Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

If/If

Watson draws scenarios, keeps scores. Naturally, she never expected her private ramblings to be found, but alas, they have, and she’s stuck between a rock and a hard place: act out her scenarios, or never find out if her predictions were right.

Watson never appreciated uncertainties.

——

It’s not that he was rummaging through her belongings, no, she’d specified that that was absolutely unacceptable. But again, he wasn't rummaging, he was looking for a specific object, one that wasn't exactly hers but really was just in her possession.

You could realistically say, without reaching, that the ensuing madness was entirely her fault - she was supposed to leave that receipt on the desk in the library, he’s positive he asked her to do so at least two times. And anyway, who leaves their journal just lying around like that?

Entirely her fault, absolutely. After all, she was the one who wrote it, the one who didn't hide it properly, and ultimately, the one who agreed to all of it.

The first time he reads it, he is absolutely astonished. See, Sherlock Holmes is not a man to be surprised by just about anything, but the “scenarios”, the attention to detail, the circumstantiated goals of each experiment, - yes, experiment, because that’s what they were - her predictions about what those would ultimately accomplish.

He’s desperate to know if she’d be right.

——

Watson arrives at the Brownstone to blasting Wagner and the pungent smell of… something that did not smell good at all. She’s hoping for a quiet night, maybe a bath and some reading if she’s lucky, maybe she’ll even get to have an actual meal.

“Sherlock, I’m home!” she calls, dropping her keys in the bowl and walking straight towards the kitchen, in the hopes of avoiding that the disgusting smell has enough time to linger. She sees it as soon as she enters the kitchen, its navy velvet cover contrasting against the dark wood of the kitchen table.

If asked, she’d go to her grave swearing that it never happened, but for a not-so-brief moment, Joan Watson considered turning around and never walking into that stupid Brownstone again, out of sheer shame. She thinks she should be gravely upset that he so brazenly invaded her privacy, but it’s almost like her body doesn’t have enough energy to feel anything else other than extreme embarrassment.

“Is that my journal?” she asks, for no other reason than to delay the inevitable conversation concerning its contents, and decides to sit down in an effort to brace herself for what’s coming

He looks over at her and smiles (smiles?) at her “Evening, Watson.” he says, stirring something utterly vile in a pot that’s absolutely going to be binned as soon as he turns his back “I believe it is.”

“Okay,” she breathes “what’s it doing here?”

“I came across it earlier today as I was looking for something in your bedroom.”

“I see.”

“I believe, Watson, that this isn't a mere journal.” he turns off the burner and turns to her “This is a guidebook for our next few weeks.”
“Ah.”

For an inordinate amount of time after the “scenario weeks” had passed - years after - Sherlock would bring up that she agreed to participate integrally in the experiments she detailed in that notebook.

Every time she would remind him that people in severe state of shock are in no shape to make decisions.

——

Scenario One: Sherlock and I use only non-verbal communication for a week
Goals: Improving non-verbal and alternative methods of communication, improving understanding of corporeal signage, challenging each other to come up with creative solutions to communicate in manners that are richer and more effective
Predictions: Sherlock would not last three days. Things will be thrown around carelessly by the both of us. Communication will probably not improve but we will lose a lot of patience and possibly a few house items due to random bouts of frustration.

They agree (she will insist she was coerced) to meet on the roof at ten o’clock on a Sunday to kick-off the non-verbal communication week. She is reluctant, he is smug. He’s already there, tending to his bees, by the time she opens the door.

“Morning.” she says, walking towards one of the hives

“Morning, Watson.” he answers “Are you ready?”

She looks at her phone and notices that there are still a few minutes left until they are to begin “Yes. Perhaps we should establish some ground rules?”

“Absolutely,” he agrees “first of all, I think that we should abstain also from written communication,” he states, matter-of-factly “really give ourselves a challenge in ‘alternative methods of communication’.”

She chuckles at his suggestion. “Sure. Are you sure you’re up for that?”

“I am absolutely positive.”

His phone beeps and he shows her the notification on the screen

GO TIME

——

At first, it’s a struggle. She constantly has to police herself, withhold commentary she believes to be extremely relevant. She takes to nudges and gentle shoves.

He keeps a smug smile plastered to his face almost constantly, works cases and drops files with gigantic red circles in her vicinity frequently. He takes to foot stomping and tea drinking.

By Tuesday, they are more or less adapted to the silence, have found easy rhythms that are governed not by words but by touches, a pat here, a nudge there, and they flow nicely. He’s worried however, that rather than bring them closer together through “creative communication solutions”, the silence is driving them apart thanks to their mutual desire not to break the no-speaking rule, so he makes a decision to remedy.

On Wednesday, he brings home a case, a relatively old B&E, in which they can work together. He sets up the case in the library, tapes the files to the walls and writes the most relevant information in red marker for her to look over, and for a brief moment, he almost calls to her, before remembering how badly he wants to prove her wrong, and decides to find her and bring her to the library himself. He finds her in the kitchen making a cup of tea. She extends a mug to him in offering, and he shakes his head, points to the library hoping she’ll get what he means.

Either she doesn't or pretend that she does not, because she looks at him and plops down on one of the kitchen chairs with a shrug, returning to the book she’d been reading earlier, calmly sipping her tea under his affected gaze.

So he decides for a more pointed approach, crosses the kitchen and takes her hand, tugging at it lightly to indicate that he'd like her to come with him, and she does, because it’s so utterly strange, so utterly shocking, that she trails numbly after him, her hand enveloped in his.

And what shocks her the most, really, is that at no point when he’s showing her the case files, pointing at the most likely suspects, shaking his head towards leads he wants her to pay attention to, does he ever let go of her hand.

She assumes he didn't realize he was still holding it and tries not to think about it.

