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It was evening in the brownstone, dark outside, and Watson had only Clyde for company. Holmes was out of town for a few days, working on a case for a client, and Watson was at home working on another. She was sitting at the table in the kitchen, her laptop open in front of her and paperwork spread out on the table. Her suit jacket was on the back of her chair and she was wearing its vest and pants, but no shirt, leaving her arms bare.
Watson heard a knock on the front door. She wasn't expecting anyone, and went to see who it was. When she saw, she muttered a curse under her breath as she opened the door, revealing Moriarty standing there.
Moriarty was wearing Tight black leather pants? Watson thought to herself. Really? Is she deliberately aiming at the bad girl stereotype? but what drew Watson's attention most was Moriarty's blouse. Though clearly once expensive and made of burgundy silk, it was now ruined beyond salvage, soaked as it was by blood from a wound in Moriarty's side, to which Moriarty was pressing what might once have been a scarf.
"A disagreement with a business associate," the blonde told Watson, seeing where the brunette was looking. "I need it patching up and I thought of you., as I was in the area."
Watson frowned "You are a bad person and I'd be doing the world a favour if I let you bleed out," she told Moriarty. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't."
"Because I may be a bad person, but you aren't," was the reply. "You may no longer be a practicing physician, but you still have the same moral code that you had when you were. You won't hurt me unless I threaten you or someone you care about." Moriarty paused. "And you owe me."
"Owe you?"
"I killed Elena March for you," was Moriarty's reply.
"I didn't ask you to kill someone for me! I didn't want you to kill someone for me!"
"If I hadn't had her killed, March would never have let matters rest and she would have continued attempting to kill you."
Watson knew that was true and, despite her protests, she knew, as she had admitted to Holmes, March's death hadn't bothered her that much.
"I could still call the police, and an ambulance; you will get treated in police custody as easily as you would here." Watson paused. "Better, in fact, because I have limited medical supplies. That way, I still help you and remove you as a threat to others."
"I yield myself to your ministrations, and will go along with whatever you decide," was Moriarty's reply. "But you know that, even if you call the police, I will get free again, and even locked up I still have great reach."
Watson sighed to herself. She knew the last was true, and that the only real way of Watson stopping Moriarty herself would be to let her die. And the other woman was right; Watson couldn't so that.
She sighed again, this time audibly. "Come in and I will treat your wound," she told the blonde. "Make your way to the kitchen. I'm sure you know the way," Watson finished, somewhat snidely, which Moriarty just smirked at.
Once in the kitchen, Watson told Moriarty to sit in one of the chairs, then went to get her medical equipment. "I'm going to have to cut your blouse off you," she told the other woman.
"Go ahead," Moriarty replied. "It's quite ruined by now anyway. Blood is so hard to get out of silk. Even without the hole in the fabric."
Watson took out some scissors and used them to carefully cut Moriarty's blouse from her, then peeled the fabric away, taking extra care where it was sticking to the skin around the wound. This revealed that underneath it Moriarty was wearing a surprisingly lacy and sexy black silk bra. "Keep the pressure on the wound for now," she told Moriarty.
"A girl likes nice things," Moriarty said at Watson's look. Watson caught herself wondering if Moriarty's panties matched, then shook her head, surprised at what she was thinking, then started clearing her work from the table. She then went and got a sheet, laying it on the table.
"I'll need you to lie down on the table," she told Moriarty, "so I can work on the wound." She helped the other woman climb onto the table and lie down, put on some sterile gloves then moved Moriarty's hand from the wound.
"Hmm," Watson said as she examined it. "Knife?"
"Yes."
"It's not as bad as it looks. No major blood vessels were nicked. I'm going to clean this, stitch it up and then dress it."
Watson wiped away the blood then took a bottle from her kit and poured it over the wound.
Moriarty hissed at the pain. "You could have said that would hurt."
"Oh, I'm sorry. Did I forget?" Watson asked with rank insincerity. Moriarty grimaced rather than smirked.
"I only have some topical anaesthetic," Watson said, "but it's better than nothing." She started to work on the wound with her equipment. Through it, Moriarty remained stoic.
Watson bent down to get something from the medical kit, and as she stood back up, she caught Moriarty staring at Watson's butt, where the fabric of the pants had drawn tight over it as she had bent over.
