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Within an hour of their first meeting, Sherlock lays it all bare.
"You were a doctor. Surgeon, judging by your hands."
"Big of her, to take him back after the affair."
Joan can't fully hide her surprise at being read so easily, her most closely guarded secrets dragged out with careless, throwaway comments like they mean nothing at all. Her temper flares for an instant, but years of experience have taught her not to give in to it. She lets nothing show, her face a cool mask as she treats Sherlock's party trick with the same disregard he bestows upon her. She tells herself it doesn't matter. She has nothing to be ashamed of.
It isn't until a day later that it all comes out.
"I made up the bit about your friend to spare your feelings."
This time, Joan doesn't hold anything back. Her anger is a cold and terrible thing, deadly precise as she turns on him. She doesn't flinch at the look on his face, keeps her voice steady only through sheer force of will as she gathers her things and walks out.
It's one thing for Sherlock to look at her and pick out all of her most vulnerable parts at a glance. That, Joan thinks, she could have lived with. But for him to pity her, to make up cheap lies to give her a false sense of security -- it's the worst kind of cruelty, and she will not tolerate it.
Joan has had her fill of people lying to spare her feelings.
Sherlock finds her less than two hours later, in the middle of the opera's second act, and offers her the worst apology she's ever heard. Another two hours after that, her car has a car-shaped dent in it and Sherlock is apologizing again.
Joan looks at Sherlock through the bulletproof glass, notes the scrapes and bruises on his face with a clinical eye and thinks, This is what it's always going to be like. Six weeks of Sherlock's spectacular wrecks and clumsy apologies stretch out before her, and she tells herself it's not too late to walk away.
"Your father has agreed to give you another chance," she hears herself say.
And Sherlock looks so devastatingly grateful, gives her the first sincere smile she's ever seen on him and looks at her with eyes that shine even in the dull fluorescent lights. Joan had forgotten what it felt like, to have someone look at her like that.
It's been a long time since anyone saw her as their savior.
He never lies to her again.
---
Sherlock is not the only one who can read people, as much as he'd like to think he cornered the market on deductive reasoning. It's Joan's job to notice body language, to pick up on habits and patterns, to recognize warning signs. And Joan is damn good at her job, even if it's one she needs two alarm clocks to wake up for.
It doesn't take long for Joan to realize that Sherlock is testing her. Constantly. He throws out comments ranging from the bizarre to the obscene, and thinks she doesn't notice that he holds his breath for her reaction every time. So she gives him none, rolls her eyes and raises an eyebrow at his thinly veiled innuendos but does not allow him the satisfaction of seeing her unsettled.
There's too much posturing for any of it to be unsettling, in any case. He leaves his handcuffs dangling from the ladder for three whole days, silently daring her to broach the subject. She feels his scrutiny when her back is turned, can practically hear the gears in his head as he gauges her. Joan has never seen anyone work so hard at pretending they don't care.
Sherlock is rude and petulant and moody, full of sneering disdain for the "addict festivals" Joan forces him to attend each week. Joan puts up with it because, when all is said and done, he still goes to the meetings, and he never voices his complaints loud enough for anyone but Joan to hear.
Joan soon realizes that it's because the brunt of Sherlock's contempt is reserved for himself.
---
"I hate washing up," Sherlock mutters, his eyes trained on the harddrive he's taking apart on the table.
Joan glances up from her book to take in his sullen expression, then ducks down to hide her smile behind the pages. "Nobody enjoys doing it," she says.
"Must you be so passive-aggressive?" he protests. "Doing yours and leaving mine behind, when you know damn well I'm busy."
Not too busy to tinker with your toys or write books in your head about bees, Joan thinks, but only gives a non-committal hum in response.
"Seems rather childish, if you ask me."
Joan rolls her eyes at that one, but refrains from comment.
"Is this part of the rehabilitation process? Assign chores to your pet addicts--"
"Now who's being childish?" Joan asks mildly.
Sherlock falls into mutinous silence, and Joan flips to the next page of her book.
The next morning, the sink is empty and Sherlock's dishes are crammed into the drying rack. They're stacked on top of each other, too closely packed for any of them to air dry properly. Joan carefully wipes them down with a towel and puts them away in the cupboard.
---
It's not like Joan's a fan of washing dishes, either.
---
But to Sherlock, she is simply Watson.
It feels deliberate, an unspoken acknowledgement that they are never going to be friends. Last names are for acquaintances, business arrangements. Watson, he calls her, and the line is drawn between them. This far, and no further.
Joan doesn't know when that changes, but a few weeks later she's having dinner with Ty again. Her phone lights up with a new text from Sherlock.
WATSON! ONLY 45MIN LFT B4 2HRS R UP
It takes her a while to decipher that, before she taps out a quick reply. I'll be back before then. Have a spit test ready.
She presses send and tucks her phone away. "Sorry about that," she says. "I had to take it."