That night, she goes to bed early, and he stays up working on the case. It’s the middle of the night when he sees something important, something he missed before, and as he gallops up the stairs towards her room, he has every intention of opening the door and yelling “Watson!” loud enough to wake her up. By the time he’s actually gotten to her room, however, he has remembered the rules and decided to nudge her awake instead.

After several futile attempts to gently nudge her awake, he realizes he won’t be successful. She’s been living with him too long and learned to sleep through mild (and she would argue, severe) discomfort and disturbance, and doesn’t as much as stir at his attempts. He considers using approaches that are, so to speak, less kind, but decides not to (he would never admit to it, but he thought she looked positively poetic while asleep), choosing instead to sit by the foot of her bed and wait for her to wake up. Sitting becomes leaning, leaning turns into lying down, and eventually he's asleep beside her.

She wakes up pinned under a wayward arm and it takes her several seconds to understand what’s happening - well, not understand what’s happening, that she still can’t fully grasp, but to understand who that solid, warm mass beside her is (another thing she would never admit to is how nice it felt - she hadn't slept that well in ages). Once she does, she slips from under his arm and pokes her bedtime companion with enough force to bruise.

He wakes up with a startle and simply shrugs at her questioning gestures, getting up and leaving her room as if nothing ever happened. Naturally, they didn't talk about it.

By Saturday they have, against all odds, made considerable progress on their case. Their suspect list has narrowed down to two people and most of the evidence has been sorted nicely, and they can both feel a solution coming. Watson is the one who ties up the last remaining loose end, a substantial piece of evidence they hadn't managed to connect to either suspect, one that effectively solves the entire ordeal. She pins the evidence to the suspect’s picture on the wall and gets Sherlock to come look.

After he assesses her conclusion and certifies its validity, he cups her face in his hands and plants a sloppy, languid kiss on her forehead before running off to call Bell, and she spends a long time standing exactly where he left her, equal parts astonished, satisfied and terrified of what the following weeks will bring them.

She doesn’t read his conclusion and he doesn’t read hers, but after a few weeks, they find out they were one and the same.

Conclusion; Scenario One, AKA The Non-Speaking Week (Holmes) - no comment
Conclusion; Scenario One, AKA The Non-Speaking Week (Watson) - the goals we sought to achieve through the course of this experiment were amply achieved. new lines of communication were established and we've managed to prove that we are able to work well together under the harshest, most unfriendly circumstances. no objects were broken or damaged in the process 
Side Conclusion; Scenario One, AKA The Non-Speaking Week (Watson) - what the FUCK

Chapter Text

She isn’t surprised, even though part of her - the rational part - tells her she should be, when Sherlock bursts into her room, the morning after the first experiment was concluded, without so much as a knock, and announces that they should begin acting out the second scenario posthaste.

“Sherlock, it’s eight in the morning,” she protests, burrowing further under her - absurdly warm and inviting - covers “we can do it later.”

“Nonsense, Watson,” he replies “we haven’t any time to lose.”

She pokes her head out, eyeing him up and down and thinks, again, that she should be surprised but really isn’t.

“Cool duds,” she smirks “going to a party?”

“If you must know, this is an authentic 1880s four piece suit.” he replies, smugly “I procured it last night while you snoozed. Got some clothes for you as well. I’m certain you’ll find them as lovely as I did.”

“Excuse me?”

“Up you get, Watson!” He says, pulling her covers “It’s the 1880s and we’ve much to do.”

——

Scenario Two: Sherlock and I attempt to go a week without using any technology invented or popularized after the 1880s
Goals: Assessing our ability to adapt to strenuous circumstances. Finding clever substitutes to the comforts of modernity.
Predictions: Neither of us will last long. Sherlock will run frustrated when trying to get any work done without access to current technology. I will buckle under the pressure of being deprived of my toiletries and takeout.

He has - of course - taken most of her clothes and replaced them with an assortment of vintage monstrosities. Wide skirts and bodices, featuring an inordinate amount of frills and buttons, long, heavy dresses in colors she could only describe as “austere”, and a number of strange looking tiny hats.

She won’t - she absolutely will not - wear any of the clothes he’s gotten her.

Or rather, she’d tell him off and yell a bit and affirm several times over that she won’t, but end up actually doing it, because even though most people wouldn’t peg Joan Watson for a person who’s aggressively competitive, one she was.

And so, one hour and approximately three billion stubborn buttons later, Watson descends the stairs to where Sherlock awaits, more than a bit exasperated and repeatedly chastising herself for failing to conceal her journal.

——

“What in god’s name are you doing?” she asks, walking into the kitchen

Well, walking might not be the most appropriate term. It’s impossible to walk in the combination of clothes and shoes she’s wearing. The petticoats are too wide and too heavy, the shoes have been - and feel exactly like - designed for women who are exclusively seated and she was never one for stillness.

So she *waddles* into the kitchen, fingers firmly grasped around the thick fabric of her skirt, cursing his very name and existence to hell and high water.

“I’m making tea.” He responds, as if he’s doing it exactly as he’s done his entire life, and not as if he’s a man in Victorian clothing attempting to boil a kettle using what seems to be an authentic coal stove.

If you were to ask her, when she wrote that scenario, what her exact expectations were, she would not, positively not, answer that Sherlock would somehow find a way to turn her abstract hypotheticals into entirely tangible - though no less surreal - circumstances.

“When...” she starts, and it’s a choice, because really, there are about two dozen fitting adverbs to pick from, and she can’t seem to get her mind to settle for one, and she blurts in close repetition, “whowhatwhenwhere”, before finally taking a second to grasp the reality that surrounds her, the modifications.

The coal stove is large and imposing and therefore, naturally, the first and most glaring thing she notices, but when she looks, really looks, around her, she realizes how much of her surroundings have changed. For starters, there are no electronics of any kind in sight. No laptops or phones, no cables or wires, no kitchen appliances. Then she notices how bare the library looks - and realizes he’s removed all books written after 1890, which she finds is a nice touch - how the modern furniture has been swiftly replaced with more dated counterparts, how all the tea left in the cupboard is loose leaf.