"Were you checking out my ass?" Watson demanded of Moriarty, shocked. Well, she thought she was shocked. She should be shocked. Yes, she was definitely shocked.
"Yes," came the unashamed response. "Why did you think I painted your portrait?" Moriarty asked. "I am not merely interested in Sherlock."
Watson flushed and started dressing Moriarty's wound. She was suddenly aware that, apart from a bra that drew attention to Moriarty's breasts rather than concealed them, the other woman was naked from the waist upwards, and that her tight leather pants were clinging to her curves.
Moriarty smirked as if she knew full well what Watson was looking at. Given the blonde's own intellectual and observational skills, she probably did.
"I've stitched and dressed the wound," Watson told Moriarty, "but it will need keeping clean and the dressing changing regularly. I assume you have your own doctors?" Moriarty nodded. "Makes me feel special, you coming here then," Watson finished, a little sarcastically.
"You are special, Joan," Moriarty said with seemingly complete sincerity. Watson ignored this, helping Moriarty to a sitting position on the table. Watson's vest had a deeper V at the front than most of them did, plunging down to her cleavage, something she was suddenly quite aware of when she noticed where Moriarty's own eyes were looking. She flushed, the exposed skin making that quite obvious. Moriarty gave Watson her trademark smirk.
"You look good when you blush," Moriarty told her. Moriarty reached out towards Watson's cheek, but the other caught the blonde's hand before it could touch her face. Yet Watson still felt a thrill at the contact, and realised she had felt the same thrill touching Moriarty's skin as she worked on her.
"I don't..." Watson started, but trailed off.
"Don't what?"
"I mean..." Watson felt unable to get her feelings into words. Not coherent ones anyway. She was feeling very flushed and hot at the proximity of the other woman. An effect Moriarty could clearly sense, and was enjoying. Watson dropped her hand from Moriarty's, and the other woman cupped Watson's cheek with it, causing a shiver to run through her.
"You... you need to rest. To... to take it easy... with that wound," Watson stammered out. She found her face was now very close to Moriarty's, as if the other had pulled Watson's head towards her own, but all she had done was rest her hand on Watson's cheek. Moriarty was now close enough that Watson could easily kiss her lips if she wanted to.
"We can take it easy," Moriarty said quietly, her breath light on Watson's mouth.
"But..." Watson tried one last protest, before her own hands seemed to rise of their own accord to hold Moriarty's body. Moriarty closed the last inch between their mouths and kissed Watson, much more softly than she would have expected someone like Moriarty to do.
Watson woke slowly, the cool air of the brownstone prickling her exposed skin. She was alone in her bed, but an experienced eye, such as Watson's own, could tell that this hadn't always been the case.
She noticed two pieces of paper on the chair next to her bed. Watson picked up the first. It was a beautiful charcoal sketch of Watson herself, a full-length portrait. It showed her sprawled across the bed, partly tangled in the sheets, hair tousled on the pillow, naked and asleep. She flushed at how revealing the drawing was, but put the drawing, which was signed with the letter "M", carefully back on the chair. It did, after all, make her look very sexy.
The second piece of paper had been folded in three, with "Joan Watson" written in what Watson easily recognised as Moriarty's hand, written on the outside. She unfurled the paper.
"My dearest Joan," the letter began. "I wish to thank you for the assistance you gave me last night. Your bedside manner - " Watson could picture a smirk on Moriarty's face as she wrote " - truly stands out and you went above and beyond in the care a physician provides for her patient." Yes, the woman would definitely have been smirking, damn her! "I hope we can do this again some time, when I am not freshly injured and we don't have to take things quite as easy. With Love, M".
Watson placed the letter on top of the sketch. She wasn't sure what to think about what had happened the previous night. And well into the morning for that matter. Moriarty was still Moriarty, and no better a person than she had been previously, but the woman - Watson felt a pleasurable tingle - did have... talents.
Watson burrowed back into the bedding, which bore the comingled scents of her and Moriarty; Moriarty's taste still lingering on her tongue. For now, she would go back to sleep, as she felt enjoyably tired, and just take pleasure in the memories. What to do about Moriarty and what had happened between them in the long run?
Well, that was a problem for another day.