Chapter Text
They’ve just wrapped up another case, have just returned home from the precinct after a long week’s work and Joan is tired, looking forward to a quiet evening in, a warm shower and her favourite take-out. Sherlock is locking the door behind them as she hangs her coat in the foyer, has her phone wedged between her shoulder and ear as she orders their dinner, as they fall easily back into routine.
Their usual post-case regimen; he begins to pull sheets off the walls while Joan clears the tables, the chairs and together, they cleanse the brownstone of all the debris and bits of evidence a case typically comes with; make the necessary room for their next assignment.
And when she comes back downstairs from her shower, tousling her hair dry with a towel, Joan is surprised to find that he’s already finished, has already collected their take-out and is piling the last of the papers into a cardboard box.
“Hey, I’m going to eat my dinner in front of the TVs, okay?” she says, unpacking their food.
Sherlock straightens at that, fastens a lid onto the box and stands. “I think I’ll join you,” he says.
Joan is a little surprised if she’s honest, that he would rather spend a mundane evening with her than pursue his usual diversions, would rather follow her up the stairs now to watch an old movie, eat his dinner there in those uncomfortable little seats. He has been different lately, more attentive somehow, attached although still in his usual form, and Joan can"t quite put her finger on what it is. Recalls that he hasn"t had any of his female company around recently, but he hasn"t mentioned it and she won"t push.
He"s already shovelling rice into his mouth, eating in that mechanical way as she puts on a DVD, as she settles down beside him and the title credits begin to roll. They eat together silently and Joan begins to unwind as she watches the black and white motion picture, feels her body relaxing, giving into the exhaustion of the week as she absorbs herself in the story when suddenly, the scene before her comes to a standstill.
Sherlock has clicked pause on the remote, has finished his dinner neatly and she realises now, has been staring at her with great intensity. “Watson if you’ll permit me,” he says then, abruptly. “I wonder if I might acquire your assistance in an experiment I am conducting.”
Joan frowns, glances around the room for signs of his investigation, the kind of clutter that usually accompanies his methods of research. “What experiment?” she asks.
“If you’ll permit me,” he repeats. "I shall demonstrate."
And then he’s standing, extending his hand toward her and Joan pushes her tray aside. Rises from her seat only to be pulled gently against him, closer than she would have expected, with her chest almost pressed to his and his hands landing softly now, on her face.
He’s meditative, studying her; Joan watches his eyes wander over her features, his thumbs pressed lightly into her cheeks as his gaze pervades her, flickers from her mouth to her eyes, along the bridge of her nose and then down again. And her own eyes widen as she feels his cool breath against her skin, as he moves to lean in and —
She starts when she feels the first brush of his lip against hers, yanks her head back in shock. “Sherlock, what are you doing?”
Her voice is loud, her octave high and Joan sees a fleeting look of hurt on his face before it disappears, watches as his expression hardens into placidity almost immediately, and as his hands withdraw from her now, curl tightly against his sides.
“As I mentioned, Watson, it is an experiment of sorts,” he says. “Anthropological in nature, if you wanted to categorise it and I am— well, I was attempting to test my hypothesis.”
“A hypothesis that involves kissing?” she cries.
Sherlock merely clears his throat, simply bounces once, twice on his feet and hesitates only briefly before launching into an explanation. “Evidence has suggested that so far, you and I have been compatible in almost every facet of our association. What’s more, against all likeliness, we have become more compatible as time has passed,” he says. “Upon further reflection, it gave me the notion that were we well-matched in the act of coitus, that we might become more efficient with both our time and energy and thus, become more productive members of society.”
Joan is shaking her head in retaliation, would almost be laughing at the absurdity of it all were she not so angry, so absolutely furious with him. “I can’t believe what I’m hearing right now.”
Arms crossed in front of her, she turns to face the many monitors on the wall of their media room, sees her reflection glowering back at her.
“Come, Watson,” he says, then. “It is no secret I am sure, that I find you an attractive woman. Perhaps not my initial type based on past transgressions, but certainly beautiful in your own right. And I have detected your attraction toward me on occasion, particularly after bouts of exercise, where pheromones are secreted in excess.”
He is speaking quickly, gruff and deliberate in the kind of rhetoric that Joan hasn’t heard from him since they had newly met. Describes his rationale as though it were only part of a case, as if he were explaining a trivial train of thought to her and she can hardly stand to look at him.
“And certainly,” he proceeds. “I would not suggest such a proposition if I thought it would disrupt the quality of our work or our professional relationship, in any way. On the contrary, I believe we have reached a point where it seems the logical next step in our progression. You have not had a sexual encounter in quite some time, and now as you delve into the realm of single motherhood, the statistics are not stacked in your favour. I myself, have given it some thought and have concluded that it would be inappropriate to bring my many "women friends" into our home, while housing an infant. Thus, it seemed like a perfectly reasonable solution to a mutual problem.”
At this however, his voice waivers and his gaze lowers to the ground. “I see now that I must have misread,” he is saying now, softly. “I apologise, Watson.”
And she"s still processing when he begins nodding to himself, still shaking her head at the wall when he starts to retreat, begins gathering their trays. Is halfway through the door then, when Joan takes a deep breath and turns to look at him.
“I thought we were past the lying," is all she says, and her voice is barely above a whisper.
And Sherlock stops then, halts in his tracks and becomes completely still, tensed with his back toward her and he clears his throat again. “I beg your pardon?”
“Oh come on," Joan hisses. "A logical progression? A reasonable solution to a mutual problem? Do you really think you could rationalise this away as some kind of hypothesis you"re trying to test?”
She pushes irritably past him now, her shoulder brushing against his arm as she stalks away toward her bedroom. And despite herself, she turns one more time to look at him, spins back around her with her hand curved around the doorknob and the tears then, threatening to spill from her eyes.
“If you want more from this relationship, Sherlock, you are going to have to say the words."
And the slam of the door echoes through the brownstone.