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Joan’s first holiday season with Sherlock had been subdued. She took a few hours to see her family and friends, but for the most part she stayed with him in the undecorated brownstone. It was the way it had usually gone when she was a sober companion. This year, however, she had a little more say in their plans. Thanksgiving wasn’t her family’s holiday, but when Captain Gregson extended a dinner invitation from his wife she said yes before Sherlock could open his mouth. It was a nice night. The captain’s wife was a lovely woman who had apparently been dying of curiosity about Sherlock and Joan. His daughters seemed to make Sherlock unsettled. (And seemed to think he was in someway related to Harry Potter. Joan had a pretty good idea what she was going to knit him for Christmas.)
Christmas itself was just nice. She took him to dinner with her family. Her mother adored him and was absolutely tickled to discover they were now “an item.” Oren tried a bit of goodnatured big-brother ribbing and announced that he and Gabby were officially engaged. Sherlock did his charming, boarding-school manners act. It was a little weird for her, she didn’t quite know how to interact with that man. She hoped someday he’d drop the act for her family, at least for her brother. She didn’t like bringing a stranger to family events.
Christmas morning was peaceful. Sherlock even turned his scanner off and put some mellow music on the phonograph. He gave her a necklace and a first edition Emily Dickinson collection. “It occurred to me that your ability to quote it easily indicated you might be a fan.” It amazed her how sweet he could be sometimes, when he used his deductive powers for “good.”
She did, in fact, knit him a Hogwarts scarf, as well as matching socks. His glower made the hand cramps all worth it. She also got him a pocket watch to fix and hopefully wear someday. “You own too many waistcoats not to use a pocket watch now and then.” He was Sherlock about it, but by now she could read his haptic language like a book. Especially when he spent the evening carefully taking it apart to figure out what was broken.
At breakfast the next day she finally broached a topic she’d been avoiding for almost a week. “So, my friends Hope and Ken are having a party on Friday. Not a huge thing, just some old college people.” Sherlock was watching her over his bowl of cereal warily. “Do you want to come with me?” she finished, meeting his gaze.
He finished chewing the bite he’d taken. “To your friend’s party.”
“Yes.”
“The friends who tried to convince you not to become a detective?”
She sighed. “That was months ago. They get it now. Kinda.”
He put his spoon down in his bowl, studying her. “What if I don’t want to go?”
She got up to refill her coffee cup. “Then we won’t go.”
That surprised him, he didn’t even bother to hide it. “Really?”
Joan sighed, leaning on the counter. “Friday is New Years, Sherlock. I’d like to ring it in with some friends. I don’t want to ring it in without you. My preference is that you come to the party with me. If you don’t want to go then we can do something quiet here and I can catch up with them later.”
She’d obviously thrown him for a loop. Like it had never occurred to him that she would chose him over other people. “I suppose I could go.”
She smiled widely. “Good. Great.”
“That’s it? No admonishment to behave? Not tell any case stories?”
“If you’re meeting my friends I want them to meet the real you. Company Manners Sherlock creeps me out.” He blinked at her, mouth moving like he wanted to say something but couldn’t think of the words. She picked up her coffee. “I’ll call Hope and tell her you’re coming,” she said, heading for the stairs. “And you could tell the story about that big dog upstate. Emily’s husband is a vet, he’ll think it’s hilarious.” She left him with his soggy cereal, staring after her, dumbfounded.
***
Sherlock was nervous. Joan didn’t have to be a detective to notice it. He was dressed in a crisp white shirt and his dullest waistcoat. With his jacket on he looked like a time traveller from the Victorian Era, especially with his new, now working pocket watch peeking out of the waistcoat pocket. She didn’t know if the conservative dress was a sign he hadn’t listened about Company Manners Sherlock, but she didn’t press. She was nervous, too and was doing everything in her power not to show any sign of it he would pick up. Hair down, no crossing her arms or fiddling with her necklace. It was going to be a pleasant evening with friends. He wasn’t going to do anything to cause a scene and neither were her people. They could do this.
