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Chapter Text

The light clicked green and the lock clunked. Joan pushed the door open, took a step in and then took a step back to verify she had the right room number. Okay, correct number and the keycard obviously worked but this was not the hotel room she had reserved. This was a suite; she had booked a single, the smallest, cheapest room available. She had only come to town to testify and would be leaving tomorrow. Curiosity got the better of her ... she'd just sneak a peek before she called the concierge.

Oatmeal and granite sprung to mind. The sitting room projected a well studied rustic aesthetic of stony greys and creamy whites in highly textured materials. On the stone table, a vase of peonies in shades from blushing pink to dark, dark red contrasted with the almost monochromatic quality of the room. Beyond the flowers, a wall of floor to ceiling windows showcased a jeweled view of the San Francisco night sky. Beautiful. Her eyes drifted back to the flowers. She bent over the peonies taking in their fragrance and noticed the card beside them. Not being nosy, just a good investigator, she told herself as she opened it. Blank except for the carefully penned hanzi: 牡丹 ... "Mudan" she murmured to herself, and carefully placed the card back where she found it. Her mom had once told her that mudan, the Chinese word for peonies, meant most beautiful. This hotel probably catered to wealthy Chinese tourists, she thought, and not poor consulting detectives from Brooklyn.

Well, she'd gone in this far, she might as well check out the rest of the suite. She turned the corner into the bedroom and gasped: a king size bed, with a thick cream-colored bedspread and mountains of fluffy white pillows. It floated before her and pulled at her. Joan couldn't resist. She sat on the bed's edge and without a second thought collapsed backwards into the welcoming deep cushiony softness. She exhaled in pleasure as her body relaxed. Too bad this wasn't hers. She would love a night's rest on this bed especially since no one was around to wake her up. Joan smiled to herself, although she certainly wouldn't mind being brought breakfast in bed here.

The light from the bathroom caught her eye. She forced herself from the sweet cloud ... The bathroom .... my lord the bathroom - the tub was a pool, jets for hot massaging water, and candles! Candles ready to be lit. Red roses, a dozen or so, each in its own single vase surrounded the tub.

It all even smelled extravagant a vague scent ... this was definitely someone else's room

Joan picked up the room phone and called down to the desk.

"No, madam. It is your room." His voice was brisk but polite.

"But when I booked the reservation I did not choose a suite..."

"No, your husband called and asked for the upgrade and the extras ..."

She interrupted him. "My husband? See it is a mistake I'm not ..."

The voice at the other end of the phone took on a curt tone, "You are Joan Watson?

"Yes but ... "

"No mistake then. I spoke to your husband myself."

A thought occurred to her, "Did my husband have an accent by any chance?"

"Yes. British. A very .... direct man."

"Thank you." She hung up the room phone and simultaneously called Sherlock on her cell.

"Watson! How did it go? Did the jury look favorably on your testimony? The evidence was obvious..."

"Sherlock!" He was talking too much. He was clearly nervous about her reaction.

He took a beat before he answered ..."Yes?"

"The suite is wonderful. All I could ask for..."

He let out the breath he'd been holding, "Good. Good. Glad to hear it."

"But we can't afford this. Traveling cross country was enough of a budget strain, this is totally unnecessary."

"I disagree. Extravagance and frugality are both necessary in their times. You stepped away from a surgeon's life, Watson, one with a certain status and significant income and ended among criminals and the peeling wallpaper of the brownstone and ... and me. I thought a bit of pampering was in order." Sherlock waited and when she said nothing, grew concerned, "Or have I crossed one of those pesky boundaries again?"

A small laugh from her relieved his tension. "It is very considerate but you know I love what I do and I love every inch of the brownstone and I love ... I love my life ..."

"Good. Enjoy your time away. Order a massage, room service, go out, anything you want... as long as it makes you happy."

"The bed and a créme brullee is plenty ... you should see all this .... The flowers alone ..."

"Mudan?" His voice took on a gentleness when he pronounced the word in his best Mandarin.

"Yes." She realized the flowers were from him and not the hotel. "Thank you. They're beautiful. I wish you were here .... we should both be enjoying this.

Chapter Text

Stacks upon stacks of files covered the conference room table; Sherlock sat engrossed in the M.E.'s report when a chime, a text from Watson, broke the room's silence.

He picked up the phone distractedly, and swiped:
"Wish you were here" captioned an image of ...

