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Sherlock understood the concept of change; to make different from what it is or from what it was or would be if left alone.
He didn’t like to dwell on it, for obvious reasons, but his very own life was proof. The introduction of Irene Adler to his life greatly affected him; he became soft, unobservant and open to suggestions carefully machinated by her. He became weak.
With her “death” he became harsher than before, cutting off former colleagues and bitterly stewing in his own misery and contempt for humanity. He became unhinged and reliant on drugs, something he had never thought he would do; he knew it could dull his mind, the single thing he prized above all.
He hadn’t been counting on the petite but stubborn woman that moved in with him at the beginning of his sobriety. She took no prisoners but kindly tended every wound. Her compassion was capable of bringing people to their knees and she had a backbone like a mountain, unmovable but for time who waits for no one.
She was marvelous.
He had meant to dismiss her from the start and if she didn’t accept that he was resolved to ignore her. Then he really observed her. The sorrow she held but pushed away, the stiffness to her spine contradicting the lightness of her steps. Her eyes were striking; dark, unreadable but for the courtesies she projected upon first meeting (which he later found out weren’t so much courtesies as natural friendliness).
He was intrigued and he hated both himself and her for it.
Through time, effort, and probably more appalling behavior from him than she deserved to suffer through, they became friends. Partners.
His heart warmed in his chest and he frowned. Such an unusual concept. Even when Irene had consumed his thoughts and numbed his observations he had never felt this particular rush. Irene had been a fever, an uncomfortable, desperate ache that soothed only with the touch of his lover.
This, the pounding of his heart and the quick sharp breaths he had to take when catching Joan’s scent in the air after a shower in the evenings, or the desire to simply sit next to her, close enough that their shoulders brushed with every breath, was all new to him. It was exhilarating but exhausting in a way a case hadn’t made him feel since The Woman’s deception came to light.
But it worked, this thing between he and Joan. She made him better, challenged him in both their professional lives and as a human being. He long suffered under the delusion that he was above all his peers and though intellectually he is, he was able to tell he was also no better than the fellow addict at St. Mathew’s. He accepted that now, the banality of his struggles. Not that they weren’t valid, Joan would argue, but they weren’t exactly exclusively for him as most things had been in his life.
He was happy Joan was exclusively his Partner.
Sherlock released a breath as he traced the image he had drawn on his rib cage. The tattoo technician had complimented his skill and Sherlock had been able to reciprocate when he saw the finished product. Every line he had drawn the technician had traced over, from the slightest wisp to the thickest strike. Truly he considered returning to the young man for any future out of reach or awkward angle tattoos.
There were different flowers sweeping up from the swell of his iliac crest, the flower heads making an almost half-moon. Nestled near the top, wings abuzz and feet busily testing the petals she perched upon, was the queen of the Euglassia watsonia hive.
He had sworn never to get a loved one’s name tattooed on his body. He had even teased Joan briefly about having a large MORIARTY spread across his chest, to which she factually replied it would have been IRENE instead, but truth be told he hadn’t a single tattoo to commemorate a single past relationship. He had some from hard lessons learned, a few he could not recall getting (likely from when he was high) and a few as reminders of certain experiences.
This one though, these flowers that would never grow together in any flowerbed with a bee that was only present on a New York brownstone's rooftop, this tattoo spoke volumes. For a good reason, he would assure Watson when she asked, probably with dewy eyes and gentle tones.
When he died, hopefully of natural causes but more likely from sticking his nose where it didn't belong, and his body was on a cold slab he wanted the detectives or ME to see exactly what was most important to him. His whole life shifted off its axis with Irene's death but it was Joan Watson who pulled him into her orbit, safe from collision or manipulation.
Sherlock huffed as he pressed a bit too hard on the freshly scabbed skin, the thoughts of Watson appreciating the message behind the image flitting through his mind. He was man enough to admit he was nervous about it but he was not going to go through any length to hide it either. Often enough he was without a shirt through the brownstone, so much so that Watson was fair immune to the shock now. When he ditched his trousers she was still irritable, however, so he made sure to at least have basketball shorts on. He smirked.
She would see it, it was only a matter of time.
-:X:-
Watson sat in front of the watsonia, her thoughts in a disarray. Oren, with a booming voice and harsh words, had once again listed all the reasons he thought her current situation more damaging than anything she had ever done before. She was cutting herself off from the family, he complained, she didn’t see her friends or have weekends off. She moved in with this man and his very presence could put her in danger. Her happiness was contingent on Sherlock’s and it was unhealthy.
Joan swallowed heavily.
He wasn’t exactly wrong.
But he sure as hell wasn’t right.
Since she began working with Sherlock she had felt a sense of freedom she hadn’t ever felt. Even as a child she knew her mother had expectations that she had to meet. She clearly remembered being pushed into playing with medical imitation toys as a child (even when she wanted to be outside playing rough with the boys) and in school being urged to take only Advanced Placement courses and supplemental courses instead of art or photography. Her whole life was planned out for her by her parents. They may have been well meaning but it didn’t change the fact that it was manipulation.