It’s a lot.

“How did you do this?” She finally asks.

“Would you be surprised, Watson, to discover that I’ve some acquaintances in the world of historical reconstructions?” He asks, moving the kettle around the board of the stove “This will take a bit.”

“I figured.” She replies “And no, it wouldn’t surprise at all. But how did you do all of this in such little time?”

“It wasn’t too difficult,” he tells her “the work mostly consisted of removing things, as you may well assess.”

“Yeah, but the stove, and the furniture...”

“A lot of it was stored in the basement. Father has a taste for ugly-looking 19th century furniture, you see.”

“Of course he does.”

“This kettle will take a considerable amount of time to boil, Ms. Watson,” he eyes her “no matter. Gregson has sent over a case, and we shall solve it, 1880s style.”

——

As it happens, living in the 1880s isn’t as bad as she thought it would be - well, temporal liberties excluded. She can do without the racism and the xenophobia and the sexism - and the day goes by easily and smoothly. Sherlock annoys her with his “era-appropriate behavior towards the fairer sex”, which pretty much just means he’ll gasp when she lifts her arms above her head, gape at the sigh of her exposed ankle, offer to carry things - things like paper sheets and teacups, not anvils and tables - for her, because “a lady shouldn’t strain herself”.

It’s very annoying but also a little bit sweet, a little bit fun, it’s lighthearted and stress free and she thinks she could get used to the persistent calmness of a simpler existence.

She thinks that up until the moment she tries to turn on the light but can’t, up until the moment he tells her he’s shut off their power because “homes in Brooklyn didn’t have power in the 1880s”, the moment he tells her he won’t turn it back on and also won’t tell her how to do it.

“Sherlock, this isn’t funny,” She half, yells, flicking the switch up and down and up and down in the hopes that a miracle will befall her and the power will come back on by itself “we can’t work in the dark!”

“Worry not, Watson, we’ve a number of paraffin lamps at out disposal,” He replies, smiling “I’ll go get them.”

She trails after him as he walks towards the basement, the hindrance posed by her outfit a glaring inconvenience, and it’s just as well, because if she could move freely she’s positively certain she’d have stabbed him.

“Sherlock, it’s October!” She yells after him “We’re going to freeze!”

“Here,” he says, handing her a heavy lamp “hold this. I have to go down for the other one.”

She watches as he goes down to the basement and rummages around, dexterously moving piles and piles of clutter out of his way.

“Sherlock, listen to me.” She calls out

“I am listening to you, Watson!” He yells back, climbing up the stairs “We’ll have a fire. It will be nice, won’t it?”

He takes the first lamp from her arms and carries both of them to the living room, setting them on the mantle, and crouches down look inside the fireplace.

“Yes, plenty of kindling.”

“We have a single fireplace, and it’s in the living room.” She looks at him “Are we supposed to shack up in here the whole week?”

“Might I remind you, Watson, that this was your idea?”

She could say, and not exaggerate one bit, that at that moment, it took Joan Watson all of her strength not to punch Sherlock Holmes in the face.

——

By the time Sherlock has finally resigned himself to the fact that there’s only so much they can do without modern technology after the sun has gone down, it’s well after midnight and Watson is equal parts exhausted and annoyed.

She’s uncomfortably chilly, her clothes are heavy and constricting, they’ve made considerably less progress than they normally would have and she’d kill for a nice warm shower - which she can’t have, because her manic partner is an anal jackass who can’t let things go.

She’s not in the most gregarious of moods, and he notices, because of course he would.

“You should go upstairs and change, Watson,” he tells her, just a hint of rare compassion in his voice “I’ll set everything up down here.”

She doesn’t go through the trouble of responding but listens, and drags herself upstairs in a languid, self-pitying exercise more appropriate for an aspiring improv actor than one of the world’s finest consulting detectives.

He’s placed a few candles around her room and there’s a warm, inviting glow that envelops her when she walks inside. It’s a common narrative, the give and take that is a constant of his behavior, pull and shove, the irritate and gratify.

She sits on her bed and relishes in its comfort, hoping that whatever Sherlock is setting up downstairs is as comfortable but much warmer than her bed is.

Her outfit isn’t improving her mood and she rummages through her closet in search of whatever passed for sleepwear in the late 19th century.

She finds what seems to be a large, floor length cotton and lace sleep shirt, and decides it will suffice.

It shouldn’t have surprised her, taken how the rest of day had gone, that she is absolutely incapable of undoing the row of buttons of the back of her dress, making it impossible for her to remove it.

She badly doesn’t want to want to, but her growing annoyance and pressing desire to be out of the dress, and so she takes several long breaths and pinches the palm of her left hand repeatedly, before finally accepting her fate.

“Sherlock!” She yells “Sherlock, I need some help!”
It doesn’t take him twenty seconds to barge into her room, exasperated, scouring the surroundings for signs of danger.

“Watson, for god’s sake,” he chastises “what is it?”

“I need some help with my dress,” she tells him “I can’t undo the buttons. Can you do it?”

He hesitates for a second, lingers by the door, eyes her suspiciously, breathes heavily.

“Of course,” he says, finally “turn around.”

She obeys and turns her back to him, gathering her hair and holding it out of the way

“This is an ungodly amount of buttons.” He remarks, undoing them from top to bottom.

She could’ve sworn, really, she could have, that he lingered several moments more than necessary, that his hands roam just a bit further than the precise area of the buttons, that his touch isn’t quite clinical and exact.

He’d deny everything, of course, but if mind reading were a real science, a skilled practitioner would’ve been able to tell, in no uncertain terms, that the soft, warm feel of her skin on his skin was the most prevalent thing in his mind for several days after the fact.