His breath caught. He sat up in his chair and gave the phone his full attention.

Dressed in a white robe that revealed nothing and everything, she perched on the edge of the tub, skin flushed from the bath, hair up in messy disarray, wet tendrils clinging to her neck, her cheeks ... those cheeks ... Watson....

Sherlock blinked and attempted to collect himself, but his eyes of their own accord traveled to her leg, and slid up her thigh to where the white terry cloth cloistered the rest of her body ...

No!

Again, he blinked and then looked away. The precinct conference room was no place for detailed scrutiny of this image.

And yet he was drawn right back ... the deep V at her neckline beckoned, tantalized, skirted the edge of revealing. ..... That look in her eyes ... intense, burning with ... no .... surely he imagined ...

He swallowed, regained control of himself, and attempted a more clinical analysis of the photograph.

The candles on the tub's far edge cast a warm glow around an open bottle of champagne (and an empty creme brûlée dish). He reasoned alcohol consumption explained the lowered inhibitions that had allowed her to take and send this image. This was not something a sober Watson would send him ... at least he didn't think she would .... he stared once more at her eyes.

"Is that Joan?" Bell was right up behind him, peering over his shoulder. Sherlock, irritated he'd been caught completely off guard, swiped the image away and twisted his face toward Marcus, casting a glare at him that would have sent a lesser man running. Marcus was not a lesser man. He set the cup of coffee before Sherlock. "You know, if I received that text, man... " he shook his head as he sat down beside him, " ...I would be on my way to wherever she is right now." Sherlock angrily hunched over the files in front of him and said nothing.

Marcus watched him for a bit then sighed. "You two have the weirdest relationship... I mean, I get it, you're friends and partners and it's complicated but you guys are so ...."

"Do you mind?" His eyes bore into the detective's. "This is absolutely none of your concern."

"You're right, you're right..." He shuffled papers. "Just saying though, things need to be dealt with sometimes. You can only ignore feelings for so long before ..."

Sherlock shut out the detective's ramblings; outwardly he concentrated on the M.E.'s report while somewhere deep inside he calculated flight lengths, time differences and the logistics of making his way to her.

Chapter Text

The banging at the door scared her awake. Joan bolted up, not sure where she was. The downy-soft bed beneath her sprang to her aid, reminded her, reassured her, and bade her lay back down. She acquiesced; her head drifted back into her nest of pillows.

Another volley of knocks at the hotel door.

With a groan and an expletive, Joan threw back the covers and scooted out of bed. Pulling down at her t-shirt, one of Sherlock's she lifted from his laundry, she stood dazed for a second. A quick glance at her phone drew another groan from her. 6:27 a.m. Why didn't anyone ever let her sleep! Her stomach did a small flip when she realized the screen showed no answer to her text of last night. He must think she lost her mind... he was probably right.

More knocking!

Joan stomped to the door and pulled it open not bothering to check who might be on the other side. She was in a bad enough mood to tackle anyone or anything right now.

"What! What is so important?"

"I ... I was requested to make sure you received this as soon as possible."

She scowled at the hotel employee. The young man looked apologetic, and a little scared, as he handed her the envelope.

"Thank you." Joan took the envelope and apologized for her demeanor and lack of tip. "...sorry I don't have any cash ..."

"That's alright. I've already been well paid." He grinned and hurriedly left.

She closed the door and stared at the envelope. She had a suspicion as to who it might be from. He had a preference for handwritten correspondence. Her heart sank at the thought that this might be a "Dear Joan" letter, that she had pushed at a boundary and made him uncomfortable, that she had caused a rift .... why did she send that photo....

Joan steeled herself and pulled out a sheet of hotel stationary neatly folded in half. She opened it. His handwriting: "I am here. If you'd rather I leave, you need only not open the door." She stared at the paper. Here? He was here. He was here! How? What did he mean by not open the door ...

While she considered the hows and whys, a voice deep within her mustered all of its strength and yelled, 'Open the door!!!'

"Oh!" She jumped. Her heart pounding, she turned the handle and opened the door. No one. He wasn't there. Maybe she misunderstood; she glanced at the sheet in her hand, then took a step forward. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him and turned.

With his back to the wall, Sherlock stood about three feet away from the door, his body rigid with tension, his hands clenching and unclenching, fingers grinding into his palms. He faced straight ahead; not daring to look at her directly, his eyes flitted to the side and back again and back again. He didn't move. Didn't say a word. Waited.