Hope gave her a big hug when they came in and Ken took the bottle of sparkling cider from Sherlock with a smile. Sherlock wasn’t quite at Company Manners level of charming during introductions, but he didn’t point out that Hope and Ken had obviously had a quickie before the guests arrived, either. She decided this was probably Polite Sherlock. Or maybe Biding My Time and Learning My Audience Sherlock. She could work with either of those.
She introduced him to Emily and her husband Dave. She could see Emily sizing him up, but didn’t call her out on it, it was a natural reaction to a friend’s new significant other.
“I love your necklace,” Emily said, touching the little lock and key with one finger. The lock had a small sapphire in the center.
“Oh, thank you. Sherlock gave it to me for Christmas.”
Emily’s face froze, then her smile faltered and Joan felt the first flicker of alarm. Then Dave gave an odd bark of laughter. “Oh, I get it. Like a pun? SherLOCK.”
Sherlock looked pained. “Actually, it was to commemorate her stumping my on our lock organization.” He glanced down at Joan. “By color,” he muttered, shaking his head.
Joan smiled, trying to put the alarm on the back burner till she had time to parse it. “You said you appreciated the lecture on colorblindness and rods and cones.”
“What have I told you about what I really mean when I agree with you?”
She waved a hand at him, looking back to Em and Dave. Dave was smiling the normal smile of someone watching a couple banter. Emily looked like she might vomit. The alarm flared back into life.
“Joan?” Hope’s voice came from behind her and Emily looked even sicker. “There someone we wanted you to meet.”
Oh God, no. She glared at Emily, who gave her an apologetic, helpless look. Joan turned to meet Hope and the man she had brought over.
“Joan, this is Charlie. He works with Ken at the bank.”
Charlie was about Sherlock’s height, blonde, tanned and clean cut. Joan was certain he had no tattoos, had never been shot or stabbed a man in the abdomen with an ice pick. (She would examine when, exactly, those had become attractive features at a later date.) In other words, the exact opposite of Sherlock. He was grinning at her with perfectly straight, white teeth. “Joan, it’s really nice to meet you. Hope’s told me so much about you.” He held his hand out to shake and Joan was aware of Sherlock stiffening, apparently just realizing what she’d known as soon as Hope had spoken.
She ignored Charlie’s hand and pasted on a fake smile. “Hi, Charlie. This is the first I’ve heard of you.” She gestured to her left. “This is Sherlock.” They had yet to figure out what to call each other. Partner was too vague. Significant other, while the most descriptive, was too cumbersome. Boyfriend/girlfriend sounded infantile, according to Sherlock. And companion only brought to mind her previous career. She went with the blunt truth. “We live together.”
Sherlock gave a little start and Charlie’s face fell into confusion. Joan took the opportunity to steer Sherlock towards some other friends. Friends she wasn’t going to have to murder once the party was over.
***
They managed a couple hours of normal mingling. At some point Sherlock wandered off to get a snack and didn’t come back. She spotted him speaking with Dave in the corner and from what she could overhear he was, in fact, telling him the big dog story. She smiled a little, maybe tonight wouldn’t be a total disaster.
“Joan,” Charlie said at her elbow. “Hi. I think we got off on the wrong foot.”
Goddamit.
She fake smiled again and looked up at him. “I guess I was a little brusque. It’s just that my friends have a history of setting my up with guys and I thought that’s what you were.”
He hesitated. “Actually, Hope did mention you might be available-”
Wow, he was even more socially inept then she’d originally feared. “I’m afraid she was wrong. I’m with Sherlock. It’s kind of new, which is why-”
“I thought he was just, like your business partner, or something. I mean. You’re not seriously dating that guy, are you?”
Joan suddenly wished for an icepick. She tried to remember her breathing techniques, all the tricks she had for keeping her cool when provoked. She’d needed them all dealing with her sober clients. Her left hand was starting to twitch, so she didn’t think it was working. “Yes. I am,” she got through a clenched jaw. “I’m very happily with him. Why would you assume otherwise?”
