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Eventually, Sherlock began to consider what she would have done differently one week ago had she fully understood her flatmate’s reckless nature. Normally she didn’t allow use of brain power on such useless musings. Considerations of the past with no lesson to learn were typically worthless considerations indeed, but now… memories were all she had left. She would preferably drown herself in the past than be forced to endure the reality of the present.
If she had to choose a place to start, it might as well be Sunday morning. Joanna padded down the stairs later than usual, with her hair at odd angles and still wearing a sleepy expression. She’d said good morning to Sherlock, who had at the time ignored her in favor of the forensics journal that she had received the night before but had no mood to read until then.
In her do-over, Sherlock never ignores her again.
Instead she rises, throws the journal somewhere on the floor and crosses into the kitchen. “Good morning. Tea?” she replies, sitting down at the table without ever taking her eyes from the petite blonde’s form.
“Since you asked so nicely,” Joanna responds with a little amused smile, and pulls two mugs from the cabinet. They sit and have tea and chat about nothing important, and yet it feels to be the most wonderful conversation Sherlock has ever had. This first change is subtle, but Sherlock would imagine in time travel that even the most basic changes could have important consequences.
The next alteration would come that afternoon, after Joanna takes her shower and comes down the stairs with damp hair smelling of flowery shampoo. The do-over Joanna is in a slightly better mood thanks to their morning conversation, and she plops down on the sofa, next to Sherlock this time, instead of her chair.
“You haven’t left the flat in 6 days,” Joanna notes, priming herself for an argument which the first time around she had promptly received. This time, Sherlock nods.
“Your observation skills better by the day,” the detective quips, but before Joanna can begin to feel defensive she adds, “What do you propose?”
Joanna looks at her with slight surprise, perhaps even a smidge of suspicion. Of course she would, she doesn’t see Sherlock’s motives behind this out-of-character compliance. But thankfully, she doesn’t voice her concerns.
“Well, it’s nice out for once. We could go for a walk,” she offers, but Sherlock is already slumping further into the couch and suppressing an eye roll. She presses her feet into the side of Joanna’s thigh, and Jo looks at her with a thin-lipped expression Sherlock was never able to quite discern the meaning of. She wears (wore) it when it seems as if she will get angry, but never does. Sherlock wants to ask now, but do-over Joanna won’t be able to answer. She won’t know either, and so Sherlock does not ask.
Instead she questions, “And what, pray tell, is the point of a walk if we have no relevant destination?” She sees Joanna bite back a laugh at her that makes the corners of her own mouth twitch, but then a pain in her chest stops it from reaching fruition.
“To appreciate the day,” Joanna tries half-heartedly, because she knows she’ll always lose this discussion no matter what argument she gives. But today Sherlock pulls her feet away from Joanna’s leg and rises. She still has not checked her website nor read the texts on her phone.
“If only to cease your nagging… and prevent you from going by yourself and coming back with another kleptomaniac’s number,” she decides, casting Joanna a knowing look over her shoulder as she moves towards her bedroom to dress.
“You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?” Joanna asks from the couch in amusement. Sherlock freezes, her hand on the knob to her door with a momentary flicker of pain in her expression. No, she supposes. She never will.
After they begin their walk to nowhere, Joanna starts asking questions. She wants to know if the two sitting on the bench are together (they are, but one is married and the other has a strict family that frowns on interracial relationships) and all about the man in the top hat sporting a diamond-headed cane. She asks about the journal Sherlock had been reading that morning and even the experiment on their kitchen table. Sherlock thinks Joanna is mostly attempting to make the walk worthwhile by giving Sherlock an abundance of opportunities to show off, but to her credit Sherlock takes them. It doesn’t take too long until she is brought out of her slightly pouty attitude, and Joanna is laughing while Sherlock is prideful in her well-received humor.
It is going so well that Sherlock decides to take a liberty. As the two of them turn to head down another path, she reaches out for Joanna and hooks their arms together, pulling Jo as close as she can to her while still allowing them to walk comfortably. Joanna looks fairly surprised, but she seems to allow it. Unfortunately, not passively.