A breathy "Hey," was all Joan could manage.

With a quick glance and a small nod he acknowledged her greeting, returning to his sentinel position, lowering his head a bit, completely at a loss as to what to do or say.

Empathy for his distress calmed hers. She approached him and tugged at his jacket sleeve. He summoned the courage to make eye contact and found a measure of relief in her eyes. Joan tilted her head towards the open door, and pulled once more at his sleeve before turning, hoping he would follow.

He followed her inside.

Chapter Text

Once inside, Sherlock stood stiffly beside her.

Awkward: late Middle English ... from dialect awk ‘backward, perverse, clumsy’ ... from Old Norse afugr ‘turned the wrong way’ ...

Awkward was something they rarely were. As a rule, they fit, moved as one, each the better half to the other and if there was a problem they talked, argued, yelled it out ... or walked away. And yet here they stood, not talking, not walking away ...

He took a quick scan of the room and of her and, realizing she was as uncomfortable as he, spoke, "Is that one of mine?" His fingers touched the sleeve of her t-shirt and then quickly retreated.

Joan looked at the shirt and then at him with mock innocence, "I guess it is. I must have brought it by mistake?" A small smile graced her lips and then his and the awkwardness lessened.

"I'm glad you came out. Must have caught a direct flight?" Her attempt at breaking the silence.

He nodded, "Yes. Marcus' prattle expedited my efforts."

"Marcus? You talked to ... to Marcus about ...." She looked concerned.

"No, no. He talked. After he saw the photo he started yammering...."

"He saw the photo!" Joan's hand went to her forehead. "Why would you ...."

"I didn't. He, he came up behind me as I was studying...."

Joan threw up her hands and walked to the sofa, "Sherlock, that was meant for you, only for you..."

He followed, "I'm sorry. I was absorbed with the image. Never heard him coming up behind me."

He lowered his head to look at her face. "Would you prefer me to leave?"

She squinted up at him, and hit his arm with the back of her hand, "Don't be stupid. I'll get some clothes on and we'll go get breakfast."

And with that, they were facing each other again, moving in the same direction.

Breakfast was taken at leisure. All conversation was work related, which frankly was the norm for them. The case that brought her out here was discussed, the case that he left behind was dissected, and post breakfast plans were brought forth.

"Alcatraz. I've never been. Might you be interested?"

"I would. But checkout is at 11 and my flight leaves at 2..."

"I ... I took the liberty of speaking to the concierge. The man is under the impression that I am your husband. I didn't argue with him as it suited our needs. We... you have the room for two more days and the flight has been changed." He took a sip of his tea and nervously waited for her response. He had made assumptions and decisions without her input and was unsure if he'd made the right choices.

"Thank you." She looked genuinely pleased and he relaxed. "We're going to have to take on extra work to pay for all this, though."

"Not as much as you would think. You'd be surprised what dropping the name of Morland Holmes will get you ..." She laughed and it filled him with pleasure.

"Okay. Alcatraz it is. I'll need to go upstairs and change first."

The elevator was empty on the way back down. Standing right up beside each other at the back of the car, they rode in silence. Her hand brushed his, her fingers crawled between his and he gave them squeeze. The sensation of just holding hands proved heady. His face dropped down before hers. His lips lightly grazed hers, hovered, then whisper soft he kissed her. If handholding proved heady, this was intoxicating. Eyes open to each other, they both moved closer and kissed again. A little longer, a little firmer but still chaste, still testing the waters.

The elevator dinged and they pulled apart. A family of five boisterously joined them for the remainder of the ride.

Chapter Text

"Great bookstores make for a great city." The proclamation uttered, Sherlock placed bagfuls of books on the hotel room's desk. Watson followed, placing one more City Lights tote on the desk's chair.

Hiking across, through and, at one point, almost beneath Alcatraz, the prison and the island, had occupied a good part of their day. Mutually engrossed in observations and discussions of history, criminal biographies, terrain and hypothetical strategies for escape that the island presented, the morning's kiss, though certainly not forgotten, stepped temporarily into the background.

He rifled through a canvas bag emblazoned with Edgar Allen Poe's likeness and pulled out a small leather bound book that had seen much better days. "This!" He tapped the dirt brown cover, "This should provide the necessary data to convince Ranger Bob." He popped the name's consonants with disdain and carefully flipped through musty pages.

