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Chapter Text

Small, slow feet crawled over her chest. Joan Watson took a deep breath and inhaled endive against her nostrils. After coughing and alleviating her bodily instinct against suffocation, her first emotion was fury, then exasperation.

‘Ah, Clyde,’ she sighed, moving the tortoise gently to the floor next to her unframed mattress. Pulling her eyeshades off and blinking against the winter sunlight flooding into her room, she shouted, ‘SHERLOCK,’ at the top of her lungs. Sherlock Holmes pushed open the door of her room, apparently waiting right outside in the hall for her summons.

‘You’re using poor, innocent Clyde in your nefarious alarm schemes now?’ Joan shot at him accusatorially. Neither of the detectives would admit it aloud, but Clyde had become a much beloved pet and companion by both occupants of the brownstone. At this hour, Joan felt no qualms whatsoever in exploiting any guilt Sherlock may have hidden away under layers of hubris and lies.

‘I hypothesised your reaction time would be slower but your demeanour may be more favourable than waking up to the rooster.’ Sherlock checked his watch. ‘It appears I was correct on only one account.’

Joan groaned and stuffed one of her pillows over her head, wishing silently for the sweet release of death.

‘I took the liberty of laying out some weather-appropriate clothing as we are now,’ he lifted his watch once more, ‘approximately 21 minutes late for Captain Gregson. He awaits us at the pier.’

‘Out,’ the sullen voice under the pillow commanded. Sherlock bowed curtly, turned on his heel, and walked brusquely out of the room. ‘Uggggghhhhh.’

After three… no, four. Four switches to her outfit, Joan walked down the stairs and hollered, ‘Coming?’ to Sherlock, who was now in the sitting room engrossed in a new (old) book. Not waiting for him to catch her up, Joan swung on a sensible pea coat and walked out of the brownstone.

When Sherlock joined her shortly, they debriefed about the case awaiting them. It was two victims, one found chained to the front of a shipping container that had just arrived from Virginia. The second was inside said container, and apparently was only a skeleton. Sherlock and Watson hopped on the train, both taking their phones out, and stood in comfortable silence.

At the pier, Booth and Brennan were already disagreeing.

‘We should be able to take all of this back to the lab! The origin point is Virginia, and clearly has been moved across state lines,’ Brennan stated matter-of-factly, removing her nitrate gloves. She stood up from her position kneeling in front of the first victim and walked towards Booth. ‘Plus, how else is Cam going to examine all of this flesh? Our equipment is vastly superior, as you well know…’

Booth raised his hands in mock surrender. ‘Listen, Bones, we can’t do anything until the NYPD team arrives. They’re running point on this one.’

Brennan crossed her arms over her chest and came to stand next to Booth. ‘Well, they’re late. That’s a considerable social faux pas in the northeastern United States.’

‘Let’s get some coffee and warm up a minute.’

‘You know an apple gives you the same amount of energy as coffee with less of an impact on blood sugar.’

‘Really?’ Booth asked with complete disinterest.

‘Yes, I’ve been reading about it in the latest –’

‘Well I need coffee,’ Booth interrupted, ‘c’mon, let’s go, Bones.’ He grabbed Brennan’s shoulders and turned her around.

‘I’m not a dog, Booth!’

‘Well, if you can’t have coffee, you might as well be.’ Brennan huffed and walked toward the corner deli. Booth exhaled through his mouth, tipping his head toward the sky as if praying for patience.

Some thirty minutes later, both the Jeffersonian and NYPD teams had assembled at the crime scene. The techs had finished their work; everything was labelled and photographed. Having eaten her apple from the bottom up, Brennan stuck the stem in her pocket before pulling out a new set of gloves and starting to order everyone around.

‘Ensure all data is sent to the Jeffersonian. I will need this body shipped immediately before the decomposition has progressed any further. Please leave me to my work while I examine the skeletal remains.’

Booth smiled awkwardly. ‘Bones,’ he chastised through gritted teeth.

‘What? Clearly our team is superior and this is a federal case. Plus, they were late.’ Brennan turned back to the skeleton inside the container without further comment.

Booth made a loud fake laugh and turned to the NYPD team to introduce himself.

‘Sorry about that.’

‘Don’t apologise for me, Booth,’ came a muffled voice.

‘Agent Seely Booth, FBI. Pleased to meet you all.’

He extended a hand first to Captain Gregson, who muttered, ‘Don’t worry, we have one of those too.’ At regular volume he said, ‘I’m Captain Gregson, this is Detective Bell, and our consultants Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Joan Watson.’ Booth smiled only politely as he shook Gregson’ and Bell’s hands. Joan, who detested the cold as some detest pineapple on pizza, was reluctant to remove her hands from her coat pockets. However, seeing that her partner was already surveying the scene, she offered a hand and some pleasantries to Booth.

‘Your scarf is fantastic,’ Booth told her sincerely, admiring how the fabric seemed to twist around itself and move in the light though she stood still. ‘Where did you get something like that? I’m a bit of a neckwear connoisseur myself,’ he said with a goofily proud smile, reaching for the knot in his colourful tie. Joan smiled more warmly at him.

Sherlock absent-mindedly handed his deli coffee to Joan. ‘I’m not your maid,’ she rolled her eyes at him.

‘Ngh,’ and a head tilt was her only apology. Joan’s expression was unreadable.

‘We’re going to take a look and catch up with you guys later,’ she addressed everyone and no one. Turning toward the public wastebin, she downed both coffees before disposing of the blue cups and followed unhurriedly after Sherlock.

‘Let the squints do their jobs, right?’ Booth asked genially. Tommy and Marcus looked at him with diffused confusion, continuing to sip at their own coffees.

‘Squints?’ Marcus furrowed his brow at Booth.

‘You know, cause they, y’know,’ Booth pantomimed, ‘squint at the evidence,’ he held his hands up like a viewfinder, chuckling at his own joke.

‘Oh, yeah, they uh, they do do that,’ Marcus replied, clearly attempting politeness. Tommy eyed Booth curiously and drained his coffee.

Booth returned Marcus’ disingenuous smile. ‘Great,’ he muttered to himself. Booth threw his own cup away and returned to the NYPD team, stuffing his hands in his pockets and rocking back and forth lightly on his heels.

At the shipping container, Brennan was communing with the bones, making notes in her tape recorder as she prowled around them. ‘Victim appears to be female, postpartum, approximately 40 years of age. Ossification on the left parietal indicates subject survived a head injury some years pre mortem. Posit victim died pre-1945, have Hodgins confirm radioactivity and check for particulates.’

Behind her, someone cleared their throat loudly. Brennan was startled, but hid her reaction save for a short sharp intake of breath. She turned around already saying, ‘Please ensure you do not interact with the skeletal remains, and –’ she was about to ask the person don gloves, but noticed they already had. ‘Oh. Hello, I’m Dr. Temperance Brennan from the Jeffersonian Institution. And you are?’

