Work Text:
11:37PM.
She wasn’t back yet.
Sherlock groaned form where she sat on the sofa, bringing a hand to her hair and ruffling the mass of curls into a bigger mess than it was before. A bird’s nest, Joan called it. But Joan wasn’t here. Another groan. Sherlock got up and decided to have tea. But her tea was terrible — Joan’s was infinitely better. Another groan with a heavy stump, as Sherlock picked up a glass from the cupboard to have some water. She needed some distraction. Anything.
Well, not anything. Drugs were out of question, obviously. Not because she cared, because she really didn’t, but because she knew how disappointed Joan would be. And Mycroft would be insufferable, the utter twat.
Joan was on a date. A third date, to be more precise. With that intolerable, cocksure arsehole Frank. He was the newest of the string of men that Joan appeared to want to submit her patience to. Sherlock honestly did not understand it. All those men were so… irritating, peeving, with their staring and ogling, their over-bearing-ness, it was tedious, really. Every time Sherlock brought it up, Joan simply shrugged and said “I like going on dates, it’s fun… I like feeling wanted sometimes, Sherlock”, then she would tuck her hair behind her ear and give a small smile.
That was all preposterous, really, because Joan should not want to be around anyone other than Sherlock. Of course, that didn’t mean Sherlock was attracted to her, because she was above petty human needs such as intimacy and sex.
Although, lately, she had been paying more attention to how her flatmate and best friend looked than before. Rather, noticing more, that was, because she had always known, since their first meeting at Bart’s, even when Joan had been a little more sad and broken, with the limp and the distrust. But then she had been different and kind of brilliant, and those big blue eyes were all the more attractive.
But Sherlock was married to the Work, and she would never cheat. She did not care that Joan’s hair was a bit longer now, falling over her shoulders in a golden, sun-kissed cascade that always smelt of orange blossoms because now that she was out of the army, she liked to indulge. Sherlock was also not bothered at all by Joan’s smile, the toothy grin, the smug smirk or even the giggly crooked one that she gave Sherlock whenever she said something inappropriate that Joan secretly loved. And of course there was absolutely nothing appealing about her figure, at least not that Sherlock would notice, because she didn’t care about Joan’s strong yet lean arms, her shapely legs and her athletically comely torso.
Though Sherlock would have to admit even to herself that just one look at those steady, beautiful hands would send shivers all the way down her spine.
Shaking her head away from those ridiculous thoughts, Sherlock decided to focus on the experiment from yesterday, the one with the coconut soap and mould. She managed to get absorbed into it for about half an hour when she heard the door downstairs open, and a single pair of feet climbing up the stairs. Joan. Alone. Sherlock grinned before she could catch herself, and then shook it off once more, occupying her hands by bringing her hair up in a ponytail.
A few seconds later, Joan entered the flat and Sherlock listened while she put her coat away and walked towards the kitchen.
‘Still up, then?’ she asked with a smile. Sherlock looked at her and was startled for a minute before she could reply. Joan looked indeed very pretty. She wore a blue dress that brought out her eyes, no tights since it was a warm Summer day, so her lean, well-toned, still-tanned legs were out. Her hair was down, like usual, and it framed her face beautifully. Sherlock had to physically force herself to look away before she was able to utter more than one syllable.
‘Obviously. Experiment,’ she said. Joan chuckled and moved over to the kettle. ‘Unsuccessful date, then?’
‘How do you figure?’ Joan asked with a quirk of an eyebrow. She was leaning agains the counter waiting for the water to boil. Damn those legs. And that stupid V-neck dress that showed a tiny bit of the scar on Joan’s left shoulder. Sherlock had only seen bits and pieces of the scar, never the entire thing, but she was sure it would be a sight. Stop thinking like that, you’re not attracted to her, not to anyone!, Sherlock thought.
‘Well, you engage in sexual intercourse on your third date, so giving that you are here, I think it’s safe to assume that he probably wasn’t who you thought he was, or you were not as attracted to him as you initially thought,’ Sherlock explained, staring really, really hard into her mould cultures.
Joan chuckled again, and she was now blowing into the cup of tea so she could drink it.