——

It’s not like she didn’t know that the fireplace wouldn’t be enough to keep them warm, but she certainly didn’t expect to be shivering under the mountain of blankets, the fire being a mere source of light and frustration.
He’s also very cold, she can tell, because he’s turning and tossing and she hears him grunt every now and then, obviously as angry with himself as she is, because it’s late and turning the power back on would be an immense hassle, and at least for that one night, they’d have to make do without it.

It startles her, because she’s almost asleep and also because it’s kind of crazy, when he moves from his mattress to hers, body cocooned in his own blanket mountain, and nuzzles (nuzzles!) into her neck, his hot breath a welcome respite from the biting cold.

“What are you doing?” She asks, unmoving but mustering all the outrage she can and expressing it freely

“I’m huddling, Watson.” He responds, as if that’s just a thing that people do, and burrows further into her personal space, merging their blankets and pressing his body into hers “For warmth.”

“Right.” She says, and she would protest further, she really would, if the warmth radiating from his body didn’t feel so nice, if she weren’t so tired, if it wasn’t so late.

Then again, maybe she wouldn’t.

“For warmth.” She whispers, and it’s the last thing either of them says before they succumb to what would be an extremely well slept night.

——

When she wakes up the next morning, he’s not by her side, but the house feels much warmer. She finds him in the kitchen, back in his regular clothes, boiling a kettle for tea in their regular stove.

“Morning,” he says, noticing her entrance “sleep alright?”

“Yeah,” she answers “slept fine. What are you doing?”

“Boiling a kettle,” he responds “in 2018.”

“So you’re backing out?” She asks, with a grin

“As it happens, I quite like the comforts of modernity,” he tells her, picking up the kettle “though certainly life without them has its benefits.”

He smiles at her then, briefly, and there’s something there, she knows there is, something new and wondrous, and for a moment, she wonders if she should say something.

But she doesn’t, because she’s her and he’s him, and that’s how they do things, slowly and opaquely, and there isn’t a single part of her that would have it any other way.

Conclusion, Scenario Two, AKA Victorian Victory Week (Watson): Sherlock cracked first. Ha.
Conclusion, Scenario Two, AKA Victorian Victory Week (Holmes): No comment
Side Conclusion, Scenario Two, AKA Victorian Victory Week (Holmes): Huddling For warmth was essential to man’s continued existence in this planet. It was essential last night as well.
Side Side Conclusion, Scenario Two, AKA Victorian Victory Week (Holmes): Darwinism. Look it up.

Chapter Text

It’s well after midday when they walk into the precinct, after a particularly frustrating morning of trying to decipher a suspect’s incomprehensible handwriting. He’s exasperated and she’s annoyed, and their faces are a perfect pair of just-angry-enough-to-be-kind-of-endearing looks. 

Gregson is waiting for them, a scowl with a mighty frown to match adorning his face, undoubtedly annoyed at their tardiness. 

“Nice of you to finally join us,” he says, eyeing them “come into my office.” 

They trail behind him, like scolded school children, and exchange nervous glances as they watch him close the door and blinds. It’s a serious talk, they can tell, and Watson feels Holmes tense beside her, never having felt fully out of his probation period.

“So, I have an assignment for you guys,” he starts “you’re obviously allowed to say no if it bothers you in any capacity, though I can’t think of more qualified people for this particular task.”

“What do you need from us?” Sherlock asks, pulling a chair out for Watson and then taking the seat next to her opposite Gregson. 

“We’ve been investigating this place for a while now,” he says “it’s a small gated community in Bridgeport. Three mysterious disappearances in two months.” he continues “we want to find out what the hell is going on, and why a tiny community of about two dozen people is the source of one hundred percent of disappearances in Bridgeport in the last year.”

“You want us to look into the files?” Watson asks 

“No,” Gregson exhales “I want you two to go undercover as a married couple to figure out exactly what happened to the three missing women.” he finishes “I’ll give you guys a couple days to think about it.”

———————————————————

Scenario Three: Sherlock and I attempt to make people believe we’re dating for a week.

Goals: assessing how well we’re able to make people believe an untruthful narrative

Predictions: Sherlock will buck under the pressure and the discomfort of PDA and normality. I will take great pleasure in watching as he does.  

It’s the most delightful irony, she thinks, that an opportunity to act out one of her journal’s most interesting scenarios has presented itself. In this scenario, perhaps only in this one, she incontestably has the upper hand, and this fact brings her great satisfaction.  

It’s a wonderful opportunity to get back at him. 

They’re walking home when he brings it up, his face flushed red, body coiled in a hard stance, not really meeting her eyes, his heavy steps the only sound between them as they stroll through the quiet streets that lead to their home.

“What do you think, then?” He asks “about the captain’s ‘task’?” He continues, adorning the word ‘task’ with air quotes and a tongue snap

“I think it’s wonderful,” she replies, a sadistic smile plastered on her face “a wonderful opportunity to help the community and the department.” She looks at him “plus, you were so keen on making sure we got through all of the journal’s scenarios, what better time than the present?”

——————————————————

They arrive at Arcadia exactly eight days later, posing as Mr. and Mrs. Edward Houghton, a married couple tired of the hustle and bustle of the city. 

They’re dropped off by Bell, posing as their Uber driver, and are introduced to their new home: House N• 8 at Arcadia Falls, or Rosita, as they were told the other residents called it. 

And a fitting name it was, for the salmon pink monstrosity staring back at them couldn’t be called anything else. 

The second thing they notice - after the glaring suburban mom Barbie house before them - is that there’s a man standing on ‘their’ lawn, a grin on his face, waving at them as Bell pulls over on the driveway and rolls down the window.

“Hey there!” The man says, the grin still present on his face “I’m Gary Young, I’m your next door neighbor,” he tells them, crouched beside Bell’s window “thought you might need a hand with your luggage.” 

Sherlock leaves the car first, opening the door for Watson before walking around the vehicle to shake the man’s hand, his posture different, more relaxed.