“Well, I just mean- Isn’t he a drug addict or something? Unless that’s part of the draw?” He waggled his eyebrows at her. “Having a bad boy phase.”
The sound of her slapping him silenced the room.
She’d considered using one of her martial arts holds on him, but it would have required far too much touching and she didn’t actually want to break any of Hope and Ken’s things. Apparently, insulting Sherlock overrode every calming technique she knew.
She stormed past him, out of the living room. She was aware of Emily calling after her but she put up a palm to warn her off.
She ended up locked in the spare bathroom, pressing a wet towel to her face, trying to get her emotions under control. It only took a moment for the sound of the lock being picked to reach her ears. She sighed. Of course he had his lock picks with him. She supposed she could just open the door for him, but he probably appreciated the practice.
Sherlock let himself in the bathroom and closed the door behind him, pressing his back to it. “Your friends were unaware we were romantically involved,” he said quietly.
She sighed, hiding her face in the towel. “Yes,” she said, voice muffled.
Silence stretched. “Are you ashamed of the fact?” he asked, biting the ‘t’ off violently.
Joan lifted her head swiftly. “What? No, of course not.”
“All of my friends are aware.”
“We see them all the time! I haven’t talked to Em or the others in months. She was busy with election coverage, then Hope and Ken went away for Thanksgiving. We got busy with that embezzling case-” She waved a hand.
“Still, I think it may have warranted an announcement-”
“That’s what this was supposed to be,” she hissed, tossing the towel into the sink. “Did you notice anything about the other guests? Other the Charlie-the-Asshole they’re couples. All of them. That’s what this party usually is, just the friends and their significant others. We’ve been doing it for years and you are the first person I’ve brought since Liam. This was my announcement. That’s why I wanted to come with you or not at all.”
He stood against the door, hands clenched, not looking directly at her. “What did he say that made you strike him?”
She crossed her arms over her chest, lifting a hand to fiddle with her necklace. “It doesn’t-”
“What. Did. He say.”
She closed her eyes, hurt gathering like a fist in her chest. “He asked if you were my bad boy phase,” she said quietly.
He flinched physically. “And am I?”
Any other time she would have snapped at him. No, of course not. Don’t be stupid, how could you say that? But the pain in his voice had been almost a physical blow. He wouldn’t have asked if he didn’t think it was plausible. Maybe he’d even thought it himself before. And now he was standing there, refusing to look at her, looking lost.
God, she still wasn’t sure what to do with a hurt Sherlock. Her instinct was to go to him, touch him, try to give physical comfort. But that would just crowd him, overwhelm him to the point he wouldn’t even hear her anymore. So she kept her distance, sinking to sit on the edge of the tub.
“I think you’re -” She hunted for the right word. “Wonderful,” she finally said softly. “You have to know that. You’re brilliant. And dedicated. Loyal. And incredibly gentle and caring, in so many small, important ways. My friends. . . they don’t know any of that. They just know you’re my junkie ex-client who somehow convinced me to rearrange my life to match yours. If I’d just told them we were involved then that’s all they’d ever see.” She looked down, exhausted. “I just wanted them to see you the way I do. That’s why I didn’t give you orders to behave. Because if they can’t handle the real you then. . . then I need to know that.” She rubbed her head. “I had no idea they would try to set me up again. I’m sorry it turned out this way. I’m just- I’m so sorry.” She covered her face with her hands, wanting to cry and knowing it would just make everything harder.
She was aware of him moving away from the door to loom over her. There was the softest touch on her hair. When she didn’t react he crouched down and curled his hands around her wrists lightly. “It’s been a very long time since I cared what anyone thought of me,” he told her, voice thick, like he was also fighting tears. “I hadn’t thought of how I might appear to someone. . . conventional. I suppose if I was a school teacher I wouldn’t want my good friend dating someone like me.”
He paused and she risked peeking at him through her fingers. He no longer looked wounded, just concerned and thoughtful. And as tired as she felt. He caught her looking. “I believe this is the first time a woman has slapped another man on account of me,” he told her, giving her his sly sideways look that was almost a smile.