‘Sherlock Holmes, consultant with the New York Police Department,’ answered a mid-toned voice with an English accent. Brennan knew immediately that the speaker was taught RP, but chose to conform his pronunciation to a more southerly London accent. In short, he resisted sounding too posh. She mentally recorded that data and filed it away, as she did not care. ‘I must say, I’m quite pleased to meet you,’ Sherlock went on, ‘I hear you are the best in your field. You would make a fine addition to my collection of experts.’

Bones made a face. ‘You want to collect me?’

‘Excuse me, I only mean it would be a pleasure to work with you.’

‘Yes, it is. Thank you,’ Brennan accepted the compliment. She muttered to herself and gently chastised, ‘too literal.’

‘I also noticed that you eat your apples from the bottom up.’

‘Of course. It’s by far the least wasteful way to eat an apple.’

‘Indeed. I have been known to do the same. Have you read the latest study on the comparison of apples in the morning –’

‘Instead of coffee?’ Brennan interrupted. ‘Yes, that is precisely what I was explaining to my partner this morning. Have you had your coffee yet?’

‘No, I’m afraid I came in to investigate without finishing my cup.’

Brennan removed her gloves. ‘Luckily, I have an extra apple in my suit. Let’s step outside for some light and as to not contaminate the crime scene.’

‘Indeed,’ Sherlock replied.

They removed their gloves and almost bowled Watson over on their way out of the container. She let out a small hiss and glared at Sherlock.

‘Watson! I was just making the acquaintance of Dr. Temperance Brennan of the Jeffersonian Institution. Would you like to join our debrief in the light? Dr. Brennan, this is my partner, Dr. Joan Watson.’

Brennan’s face relaxed into a genuinely pleased smile. She extended her ungloved hand, ‘Pleased to meet you, Dr. Watson.’

‘Joan, please.’

‘Then you may call me Temperance,’ Brennan said overly graciously, as if she was giving a candy bar to a child.

Watson raised her eyebrows at Sherlock, who smiled a genuine, crooked smile and nodded happily. The group stepped out into the light.

‘Here,’ Brennan reached into a pocket of her suit and proffered the apple to Sherlock. He took the red fruit gratefully, rubbed it twice on his coat, and began to eat it from the bottom.

‘What’re you doing?’ asked Watson.

‘It’s by far the least wasteful way to eat an apple,’ Sherlock and Brennan said in unison. Watson found herself on the receiving end of an open, gracious, four-eyed stare, apparently awaiting a response. She nodded and smiled. She liked Temperance already.

Brennan debriefed Watson and Sherlock about what she had found, and what she needed from her team. She described the facilities at the Jeffersonian, and her colleagues Cam, Angela, and Hodgins. ‘Angela is also my best friend,’ she said with a smile. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to debrief my partner with the pertinent information. It was very nice to meet you both.’

As Brennan was about to walk back toward the group of officers, Sherlock said, ‘You and your partner must come by the brownstone so we can further consult. We have plenty of room to put you up if you’d like to stay in the city?’

‘That would be most amenable, thank you,’ Brennan replied. It wasn’t often she met peers that she liked. ‘Let me speak to Booth about our accommodations and get right back to you.’ She smiled and took her leave. Brennan did not trust many people, but Sherlock and Watson seemed like very interesting company. She no longer regretted the trek to New York.

After some petulant grumbling, Booth had acquiesced to staying at Sherlock and Watson’s brownstone, which they both knew he was going to do anyway. Brennan’s whole attitude had changed toward the city, and Booth could never say no to anything that made her happy, and didn’t break the law. Or didn’t break any important law at least.

They loaded up Booth’s company SUV, and Brennan tattered on about the anthropological sites and sights they passed by as they drove into the boroughs. Booth kept his eye on the taxi in front of them, carrying Joan and Sherlock.

‘Sherlock and Joan are excellent company,’ Brennan observed, ‘I look forward to seeing how they keep their home.’

‘Do you think they’re… y’know?’ Booth insinuated, smiling his mischievous smile and raising his eyebrows suggestively.

‘No, I don’t know,’ Brennan replied, lying and exasperated.

‘You know. Knocking boots?’

Brennan sighed deeply, ‘Just say what you mean, Booth. And no, I don’t think they are having intercourse,’ Booth winced and made a grossed-out sound, ‘but we’re about to find out in ten minutes, so just ask them. Men and women can be friends, you are aware.’

‘That’s what you used to say to me.’

‘Well, circumstances changed between us.

‘Sweets would disagree with you.’ At this point, Booth was just needling her. Brennan scoffed.

‘You know how I feel about psychology, Booth!’ Booth chuckled. Realising she had once again allowed herself to be baited into a pointless argument, Brennan sighed to herself. She looked over at her partner, curling her mouth in a tender way and tilting her head. ‘You did say I was Iceland,’ she assented fondly.

‘Yeah I did,’ Booth replied with a shit-eating grin as they turned into their destination’s neighbourhood.

‘Don’t be so cocky,’ Brennan replied, but smiled back nonetheless. Before Booth could reply, Brennan commenced an informational session about the history of the brownstones and how their development related to society as a whole. Booth thought to himself (wrongly) ‘Won that one!’ and continued to smile as they drove.

Parking in the neighbourhood was murder. Sherlock and Watson hopped out of their taxi, and Booth double-parked to allow Brennan to unload their suitcases. Booth’s dwarfed Brennan’s by at least 50%. She gestured at him to go on, and he circled the block with no luck whatsoever. Watson had given him a parking pass so he could park and leave the car until snow cleaning, but that was of no use when there were no spaces to be had. He sighed and circled the block again.

By the time he found a park four blocks away and walked back to the brownstone, Booth was cold, wet, and cranky. He had received a call from Cam that they had the remains, and was happy to let the Jeffersonian and the NYPD take the relatively straightforward case from here. He and Bones needed a little break. He asked Cam to text Bones with the news, which she begrudgingly agreed to do, calling him ‘Seely’ and abruptly hanging up. Now all he could think about was getting warm.

Joan greeted him at the door of the brownstone, holding a steaming mug of what Booth was disappointed to see was likely tea of some kind. ‘Took you long enough,’ she smiled. ‘Coats here, shoes here, have some of this and meet us in the next room. Since the case is solving itself, we’re doing other experiments.’

‘Other experiments?’

Joan smiled. ‘Yes.’ She walked off toward the sitting room, setting up a footstool for Booth to dry out his feet next to the fire.

The brownstone was unlike any house Booth had ever been in. Long and narrow, with dark wood and old wallpaper. There was at least one staircase, plastered against the left wall directly in front of him in the vestibule. ‘They have a vestibule…’ he thought to himself. To the right, there was a narrow corridor, leading to a series of rooms with open door casements. As he stepped into the sitting room, he could see nearly to the back of the house, as the rooms were connected, or doors left ajar. Books, papers, chemicals, and a tortoise filled the rooms with controlled chaos. Mismatched furniture in old brocade and warm wood was stimulating and inviting. Booth loved the house immediately.

