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Her feet and calves were toasty warm, and not just from the fleece-lined Uggs with which she navigated the occasional slush-pile. She might have to perform some experiments and see if shawarmas or burritos worked better, possibly adapt a coffee holder to… Joan Watson shook her head. She'd clearly been with Sherlock Holmes too long. Perhaps you've read my monograph on the leg-warming properties of various New York City ethnic foods…
As she finished crossing the street, two people in an alley searching a dumpster caught her attention as they looked vaguely familiar. She approached them cautiously, but when one turned toward her with fear on her face, she recognized the woman. "Gail? It's Joan Watson."
The fear vanished. "Joanie?" Gail grinned. "Rachaud, it's Dr. Joanie!"
The tall black man hopped down to join his red-headed girlfriend, also smiling, still holding his fossicking-stick. "Doc! Long time since that first ER visit! How are you?"
No need to correct them and then go into the whole backstory about giving up surgery to become a consulting detective. "Getting by. Yourselves?"
"The same." Gail shrugged. "Knife-edge as always, but lots of folks have it worse."
"We paid a medical bill this month!" Richaud said proudly. "Gail's meds! Not having that hanging over us? It's worth eating rice till the first." Gail nodded firmly.
Rice till they could get next month's food assistance. They weren't dumpster-diving looking for boxes or stuff to fix up and use or sell – they were looking for food.
Without missing a beat Joan bent down and reached inside her Uggs, and came back up with two foil-wrapped thick cylinders, still hot. "Lamb goes great with rice."
They gaped for just a second, and before they could conjure up some half-hearted pride-driven refusal Joan handed them both one of the delicious wraps.
"You just – had those in your boots?" Richaud stared at the Uggs.
"I must have gotten these things from Harry Potter." Joan grinned back. She saw how they pulled off gloves to wrap their bare reddened hands around the hot food.
"Oh God bless you," Gail said, already tearing off the foil. Richaud blinked hard.
"Good luck, you two." Joan left – she was late for her rendezvous, and she didn't want to give them enough time to refuse the offering – and resumed her walk to the park.
Her own stomach rumbled. "Shush," she said out loud.
***
Sherlock was wrapped and scarved, beating his gloved hands against his forearms on the bench that was their stakeout location for the afternoon; his breath smoked in the air. "Watson. You have our shawarmas?" He was clearly as ravenous as she.
"I have our lunch," Joan corrected. "It's in my parka hood."
From that other storage site Sherlock pulled out a bag of pita wedges and two individual covered cups of hummus. He nodded, hefting the small bag. "Karam knows us – he threw in an extra pita. Which means that all four of us will dine well today."
Joan Watson smiled.