“I’m Ed Houghton,” he says, offering a hand. His accent is a bit different, crisper, devoid of local tells (not that Gary’d notice, Watson thinks). Watson comes to stand beside him, a fake smile of her own taking over her features “and this is my wife, Olivia.” Sherlock wraps his arm around her waist, pulling her closer, inhaling the sweet scent of her peach shampoo and thinking, for a fleeting second, that this might not be so bad.

“Hello.” Watson says, kindly. Sherlock feels warm and solid against her, and the feeling is comforting, reassuring, and a little unsettling. 

Gary nods in response and gesture towards the trunk of Bell’s car, turning his back to them 

“So, you guys want a hand?”

“That’s very kind, thank you.” Sherlock says, walking after him, and Watson stays back, watching. “Liv, honey, why don’t you go in? You’re looking a bit tired.”

It’s a cheap shot, she thinks, but she knows it’s a necessary one. They have a decent hunch that the three missing women were either taken or killed by their husbands, and if they’re going to find anything out they have to be as dull and traditional as they can so they build rapport with the community.

And so she smiles at them, brightly, and walks to the front door, unlocks it, and walks inside, looking around the house as she makes her way to the kitchen, which sits in the very back of the structure. The house is gorgeous, undeniably so, and much more tasteful on the inside than it is on the outside. Some officers from Major Crimes had come a few days before their arrival and made sure everything was in order, posing as movers, and she wonders if the decoration and organizing is their doing. 

She walks past the living room, an expansive, light filled room with a roomy, comfortable-looking couch occupying most of its width, inviting her in. She trudges forward, passing a small bathroom and a modest dining room, and everything is tidy, light-colored, welcoming, and entirely unlike what she expected. She could see herself there, maybe with a small family, and the thought fills her with a mixture of expectation and dread. She keeps walking until she finds the kitchen, and it’s pleasantly surprised by it too. There’s a gorgeous winter garden behind a pair of large French doors, the large marble-topped islands and counters a pretty sight against the greenery. She rests against the island and waits for Sherlock, her thoughts a meaningless flurry.

“Watson?” He calls, pulling her out of her reverie  

“In here!” She answers, walking towards the archway

“We’ve made progress already.” He says, with a smile (a weird, weird smile) “Gary invited us to a barbecue later today. We’ll have a chance to meet some of our neighbors.”

“That sounds great.” She answers, mindlessly

“Is something the matter?” he asks, eyeing her up and down “Are you upset because I told you to come inside? I thought Gary would appreciate the display of traditional heteronormative relationship dynamics.”

She gives him a small smile and shakes her head “It’s fine.” She assures him, giving his arm a light squeeze

“You’re certain?” He asks, unconvinced 

“Positive,” she asserts “we should check out the rest of the house. Familiarize ourselves with it.”

“Of course.” She walks past him and towards the stairs, and he follows her, silently, watching her every move.  

The second floor is considerably less roomy than the first, one door on each side of the narrow hallway. She opens the first door and they both walk inside, into what seems to be the master bedroom. There’s a king-sized bed covered in cream colored linen, two sturdy side tables, an antique armoire and a door they assume leads to the ensuite bathroom. 

They leave the room and open the opposing door, matching surprised looks when they look inside and it’s not a guest bedroom, but a small office/library hybrid.  

“Oh no.” She exclaims, staring at the space. 

A single bedroom, with a single bed. A living room with large windows, facing the street, in plain view of any nosy neighbor that decided to look a little closer. 

You wouldn’t have to be a consulting detective to work that kind of math. 

“It’s not ideal,” Sherlock says “we’ll work it out.” 

————————————————————————————

She’s just finished winging her eyeliner when she hears a soft knock on the door, piercing the silence inside the expansive bathroom. 

The bathroom is attached to the bedroom and is likewise the only one of its kind in the house, except for the small half bath downstairs, making up for its singularity with space and comfort. It’s all white, filled with light, with a corner tub and his and hers sinks, like it was specifically planned for marital bliss. 

“Watson?” He calls “I’m sorry to interrupt, but will you be much longer? I’d like to shave before we leave.”

She opens the door as he finishes saying the word ‘leave’, pointing towards the inside of the empty bathroom

“All yours.” She says, with a flourish 

He lingers on the doorway, towering over her as she stands in front of him, his eyes roaming her body

“Watson, you look...” he clears his throat “you look lovely.” 

She’s wearing a dress she picked out especially for the occasion, part of a set of outfits she had dubbed “suburban housewife chic” (aka styles bought at Banana Republic in Park Slope). It’s a lilac number with flutter sleeves and a pretty flowery pattern, entirely unlike anything she’d normally wear. Her hair is loose and in soft curls, and by her own judgement, she looks fresh out of an edition of Good Housekeeping 

“Thank you,” she says, a slight blush spreading over her cheeks “I’ll be waiting for you downstairs, okay?” 

He nods and she brushes past him, and it takes everything he has not to stare at her as she walks away. 

It takes him twenty minutes to shave and get dressed, and Watson is pacing impatiently in the foyer when he comes down the stairs.

“Sorry it took me so long,” he says “ready to go?” 

She nods and he holds the door open for her, locking it behind him. Gary and his wife live eleven doors down, which should be quite close but isn’t due to the massive size of the houses at Arcadia. 

A thought occurs to him as they walk towards the Young property. It occurs to him that they should be holding hands, because that’s what normal, loving couples do (right?), and of course he doesn’t want anyone to think they’re anything but. 

And so he grabs her hand, casually, eyes fixed ahead, and doesn’t say a word.

She could say something, and really, she would have, but his hand is warm and soft and she likes having it wrapped around hers. Oh, and the cover, of course. It’s all for the job. 

They arrive at the barbecue quickly, and marvel at the revelry. They don’t seem to be celebrating anything in particular but there’re so many people Watson concludes most of the neighbors must be attending. Gary’s at the grill and Sherlock pulls her towards him, past running children and tiny dogs.