He took a sip of the steaming mug Joan had handed him, and it was tea. His initial reaction was the thought ‘gross,’ but letting the flavours sit on his tongue, he tasted a bitterness and a sharp kick of lemon that was actually quite nice. Joan was now sitting with her feet tucked up on the settee, a cold case open but neglected on her lap, stocking feet sticking out from plaid gaucho pants. She noticed the thoughts that went directly to Booth’s face.

‘You like it?’ she asked, almost teasingly.

‘For tea, it’s not too bad,’ he chuckled.

‘Loose leaf. That’s the key to a really good pot of tea,’ Joan smiled and sipped from her own, hand-thrown mug. Booth went to the fireside and put his colourful socks next to the fire, sitting on the ottoman instead of placing his feet there.

Through the nearest casement, Sherlock and Brennan were in deep conversation about a grate stacked with locks. They muttered and moved them around and back again, pointing at spaces on the grate as if they were playing chess, each occasionally sipping from their own mugs of tea.

‘Great socks,’ Joan commented. ‘Are you a lover of fashion?’

‘Oh…no, I mean, I like clothes. Fun ones. I mean, not… well… But “fashion”?’ he said awkwardly, using too many air quotes, ‘I don’t really know anything about that.’

‘It’s not just for women,’ she side-eyed him. Booth could feel his neck heat at her words, chastised. ‘I love any kind of art, really,’ Watson continued. ‘Let’s go shopping tomorrow morning and let those two do the Vulcan mind meld.’ It wasn’t a question. She smiled at her own joke. ‘We’ve set up the downstairs bedroom for you two. Do you need the air mattress?’

Gazing at the absence of a wedding ring on his own hand, Booth was about to accept the offer. However, Brennan and Sherlock entered the room at that moment. Brennan said politely, ‘Oh no thank you, Joan. We’re not married but we have regular sexual intercourse.’

Booth lifted his hand to his mouth and stage whispered sharply. ‘Bones…’ he turned crimson.

‘What? We have a child, Booth.’

Watson nodded. ‘That’s what we thought. We’ll try to stay out of the downstairs kitchen until an appropriate time in the morning,’ she said, looking directly at Sherlock.

‘If science calls, one must answer, Watson,’ he replied.

‘I agree,’ Brennan smiled broadly.

‘Well, try to answer the call before midnight.’

‘That reminds me,’ Brennan said turning to Booth. ‘We should call Angela and check on Christine.’

Joan untucked her legs. ‘We’ll give you some privacy.’

‘Oh no, Joan, come speak to Christine,’ Brennan said. Watson was about to protest at the seemingly sexist implication that she would want to talk to a baby, but Brennan gestured to Sherlock, ‘And of course, you must come speak to her as well. It is imperative she hears as many vocabulary words and dialects as possible at this stage in her development. But please refrain from speaking “baby talk.” That practice is antiquated and dangerous for her language acquisition.’ Without waiting for a response from either consultant, Brennan removed her tablet from her briefcase and began to dial Angela on video chat. Noticed only by Booth, the colour in Sherlock’ and Watson’s cheeks rose slightly, though neither verbally betrayed their pleasure.

It was Hodgins who answered from D.C. ‘Hey guys,’ he said genially with his usual hint of mischievous curiosity, ‘How’s it goin?’

‘Why aren’t you at the lab?’ Brennan furrowed her brow.

‘Really there’s nothing much to do on the case, so I thought I’d come home and see Christine.’

‘Hey!’ someone called from the background.

‘And of course, my remarkably intelligent and radiantly beautiful wife.’

‘You just dodged that one, mister,’ said Angela, entering the frame with a bundle of swaddle in her arms. ‘Hi, sweetie! Is it cold in New York?’

‘Very,’ Brennan said regretfully. ‘Ange, I’d like you to meet our colleagues from this investigation…’

‘More cops?’ Angela asked, her face pinched into a grimace as she poked her head out to try to see behind Brennan.

Brennan laughed, ‘No, they’re consultants with the NYPD. Very interesting and skilled people, not unlike yourself.’

‘High praise, sweetie,’ Angela said with a hint of sarcasm as Brennan ushered Watson and Sherlock into frame, eking Booth out of it slightly.

‘Don’t insult my wife!’ Hodgins called to Angela from off camera, causing her to break into a genuine, radiant smile.

Sherlock cleared his throat, ‘Pleased to make your acquaintance Mrs…’

‘Miz. It’s Montenegro, but Angela is just fine.’

Sherlock nodded and smiled. Watson waved, ‘Hi, I’m Joan Watson. Is that little Christine you have there?’ Okay so she was incredibly excited to talk to the baby, but that had nothing to do with anything.

Angela laughed like water over bells. ‘Yes, here’s the woman of the hour,’ her voice sweet and adoring. Brennan opened her mouth, but before she could say anything, Angela cooed, ‘That’s not baby talk, Brennan, that’s just being a good auntie.’ Brennan closed her lips into a tight line, and said nothing.

‘Tell her about our day,’ Brennan prompted Watson and Sherlock. They looked at each other a little hesitantly, then Sherlock began to describe the case, Watson interrupted with the morning’s alarm story, and soon they were just chatting. Christine reached toward the camera and Watson’s heart melted a little. Somehow, they got onto the subject of bees, and Hodgins came back into frame, yammering excitedly and at an increasing speed. Angela decided to wrap things up before she needed to slip her husband some valerian tea.

‘Good to see everybody!’

Booth stepped into the screen, saying, ‘Daddy loves you, Christine! Thanks, Ange.’

‘Mm-hmm,’ she answered with pursed lips. Booth was not completely in her good books at the moment. ‘Love you, sweetie. See you soon,’ she said to Brennan and no one else, her smile sunny and warm. Brennan smiled in a small and genuine way.

‘You too. Mommy loves you, Christine. Oh, and Ange don’t forget to –’

The call went dead.

Brennan turned to Booth. ‘Too much?’

Booth hugged her and put a chaste peck to her hair. ‘Nah, just mother’s love.’ Not ones for public displays of affection, they ended the embrace quickly, but a warm comfort emanated from them through the brownstone.

‘Should we order Vietnamese or kebab for dinner?’ asked Watson.

Later in the evening, all four of them were sitting comfortably on the floor in front of the fire, Booth the only one holding a fork. Sherlock and Brennan had set up a makeshift game of senet, the oldest board game known to man, while Booth continued to eat and Watson leafed through fabric swatches. Occasionally, she would hold one up to Booth’s face, tilting her head sometimes but betraying little on her face.