Joan rolled her eyes. He would not let this go. The tour guide had, innocently enough, stated the date of an ill-fated escape attempt by a minor criminal and Sherlock had disagreed. He graciously gifted the correct date to the guide for future use. Ranger Bob did not accept said gifted information and did not back down. The arguing was polite but intense, lasting the duration of the tour. Sherlock's last words to the guide were a promise, bordering on a threat, that he would send him and his superiors all the necessary documentation so that this egregious error could be corrected.

She half-listened to him now as he continued. The point was minor but he, as he was fond of saying, was a man of details. He worked himself into a small intellectual frenzy and frankly, she couldn't resist him when he went off on one of these tilts at windmills. His whole body followed his brain on the quest; he glowed with energy, physically expanding, eyes wide, their color deepened ... the passion with which he spoke, over enunciated, gesticulated ... a half smile drifted onto her lips... It truly was quite beautiful ...

"What's wrong?"

His question woke her from her reverie. "What? Nothing. Nothing's wrong."

"You had an odd look about you ..."

"I ... I'm uhm..." Usually more discreet in her admiration, she stammered at getting caught. "....just tired I guess." She winced and headed for the sofa. "My feet ...ugh ..." Joan kicked off her shoes. "These shoes were not made for hiking stony cliffs."

Sherlock acknowledged her complaint, nodded and, putting his potentially vindicating tome down, moved to join her on the sofa, sitting at the far end from her. "Come ..." He motioned at her feet, tapping at his thighs.

"You don't have to... " she raised her feet to his lap while protesting. Foot massages were a not too frequent occurrence, utilitarian yet quite lovely. Of course, there was a always price to be paid for the luxury: a lecture, sternly given, about her inappropriate choice of footwear and the ridiculousness of her choices. The first one or two times he admonished her as he massaged, Joan had argued, defending herself and her shoes. After coming to terms with futility of arguing with him, she pretended to listen to his reprimands, laid back and enjoyed the pleasurable relief his hands provided.

Sherlock passed her another pillow for her head. He took hold of her feet while Joan eased into a reclining position. A visual inspection made sure there was no real damage before he pushed into the ball of her right foot, thumb rotating while fingers squeezed and massaged. Her groan of utter pleasure surprised them both; Joan tried to hold it back but couldn't. "Sorry. That just feels so good."

Her comment pleased him to no end, though he tried to remain clinical in his manner.

The sun's last golden rays dissolved into a mauve sky; the transition darkening the room by increments. A warm silence grew between them. No lectures this time. The soft exhalations of breath, in pleasure, in pain, in awe, a stifled moan, a whispered hum.... The massage became a caress, his fingers gentle across her skin as he rotated, flexed and extended ankles and toes and heels.

The beatific look that descended upon her mesmerized him. Her head tilted back as she let go and relaxed, enjoying every touch, rub, squeeze.

The lights of the city now twinkled in the sun's place.

His fingers traversed up, inside the loose leg of her pants, squeezing and soothing her calves in light strokes. He raised a pant leg and lightly bent one knee. His head lowered as his hand lifted her ankle to his lips. Lost in the sensation, he rapturously placed lingering kisses at her ankle before trailing his mouth upwards, leaving a trail of adoration in its wake. He reached the edge of the material at her knee and stopped, forehead laying on her as he tried to collect himself.

Left breathless at his caresses, Joan roused herself enough to extend a hand to his head, raking fingers through his short hair, holding him close. She pulled herself up on one elbow and took a breath. Her hand moved from his hair, caressed his cheek and as he lifted his eyes to her, her fingers tenderly stroked at his lips.

The sudden light and shrill, vibrating tone emanating from the coffee table, just beneath the peony bouquet, scared them both into an upright position. Sherlock lunged at his phone and showed the screen to Watson. Detective Bell. Her hand still at the back of his neck, his on her knee, they stared at each other before silently agreeing.

"Marcus." Sherlock growled into the phone.

Chapter Text

The tiny click resonated in the quiet of the room; the laptop was finally off. He sat back, rubbed at his face with both hands and sighed - that took longer than expected. FaceTime was a blessing and a curse. Marcus, Gregson, and he, with the help of Watson, managed to sort through the case evidence and get the information necessary to issue a warrant for the errant Mr. Bowman. At some point though, they lost Watson; she wandered off, presumably to bed.