“Everything alright?” Joanna asks, eyebrows furrowing with concern. Sherlock reaches out with her free hand to poke the space between them, and instantly her expression relaxes some, much to Sherlock’s amusement. “You’re acting sort of weird today.”
Sherlock hums noncommittally. “Am I?” she responds, her tone light as if she were only half paying attention. “I didn’t think my good moods were quite that rare.”
“That’s now what I meant.” The smaller woman is watching Sherlock now as if searching for vital clues to a pressing, international concern. Sherlock likes it when Joanna is focused on her in such a way, even if she wishes the topic itself be dropped. “Why did you come with me today?” Joanna continues, and Sherlock has to smother brief flickers of panic. If Joanna discovers the truth, everything will end.
Luckily, she recovers quickly, and makes the decision to go out on a limb. “I wished to spend time with you. That’s all,” she answers honestly, looking down to see Joanna’s reaction. Much to her satisfaction, the blonde’s cheeks color slightly, though she still looks disbelieving. “Honestly. There was no ulterior motive here,” she promises with amusement, and it seems to be enough for her friend.
Joanna smiles slightly. “Alright then. Not quite sure where it’s coming from, but I’ll take it,” she responds happily, and Sherlock feels her arm curl a little tighter around her own.
********
Sherlock is lying on the couch with her head in Joanna’s lap while Joanna pets her hair, easing the tension in her brain with gentle nails against her scalp. She opens her eyes at Joanna’s declaration, pouting up at her for bringing it up. She’d been hoping Joanna wouldn’t notice, but of course she would.
“And? Am I obligated to be tethered to technology constantly?” Sherlock retorts. Joanna hasn’t stopped the petting yet, so if she treads carefully Sherlock still thinks she can salvage this moment.
“No…” Joanna answers slowly, “But you usually choose to be. Especially if you haven’t had a case in a while.”
Sherlock rolls her eyes, though she’s starting to panic a bit. “I’ve simply been occupying my mind with other interests. I have no need to take a case if I am not bored,” she points out, and with a tilt of her head Joanna concedes. Sherlock closes her eyes again and allows herself to sink back into the calming rhythm of Joanna’s ministrations, until her doctor’s wrist begins to get sore and Sherlock is squirming from the lack of movement.
The moment Joanna begins to falter, Sherlock hops up, sure her hair is wild but as apathetic towards it as always. She’s running through a list of various activities the two could do together, ones that Sherlock has enough data to sufficiently predict the details of Joanna’s reactions to, but they’re limited. One of the many beautiful things about Joanna is the way she managed to surprise Sherlock at the most unexpected times. Manages.
“It’s Lestrade.” Sherlock spins around abruptly, finding her mobile in Joanna’s hand, a text message open and the screen turned towards Sherlock pointedly. “Have you seriously not read these? He’s sent you four now. Serial killer with connection to a drug ring on the loose and you’re telling me you’re not interested?” Sherlock can see Joanna is getting suspicious, and Sherlock’s inclinations are making her restless as she stares at the screen.
“Killers,” Sherlock corrects Joanna finally, making her eyebrows go up in surprise. “There are two, working as a pair.”
Joanna purses her lips for a moment, and then stretches her hand out, looking from the phone to Sherlock. Sherlock looks back at the blonde, judging, then sighs. She reaches out and takes the phone, her fingers brushing against the back of Jo’s as she does.
She texts Lestrade back, and twenty minutes later the two of them are hailing a cab to Scotland Yard.
********
And so Sherlock doesn’t let Joanna out of her sight the entire case.
There are no singular investigations, no splitting up, no running off and leaving Joanna to catch a cab home on her own. It is at times tedious, waiting for her, having to explain even more than usual and pay more attention than Sherlock would like on things unrelated to the work, but she does it.
Unfortunately, all the coddling in the world couldn’t stop Joanna’s instincts.