‘It’s hard to say definitively in the firelight, but I think you’re a winter like me. Your undertones are a warm pink though, while mine are more of a cool pink. That’s a shame. I think dusty rose would suit your personality,’ Watson mused.

Brennan laughed from the senet board. ‘Booth has a very rigid idea of masculinity, I’m afraid.’ She looked up into her partner’s face. ‘It is a shame; I do think pink would be nice on you. But Joan is right about your ruddy undertones.’

Booth flushed. ‘Hey, I can wear pink. I’m completely secure in my masculinity. Look how secure.’ Booth grabbed the front of his shirt under the collar and tugged twice, as if to demonstrate the fit of his shirt. Watson kept her mouth still but couldn’t help her eyes from widening and her brows from climbing up her forehead.

‘It’s alright,’ Brennan said as if consoling a child, ‘You have very symmetrical features and your brow ridge is very prominent.’ She patted Booth’s leg affectionately, then turned back to the game.

‘She means you’re handsome and manly,’ Sherlock commented without looking up.

‘Thank you, I know what she means by that,’ Booth said, slightly affronted. Sherlock raised his eyebrows, but stayed focused on the game at hand.

‘What if you stayed an extra night?’ Watson offered. ‘We can do some relaxed shopping, and you two can make up more games. We’ll have an unrushed day and another nice dinner. And maybe even swing by a tailor.’

‘We didn’t make this up, the ancient Egyptians did. But otherwise I agree, You two are very pleasant company and the roads out of the city are quite treacherous at the moment.’ Sherlock finally looked up at Booth to ensure his invitation was understood, then turned back to the game.

‘What do you think, Bones?’

‘Yes, let’s stay another night. I’m sure Angie and Hodgins won’t mind,’ she looked up briefly and smiled at him. ‘And you could use some new clothes. I know how you hate those suits.’

‘You do?’ asked Watson, as if she had just been given a gift.

‘I… well… the Bureau…’

‘Hates them with a passion,’ commented Brennan out the side of her mouth, moving a piece to win the game. ‘Ha HA!’ she delighted.

‘Wait… What…?’ Sherlock looked at the board, bemused. ‘Rematch. Immediately.’

Brenan was vibrating with competitive glee.

‘Yeah, let’s stay,’ said Booth, smiling.

‘Excellent,’ Brennan and Sherlock said in unison. Everyone chuckled.

‘I’ll have to go to a meeting in the morning,’ Sherlock said to Brennan. ‘I’m an addict.’

‘No problem,’ she replied.

‘I’ll, uh… I’ll go with you then,’ said Booth. Brennan smiled at him fondly. She didn’t know how to tell him without embarrassing him, but she was very proud of how he handled his gambling addiction.

‘Right. We should go early then. There’s one at 8:30 about a 15 minute walk from here,’ Sherlock posited.

‘Sounds like a deal. Coffee first, though?’

‘Or apples,’ mused Sherlock. Booth rolled his eyes.

‘Breakfast after,’ Joan agreed. ‘Don’t fill up on donuts, I beg of you.’

Murmurs of agreement echoed through the cozy room. The board now set up, senet recommenced, and a discussion of fabric, then stores, then lunch venues flowed. Before Brennan and Sherlock completed their next match, Booth and Watson retired. She showed him the washroom and gave him clean towels, yawning slightly. ‘See you in the morning,’ she said as she waved him off to bed.

Some time later, Booth woke to Brennan climbing into bed in what must have been Watson’s fuzzy pyjamas. ‘Did you win?’ he asked, voice raspy with sleep.

‘Beat the pants off of that genius,’ she answered proudly.

‘That’s my girl.’

Brennan crawled into Booth’s open arms, snuggling up against him in the slightly chilly basement. She kissed him softly.

‘Goodnight, Booth.’

‘Goodnight, Bones.’

They both smiled, joyful that they got to say this to each other every night. Like every night for the past few months, Brennan ached to tell Booth that she knew about Pelant. That she knew how much he loved her, and how good he was. Their new friends had no idea how long and hard fought their journey was. Booth kissed Brennan’s forehead and they drifted off to sleep.

The house was quiet, though Sherlock stayed up until the fire was cold ensuring he would never lose at senet again.

In the morning, Booth went through his rather large suitcase to find something appropriate both for the meeting and for shopping. He supposed he could change in between, but not only would that prove to himself that he did indeed like fashion, it would also give Watson a chance to tease him mercilessly during their shopping adventures. He sighed, looking at the two halves of his suitcase, one with work clothes and one with play clothes. He supposed that he could invest in more stylish outfits, but he hated to stop using anything before it was worn to shreds. Bones had mentioned to him several times that he could rotate clothes into sleepwear, which is what she did as a militant environmentalist. Maybe after today… It was getting late, so he picked out a pair of jeans that didn’t quite fit perfectly, a blue vest, and an emerald green button-up flannel to throw over it, but leave open. The button-up was casual and warm, and had a delicate orange and gold plaid running through it.

Leaning over the bed, he kissed Bones on her forehead and whispered, ‘See you soon, sleepyhead.’ He exited the room quietly, knowing the time she came to bed last night.

Sherlock was standing in the sitting room staring into the middle distance when Booth arrived upstairs. ‘Shall we?’ Sherlock asked a little too brightly.

‘Let’s shall,’ Booth answered, slipping on his shoes and grabbing his coat. The pair chatted lightly about their experiences with 12-step programmes as they ambled off to the meeting. The sun made an appearance, but in exchange the air was biting, and ice had formed on the pavement. It took them a little longer than expected to reach the church holding the meeting. Slightly late, the two slipped in the back and sat down, Booth sipping coffee and Sherlock eating an apple from the bottom up.

Back at the brownstone, Brennan rose, and finding the house quiet, took a quick shower. She wrapped her hair up in a towel, and changed into a black long sleeved t-shirt and slim-fit jeans. She made the bed, tucked the pillows under the duvet, folded Watson’s generously warm pyjamas, folded the blankets, and stacked everything at the foot of the bed.

Brennan was just searching for an apple in the kitchen when Watson came down the stairs, bleary-eyed and still in her pyjamas. Completely unembarrassed, she waved a sleepy greeting at Brennan before removing the pot from the coffee maker and pouring herself a generous cup, from which she took a long drag. She gestured to a bowl of fruit next to the toaster, having deduced what Brennan was looking for. Under a layer of oranges were two perfect Pink Lady apples. Brennan cleaned one with a dishcloth and sat down across from the rather green doctor.

‘Are you well?’ inquired Brennan.

‘I. Hate. Morning.’ Watson could barely keep her head up, even with it resting in her hand.

‘Would you like to try an apple?’

Watson glared at Brennan with something that could be considered murderous intent.

‘Eh-hum.’ Brennan coughed uncomfortably. She got up and sliced the other apple anyway, lamenting the amount of waste it produced. She stuck the slices in a short cup so they stuck up and out in a pink and cream daisy, and silently placed them in front of Watson.