She gave a snort of laughter and let him tug her hands away. He replaced them with his own, cupping her face in his hands, thumb tracing the curve of her cheek. She reached out and flattened a palm on his chest, his heart thumping against it, steady and strong as ever.
They sat like that a few long minutes, letting silence express everything they couldn’t. Finally she sighed. “Someone is almost certainly going to come check at some point.”
“Regrettably, I don’t believe we’ll fit through the window there.”
She glanced at it. “We could try. . .”
He pressed a kiss to her forehead as he stood. “We are not cowards, Watson,” he declared, reaching down to help her up.
She let him tug her to her feet and automatically brushed wrinkles out of her skirt and straightened her sweater. She reached into his waist coat to check the time. “Not even eleven. Guess we can ring in the New Year quietly after all.”
His mouth worked a moment. “I’m sorry, Watson.”
“No,” she said, covering his heart again. “It’s not your fault. Not even a little. You were great tonight. Thank you.” She blew out a breath. “Let’s just go as quietly as possible. I don’t want to deal with anyone else.”
They managed to sneak all the way to the foyer without being seen. Sherlock was helping her into her coat when Em and Hope appeared. “Joan, you’re leaving?”
She felt Sherlock stiffen, fingers tightening on her shoulders briefly. “Yeah,” she said, resisting the urge to reach back for him. “I think it’s time.”
“Look if this is about Charlie-”
“I told her it was a bad-”
“I just thought you were lonely-”
“We had no idea-”
“We were just worried-”
“ENOUGH!” Joan said, holding up a hand. The other women stopped talking immediately, looking at her like she’d slapped them, too. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d raised her voice to them. But really, she was at her limit. “I know. You’re worried about me. You want what’s best for me. I’ve heard it all before. And I might even believe it, except for the fact if you actually cared about me then you would listen to me once in a while instead of always assuming you know what’s best.”
She felt Sherlock’s hand on her back, warm and steady. She straightened her spine and made a decision. “I know my life doesn’t look the way you want it to. You know what? It probably never will. But I’m happy. I’m happy with the work I do and with Sherlock. You said I was lost and you’re right. I was. I stopped being a surgeon and I had no idea what to do. I was lost. But I’m not anymore. I know exactly who I am now. But you’re so stuck on who you think I should be and what I should want that you can’t even see it.” She took a breath. “This is who I am and what I do. This is who I’m choosing to be with,” she added, pointing behind her. “If you can’t accept that then maybe. . . maybe this is the last year I call you friends.”
She turned to Sherlock and for an instant his face was a cool mask of protective rage, pointed straight at her friends. She’d rarely seen him look that angry. Past rage into the calm, tranquil fury that meant he really wanted to hurt someone. She touched his jaw, rough with stubble as always, and his gaze went to her, anger melting away. She reached past him to open the door and he kept his hand on her back as they headed out into the cold.
***
Sherlock insisted on driving them home, claiming it would help his car sickness. That left Joan free to stare out her windows and cry as quietly as she could. She found tissues in her pocket and used them to wipe her eyes. Neither of them had said a word since they’d left the party. She supposed there wasn’t much left to say. She huffed air onto the window, fogging it, and lifted a finger to doodle in the steam before it dissipated.
They were crossing the bridge when Sherlock finally spoke. “I think we should throw our own party.”
Joan had stopped crying for the most part and felt safe half turning to gauge his seriousness. “What.”
“A party. At the brownstone. We could invite the Gregsons. And Ms. Hudson, Detective Bell. Alfredo, obviously.”
“You want to throw a party.”
“Yes. Perhaps next week. Celebrating the end of the holiday season.” He glanced at her out the corner of his eye.
She was pretty sure he was serious. She shifted to look at him fully. “We don’t have to throw a party to make me feel better about my friends.”
He grimaced, glaring at the road. “Maybe it’s about me. I’m supposed to interact with people. Social interaction offsets my dependency on drugs. I’m sure I read that somewhere.”
