Chapter Text
Joan Watson took a deep breath of October air. It was crisp and clean, tinged with the scent of dry leaves and woodsmoke. “I love the fall,” she murmured, half to herself.
Next to her, Sherlock made a noise she had no definition for.
“What?” she snapped, good mood evaporating.
He huffed, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets. “Such an insipid sentiment. Everyone loves the fall. Oh, the chill in the air. Oh, the changing seasons.” She schooled her features so she wouldn’t smile at the sing songy, high pitched American accent. “And then, two weeks later they’re whining about raking leaves and ice on the pavement and the cost of heating their house. People like the idea of fall. The reality of it has just the same problems as all the other seasons.”
They walked in silence a few steps. “You like fall,” she said finally.
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“You do. It lets you dig out all your colorful sweaters.” He gave her a death glare but she continued on merrily. “Finally, you can shove your boring polo shirts and tees to the back of the closet and bring out the plaid and fair isle. And the waistcoats! The waistcoats remerge, just in case anyone forgets you’re British.”
He hunched his shoulders. “I see mocking your preferred season was a grave miscalculation.”
“Can we decorate the brownstone for Halloween?” she asked with fake perkiness.
He didn’t dignify that with a response. But he still helped her with her coat when they got home, so she decided it was best to drop it. She sorted through the mail, bills, a circular, two of Sherlock’s magazines and some political flyers. She put his magazines on the table in the lock room, next to his arm. She paused and looked at the rack. “Manufacture date cross referenced by. . . difficulty?”
He didn’t glance. “Right as always.” It had become a game between them, arranging and rearranging the locks to make the other guess the method. She took the bills up to her room, contemplating her next arrangement.
***
She could hear his phone buzzing on the desk. After three missed calls she brought it up to him on the roof. “Are you avoiding Captain Gregson’s calls?”
He didn’t look up from the notes he was taking. “I thought you wanted a break from cases after the one we just wrapped.”
The case they’d just finished had been. . . difficult. A murder plus a child abduction. Neither of them had slept well for the three days it had taken to find the little girl. She had mentioned something about needing a vacation, but, “When has that ever stopped you?”
“Some people would be gratified to know that their wishes were finally being considered,” he informed his notes.
The phone in her hand started buzzing again. She sighed and shifted to hold it out to him. “The least you could do is answer and tell him you’re on a break.” He looked up at her, mouth turned down almost petulantly. “It would gratify me.”
He stood abruptly and took the phone from her. “That’s not how you use that word,” he informed her in a mumble, turning with the phone to his ear before she could complete her eye roll.
She wandered over to the bees and peered in at her little name sakes. She always had to fight the urge to baby talk to them when she was up there. Sometimes, when Sherlock wasn’t around, she lost the battle.
“Watson.”
She straightened and looked at him. She’d rarely heard that tone in his voice. He sounded thick, like he was talking around a lump in his throat. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“We need to go to the precinct immediately.” He scooped up his notes and headed for the door. She had to hurry to keep up with him.
“Why, what’s happened?” She chased him down the stairs. “Sherlock.”
He stopped halfway down and turned back to her. She caught herself on the bannister so she wouldn’t run into him. “There’s been a bomb threat,” he said, spitting the words out like they tasted bad. “It was sent to a local TV station to be broadcast this evening. They sent a copy to the police ahead of time.” She sagged back, still gripping the bannister. “God.”
“The message doesn’t say where the bomb will go off. If it is played there will be mass hysteria. Captain Gregson’s hope is that we will be able to deduce the location of the bomb before anyone is injured.”