To her credit, Watson tried one slice of apple, then another, sipping her coffee less angrily in between. Eventually she rose from her seat to mix some vanilla almond milk into her coffee: a special treat she only gave herself on rare occasions. Her mood began to perk up a bit, and she managed a rather quiet, ‘Thank you, Temperance.’

Brennan smiled, her apple having since disappeared, her cheeks flushing pink. ‘I think I’m going to fix us all some breakfast. What do you and Sherlock like?’

When Sherlock and Booth returned, Booth was laughing loudly, while Sherlock was chuckling and nodding his head with a smile. Both discarded their shoes and jackets, lured to the basement by the smells of breakfast. They came upon a peaceful scene, both Brennan and Watson had on headphones, wore matching casual clothes, and were moving silently and harmoniously around each other in the synchronised dance of cooking.

Brennan noticed the arrivals first, tapping Watson’s shoulder politely to alert her. They waved at their partners, and reluctantly removed their headphones.

‘Nearly done,’ Brennan started off.

‘Good meeting?’ Watson asked lightly.

‘Quite.’

‘Great, thanks.’

It was fortunate that Booth and Brennan had decided to stay an extra night, because the breakfast spread laid out on the kitchen table was going to require a nap to digest. A timer dinged, and the final dish came out of the oven. Much to Booth’s dismay, Brennan and Watson kept the tray on top of the oven, picking at one of the pastries before plating them.

‘Exquisite puff pastry, Joan.’

‘Delicious cream cheese filling, Temperance.’ It was vegan cream cheese, but this remained a secret between the cooks. Nobody but cooks know what goes on in the kitchen!

‘Sharing is caring,’ Booth sing-songed.

‘I did warn you,’ Brennan said to Watson, shaking her head like she wished to be wrong. Watson chuckled low in her chest. Booth pouted. Sherlock smirked, bemused.

Chapter Text

Several hours later, Watson and Booth stepped off the train into a row of shops.

‘I think we’ll start here,’ Watson explained, ‘Get an idea of what we’re looking for. Booth gaped at the street with wide eyes, clearly overwhelmed. ‘Don’t worry, Booth. I promise I don’t bite. I only use a nightstick.’ She stuck her arm through his, and gently led him down the street.

‘I always like to do a little window shopping first,’ Joan explained, ‘Then I get a feel of what’s in and out of style, and which stores to hit on the way back. Sound like a plan?’

‘Uh… well, I mean… heh heh…’ Booth muttered uncomfortably.

‘Perfect,’ replied Joan, taking that as assent. ‘Don’t worry, once you’ve seen everything on display, you’ll feel more… at ease.’

‘I doubt that very much,’ Booth muttered loud enough to be heard, but mostly to himself.

The first few shops featured lovely and flowing formal gowns beside highly tailored suit jackets and tuxedo trousers. ‘This could be a good start,’ Joan offered kindly. ‘Skip the trousers, but maybe get yourself a sports coat actually tailored to you. Or two. Or three…’ Noticing Booth’s reluctance, Watson retook the lead and said, ‘Come on, there’s much more to see.’

She pointed out some of the fashion houses; Gucci was making a wide-tailored men’s pant while Prada sported a kilt-trouser hybrid. Watson noticed Booth’s eyebrows raise, in curiosity or fear she wasn’t entirely sure. She decided it was probably both, and dragged him into Saks. ‘This is a great place to see garments from this season, but not this week, if you know what I mean.’

By his face, it was clear that Booth did not.

‘When we stand in front of the Gucci or Prada store, for instance,’ she named the brands to search for Booth’s microexpressions as well as explain the situation, ‘we’re looking at what’s just come off the line. Those garments may just be hitting the runways, and not the magazines yet. But Saks will have ordered their collection over a month ago, so it may be less…’

‘Shocking?’ Booth offered.

Joan forced a humourless laugh. ‘Heh. Less novel, at least. Shocking isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Have you even looked at your own belt buckle?’

Booth looked down at his red ‘Cocky’ belt buckle with a rooster embossed on it. ‘Heh heh!’ he laughed with a goofy smile. ‘That’s pretty clever though, don’t you think?’

Joan smiled without her eyes. ‘Very clever. Very funny.’

Booth wondered melancholically why nobody got his belt buckle. He followed her into Saks and up the escalator into the men’s section. Joan’s eyes widened in approval. ‘Oh this is perfect. Saturated colours are all the rage this season.’ She looked back at Booth with a pleased expression, but he was busy trying not to fall off the end of the escalator. ‘Pray for me,’ the atheist thought to nobody in particular.

Once Booth had dismounted without decapitating himself or any other customers, Joan led him into a section with shirts. ‘Let’s start easy, shall we?’ She was exasperated, but not unkind. It was easier than shopping with Sherlock, at any rate; no cussing or berating her adoration of design. She had given up on that years ago.

‘So we have button-ups, henleys, polos, rugbys, vests, t-shirts… everything you may want, really. And remember we can go back to the avenue anytime if you think of something that suits. I mean matches… Sorry, poor choice of words.’ Booth made a small scowl but said nothing. ‘Shall we start with ruby and work toward neutrals?’

‘How about we start with blue?’

‘Understood. Royal or navy?’ Watson joked. Booth was not amused. ‘Just kidding,’ she muttered sarcastically. Okay, maybe this wasn’t that much better than shopping with Sherlock. She walked them over to the royal blues and started holding up shapes to Booth’s torso.

At the brownstone, things were much more harmonious. Brennan and Sherlock had decided to do a Taekwondo workout to shake off the last of the breakfast sleepies, and were taking turns with the phonograph. While Sherlock favoured opera and Brennan a mix of ‘70’s and riot grrl rock, they were enjoying timing routines to the beats.

‘It’s a shame that not much pre-colonial Aboriginal music has been recorded,’ Brennan commented, throwing a front kick that was easily caught by Sherlock. ‘I think you would enjoy the convergent evolution with American music.’ She volleyed his punches easily, followed by a duck and roll. ‘The American continents I mean.’

‘We could try recreations of Gregorian chanting next if you like,’ Sherlock replied, almost losing his balance on a high roundhouse easily avoided by Brennan.

‘Oh yes, that sounds very educational!’ she agreed, grabbing at his one standing shin and pulling him down to the floor, causing him to tuck and protect his head. ‘Third spar to me,’ she commented offhandedly.

‘Well done.’ They shook hands and changed the record to Gregorian chants.

‘Excellent idea,’ nodded Brennan. ‘Cha-RYEOT!’ They returned to their preferred starting stances.

Meanwhile, Booth’s eyes had started to become weary and his mind bleary with all the choices Watson was presenting to him. Mid ramble about the various combinations of compliments and clashes that would go with Booth’s undertones, she noticed his eyes glaze over and a queasy look spread across his face. She set down some deliciously clashing patterns on the rack next to them.