His eyes scanned the room, stopped at the peony bouquet and focused on the structure of the outer form and the delicate intricacy of the petals that created that form. He exhaled her name in a whisper.

Immobile, eyes fixed, he reviewed the events of the past two days, the slow but sure steps towards intimacy ... was it what she wanted ... was he misreading her ... had joining her here forced her into something she didn't want. Frustrated with himself and unsure as to how to proceed, he staved off a decision by picking up the remnants of their dinner; plates, cups, silverware, all quietly set back on the hotel tray.

His phone dinged, a text from Bell: "we got him." Sherlock frowned at his phone. The message's shrill intrusion into the meditative silence triggered a decision. His finger pressed down on the phone's top button until the words appeared: "slide to power off." The phone now lay inert in his hand and a sense of freedom overtook him.

Empowered by the simple act, and the decision behind it, he placed the hotel phone on DND, moved to the suite's front door and hung out the "do not disturb" tag and, presumptuously, powered down Watson's own phone. He carefully set her phone down next to his - if nothing else they'd get a good night's sleep.

The resolve he felt began to fade as he crossed the bedroom's threshold. Nestled deep within the white clouds of pillows and linens, Watson lay soundly asleep. Her dark hair askew, her face at rest radiated peace. It was an image worthy of Ingres or Manet or perhaps Courbet, although he doubted any master could truly capture her essence.

The pull to lay beside her overwhelmed him ... to breathe in the air that passed her lips ... to watch her body move through dreams....

He screwed his eyes shut and fought back at his desires and emotions. She chose sleep. Her needs and wants came first, and he would not intrude. Let her sleep. Things happen in due time if at all. He would not wake her ... not this time.

He turned off the light before he stepped out of the bathroom The warm humid air, residue of his shower, followed him out. Ensconced in sleep and blankets, she now lay on her side facing away from him. Sherlock took one last look.

Pulling his tshirt over his head, he walked through the suite's darkened living area toward its floor to ceiling array of windows. The city itself provided him enough light to maneuver round furniture and discarded shoes. Arms poked through sleeves, as he came to a stop and pulled the shirt down over his sweatpants' loose waistband.

San Francisco blinked and beckoned. Sherlock plucked at the tshirt's collar and crossed his arms. He could go out he supposed but the thought of leaving did not appeal to him. He stood in silence once more questioning himself, wondering if he had erred, misinterpreted her in some way.

This was all Marcus' fault. He had persuaded him to take this leap. The good detective only saw the physical in the image Watson sent him and jumped to erroneous and rather base conclusions.

Sherlock stopped and shook his head at himself. No. It was not Marcus that convinced him to come out. He had convinced himself. Deluded himself.

Rooted in shared experiences and understanding of each other's psyche, the relationship between himself and Watson was a web of intellectual and emotional connections. The love they shared was on a higher plane; physical consummation was unnecessary.... and yet, here he stood pining like a school boy ...

Lost in his thoughts, he didn't hear her approach and the touch of her hand on his back made him jump. Joan pulled her hand away immediately. "I'm sorry ... I didn't mean to..." she shook her head and took a step away from him.

She seemed upset by his reaction and he quickly spoke to soothe her. "I'm losing my skills it seems... second time this week someone has snuck up on me."

Joan smiled and masked her insecurities by turning her attention to the cityscape before them. "It is beautiful, isn't it."

"Mhmm..." Sherlock looked at her as he answered.

"Case wrapped up?"

"Yes. Arrest warrant issued."

She kept her eyes fixed on the window. "What ... what are you doing out here ... I ... I thought ..." she stammered and looked down rather than at him, "I was waiting ...."

"You ..." he cleared throat. "You were asleep when I looked in. I didn't want to wake you ..."

Joan found the courage to look at him. He appeared even more scared than she felt. She smiled at him. "That's a first, you not wanting to wake me."

His shoulders relaxed and his arms uncrossed at her amusement. She moved closer, slowly leaned in towards him and placed her forehead on his chest. All touch between them was new territory and each brought its own sweet sensation to be savored. This moment, soft and deep, calmed some of their fears.

In increments his chin came down to rest upon her head and closing his eyes, he took a deep breath. "I used some of your shampoo ... in the shower." His confession was whispered into her hair.

"Mmm..." Her arms encircled his waist and her face pressed flat on his chest. "Was that payback for my taking your tshirt?" She snuggled in; his heart thumped.