“Sherlock, you head back to the flat, I’m just going to check something out. It’s probably nothing, but I have a weird feeling about it.” They’d just discovered a flake of paint on the bottom of Davies shoes’, and if Sherlock can identify the brand, they’d have him and his partner for sure. Sherlock’s indexes are back at the flat however, and she needs her microscope. But then Joanna makes her suggestion and suddenly Sherlock finds herself not needing it that much at all.
Sherlock shakes her head almost violently at Joanna’s suggestion. “No, going on your own is a bad idea,” she responds immediately. They’re standing at the crossroad between Lexington and King, though the normally busy street is quieter than usual. The car engines all seemed muted somehow, but Sherlock can’t quite put her finger on why that bothers her the way it does, so she pushes it aside.
Joanna sighs, looking put out as well as a little confused as to why her companion is so adamant. “Sherlock, I’ll be fine. I have my Browning with me. I’m sure it’s just paranoia and the quicker you get back to the flat, the quicker we get this wrapped up,” she reasons, but Sherlock is having none of it. It doesn’t take long for Joanna to give up the argument, and so the two of them head off together to the warehouse Joanna’s instincts were guiding them towards.
What they find is unanticipated. Pressed up against one side of an alley wall, cold air chills their faces as they listen to an argument going on between Davies and his partner just around the corner. Inside the warehouse they’ve stored what is arguably the largest quantity of heroine that Sherlock has ever seen in one place, and the money at stake has apparently gone to both suspects’ heads. Though they’re shouting and so very close, their voices sound almost far away to Sherlock, as if she’s listening through a solid wall with her ears stuffed with cotton. Joanna, breathing as quietly as she can next to her, is the most colorful thing around her. Everything else has faded to strange shades of gray. Sherlock understands that’s out of place, but she can’t quite discern the reason. And anyway, they had more important things to be concerned with.
After Sherlock texts Lestrade with their whereabouts, Joanna motions with her head for Sherlock to go around to the other side, and though Sherlock is loath to leave her, she does. Slipping out, she runs as fast as she can across the opposite alley way, counting down in her head like she knows Joanna is doing as well. She reaches the other side at three, and has the knowledge that without any sort of warning or signal to the contrary, Joanna trusts her to be there by zero.
In the meantime, Davies is particularly trigger happy, and the moment his anger gets the better of him, the pop of a gun with a silencer can be heard. Joanna jumps out from behind the wall at the sound, making Sherlock’s heart leap in her chest. Joanna points her gun at Davies, and Sherlock knows he’s now aimed his gun back at her. Joanna should have been faster. Sherlock sees the way her muscles tense, meaning she has recognized Davies has an intent to kill, and she pulls the trigger.
Only, for the first time in a very long time, her trusted Browning fails. The horrid, distinct click of a gun that didn’t catch echoes louder than it should within the alley walls. Joanna’s face flickers as her usual steely armor is chinked with doubt, and Sherlock does the only thing she can do: throws herself at Davies with all the speed and force she can muster and hope it’s enough.
The result is as follows: Davies gun goes off, but it does not hit Joanna. It does not hit Sherlock either, rather breaking a warehouse window above them and raining glass down that does not make a sound as it hits the ground beneath them. Though Sherlock has never been one for physical violence when intelligence is usually so much more effective and less messy, she takes great pleasure in decking the man into unconsciousness.
“Sherlock!” Joanna is running over to her with a terrified expression on her face, pulling Sherlock off the man and checking her over frantically for injuries. “Sherlock, are you hurt anywhere?” she asks, but Sherlock is too busy staring at her face to notice, basking in her victory. She did it. Joanna is alive.
In a stunning display of spontaneous behavior, Sherlock reaches over and grabs Joanna’s face, stilling her fretting until she’s looking up at Sherlock with dilated pupils and a quickened breathing pattern, a product of the adrenaline no doubt.
“Sherlock?” she asks, her voice still laced with worry along with confusion now. Sherlock’s answer is supposed to be a quick and sudden kiss, silencing her concern and misunderstanding. It is supposed to be perfect.
