So @actiaslunaris came up with an Elementary prompt that I just couldn’t resist (the first line of the story, to be specific) and @joaneuglassiawatson helped pimp it. Partial spoilers through early season 6. Unabashedly Joanlock, rated T. 1/1
“I’ve made you aroused. Why?”
Sherlock’s question is casually phrased, but it crashes through what had been a comfortable silence between them and rocks her completely out of her reverie. “I, uh—“
I don’t know what you’re talking about,
she wants to say. But that’s not fair to either of them, and, although he would likely drop the subject, the lie would continue to hover between them indefinitely.
The truth is far from simple. Joan’s been watching him like a hawk ever since he first revealed his post-concussion syndrome to her, and she still feels a little guilty for not putting the pieces together earlier. He suffered needlessly and in silence, and the doctor in her has been taking note of his symptoms almost obsessively ever since. He’s tried to take a less active role in their investigations, but Sherlock’s never been the type to skate around the edges of a mystery—he leans in for all he’s worth—and it’s been up to her to see that he doesn’t overbalance and fall flat in the process.
Maybe that’s how it all started; or maybe it started a long time ago, and she was loath to acknowledge it. But she’s been keeping a close eye on him, and she can’t help liking what she sees. Not the pain, of course, or his frustration with the limits placed on his activities, but she’s far more physically aware of him than she used to be.
The eyes that she looks to for early warning signs of a change in his condition are clear, focused, and ever-changing, ranging anywhere from gray to green depending on the lighting and his clothing choices for the day. But they droop with fatigue more often than they used to, and the tiny wrinkles around them deepen when the headaches begin in earnest. He’ll close them when the pain gets bad and cover them entirely when it’s excruciating, and she thinks it’s probably just as well that he can’t see her fists curl in frustration at her inability to help him.
Sleep poses problems as well. He still needs more of it than he used to, although it’s typically broken into intervals of an hour or two here and there. His shoulders hunch awkwardly when he gets overstimulated and needs a break, so she’s become adept at reading his body language before he can reach that point of discomfort. Urging him to put his head down for a few minutes (she’s scattered throw pillows over all the sofas) usually results in him being able to nap or at least breathe deeply for a few minutes until the worst has passed. Sometimes she puts her work aside and takes advantage of the opportunity to study him. Like those of most people, his features soften while he’s relaxed. His lashes look longer when they’re resting just above his cheekbones, and his lips, so often pursed in thought, twisted in contempt, or pressed together tightly with resolution, are smooth and full above the ever-present stubble dotting his chin.
He’s been working with the single stick more than he used to as well. The exercise is good for him, but he’s taken it too far a time or two and experienced headaches brought on by overexertion. She now makes it a point to check in on him every time she hears the slapping sounds of wood hitting plastic resonating through the brownstone. Sometimes he wears an undershirt, but more often than not she finds him wearing nothing but a low-slung pair of sweatpants and a fine sheen of sweat over his back and chest. He’s always been lean, but the increased workouts have left new accumulations of muscle and sinew standing out like whipcord beneath and between the tattoos. Even when he’s fully clothed, she can see the effect of the exercise in the way he moves. He’s never been clumsy, but he moves with the control and grace of a dancer now. On his good days, at least.
And when, just a few moments ago, she glanced at his hands to check for any signs of tremor, she also realized just how fine and articulate they are, especially the strong, slim fingers that are equally at home wrapped around a singlestick or a lockpick. Those hands were resting atop the arms of his chair while he studied the crime scene photos plastered on the wall, and his thumbs were idly stroking circular patterns against the upholstery. The thought welled up in her without warning—unbidden, but decidedly not unwelcome—
How would they feel on my skin?
Even as startling as the idea was, she couldn’t let it go. Maybe more to the point, she really didn’t want to. And it hadn’t taken him long to recognize that and call her on it.
She clears her throat and starts over again.
“Because you’re...” What? Beautiful? Strong? Brave, intelligent, remarkable in ways she’s only now beginning to appreciate? All of those, really. And more.
“Because you’re you, Sherlock.”
He snorts dismissively, but not unkindly, and gives her a sad little self-deprecating smile. “Some days more than others. One could make the argument that simply being me, as it were, is not considered by most people to be a positive thing.”
“Of course it is,” she blurts out. She’s a doctor, and well-versed in worst-case scenarios. His symptoms could’ve been caused by an aneurysm, a blood clot, a tumor—treatable conditions, of course, but the thought of someone using a knife inside that brain makes her sick to her stomach. The fact that he’s still himself in all the ways that matter is nothing short of an absolute miracle, and the sudden surge of emotion blurs her vision and constricts her throat, but not enough to keep her from whispering, “It’s everything.”
“Watson?” He stands and crosses the room, stopping directly in front of her perch on the sofa before bending at the waist and looking intently into her brimming eyes. “Are you...” He rocks back and forth on his heels for a moment as though he’s concerned about offending her. “Are you flesh, or are you phantasm?”
