... relationship ... thing."
"You and ... that woman," she couldn't bring herself to say her name, "had a relationship ... of sorts."
"Of sorts. Not real, not living together, not exclusive..."
Joan propped herself on one elbow to look at him, "Are you having second thoughts?"
He turned his head and looked at her to make sure she understood, "No. I'm saying I don't know the rules. I'm going to depend on you to show me the way, to tell me what is okay, what is not ..."
"Oh." She looked at him with kindness, "Well, for starters, bringing home women, not okay."
He squinted at her, suppressing a smile, "But if I take them elsewhere, don't bring them home, that's okay?"
She narrowed her eyes and pounced on him, her face over his, hair hanging down, "I will remind you that I have been trained in single stick, I have a baton and I'm not afraid to use it." She gave him a rough kiss just to let him know he was hers.
"I take it that's a no?" He said gulping for air.
"Sherlock!" She grabbed at him. He pulled her in to him and dug his face into her neck. "Watson, Watson, Watson... Why would I want anyone else."
"Alright..." Properly mollified, she settled down on top of him. "Sleep. We need sleep."
"Mmmm" came the groggy reply. "You understand the same rule applies to you."
"What, I can't bring women home?" she teased.
"I've seen the way Marcus and half of the department look at you. But especially Marcus..." his voice was a serious whisper.
"Are you jealous?" She whispered into his chest
"Not jealous ... No." Sherlock's arms tightened around her. "Just ... " again he couldn't find the words.
"I know," she said softly, "Marcus is a good friend, he's young and still finding his way."
"Hmmm..." his was voice low and did not sound convinced.
Joan picked up her face to look at him, "I have you. Why would I want anyone else?" The sincerity in her voice produced a small lump of emotion in his throat. Being cared for in this manner overwhelmed him. A small kiss was exchanged and she rolled off of him onto her side taking his hand with her. He spooned up close behind her, brushed her hair aside and kissed the nape of her neck.
"Mmmm, Sherlock ... Sleep, we need sleep," she admonished him as she let him slip a leg between hers. Joan curled her hand around his and held it tightly to her chest.
Sleep overcame them quickly.