‘Should we grab something to eat?’ Watson asked.

‘Some coffee might be nice…’ replied Booth, his eyes floating around, trying to find a place to look away from the fluorescents.

It wasn’t until they had exited the shop that Booth realised he had been carrying his coat for over an hour. The shock of cold was soothing to his chest, and he slipped the coat on. His arm was sore, and he thought about how he really was getting older.

‘This way,’ Watson interrupted his melancholy reverie. She walked brusquely down two blocks, then took a sharp turn off a side street, dragging Booth into a diner as the sky grew pink above them. The bell on the door rang as they entered, and Booth’s haptics slowed. At least there was a diner in this overwhelming city.

Watson had been right; he did need food. The diner was familiar and comforting. Worn red pleather seating, accented by yellow and blue neon lighting that looked older than he was, and dull tungsten lighting above each table, covered with shades that looked grey, but could have been green. Instinctively, they walked together to the furthest booth from the entrance, with a good view of the door and a fake wood panelled wall behind it. Booth slid into the bench with the wall directly to his back, and Watson settled in across from him. It was very warm, steam and grease flying up behind the counter. And it smelled like heaven. In passing, Booth sent up a prayer to St. Jude that heaven had diners too, though he somehow doubted it.

They ordered coffee and some burgers with fries, Joan opting for the vegetarian patty. ‘I’m not sure about this Beyond Burger stuff,’ Booth commented. ‘I mean why not just eat meat?’

Joan wrinkled her nose, ‘Honestly, I sort of agree with you there. I prefer those bean patties they used to make by hand.’ She called over their waiter and changed her order to a cheeseburger.

‘Ye-heah,’ Booth smiled approvingly. ‘I mean, if Bones isn’t here, there’s no one to offend.’ He laughed fondly at his partner’s militant vegetarianism, extending to her jewellery and makeup. However, his persistent melancholy crept up again as he remembered Bones proposing to him with a bag of jerky.

They sat in silence for some long moments; Joan watched everything outside on the street and inside the diner by switching her focus from the window’s reflection to the icy pavement and back. She remained still, comfortable to say nothing unless it improved the silence. Booth, however, tried to stay present, but wound up resting his eyes on his coffee cup, staring into the middle distance.

Seeing this in the window reflection, Watson inquired what had been on his mind. ‘I would be worried it was the shopping, but I think you’ve had something on your chest the whole time you've been here. Is Temperance well?’

Booth smiled ruefully, ‘Oh, Bones is fine.’

Watson stared at him for a moment, generally inclined to deduce rather than prod. But Booth was a stand-up guy, and the group of them had started to become friends. It was difficult to meet people that wished to spend time with her and Sherlock. And even more difficult for her to find people she could tolerate.

She cleared her throat. ‘That sounds like a lie, Booth.’ Watson sipped from her coffee and took in his nonverbal response. He squirmed a little, trying to control his facial muscles.

‘Listen, I mean… it’s like… I mean, Bones is… She’s good. She’s not sick or anything. It’s… I mean…’ his words dropped off, and he scanned all the reflective surfaces to see who was around and what they were doing. ‘It’s… I can’t.’ He finished, puckering his mouth to the side and shaking his head. Visions of Pelant murdering innocent people cascaded behind his eyes.

‘Okay,’ nodded Watson. She was no stranger herself to things that mustn’t be spoken aloud. She looked into Booth’s eyes purposefully, like she did sometimes with Sherlock when he was bent on keeping something from her. ‘You’ll figure it out. I can tell.’ Mercifully, Booth didn’t hit her with arguments of how could she know, what if he couldn’t blah blah blah, as Sherlock might. He would, she could tell.

Booth pressed his lips into a thin line and nodded. ‘Thanks, Joan,’ he croaked, using her first name for the first time.

She made a singular very small nod. As their plates were deposited around them, she smiled at the waiter politely, then turned back to Booth.

‘I think I have a better idea about the last shop we should hit,’ Watson said after munching down a fry. Booth leaned back, already making a groaning noise before hitting his head on the plastic panelling and cursing.

‘No more, please,’ he begged with a mouth full of burger.

‘Really, it’ll be our last stop, and I think I’ve finally figured you out.’ Joan smiled confidently and took a very large bite of her cheeseburger. ‘Mmphf,’ she muttered appreciatively.

Booth closed his eyes and resigned himself to his fate.

Brennan and Sherlock were searching the takeout menus, looking for a vegan place. Though Brennan was vegetarian, she loved the vegan options in larger cities.

‘So we have Indian of course, Chinese, burgers…’ Brennan’s eyes lit up.

‘Is that authentic Himalayan?’ She turned to make direct eye contact, imploring.

‘Oh yes, but it’s not vegan, it’s vegetarian.’

Brennan kept looking at Sherlock, who looked at her, looking at him, looking at her.

‘Himalayan it is, then,’ Sherlock agreed.

‘Wonderful,’ Brennan replied. Inside, she was dancing.

After their many hours of sparring, the pair ordered a large amount of food, both vegetarian and vegan, clearing out the table in the antechamber of the sitting room to spread out their bounty. Sherlock ran downstairs to grab bowls, plates, and cutlery, while Brennan continued to clear the table. She assessed Sherlock’s method of filing books, catching on quickly, especially after their discussion about locks yesterday. She filed the books away one at a time until she came to the last one in the stack, The Highlights Book of How. She bounced, eyes bulging out of her head in delight. Reverently, she laid her hands on the book and flicked through it without bending the spine.

‘Everything alright?’ asked Sherlock, rounding the casement with piles of dishes and utensils.

‘Yes. Very much so,’ Brennan laughed gleefully.

Seeing the book in Brennan’s hands, Sherlock set down his load and bashfully started to reach out for the volume. ‘Oh, I… erm… that’s only a silly children’s book.’

‘I know!’ Brennan exclaimed with enthusiasm, her face open and smiling. Sherlock tilted his head, trying to assess her reaction. ‘When I was a child, the library would always have the latest issue of Highlights. I solved all the puzzles in my head of course,’ Brennan assured him, ‘so the other children would have a chance for educational and imaginative play.’

Brennan seemed to wait for Sherlock’s response. ‘Right,’ he said, nodding, though he didn’t understand.

‘I grew up in the foster system, so I only got to go to the library when I was in a group home,’ she stated, as if this answered any and all questions. With her smile broadening across her face, she asked, ‘Do you think we’ll have time for some experiments after dinner? I wouldn’t want to make Joan uncomfortable. The smells can be quite…’

‘Acerbic, yes,’ Sherlock completed. ‘And Booth?’

‘He’ll live,’ she shrugged. Sherlock smiled, and felt his posture soften.