But when Sherlock leans down, she is forced to pause. She realizes, belatedly, that she does not know how Joanna will react to this. She suspects favorably, but she doesn’t really know. Joanna lives to surprise. And she does not know if Joanna will merely allow herself to be kissed, or if she will grab Sherlock’s coat and pull her close, if she will be gentle or if she will bite down on Sherlock’s lower lip and run her fingers through her hair. She does not know what Joanna’s lips will feel like, what her mouth will taste like, the sounds she might make if Sherlock does something right. She knows nothing because she never had time to find out.
Sherlock pulls away, and notices that Joanna too, has now gone gray along with the world around them. And she’s giving Sherlock the saddest expression the woman has ever seen. Sherlock wants to ask why, but she never does.
“Sherlock!” A voice that is not Davies’ and is not Joanna’s, and does not belong here. Sherlock squeezes her eyes shut because she doesn’t want to hear it, but now it cannot be ignored. It is terrified and desperate and demands her attention.
“Sherlock!”
*********
“Damn it, Sherlock!” Lestrade’s voice penetrated her skull like a drill, and a moment later he slapped her cheek so hard Sherlock opened her eyes just to glare at him.
“Was that really necessary?” she complained angrily, sitting up straighter with thanks from her back. She was unconcerned with her nakedness, and it seemed Lestrade was far too distraught to care either.
“Bloody hell Sherlock, I was just about to call the damn ambulance. Did you take anything?” he asked urgently, staring at her pupils. Sherlock rolled her eyes, but it quickly turned into a shudder as the chill of the water rolled down her back from her dripping curls.
“No,” she responded harshly, pushing him away from her and pulling the plug from her tub. “Towel,” she demanded, and Lestrade grabbed one from the shelf above the toilet, handing it to her as she stood and wrapped it around herself.
“I hadn’t heard from you in a while. I thought…” he trailed off, though it needn’t be a finished sentence anyway. Sherlock knew exactly what he thought.
“That in my grief I thought it prudent to off myself?” she finished, stepping out of the tub. “So sorry to disappoint.”
Lestrade sighed, grabbing the back of his neck as he looked at her. He appeared positively exhausted, had barely gotten four hours of sleep in the last week as far as she could judge. He hadn’t reacted so badly even after his wife left him.
“Damn it Sherlock, don’t say that. Please. Just don’t,” he implored, and Sherlock saw a sadness in the tug of his mouth that positively infuriated her. As if he had any right to mourn her. “You didn’t look like you were just asleep. You looked catatonic,” he added, turning to watch her carefully as if she might fall over any moment.
Sherlock exited the loo with her towel still wrapped around her, hugging it close to her and trying to get some circulation back into her limbs. “I was in my mind palace. A place I would very much like to return to, so if you would be so kind,” she explained, motioning towards the door. Lestrade’s eyebrows rose.
“Sherlock,” he started carefully. “I know how much you’re hurting right now. Believe me, I do, but you missed Jo’s funeral and you haven’t left your flat since. I’m worried about you. I think you might need some help.” Sherlock’s stare turned positively icy.
“I’d rather not take advice from the person she called first and still didn’t bloody show up in time,” Sherlock hissed between her teeth. She had no empathy for the flinch she saw in his face. “Leave. Now.”
For a moment it appeared Lestrade was going to fight her on it, but after a moment his shoulders slumped in defeat and he left, shutting the door behind him after one last worried glance back at her. Sherlock slunk back to her own dark bedroom, towel falling to the floor as she slid underneath her duvet, curls still wet. She laid there, unmoving, for a while.
Finally, Sherlock’s door opens, letting in a small amount of light until it’s shut again. Small feet patter across Sherlock’s floor until a second body is sliding into the bed beside her. Sherlock curls up as she feels arms wrap around her, shielding her from the world.
“Sssh, you’re okay,” Joanna tells her in a gentle voice. Sherlock can feel her lips brushing against the top of her head. “You saved me, Sherlock. I’m right here. Right with you.”
Sherlock ignores the logic she prides herself on. This is better.