"Work stuff?" Ty says knowingly, mirroring her nod. "You still with that British guy?"
"You know that I am," she says, smiling as an afterthought to hide her irritation.
"'Watson,' huh," Ty says, sounding inexplicably, infuriatingly amused. He sees the surprise on her face and adds, "Sorry, I couldn't help--"
"Don't give me that bullshit," Joan cuts in flatly. "Nobody was forcing you to read over my shoulder."
"No, you're right, I'm sorry," Ty says, tripping over his words in his haste to apologize. "I'm sorry, that was stupid. I just-- It was weird, seeing your last name like that. Felt so... impersonal. But I guess that's a good thing in this line of work, right?"
Joan suddenly feels exhausted, too tired to stay mad, too tired to argue. And just like that, she remembers why the two of them never worked. "Yeah, Ty. I guess so," she says, and gestures to a passing waiter for their check.
She lets Ty pick up the bill and walk her to a cab. Halfway to the brownstone, her phone goes off again.
15MINS. UR CUTTING IT CLOSE WATSON
A huff of laughter escapes her, and she writes back, I'll be there in 5.
Watson, he calls her, and nobody else has ever called her that. Joan realizes then that nobody else ever will.
---
Sometimes Joan thinks she can feel it, the ghost of a woman in her place.
It's not just towards her that Sherlock shows his consideration. She sees the way he makes himself small and nonthreatening around some of the victims they come into contact with. And Detective Bell tells her about the poor woman they found locked up in the basement of a man Joan hopes will never see the light of day. Sherlock had been the one who found her, which doesn't surprise Joan. But he had also been the one who comforted her, and the only one able to question her about the horrors she had endured.
"Guy can be an asshole," Bell remarks. "But he knows how to be gentle around the ones who need it, I'll give him that."
Joan remembers how only weeks before, he had lost his temper at Eileen Renfro for not identifying her attacker. His kindness has limits, then. It ends the moment Sherlock thinks someone is withholding information that could help him solve a case.
It isn't until Gregson approaches her one afternoon that Joan begins to understand the full extent of Sherlock's compassion. They're getting coffee in the break room, Sherlock still buried in stacks of evidence logs down in the archives.
"Do you remember my friend Mike McGee?" he asks. "He helped us with the Ellison case a couple weeks ago."
"The private investigator," Joan nods. "Yes, I remember."
Gregson nods. "You'll never guess where he is now."
He's right. Joan never would have guessed Hemdale. The man had checked himself in yesterday, confessing to an increasingly devastating addiction to crystal meth. Looking back, Joan thinks she should have noticed the signs. Sherlock obviously had. Joan doesn't think for one second it's a coincidence that McGee went to same rehab clinic as Sherlock. Not when he had taken the man aside for a private conversation, one that led to an inexplicable change of heart regarding the confidentiality of his client's information.
Joan brings it up in conversation later, casually relaying the news to Sherlock while the latter pores over police reports.
"Gregson says they're optimistic about McGee's recovery," Joan says, stirring her coffee. "If he checked himself in, it means he wants to get sober. That's the first step."
"Watson, please," Sherlock says, sounding exasperated. "I've already told you the brain can only hold a finite amount of data, so why you must insist on filling it with irrelevant and useless details is beyond me."
Joan takes a slow sip of her coffee, feeling rather smug. "Just thought you'd like to know," she says.
---
She soon caves to pressure and guilt in a moment of weakness, answering her mother's call before she has time to think better of it. Ten minutes later, she's regretting it with every fiber of her being.
"I just wish you'd give Ty another chance. He was so good for you."
Especially after Liam, she doesn't say, but Joan can hear it anyway.
"It just wasn't right," Joan says, grasping for patience. "We get along better as friends."
"He looked after you," her mother presses. "You need someone who can look after you, for a change. All you ever do is take care of others. It's one thing to help people as a doctor, but now--"
"Mom, please," Joan interrupts. "Let's not go through this again."
"How are you ever going to meet anyone doing what you do? What kind of people are you surrounding yourself with, in that line of work?"
"Because I should really be picking jobs based on the odds of finding a good husband, right," Joan says, sarcastic and bitter even to her own ears. "Great advice. Thank you."
"Don't exaggerate," her mother scolds. "That's not what I'm trying to say."
"I know what you're trying to say, Mom. You don't like what I do, I get it. I think you've made it abundantly clear," Joan says flatly. "Can we please stop talking about this?"
And for once, her mother drops the subject. They carry on in stilted conversation for another few minutes, carefully avoiding any mention of Joan's father. When she finally hangs up, Joan feels exhausted.
"Your mother disapproves of me."
Joan jumps, nearly dropping her phone as she whirls around to see Sherlock leaning against her doorway. She glares at him, and Sherlock shrugs in half-hearted apology.
"Your door was open," he says.