By the time their takeout had arrived, Brennan and Sherlock had read the entire volume and chosen a few experiments to conduct after dinner. Gathering bits and bobs from around the house so as to be ready, they both moved quickly, happily trading light conversation about practical and theoretical science as they crossed paths.

They tucked into their dinner, Brennan’s eyes rolling back in pleasure. ‘This is far superior to the Himalayan food in D.C.’

‘It’s an excellent restaurant, and I’m fortunate to know the couple who owns it,’ Sherlock replied mid-mouthful. ‘They emigrated here 20 years ago, and I try to patronise their restaurant at least once a month. I have been a bit behind I’m afraid. It’s fortunate we ordered so much.’

‘Yeah it is,’ Brennan replied in a perfect parrot of Angela’s phrase. Sherlock smiled widely and suppressed a bemused chuckle. Their conversation drifted back to the sciences as they devoured their supper.

After downing three cups of coffee, Booth was being led forcefully back toward where he and Watson had begun their day. She led him to a shop window and pointed to a baggy grey jumpsuit with one low-slung strap connecting the loose lapel and the trouser pocket, crossing the garment from right to left. The grey colour was warm, with undertones of taupe rather than blue. Booth was reminded briefly of the washed-out lampshades in the diner.

‘This is where we’ll start.’

‘Start? It’s basically dark.’

‘It’s 5pm. We have at least four hours before anything closes.’ Watson looks up at Booth with a smirk, and unlinks their arms. ‘Nice try though.’

Booth followed her into the shop like a prisoner behind a guard.

Watson had been right, though. This shop was much more his speed. A ‘boutique,’ as she called it, the shop had several designers of small name and large talent. The lights were stylised like Edison bulbs, and swung low on industrial cables from the bare wood ceiling. The floor, a scraped varnished oak, yellowed with age except for patches that had been trodden bare by hundreds of shoes. The building was narrow but deep, more like the brownstone than Saks. Booth took a deep breath of relief and let it out silently.

Okay, this he could do.

Watson led him to the different sizes of the suit in the window, and selected one.

‘I’ll never be able to wear that. The FBI has such a strict dress code.’

‘Hmm, maybe with an undershirt. But we can’t live only for our work,’ Watson affixed him with a stern stare. ‘I worry you and your partner may do that a little too much.’

‘Pfft,’ Booth swiped away her comment with a disingenuous laugh. ‘like you’re one to talk.’

Pensively, Watson replied, ‘it’s true that Sherlock and I breathe with the thrum of the city. Murders especially. But yes, conspiracies, mysteries... Sherlock more than me, and well… we discuss it.’ Watson was very protective of her partner, and knew why his brain needed to be kept busy at all times, even if it sometimes made her want to strangle him. Then, she gestured to her stunning outfit, ‘but I crave art. Fashion, museums, things that surprise me. Things that remind me there is more to this world than what we see every day on the surface.’ She quietened down, feeling she may have grown boisterous in her passion for beauty.

But Booth understood. He saw how Watson’s ensemble was carefully arranged, from the floppy wool hat that emphasised her long hair, to the iridescent scarf that clashed with her wide, checked trousers.

He nodded. ‘Okay. Let’s do this.’ Somehow having just met Watson, Booth could show this part of himself with less fear. In the back of his mind, the shouts of his father rang a distant chime. Rather than pushing them down, he let the buzz of fear fill his ears for a moment, and grounded himself on the texture of the wool. It was soft and pliant, and he revelled in the novel feel between his fingers.

‘Do you want to try it on?’

‘Yeah, I do, actually.’

They wandered to the back of the store and then right, where cream coloured curtains hung on black steel piping, forming changing rooms.

‘Oh,’ Joan remembered, ‘do you want me to grab a shirt to put underneath?’

Booth hesitated. ‘Let me… try it as it was designed first.’ A pink flush came up to his ears. Joan simply smiled and nodded, hoisting one of her knees on a folding chair and remaining standing on her other foot. She gestured for him to go ahead.

Inside the curtained room, Booth gingerly lifted the garment over his hips and up onto his shoulders. His mostly hairless chest peeked out from the deep V of the lapels. Yeah, he could definitely never ever wear this to the office, no matter what was underneath it. But he could take Bones out in it. He wondered why he always insisted on renting tuxedos when they were hardly differed from his detested mandatory officewear. He looked… beautiful, and manly. He straightened his posture and opened the curtain to show Joan.

‘What do you –’

Joan’s mouth had dropped open ever so slightly. ‘I love it. This is perfect on you.’

‘You don’t think it’s too…’

Watson waited. She had no desire to supply an adjective for Booth.

‘Too…’ Seeley gestured at himself.

Watson didn’t move her face an inch. Oh, Booth didn’t know her that well yet if he thought she would just cave because of an awkward silence, she thought.

‘Too girly?’ Booth asked in a small voice.

‘What about it is girly?’ she asked plainly. ‘Do you want it to be girly?’

‘No, oh my god, no I want to be…’ he flexed his arms like an orangutan to emphasise his point.

‘You want to be a gorilla.’ It wasn’t a question, and it lacked any humour. Watson really had no time for toxic masculinity.

Booth deflated, turning his head to the ground like a toddler.

‘Turn around and look at yourself in the damn mirror,’ Watson instructed flatly. Booth did as he was told. ‘Stand up straight, you’re not in kindergarten.’ He stood up. ‘Do you like the way you look?’

‘Yes,’ said Booth in a rather small voice.

‘And what else matters about your outfit?’

‘Nothing,’ Booth felt chastised, and answered almost in a whisper.

‘Great. Get changed so we can look at other stuff.’ Watson flipped her phone open and tried not to smile. This man was ridiculous.

After Booth had changed, and they dropped the jumpsuit and their coats at the register, he seemed to regain his footing. Watson dropped her reprimanding tone, and instead walked around the shop, praising pieces with open admiration. Booth had never been the ‘museum type’ as he would say, but the textures and patterns and shapes lit up his brain. Everything in the shop was quirky and different to what was next on the hanger. His enthusiasm built to match Watson’s, and soon they were scurrying back and forth between the changing rooms and the racks. Booth held each garment reverently, like he was holding a statue or a painting. Watson smiled approvingly.

The trying on, Booth was realising, was both the best and the worst part of shopping. Sometimes a trouser he loved the pattern on hung strangely on his hips. Sometimes a colour he disliked turned out to be glowing against his skin. He noticed that he quite enjoyed showing off his clavicles. He hadn’t kept himself in shape all these years for nothing.

Watson had handed him a silken blue blouse that ruffled like an old cravat and buttoned up the front and back. The feeling of it in Seeley’s hands was delicious. He ran his hands along the ruffles, and felt like his fingers were on fire.

‘Isn’t this a women’s blouse?’ he asked Watson.

Watson’s face dropped. ‘Is the blouse a he, she, or an it?’

Booth thinned his lips awkwardly and stepped back behind the changing curtain.