‘Right on all accounts. As you said, he was a major cocksure arsehole. A real dick,’ she sighed. ‘I may be getting too old for this dating thing…’
‘You’re not old,’ Sherlock replied. Joan smiled and shook her head.
‘I know I’m not old, I’m just too old for dating. The guys my age want younger women, the guys I get dates with are incredibly annoying, I’m not dating younger guys because that is just plain creepy, and older guys always remind me of my father, which is never good,’ she sighed again. ‘I should just date you instead,’ she finished with a small laugh.
Sherlock perked up and stared at Joan. Beautiful, beautiful Joan, useful Joan with a steady hand that held a scalpel as well as a gun. Joan who was always there, running and grinning and giggling at crime scenes. She was part of the Work now. With that realisation, Sherlock decided that she should just go for it. Yes, she was attracted to Joan, there, said it. She had feelings for her. Done. Good, then.
‘Okay,’ Sherlock said, after about two minutes of silence. Joan looked back at her and frowned.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Okay, maybe we should date. Each other, I mean.’
Joan laughed once more. ‘Right, yeah, totally. Good one.’
‘Not joking.’
Joan stared at Sherlock with wide eyes. ‘You actually want us to date? Sherlock, do you rea—‘
‘Yes, I do. I’m serious, Joan. Just think about it. We already live together and know everything about each other, you care about my eating habits and making me sleep, and I provide you with the excitement and thrill you crave, as well as companionship. The fact that you find me physically attractive is no secret, as I have noticed your pupils dilating multiple times whenever you look at me, and your pulse quickens when I’m around you, especially when we touch accidentally. I have also realised recently that I find you to be quite physically appealing as well, and would not mind engaging in sexual intercourse with you, even though it’s not an activity in which I usually partake.’
When Sherlock finished her speech, Joan stared at her for a good long while, eyes wide, mouth agape, tea well forgotten.
Clearing her throat, Joan blinked rapidly and spoke, ‘That makes a weird amount of sense.’
‘Of course it does,’ Sherlock shrugged.
‘Okay, let’s say I agree with this, you wouldn’t mind the kissing? Or the cuddling? Or even the sex? Sherlock, you don’t like intimacy, I’ve known you for almost three years, and I know that you don’t like hugs or kisses, have you ever even had sex?’
‘I have, of course, for curiosity purposes, and since sex is a motive for a large number of committed crimes,’ Sherlock said, standing up. ‘And, yes, normally I would abhor such acts of physical intimacy, but I find that you happen to be the exception to this rule, as always.’ She smiled down at Joan, who still looked pensive.
‘Right. Well, thanks? I guess? I’ve never been with a woman before… How would…? I mean, I know how, but…’
‘Joan?’ Sherlock interrupted.
‘Yeah?’
‘Stop rambling.’
Joan sighed. ‘Okay.’
‘I’m going to kiss you now.’
‘… All right.’
With that, Sherlock closed their distance, leaning down to press her lips against Joan’s, feeling the sweet taste of her raspberry cream Chapstick. She brought a hand of the back of Joan’s head, curling her fingers through that silky-soft blonde hair, and the other to rest on her jaw, as they slowly moved against each other’s mouths.
Joan had her hands resting on Sherlock’s hips, lightly brushing her fingers against the hipbone under the threadbare T-shirt.
After long minutes of languid, lazy, delicious closed-mouth kissing, Sherlock decided to move things further, letting her tongue taste those luscious lips, and Joan let her in, their tongues meeting in a frenzy of electric shocks that were better than any drug Sherlock had ever taken. A clever suck earned Sherlock a delightful little whimper and moan from Joan, and she did it again, getting the same response.
Minutes or hours or days passed when they parted, panting and smiling.
‘Adequate?’ Sherlock asked mid-breaths. Joan laughed.
‘More than adequate, I’d say,’ she replied. ‘Now, come to my room.’
‘Really?’ asked Sherlock with a smirk. Joan smirked right back.
‘Oh, yeah, I’ll need help getting out of this dress.’ She winked and went towards her bedroom, and Sherlock followed.