“Ed!” Gary yells “Glad you could make it!” He says, giving Sherlock a pat on the back “Olivia, you look wonderful. You should meet my wife.”

Watson smiles at him, as brightly and sincerely as she can muster “I’d love to. Is she around?”

“Yeah, she’s right over there,” he says, pointing a blonde woman sitting on a stretcher “Libby, hun! Come here a sec!”

Libby is standing next to her in an amount of time that feels strangely short, like she hurried there, like she thought she had to.

“What is it, dear?” She asks Gary, with a smile 

“This is Ed Houghton and his wife, Olivia,” he says, looking at them “they just moved into Rosita.” 

“Well, that’s just a lovely property!” Libby says, and her voice is so sweet, so forced, Watson thinks she might start regurgitating honey any second “Why don’t you come meet the rest of the ladies and let the boys chat, hmm? Come along!” 

Watson wants to murder her. 

But instead, she says “I’d love to.”, offers Sherlock her cheek (which he kisses a bit too eagerly), and follows her.

————————————————————————————

“I think I’m building good rapport with Gary,” he says, as soon as they walk inside ‘their’ house “the other blokes, as well, but I’ve a feeling Gary’s our key.” 

“Oh, I’m doing great with the ladies as well,” she says, plopping down on the couch “they’ve pitched me at least three multilevel marketing schemes and gave me wonderful advice on how to keep you interested in having sex with me.” 

He swallows thickly, and the only thing on his mind is “I could never not be interested in that.”

The thought freaks him out. 

“We can compare notes tomorrow,” he says, diverting “I think I’m going to take a quick shower, is that alright?”

“Yeah, no problem,” she says “I’ll just use the bathroom down here.”

He nods and walks towards the stairs, hoping (praying) this experiment won’t be the end of him.

She’s lying on the bed when he comes out of the bathroom, already in her pajamas. She looks peaceful, calm, like she managed to successfully compartmentalize all the annoyance she went through that day. 

It’s hard not to stare at her, because there’s a particular kind of peace she seems to emanate, one that only she does. But he walks toward the linen closet, head down, and wills his mind to focus on something else, because it’s weird, what this has been doing to him, like it’s pulling at something he buried deep, like it’s trying to make it surface. 

He gathers a pillow and some blankets in his arms and shuts the door with his foot, walking towards the door. 

“Night, Watson.” He says, from the doorway 

“What?” She asks, looking up from her phone “where are you going to sleep?”

“I’m going to use these,” he shows her the blankets “to make a bed on the floor of the office.” 

“That’s crazy,” she states, putting the device down “you need to rest properly and that,” she points at the blankets “is not going to cut it.”

“What do you propose, then?” He asks. 

It’s a risky question

“You can sleep here.” She says, matter-of-factly “We’re adults. We can share a bed.” 

“Are you certain you’ll be comfortable?” He asks, concern lacing his voice 

“I am.” She says “Come on,” She pats the spot next to her playfully “it’s bedtime, pumpkin.” 

She laughs and it makes everything a thousand times less awkward, like her laughter is the antidote to his discomfort, like it’s exactly what he needed. 

He flicks the switch and the room is bathed in darkness, and he makes his way towards the bed. Her body is warm beside his as he lies down, and it’s a different brand of comforting, though no less effective. 

And because fate’s some sort of cruel sarcastic mistress, they both turn to adjust on the bed at the same time, her to the right and him to the left, and they’re lying face to face, inches apart. 

There’s a beat, two, and then Watson kisses him, unexpectedly, sloppily, hungrily, like she went in uncertain but intends to take it all the way, take everything she can get.

And Sherlock is kind of weirded out at first, because it’s quick, because he, the greatest detective in the word, didn’t see it coming, but it makes perfect sense, because it fits. They just fit.

He leans into it, into her, because he needs more, needs it all, needs to feel it, to let it sink, let his body and mind adapt to the feeling. 

If you were to ask him, later, what was on his mind as they kissed, he would confidently answer “nothing at all”. If you were to ask him, later, what was on his mind as their lips parted and he took in Watson’s face, all flushed skin and kiss-swollen lips, he would confidently answer that what was on his mind was:

“Shit.”

He was a doomed man. 

Conclusion, Scenario Three, AKA Fake Marriage Week (Watson): This is a game with no winners

Conclusion, Scenario Three, AKA Fake Marriage Week (Watson): Or maybe it’s a game with two winners

Conclusion, Scenario Three, AKA Fake Marriage Week (Holmes): No comment

Side Conclusion, Scenario Three, AKA Fake Marriage Week (Holmes): I’m the winner

Side Side Conclusion, Scenario Three, AKA Fake Marriage Week (Holmes): I’m obviously the winner. Predictions my bollocks, have you seen Watson? I’m clearly the winner

Side Side Side Conclusion, Scenario Three, AKA Fake Marriage Week (Holmes): #winning

Chapter Text

As for Watson, the only thing on her mind was “bad idea bad idea bad idea”.

She was very good at ignoring her better instincts when it suited her to do so.

When she breaks the kiss and takes stock of the situation, she’s flooded by an unexpected feeling of warmth that sort of scares her, in a good way, one that’s entirely new and exciting. 

But because Watson was never one for huge leaps or bold statements, she chooses to rest her head on his chest, wrap her arm around his waist and say,

“Goodnight, Ed.”

He would, forever, associate her mouth with a worshipping ground, his personal loca santa, an oasis in the barren desert of existence, from which he drank, shamelessly, fearlessly, flooded his body. 

He wants to drink every last drop of her, swirl her around his tongue, he’s a parched man, a filthy one, wants to drink and bathe in the fountain that is her body. 