She gets to her feet, not caring that the motion makes the tears finally spill over the edges of her eyelids. “Would anything I say really convince you?”
“I suppose not. My mother was very... realistic. I fear I can no longer fully trust my own eyes, nor my ears.” He waves a hand toward her body. “If I may...?”
“Of course.” She welcomes his touch, wants him to know that her thoughts and feelings are just as real as she is, so she steps well inside his personal space to facilitate that contact.
He bends over towards her and she sucks in a quick breath in unconscious anticipation of a kiss, but instead, he lowers his face into the space just above her shoulder, nuzzling lightly against her hair. The perfume she dabbed there this morning has largely diffused, but she still catches a whiff of it occasionally, and it seems that he’s reassured when he finds it as well. Then he turns his head just far enough so that his lips brush against the line of her jaw and her breath catches at the fleeting caress. When he straightens again, she sees the dot of moisture at the corner of Sherlock’s mouth vanish as his tongue edges out to capture the stray tear. He nods almost imperceptibly at the salt tang, and Joan shudders at the raw intimacy of the moment.
His fingers reach hesitantly for the knot of her tie, and this time his hands really are trembling as they loosen the knot and then remove the fabric altogether, tossing it onto the couch behind her. He gazes questioningly into her eyes once more time, sees her consent, and proceeds to undo the top button of her blouse. It’s a recent purchase, and his brow furrows a little at the stiffness of the material as he undoes another. Then a third. And just as Joan begins to wonder just how far he intends to go in order to verify her existence, he slides a warm hand into the opening of her shirt, resting the heel of it against her sternum with his fingers splayed across the skin directly above her carotid artery.
They stand there silently with her heart literally in the palm of his hand; it’s beating out a rhythm as strong and as steady as the course of their friendship. He tilts his head back as his eyes close, but she’s seen that look on his face often enough to know that it’s not resignation but recognition—that sudden, magical moment when all the disparate pieces fall into place and the mystery ceases to be.
She takes his wrist and presses his hand even more firmly against her body. “So what’s the verdict?”
His eyes fly open and focus intently on hers, and she watches, mesmerized, as the the dark pupils shrink rapidly into the hazel irises. He looks more than a little stunned, and she knows her expression must match his.
“You are indeed flesh, Watson, as well as fidelity personified.”
“How so?” She wanted his skin on hers even before she had any idea how good it would feel. Now that his investigation is concluded, he’ll likely withdraw again, and she steels herself against the loss of that touch as she reluctantly releases his arm.
Instead, he’s content to leave his hand where it is, and his thumb resumes the sweeping motion she’d noticed earlier, only now it slides along the curve of her collarbone, dipping briefly beneath the strap of her bra before making the return journey—back and forth, warm and gentle, the motion slowing slightly even as the pace of her breathing picks up.
“You told me that being myself wasn’t just a good thing, but, to use your word, everything. And in that particular moment, I was able to see myself the way that you see me. I wasn’t just an addict with relationship issues and odd synapses that insist on firing at random intervals. In your eyes, I was whole.”
“Not to anyone else,” he says gently. “Not to myself, especially in my current condition. Make no mistake, I’ve known for quite some time that you value our relationship, that it’s grounded in mutual respect and trust. But then to suddenly realize that you might want something more? It’s truly been an evening full of epiphanies.” The smooth glide of his skin against hers slows even further before finally stopping entirely, but thankfully, it seems as though he’s in no hurry to break their contact.
“I didn’t try to hide this from you,” she explains. “I just never really realized it until now.” As much as it pains her to have to say them, her next words are of vital importance because she knows from experience that he will do just about anything to keep their partnership together. “And I need you to understand—I would never want anything more from our relationship than you’re willing to give.”
He shakes his head a little and smiles, as though she’s said something amusing. “Willing isn’t the word I would choose, Watson. Eager would be more apt. Perhaps now that our eyes have been opened, maybe even bordering on desperate?”
Sherlock finally pulls his hand away from her heated skin, but before she can begin to feel bereft, he plucks at her placket, quickly undoing the remaining buttons. She makes quick work of his shirt as well, and, within moments, the entirety of their respective wardrobes is scattered around the study.
His eyes darken and take on a dangerous gleam as they reach for each other. The shoulders she admired while she watched him practice are firm and supple beneath her hands, and when he finally kisses her, his mouth is a revelation: full, warm lips, softer than she expected, and a little reserved, right up until she teases his tongue out with her own. His hands are restless, constantly moving, stroking, igniting sensations she couldn’t possibly have imagined a scant few minutes ago. She never told him about that first stray thought that she had entertained—the one that started this cascade of desire and emotion. But it seems as though he recognized it anyway and is intent on answering her question just the same. As always, she’s more than happy to let him.
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