Of course he’d read his Hemdale reports. Of course he had. “I can’t believe you’re using your addiction as a ploy to throw a party. Who are you?”
“In fact, if we don’t throw a party I fear I could be in real danger of a re-”
“Don’t!” She pointed at him. “Don’t you dare say the ‘r’ word, Sherlock.” She huffed and shook her head. Then, “I want to invite Alistair.”
“You’re just hoping he’ll reveal more of my charming boyhood tales.”
“You saw my baby book at Christmas. Quid pro quo.”
He gave a half smile. “In that case, I think I’ll extend an invitation to Detective Bell’s brother.”
She arched her brows. “You want to invite Andre? Why?”
“I have reason to believe the Bell brothers are working on their relationship. Also, I have it on very good authority that Andre is in possession of a copy of the good Detective’s Guys and Dolls performance.” The sly amused look again.
Joan smiled and shook her head. “A party.”
He had to park several blocks from the brownstone, apparently a neighbor or two was having guests over. They walked side by side in the light snow, hands shoved in pockets. “I meant what I said,” she told him as they walked. It was remarkably quiet out there. Despite the lights in the houses and street full of cars she could almost believe they were the only people on earth. “When I said I was happy. I am. No matter what other people think.” He didn’t respond, even after ten steps. “Just thought you’d want to know that.”
“You aren’t in the habit of saying things you don’t mean,” he said. The words were flippant but his tone was subdued so she let the silence stretch to see if there was more coming. “However-” There it was. “You said something earlier. . . in the lavatory. You called me. . . gentle.” He said it as if it was an alien word.
“You’ve always been gentle with me,” she said, as if it should be obvious.
“I just- you once watched me prepare to torture and murder a man. The word gentle doesn’t seem to apply.”
She shook her head, looking up at the sky. The snowflakes looked like swirling constellations against the black. “If working with you has taught me anything it’s that everyone is capable of murder. Violence. Hell, you put me in a room with The Bitch and a scalpel I don’t think my hand would shake.” He looked at her swiftly and she winced, closing her eyes. “That last part wasn’t supposed to be out loud,” she said under her breath.
Sherlock was still staring at her. “Is that what you call her?”
“In my head,” Joan mumbled into her scarf.
He was silent, mouth working a little. “I think of her as The Woman.” He paused again. “Yours is more succinct.”
Joan laughed. “Well. I call it like I see it.” She looked up at him. “You know what I remember about that conversation? Before you went to confront Moran? Not the ice pick or the butterfly knife. I remember arguing with you, following you around the room and outright telling you I was going to go to the police and try to stop you. And you never once threatened me.” He opened his mouth and she waved a hand. “Yes, okay. You said something melodramatic as you were leaving but I’ve heard you threaten people. That wasn’t a threat. Hell, you didn’t even try to tie me up or anything.” He looked horrified at the notion. “See? It didn’t even occur to you.”
“I think ‘it never occurred to you to tie me up when you went off to torture someone’ might be an entirely new definition of ‘damning with faint praise.’”
She smiled. “Look. I know you’re capable of violence. What I don’t think you’re capable of is violence against me. Or anyone who hasn’t hurt you or tried to hurt you. Did I want you to go torture and kill M? No. But because I didn’t want you to go to jail or relapse or get hurt. Not because I didn’t understand the urge. Even Gregson understood.”
He seemed to consider that as they reached the brownstone and climbed the steps. Halfway up the sound of cheering from the surrounding houses broke the silence. In the distance Joan could hear the tinny boom of fireworks. She looked at Sherlock, who had his head tilted, listening. He looked down at her. “Midnight.” He reached up and cupped her face in his hands, drawing her closer to him. “Happy New Year, Watson.”
She smiled, studying him, with his scruffy chin and black knit hat pulled low over his ears he looked the part of the bad boy. But all she saw was the best man she’d ever known. “Happy New Year, Sherlock,” she said, going up on tiptoe to meet his kiss.