(Sherlock wasn’t one for metaphors or sappiness, not really, but that first time he kissed Watson, not much was clear in his mind with the fair exception of desire) 

She breaks the kiss and he feels like dying, like her mouth had been the very last thing he needed to taste before expiring, like he’d rather be seven feet under than be disconnected from her for even a second

(That was what was going through his mind, really, morbid metaphors and all. Oh, and the fact that she smelled and tasted of cinnamon)

(He’d never cared for cinnamon before but by god did he love it then)

If spontaneous human combustion were indeed a true phenomenon, Sherlock’s pretty sure it would have happened to him, right then and there. 

But instead of going up in flames, he wraps his arm around her and stares at the ceiling, hoping Morpheus will take pity on him. 

Like I said, he was a doomed man. 

When he wakes up in the morning, she’s not lying next to him. 

It feels weird, like his body had grown used to her presence in a single night, like it was all it took.

Like things finally got too big for him to ignore.

He follows the noise coming from the kitchen, and finds her there, still in her pajamas, munching on a slice of toast and looking like the very definition of domestic bliss. 

Something flutters inside him - oh my god, something flutters inside him? - when he sees her, he wants to go to her, wants to finish what they started, wants to kiss her again, over and over again, wants to be Ed Houghton so she can be his Olivia.  

He hates how fucking mushy he feels but he would kill to feel like that every day for the rest of his life.  

It was all a bit confusing.

“Morning,” he says, finally “been up long?”  

“Not that long,” she responds, smiling “made you some toast.” 

“Thank you,” He says, his lips in thin line “I appreciate it.” 

“I thought you would, pumpkin.” she says, walking over to him and pressing a kiss to his cheek

She would, again and again, say that the only reason she did that, was because she acclimating to the character, getting used to the hang of things.

Joan Watson is a lying liar who lies a lot. 

He would, again and again, say that he understood her reasoning entirely, that they were both being professional. Honest to god, when he felt her hot breath on his ear, he really did think he was going to die.

Sherlock Holmes is in way way over his head.

“I was thinking we could have a dinner today,” she says, walking back to the sink “invite Gary and Libby to join us? Might be a good way to get a little closer to them.”

“Excellent idea,” he says, without much enthusiasm “we should walk over to their house, invite them personally. It’ll be more compelling, don’t you think?” 

“Yeah, that sounds good,” she agrees “what should we make? My famous impatient stir fry or your famous irritated yorkshires?”

“Neither of us is blessed with culinary talents, aye,” he says “but I do have quite a delightful recipe up my sleeve,” he smiles “how do you feel about curry?”

She smiles in agreement and he wants to be buried in the soft wrinkles that form on her forehead, on the corners of her eyes. 

You see, Sherlock was very unusually dramatic when it came to matters of the heart. He’s a pragmatic man, a self-proclaimed misanthrope, a firm non-believer in such follies as soulmates and eternal love and all the wishwash Nora Ephron or whomever seemed to peddle to unsuspecting fools, but Christ almighty, he really could feel reason slipping away, inch by inch, every time she got close to him, or smiled at him, or pretty much existed, in general. 

Love is a vexing game.

They walk hand in hand to the Young residence, in not-so-coincidentally matching outfits. 

He’s wearing an ensemble that’s entirely strange for him, a light blue colored polo shirt and sand colored chinos, an outfit rounded by a pair of spotless white New Balances. 

She’s wearing a billowy dress the same color as his shirt, flat sandals that really accentuated the height difference between the two of them (which Sherlock would claim he only noticed because he was, um, a detective, and not because it made her the perfect height to be admired, no, of course not), her hair in a high ponytail that bobbed up and down in a hypnotic swing. 

Libby is outside tending to her lilies by the time they reach the couple’s property, their presence announced by a nightmare of a yapping dog that’s as loud as it is tiny.

Libby turns to them and flashes a smile that’s far too forced to be genuine, and Sherlock notices something in her eyes, something akin to fear, apprehension, with a dash of hatred and pure terror. He notices that the hatred and terror are there for him, the fear and apprehension there for Watson, and prays that the case will be solved before anyone else is hurt. 

“Oh, hi there!” She says, voice all syrup and cheeriness, too loud, too high pitched.   She removes her gardening gloves and sets them on the grass, getting up to greet them “How lovely to see you.”

“Hi, Libby,” Watson says, taking Libby’s hands in hers and pulling her in for what could only be described as a half-assed hug “your garden looks wonderful." 

“Oh, thank you!” Libby exclaims, and Sherlock wonders if her voice sounds like that all the time “Gary just adores lilies.”

“A man of taste,” Sherlock says, moving closer to Watson and placing a hand on the small of her back “we were wondering if you and Gary would like to join us for supper later tonight? Liv and I would love it if you could make it.”

She says “yes, that would be delightful.”, but her body screams NO NO NO. 

They both notice it, and Watson wonders if it’s personal, if she doesn’t like them, if they’ve done something wrong. 

“Seven?” Watson asks, taking his hand from her back and clasping it in hers

“Wonderful,” Libby agrees “looking forward to it.”

She quite clearly wasn’t.

They walk back to the house and decide he’ll be the one to do the shopping, and she’d stay and set everything up. 

It’s a welcome respite, because they both have a lot on their minds, a lot of wants, a lot of questions, a lot of everything. 

She takes stock of the situation while she scours the drawers for table linens and silverware, curses her impulsivity, and then curses her pessimism. 

She thinks she should regret it, should know better than to get involved with her partner, should be angry at herself.

But she can’t, because the moment was too perfect, too intense, and she wants to do it again and again, over and over, until her body and mind fully process everything.

Might take a few tries. 

He drives slowly, takes his time at the shop, picks vegetables with unnecessary care and attention, pushes the buggy through the empty halls and lets his mind wander

And wander it does, to her mouth, her neck, her hands, her hair, her. 

He desperately wants to be cautious, knows he has to be cautious, he can’t take another terrible breakup. 

But the thing is, for all his practicalness and skepticism, he can’t see the two of them going anywhere but forward, together, towards something bigger, better.

Something perfect. 