‘Right,’ Watson said, mostly to herself, and smiled.

Booth reemerged from behind the curtain, the royal sapphire colour blazing around his chest. ‘Hmmmmm,’ Watson handed him a wide black trouser with three white stripes at the waist and three over the left knee. ‘Try that.’

In the cubicle, Booth pulled on the trousers and gaped. He looked like he was in Paris in the 1930’s. He unbuttoned the top two buttons on the front of the blouse, and stepped back out to Watson.

‘Oh, that’s more like it.’ She strode toward him and unbuttoned one more button on the blouse. ‘Perfect.’ She looked very satisfied with herself. Booth turned back to the mirror and gaped. The uniformity of the top perfectly complimented the asymmetrical design of the trousers.

‘Try a half tuck in front?’ Watson suggested.

‘Right side or left?’

‘Over the knee stripes – no, no, sorry. Over the other side.’ He quickly pulled out the tucked side and switched it to the other. Watson let him take in his own reflection, nodding proudly. ‘I think we should quit while we’re ahead,’ checking her watch, ‘and make sure our partners didn’t blow anything up.’

Booth laughed loosely, feeling free, and like his body was lighter and younger. ‘Yeah that’s a good idea.’ He turned back around to her. ‘Thank you,’ he said, sincerely.

‘Pleasure!’ she smiled.

He laughed again. ‘No, it wasn’t.’ Booth leaned in and hugged her in his new favourite outfit. Watson was startled; she didn’t love being touched by people she hardly knew, but she appreciated his warmth and gratitude. She eventually brought her arms around him and gently patted his back.

‘Always great to meet another fashionista,’ she said, much more genuinely.

Booth had insisted on wearing the all-white ensemble home, even though Watson warned him about the dangers of wearing white on transit. He didn’t care. As the subway dipped under and over street level, he imagined himself as a drifting snow cloud. His insides felt tingly; slightly nervous, and quite proud. He tried not to blush too much when people looked at his bared clavicles under his satin shirt and matte sports jacket. His trousers bore a shiny white-on-white pattern of outlined diamonds down the side, matching the clashing textures of the top of his outfit. They swooped out in a bootcut, and his black leather boots with a little bit of heel shone beneath them. He did stay standing the whole ride, wanting to present his outfit to Bones in its intended state. Stimulated from a day full of art, Watson actually carried on the conversation about more textile arts Booth might appreciate, and where he might find some back in D.C.

The walk from the subway station to the brownstone was windy, but the pair leaned into it and laughed until they reached the door. Watson unlocked it and announced their arrival, only to be met with complete silence. Ah shit, she thought. They were too late. A positively cantankerous smell wafted to the door, and she hung up her coat and kicked off her shoes, walking into the sitting room as Booth followed suit. His ‘fun socks’ were a delightful and silly addition to his fabulous new outfit. He scuffed after Watson in his stocking feet, only to be startled by the scene through the casement.

Dinner dishes stacked in a pile on the floor, Brennan and Sherlock were stood at the anteroom table wearing protective eye- and earwear. Beakers were strewn across the table along with pipettes, a plant, some lightbulbs, and what looked like a children’s book? Several of the beakers were bubbling over with what looked like dry ice, while others held liquids of various shades. Testing strips stuck out willy-nilly, and the two signed to each other in what Booth assumed was ASL (in fact, they were practising their French sign language), working in tandem on something that involved plant leaves and yet another beaker. Wide eyed, Booth turned to Watson. She was rolling her eyes and marching off to the corner of the sitting room, where she picked up an air horn and blasted it at the experimenters. Booth jumped, while Brennan and Sherlock looked up quietly, continuing to sign to one another and making strange facial expressions.

With glass tongs, Brennan moved the leaf into an empty beaker, and both removed their ear protectors.

‘What in the hell are you two doing?’ Watson asked.

‘You have your distractions,’ Sherlock said simply, gesturing between her and Booth, ‘we have ours.’

‘Is Clyde alive?’

‘Alive and well, as it happens.’

‘I don’t understand,’ said Brennan.

Watson sighed deeply, suddenly weary. Booth looked toward Brennan, who was eyeing him scrupulously.

‘Do… you like it?’ he asked shyly, raising his arms to show off his outfit.

‘Turn around?’ Booth did a little twirl, smoothing the jacket down his sides.

‘Are you going to wear this to the FBI?’

‘Maybe with a different shirt…’ he gestured to the flouncy top hem of his satin blouse.

‘Are you going to take me dancing?’

‘What?’

‘Booth,’ Brennan said, rather put upon, ‘you know I love dancing. Where are you going to wear this if we can’t go out?’ She was still wearing her goggles. God, he loved her.

‘I’ll wear it anywhere you want.’

‘At the moment,’ Brennan removed her gloves and goggles and sidled up toward him, ‘I’d like to take this off you.’ She placed a hand on the middle of his chest and gave him her mischievous half-smile. ‘Now, please.’ She bit her lip, close enough that only he could see.

‘Uhhhhh, sorry guys, we gotta go,’ said Booth with a half shrug, as if to give an apology he didn’t mean. Brennan practically dragged him down the stairs, laughing as she went.

Sherlock smiled and bounced on his heels. Watson tried in vain not to smirk.

She turned back to Sherlock. ‘I’m going to bed. Clean this,’ gesturing to everything, ‘before I wake up. Please.’

‘Right,’ Sherlock responded, sucking air between his teeth and continuing to sway cheerily. He decided the dishes would have to wait till morning.

The next morning the group exchanged numbers and said their goodbyes. Booth and Brennan were teary, and all were affectionate in their own ways. Quick tales of the trip and gratitudes were passed amongst them. Promises to visit again or come to D.C. were exchanged in earnest.

Booth pulled the SUV around and held out the parking pass to Watson.

‘You know, we don’t have a car, so you should keep it. Then you’ll feel too guilty not to come see us again,’ she smiled.

‘And do some more shopping, heeeeeyyyy,’ replied a delighted Booth. His toothy grin was goofy and broad.

Brennan surprised everyone by being the one to pull them into a group hug. ‘Thank you so much. Please don’t be strangers.’ She waved at them as she and Booth exited the brownstone.

Watson and Sherlock watched the black SUV disappear.

‘A case?’ she asked Sherlock.

‘I have some cold cases tucked away. What about some breakfast first?’

‘Diner. On you.’

‘Yes, alright. All that American grease.’ Sherlock wrinkled his nose, but Watson knew he was putting on airs.

As she was changing to go out, she sent Booth a link to Chanel’s latest runway show, with the caption: Mermaids. Still in or passe? :)

Late in the afternoon, Booth responded with a screenshot from the show of a man in a seethrough iridescent shirt, with eight black chains linked across his body, the top at his shoulders and the bottom at his shins. The caption read: Passe. But would still wear :)

Watson smiled.