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"It's going on 5 years."
Marcus furrowed his brows in confusion.
"5 years?" he asked, running a hand through her hair.
"It's almost Sherlock's 5-year sober-versary." Joan turned her head lazily to stare up at him from his lap.
"So it is." He waited.
"I want to do something to celebrate."
A small smile played about Marcus's lips as he responded. "Does Sherlock do celebrations?"
Joan opened her mouth to respond but was broken off by a sudden snort of laughter.
"Oh god," Marcus laughed.
"What?" she asked, feigning annoyance. Marcus's laugh was probably one of her favorite sights.
"It's not that it's a bad idea-" he choked out, pushing her gently out of his lap. "I just had the mental image of Sherlock-" gasp "-in a birthday hat-" chuckle "-with that LOOK on his face when he's being difficult."
A smile broke across Joan's face. She could just see Sherlock, that petulant pout on his face, glittery red party hat askew, surrounded by the rest of them. The sight was almost too funny.
"No, I don't think he'd enjoy *that*," she agreed between chuckles. "We'd need something uniquely Sherlock. And I think I know just the thing."
Sherlock had spent the past 8 years messing with Joan in a variety of ways. Following her, using her personal belongings without warning her. Waking her up in increasingly elaborate ways. This was, in Joan's mind, a retribution of sorts.
"WATSON!"
She followed his voice to the living room supply closet. It was overflowing with balloons.
"I do not want--" Sherlock gasped, his face a pinnacle of horror. In his hand he grasped a single blue balloon emblazoned in bright orange text. “Watson, I AM NOT TURNING FIVE.”
“It was the closest I could find,” Joan explained. “I don’t see the problem.”
The realization sobered Sherlock quickly. “It’s been almost five years.”
“It has.” Joan’s voice softened. “You should be very proud of your progress.”
“I am,” Sherlock agreed. “And I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for--” he cleared his throat abruptly. “When you agreed to become my sober companion, I was...acerbic.”
“Well, you did think friends were a waste of time,” Joan reminded him.
Sherlock paused uncomfortably. His fingers tapped a meaningless rhythm against the air as he picked his next words carefully. He wanted to be precise.
"Over the course of our...partnership, I have learned a lot. I've learned about... friendship. Community. The importance of--" his hands joined to make a small circle before settling back at his sides "--communal celebration of milestones."
Joan could hardly believe what she was hearing.
"A few years ago, I would have found the idea of a--"
"party?"
His face contracted briefly in disgust. "If you will. A few years ago I would have found the idea of a... celebration... unnecessary and a waste of time. However since then I've come to understand that they can be...useful if not--" swallow "enjoyable."
“So we’re keeping the balloons?”
Sherlock peered at her in disgust. “No, we are not keeping the balloons. I want something... simple. Just a few friends having dinner.”
“That sounds lovely, Sherlock,” Joan agreed. A puff of confetti exploded around her. She began to laugh. “Oh, did I accidentally buy a confetti gun?” she asked.
“You are uninvited.”
It was with great apprehension that Sherlock Holmes approached the brownstone that night. Today was his 5th year sober-versary. He’d been banned from the house so that Joan could “prepare” for dinner tonight. Though he was certain that the balloons were “a joke”, his partner’s affinity towards societal convention left him wary about the use of…..confetti.
He unlocked the door with ease and stepped into the--
“Hello?”
--pitch black brownstone. He flicked on a light.
“Captain! Nice to see you.” Gregson stood still in the hallway, silent. “Captain?”
“I only saw her once that day, I’m telling you,” Captain Gregson said, looking Sherlock in the eye. Sherlock started. Where had he heard those words before? A brief glance into the disheveled living room answered his question.
“The Marla Brendan murder, 1913,” he muttered under his breath.
The thirty-second case that sat in his most loathed article of furniture. He’d come across it early in his career. A fascinating murder followed by a quite muddled investigation. He’d never been able to make heads or tails of the conflicting evidence.
He stepped into the living room where Marla-- Watson-- lay twisted on the floor surrounded by what he instantly identified as pig’s blood. Bell stood over her, a large black bat in hand, poised as though he had just bashed her skull in.
Interesting. Blunt force trauma was one of the reported causes of death. As was asphyxiation due to strangling. And yet the scene was set just….so.
“You didn’t strangle her?” he asked Bell. At first, there was a stony silence.
“Ask the witness.”
He moved back to Gregson. “When did you see her?”
“She came by my shop to pick up her car. She was worried about something, I could tell. Left in a hurry.”
Auto shop, tools, blunt force trauma.
“It’s not a bat,” he said to Marcus quickly. “It was one of the tools. Perhaps an...old wrench or a screwdriver.” He took a closer look at the “wounds” in Joan’s skull and the pictures of the real trauma beside it. “No! Something longer and cylindrical. But still something that could be easily found at a mechanic’s.”
Bell smiled and nodded, putting down the bat and picking up a thin pipe instead.
Sherlock looked at it curiously and then went to a side table where the full case files lay. His finger skimmed the list of suspects and the notes beside them quickly.
“The husband,” he said with finality.
Joan got up off the floor. “You did it!”
Sherlock pouted, trying to hide how pleased he was. “Presumably you did it first.”
“Well,” Joan noted, “It took a group effort. I had to get their help sorting through all the misleading information in the file. The captain knew which procedures were outdated and which were less likely to give accurate information given the time frame.”
“He knew she was having an affair with the mechanic,” Bell explained. “Once we managed to glean that, it made the rest of it pretty simple.”
“Though determining that two people were having an affair 100 years after the fact is no easy feat,” Joan laughed.
“You should have seen Joan,” Gregson agreed. His voice raised in pitch slightly. “Captain, the mechanic’s answers are just too long and detailed. Do you think they were having an affair.”
“Hey! We found diary evidence to support it!”
“Yeah, after about three weeks of searching,” Bell laughed.
A warm feeling spread through Sherlock. Here he was, surrounded by those who had supported him through the slog.
“I want to--thank you all,” he said quietly. “I am not...the easiest to get along with. I can occasionally be...difficult,”
“Bull-headed,” Gregson offered.
“Condescending,” Bell added.
“You used my bra and a flashlight as a headlamp once,” Joan reminded him.
“I am grateful,” Sherlock continued, conscientiously ignoring his friends, “that you have all been there. You’ve been there when I have done well and---and when I’ve...when I’ve fallen. This community has made me who I am. And I would be a worse detective without it.” He paused to look around, the realization made months ago only now making it into words, “I’d be a worse person without it. And while before I would say it was more important to be a good detective than to be a person,” his fingers tapped restlessly against his thigh as he struggled to find the words. “Having you all in my life has made me realize that that is no longer true to me. That--” he gestured helpless, avoiding eye contact with everyone, “that investing in relationships is-- valuable. To me. Thank you all for being my friends. And helping me celebrate this step that I couldn’t have taken without you.”
There was a moment of appreciative and contemplative silence. Smiles all around. And then Sherlock found himself bombarded with confetti from all sides.
“You’re very welcome, Sherlock.”