By the time Sherlock comes home with the groceries, it’s after five and Watson is getting restless. The table’s been set, a bottle of wine is decanting (his idea, she would’ve preferred if they’d kept the night alcohol-free), and she’s sitting on the couch nursing an hour-old cup of tea, lost in thought. 

She’s pulled out of her reverie by the sound of the door opening and closing and the sound of heavy steps walking towards the kitchen.

“Watson?” He calls, setting the groceries on the counter

“I’m here,” she calls back “coming!”

For the next two hours, they chop, season, sauté and fry a variety of vegetables and herbs, plus a hunk of lamb Watson is certain could be used to kill a man. 

They prep the food and themselves, grilling each other with mindless questions as they work around the kitchen, in a dizzying rhythm that ends with the kitchen smelling heavenly, the dinner table set and pretty, and the two of them exhausted and on edge.

She showers first, then gathers her things so she can get dressed and do her makeup in the downstairs bathroom. She walks past him in nothing but a pink towel and chuckles to herself when she hears his breath catch in his throat, and for a second she’s not so overwhelmed. It hits her that he holds that power over her, that grounding power. Her mind is entirely filled with that thought as she puts her makeup on and shimmies into a green dress she knows will drive him just a little bit crazy, leaving the bathroom at the exact same time the doorbell rings. 

She opens her mouth to call Sherlock but he’s nearly running down the stairs before she can get his name out, and they exchange silent reassurances before walking towards the front door. 

“Good evening, you two!” Gary says, way louder than necessary. He’s holding a bottle of wine in one hand and has an arm wrapped around Libby’s waist as the two of them stand in the welcome mat. 

“Good evening, friends, welcome to our home,” Sherlock says, and it takes Watson a lot of effort not to laugh, because he sounds like a 60s talk show host “please, come on in.”

They don’t really discuss it but Sherlock leads Gary to the dining room and Libby follows Watson into the kitchen, and Watson can feel the tension emanating from her body. She runs through the possibilities quickly: she’s been abused, she’s being abused, she was married against her will. Nothing seems to fit quite well. 

“I hope you guys like curry,” she says, pulling the lid from the simmering pan “Ed made it, it’s his specialty.”  

“I’m sure it’s delicious,” Libby says, with her characteristic fake smile plastered on her face “Gary doesn’t really go for ethnic food but I’m sure it’ll be fine.” 

It really doesn’t seem like it will be, if her behavior is any indication.

“Help me bring it in?” Watson asks, cocking her head towards the stove “rice is on the back burner.” 

The two of them bring the food into the dining room just as Sherlock finishes pouring the wine, talking to Gary about how much he adores Carmenères and wasn’t the 2018 season just amazing? 

She recognizes his bullshitting when she sees it. 

“Ready for dinner, boys?” Libby asks, and the way she says boys is particularly strange, and Watson knows Sherlock noticed it too. They exchange a quick glance that reminds her that this is an active crime investigation all the way, that something terrible is going on and they need to find out why. 

But here’s the thing: it’s easy for them to push that aside, because Gary and Libby are good company, the food is delicious and everything feels overwhelmingly normal - well, not their normal, but normal nonetheless. So normal in fact, that Watson completely ignores Gary’s furtive glances, how his eyes are fixated on her breasts, how he seems to adjust in his chair far more often than necessary. 

What she doesn’t - can’t - ignore is Sherlock’s growing tension as he studies that interaction, the not-so-subtle squeezes he gives her thigh, the excessive clearing of his throat. It’s quite clear to her then that he wasn’t nervous, or on edge, or focusing or anything of the sort, no, he was angry, extremely and quite clearly angry. 

“Libby, how about we go set up the coffee?” Watson asks, giving Sherlock’s hand a squeeze “I’d like a little pick me up.”

“Sure,” Libby says “be right back, dear.” She tells Gary

Sherlock watches Gary as he watches the two of them leave the room, and boy, if he was angry before, he was absolutely fuming after. Gary doesn’t just watch them leave, he lingers on Watson’s ass, glues his eyes there, follows its movements. 

Sherlock wants to murder him like he’s never wanted to murder anyone before.

“So, Ed,” Gary says, after taking his sweet staring time “take a short walk with me, will you? The girls will be a little while with the coffee, I’m sure.”

“Sounds great,” Sherlock says, getting up and heading towards the door “honey, we’re going out for a bit.” He half yells as they pass the kitchen 

“Okay love, have fun!” Watson yells back, putting on her best housewife voice 

Gary’s the one who closes the door behind them, which Sherlock interprets as a strange attempt at being in charge, brushing it off quickly as they start down the street.

“Ed, you seem like a very fine man,” Gary starts “with a very, very fine woman,” he continues “and here at Arcadia, we’re just crazy about very fine people. We even have a club for those of us who are… especially fine.”

Sherlock has never heard the words “very” and “fine” being so overused

“What kind of club?” 

“A club in which we all share the very fine things that’ve been bestowed upon us,” Gary says “know what I mean?” 

Sherlock does, and thinks, for a second, that he could easily get away with murder, no problem, and that he’d very much enjoy murdering the hell out of Gary. 

Later that night, after they’ve had their coffee and shared more pleasantries, after Gary and Libby left, after they’ve both washed themselves clean of the grossness of sharing a space with Gary Young, they’re sitting side by side in bed as Watson tries to process what Sherlock just told her. 

“A wife-sharing club?” She asks, dumbfounded

“Yes,” he confirms “it appears that the good men of Arcadia enjoy shagging one another’s wives,” he runs his hands across his face “and I sincerely doubt the wives have any say in it.” 

“Christ,” she whispers 

“I know,” Sherlock says grabbing her hand “when he suggested sharing you,” he breathes heavily “it took me everything I had not to kill him right there,” he looks at her “to think…”

She kisses him then, and, for the second time in two nights, he forgets about everything else and thinks he’s the luckiest fucking man in the entire world. 

He’s right.