His arms came to her back, his hands smoothed at her tshirt, with mouth lowered closer to her ear, he answered. "Perhaps..." his lips brushed against her earlobe and she clasped her arms tighter around on him. They fell quiet, slightly swaying, seduced further with each micro-movement of body against body.

The dark silk of her hair against his cheek, a sensation he had longed for on more than one occasion, left him lightheaded and yearning for more. He flexed and held her closer to him. In return, she melted further into his embrace and sighed with satisfaction.

Her fingers traced his shirt's bottom hem and finding their way beneath the grey cotton, her hands traveled up and across the smoothness of his back. The touch of her fingertips, her palms gliding across his bare skin caused a sound of pleasure to escape his lips. Impulsively, he nuzzled at her neck; his warm breath and soft lips on her skin sent a small shockwave through her body. She raised her eyes to his and at that moment all insecurities ended, all reasoning was lost, and control was handed over to emotion and desire.

Chapter Text

"Watson!" He hung up the hotel phone and strode into the bedroom.

"I'm coming..." Hair smoothed back and dressed in a dark grey three piece suit, Joan stood attempting to secure an earring in place.

"My new found friend, Le Concierge, has procured a town car to take us to the airport. ... here, let me." She handed over the earring and its back to him.

Surprisingly, even after a night of intense physical intimacy, the simple act of his touching her earlobe, gently pushing the silver prong through until it slipped into the waiting earring back and latched in, left them both a bit breathless. Index finger and thumb stroked to set the earring properly in place, before he stepped back, and took in the light pinking of her cheeks. His heart too beat a touch faster than the norm.

"Thanks," she murmured.

"My pleasure." He nodded and pressed his lips into a thin line, looking down at his shoes with an almost school boy embarrassment.

Sherlock's phone dinged a message. She turned to gather her bag and suitcase while he checked.

"Unbelievable!" He scowled at the phone and then at her. "Ranger Bob refuses to concede."

"Sherlock, let this go. How did he get your email anyway ..." she pulled up on the handle of her case and rolled passed him.

With a bounce, he followed her, "I sent him my preliminary research data last night while waiting for Marcus to send paperwork. This so called 'civil servant' has the audacity to question my methods. When we get home, I shall forward him all ...."

"Stop! Take a breath." He glared at her, but stopped. "You're anxious enough as it is because of the flight and adding Ranger Bob into the mix is not going to help." She sighed and scanned the room for her phone. "Certainly isn't going to help me..." she muttered as she retrieved her phone from the coffee table.

Sherlock grimaced and verbally negated her statement while physically confirming it. "I am not anxious," he rolled his neck and shoulders, and jutted out his chin. "This is a matter that must be dealt with. Misinformation should not be the norm ..."

Joan sighed resignedly, "Fine. Get it out of your system then." Wistfully, she looked around the room. "I'm going to miss this place." She stared out at the city skyline and then at the sofa, where just yesterday ... she smiled and brought herself back to the present. "Do you have everything?" Not receiving an answer, she turned to him.

He stood still, abnormally still, for Sherlock, watching her. His expression had changed from apoplectic to serene. Reaching down, he carefully pulled a peony bud from the coffee table bouquet. Deep, deep red, almost maroon, he slowly twirled the bud's stem between his fingers and contemplated the flower before speaking, "Yes... Yes, I have everything." He stepped up to her, "I dare say, I am leaving with much more than with which I arrived."

Offering her the flower, he bent his head and kissed her on the cheek. Joan moved her head and caught his lips with hers. Lips parted and they stood nose to nose, enjoying their last moments in the room, until his phone chimed and they both jumped.

Sherlock looked at her apologetically, tapped his phone and read.

"Don't tell me ... Ranger Bob?" Joan affixed the flower bud onto her suit's lapel.

Sherlock looked up, "No. The Captain. Says he has a case and requests our services upon arrival."

"Good to be needed I suppose." Joan walked to her suitcase, but was intercepted by Sherlock, who took the case's handle from her and slung his own travel bag over his shoulder.

She held the door open for him, "Why is your bag so full?"

"Books." He offered over his shoulder as he walked out.

Joan closed the room's door, "I thought the concierge was mailing those to us?"

"He is. I need these for the flight."

Joan rolled her eyes and prayed, for Ranger Bob's and for her own sake, that the plane did not have inflight wifi available.