"It wasn't an invitation to eavesdrop," Joan says, but finds she doesn't have it in her to be angry about it. She tosses her phone onto the bed and sighs wearily. "It's not you she disapproves of, Sherlock."
There's a long pause as Sherlock considers this. Then, "You shouldn't take it to heart, Watson. It's a good thing."
"What is?" Joan asks, confused.
"That your mother is disappointed in you."
Joan can't help but laugh at that. "Alright, I'll bite. How the hell is that supposed to be a good thing?"
"She expects more for you because she holds you in high regard," Sherlock says simply. "She sees the conditions you are surrounding yourself in, the sort of company you keep," he gestures at himself with a wry smile, "and she finds it lacking. You deserve better."
Not for the first time, Joan is left speechless.
"I must admit, Watson, a part of me is envious of you," Sherlock says, and walks away before Joan can respond.
---
"You are somewhat prone to disappointment," he says, picking up the thread of conversation as if only minutes had passed, rather than nearly a week. "What do you think that says about you?"
Joan doesn't look up from the files as she replies, "Are you trying to suggest that I lower my expectations?"
"Hardly," Sherlock says. "The fact that you see the best in people is what makes you a good companion."
Joan looks up at that, raising an eyebrow in surprise. The way Sherlock states it so plainly, it isn't a compliment, merely an observation of fact.
"I would also wager that your refusal to expect anything less than the best possible outcome is what made you an exceptional surgeon," Sherlock continues, speaking just a little too fast, his voice just a bit too loud. Joan sees the warning signs before Sherlock delivers the final blow. "But as we both know, that approach has its costs."
White flowers on a poor man's grave. Hands held too long under scalding water. It would have hurt less if Sherlock had slapped her, and Joan hardens her expression, lets anger wash away the sting as she reflects on the sheer hypocrisy of Sherlock fucking Holmes lecturing anyone on getting too invested.
"Just spit it out, Sherlock," Joan says, her voice low and dangerous. "Where are you going with this?"
"I am going to disappoint you, Watson," Sherlock snaps. He's pacing like a caged animal, eyes darting everywhere and never settling, never looking at Joan. "Not out of any malice or desire to see you hurt, but because I cannot change what I am. And what I am is-- is--"
He falters, breaks off speaking and for a fleeting moment he looks absolutely wrecked. Hollowed out and frail, and Joan can see it so clearly, the pitiful creature Sherlock must have been when he hit rock bottom. She remembers Sherlock recounting the tale of his childhood tormenter -- imagined or not, the underlying fear is still there: He was attempting to correct what I knew to be wrong with myself.
He visibly gathers himself, closes off his expression and meets Joan's gaze. "You want me to be healthy. Whole. You wish to fix me, because it is in your nature to do so, it's who you are," he says, his tone still matter-of-fact, detached. "Yet those are things that I will never be. And I simply do not wish you to think that this is due to any failing on your part."
Joan glances down at the scattered files and tries to hear what Sherlock is really saying. She thinks of a dozen responses and discards them all, knows an angry outburst will only give Sherlock the confirmation he's looking for.
"I'm a big girl, Sherlock," she finally says. "You don't have to tell me that people can let you down."
---
"I'll give him ten more minutes," she says.
Joan pauses, waiting for his I told you so, but it never comes.
"If there's someplace else you have to be," she starts, giving him an easy out.
"Not tonight, Watson," he says softly. "Not tonight."
They sit together in silence for another forty minutes. And Sherlock, who would rather drag himself to a crime scene in the pouring rain than sit at home with the flu -- Sherlock stays, and says nothing. He sits quietly with her until Joan abruptly gets up to leave. Sherlock dashes ahead to hold the door open for her.
He walks beside her along the curb, all the way back to the brownstone.
---
So Joan really doesn't know why she's surprised that Sherlock manipulates his way into meeting her family. She should have known that Sherlock would never pass up on opportunity to see another side of her, to learn more about Joan the daughter, Joan the sister.
Sherlock is pleasant and gracious and so effortlessly charming over dinner that it's almost unnerving. It's all an act, from the way he laughs freely, his body loose and open, to the way he calls her Joan, his voice fond as he recounts her accomplishments and virtues. It's the most convincing lie Joan has ever seen.
But he does it for her. And for that, Joan delays the conversation they're going to have (again) about privacy and personal boundaries and thanks him in the cab.
"Yes, well. I meant very little of what I said," he dismisses.
It's a blatant lie, but this time, Sherlock is lying to himself. It's made all the more obvious as he goes on to explain why he did it. He calls her family "conventional" like it's an unfortunate affliction.
"But I know, Watson, that you share my love of all that is bizarre and outside the humdrum routine of ordinary life," he says. "Your family will never understand this, so I gave them some words they would understand."
Joan wonders if he realizes what he's doing, how he had just neatly divided the world between them and us.
end.