Now she got to choose what do with her life. She struck out on her own, found something that truly made her feel useful and, in a way, complete.
Sherlock’s lifestyle may not have been the best; the man never slept enough, he ate the weirdest of things and inhaled possibly too many chemicals during experiments but he was a good man and he wanted nothing more than what she wanted or was willing to give. He was the only one who seemed to want that.
The one point Oren had in their entire argument was that Sherlock put her in danger.
But it wasn’t physical danger she feared. Sherlock has made sure she kept up to date on how to defend herself both with and without weapons. She knew how to fire a hand gun and rifle, she was learning -of all things- a sling, and she now boxed 3 times a week with one of Sherlock's irregulars. She joined back up with a Kung Fu class and when a friend was in town she joined her with T’ai Chi. No, she was well prepared to at the very least put up a hell of a fight from any attackers.
However, the danger she feared wouldn't leave any marks on her skin. She knew damn well that she was falling in love with Sherlock, no matter how hard she fought it. The only result could be heartache but her emotions refused to be ignored, denied or changed.
She sighed and snuggled closer into her sweater that, upon closer examination, she realized was actually Sherlock's. If she decided to keep it she knew Sherlock wouldn't say anything, might even crow about it to Alfredo (he continually claimed she was a thief of the highest caliber, even more so than either of them could hope to be). Probably best not to bring attention to it.
A strong gust of wind tore through the thin material and made her whole-body shudder. She had kept the bees company long enough she supposed. Time to return inside, feed Clyde, make some breakfast and do some boxing to get her blood up for the day. Hopefully she could forget her brother’s argument and the unfortunate realities it held.
-:X:-
The trip down into the kitchen was silent, almost too much so. It made Joan suspicious. Sherlock, while sneaky, was rarely quiet on weekends. She made sure to stop by Clyde's enclosure and give him a piece of lettuce before sneaking her way into the kitchen wary of any sudden attacks. He liked to keep her on her toes and as much as she hated to admit it, it probably helped more than hurt her.
Her partner was indeed in the kitchen but he was not doing what she had expected him to be doing. She expected pots to be boiling, beakers to be close to over filling and more than a few different chemicals to be littered across their small island. Instead Sherlock was calmly making breakfast. Pancake batter sat to the side of the stove as he flipped a few perfectly fluffy looking flapjacks onto a plate from the skillet.
“Watson!” he exclaimed, excitement in every line of his body. He quickly finished off the pancake stealing two off of her plate so they each had 3. He grabbed butter and syrup to add to their small table where there was, of course, a jar of honey from the Euglassia watsonnia.
Watson wanted to chide him for being shirtless while at the stove, a horrible memory of a burn on a college friend flashing through her mind. Sure, she had been cooking with oil but what if Sherlock had leaned over the stove and burned his stomach? He never thought of these things, he took injuries as if it was just a new experience, just one more thing for his brain to process. It was infuriating. Maybe it was because she used to be a doctor, maybe was because she genuinely cared for him, either way his blatant disregard for his own well being sometimes really got on her nerves. She opened her mouth, a sharp rebuke ready on her tongue, but her partner turned and the breath was stolen from her.
He did not have very many colorful tattoos, Sherlock. Most of them are black-and-white or it made about zero sense to her but this was very, very clear. There was no mistaking what he had gotten tattooed on himself and though there may be a little question as to why it didn't change the significance of its presence in any capacity. “Oh,” she gasped lowly. Sherlock of course acted as if nothing was amiss merely placing her food before her and gesturing at a case file in the center of the table.
“Watson,” He was quite enthused “we have a new case!” Watson took it in stride. She’d corner him later; he knew it, she knew it so there really was no need to make a fuss about him not making a fuss.
“Okay,” Joan said, eyes meeting his. She saw a softening of his eyes that was complimented by the gentle brush of fingers across hers as he passed her the knife for the butter. “Fill me in.” She had to ignore the desire to drag her fingers over the freshly colored skin, to pull Sherlock into an embrace that would convey more than she was ready to admit.
Her partner meant the world to her and the fact that he had gotten a tattoo to commemorate her, them, their partnership, ached pleasantly in her heart. Sherlock may claim to have little emotional awareness or expertise but he was fooling only himself. Or maybe, Joan corrected herself, it was that no one had ever given him the chance to show them his affection in all the ways he was capable of.
He gave her lessons in self-defense, taught her his investigative techniques, named a whole new bee species after her. But he also did things out of the storybooks of her childhood such as trading what equated as his life for her, he sat through dinner with her mother for her and always put her dreams and desires before his (something that took a few repetitions of “we’re partners, we help each other reach both of our dreams” to stick).
He may not understand love as commonly portrayed in romance novels and Hollywood blockbusters but Joan would be damned if she couldn’t read it in the things he did. Even something as seemingly simple as getting a tattoo. When she was ready Joan wanted to plant a kiss on that tattoo every day, followed by a kiss to that scruffy face. But for now they’d eat their breakfast and enjoy each other’s company.
As friends, as colleagues and, most importantly, as partners.