storypaint (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
storypaint) wrote2013-07-07 07:35 pm
storypaint) wrote2013-07-07 07:35 pm
Entry tags:
[Elementary] keeps honor bright (Joan & Sherlock gen)
Title: keeps honor bright
Fandom: Elementary
Length: 982 words
Prompt:![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
poetry_fiction: July 1 prompt - I came to the crowd seeking love
I came to the crowd for understanding from Nikki Giovanni's "You Came Too"
Pairing: Joan and Sherlock gen
Other: Set in some vague timeframe post S1.
Excerpt: "Don't be discouraged, Watson," he said. There was a clink of china; she deduced that he'd brought tea, but was having trouble jimmying her lock with the limited mobility that the cups provided.
The former addicts that Joan worked with always wanted to know her story. They never believed that she didn't have one, but she didn't want to tell them about Liam. She refused to share her failures with anyone.
"We've all fucked up," one client told her, snapping her gum. She was tall and ropy-thin, her gestures nervous, the gum-chewing a constant. Joan thought that she ran a clothing store in a mall now. Later, Sherlock would remind Joan of her. She didn't tell him. He'd probably have shared his thoughts on the commonality of post-rehab body language or something similar. He wouldn't get it at all. She was beginning to learn his trade now, but the back-and-forth still wasn't quite mutual.
(It wasn't just the body language, it was success. Joan never read relapse statistics when she could avoid it. Her knowledge was infinitely more personal. She knew about fucking up.)
She was pretty sure that they'd made enough mistakes during this last case to guarantee that it would never be solved. She wasn't ready to give up yet, but she didn't have much choice, or so she'd been told. The details they had were running through her mind what felt like every waking moment. She'd nearly answered the phone with the victim's name yesterday, and wouldn't that have been a mess. She wasn't ready to let it go.
Sherlock didn't like to talk about failure either, but she'd already gotten into his box of unsolved cases more than once to look for information. The files were all notated precisely in fading ink, a few with brighter text that indicated a later revelation. He kept a lot in that brain attic of his.
There was a knock at her bedroom door -- she'd finally taught him that one, more or less, provisioned on this level of excitement that day. When she didn't respond immediately, she could hear Sherlock's comically loud sigh, followed by his usual clipped tones.
"Don't be discouraged, Watson," he said. There was a clink of china; she deduced that he'd brought tea, but was having trouble jimmying her lock with the limited mobility that the cups provided.
"There's no going back now," he continued. "Your resume has too many holes in it and your new skill set, while decidedly valuable, will be of little use in either the sober companion or medical fields."
His tone was muffled and vaguely cheerful in tone. The lock was new -- Alfredo had helped her install it last week, telling her that it was as close to uncrackable as any door lock could be, assuming you went the traditional route and forwent keypads or fingerprint scanners. Sherlock had gotten a lot better about randomly barging in, sure, but she also wanted to have something that would make him have to stop and think for a few minutes before completing his break-in. Maybe he'd consider whether or not it was actually a good idea.
The idea of tea seemed nice though, so she crossed the room and unlocked the door. Sherlock was squatting before the threshold, two lockpicks in one hand and a saucer with cup in the other.
She rescued the cup because his glazed look of interest in the lock made it clear that the steadiness of that hand, anyway, was not a guarantee.
It was British tea, Earl Grey, which she was secretly developing a fondness for. There were two other saucers resting next to the door. One held a coffee mug full of the same tea, and the other held the middle of Clyde, infinitely patient.
"I'm not discouraged," she said, holding the tea up out of his reach. He grabbed the turtle and his cup and found a seat on the kitchen chair that she had finally quit taking downstairs. He let Clyde off the saucer so he could move slowly around Sherlock's feet. Joan sat down on her bed and took a sip of tea, waiting.
"It's just for a few days," Sherlock continued, as if she hadn't spoken. "I need your aid on the Leadbetter case. Gregson has made it highest priority."
He leaned forward on the edge of his chair, like he always did. Clyde meandered over a stray sock. Joan hypothesized that Sherlock had brought him for moral support, and tried not to laugh at the thought. (He really did need more friends.)
She supposed Gregson was right. If you had to rank them, serial murders beat a single kidnapping. She wished that they didn't need to do that kind of math.
"A few days," she conceded with a sigh.
"Leave your diagrams up," he said generously, drinking his tea and directing Clyde with one stockingfoot. The socks were lemon yellow. "I give this one three days on the outside. He's sloppy."
Joan had been studying his casefiles when she needed a break from her own (what had her life become, she wondered sometimes). She had had an idea coalescing for a day or so now, and she decided to share it.
"She's sloppy, you mean," Joan said, putting her cup back down onto the saucer. Her tea, which she wanted to enjoy, would probably be cold by the time she attended to it again. Job hazard.
Sherlock's eyes lit up. "Do you -- yes, it makes sense now!" He got up from his chair and paced out into the hallway, muttering new ideas as he went. Joan only paused to collect Clyde, intending to return him to the terrarium downstairs.
The kidnapping case still nagged at her, but they were on the hunt now. She felt the adrenaline rushing in her veins.
She was learning. Maybe she couldn't save them all, but that didn't mean she wouldn't try. Everyone screwed up sometimes.
Occasionally, she thought, rushing into her coat and out into the bustle of New York, you get a second chance.
Fandom: Elementary
Length: 982 words
Prompt:
poetry_fiction: July 1 prompt - I came to the crowd seeking loveI came to the crowd for understanding from Nikki Giovanni's "You Came Too"
Pairing: Joan and Sherlock gen
Other: Set in some vague timeframe post S1.
Excerpt: "Don't be discouraged, Watson," he said. There was a clink of china; she deduced that he'd brought tea, but was having trouble jimmying her lock with the limited mobility that the cups provided.
The former addicts that Joan worked with always wanted to know her story. They never believed that she didn't have one, but she didn't want to tell them about Liam. She refused to share her failures with anyone.
"We've all fucked up," one client told her, snapping her gum. She was tall and ropy-thin, her gestures nervous, the gum-chewing a constant. Joan thought that she ran a clothing store in a mall now. Later, Sherlock would remind Joan of her. She didn't tell him. He'd probably have shared his thoughts on the commonality of post-rehab body language or something similar. He wouldn't get it at all. She was beginning to learn his trade now, but the back-and-forth still wasn't quite mutual.
(It wasn't just the body language, it was success. Joan never read relapse statistics when she could avoid it. Her knowledge was infinitely more personal. She knew about fucking up.)
She was pretty sure that they'd made enough mistakes during this last case to guarantee that it would never be solved. She wasn't ready to give up yet, but she didn't have much choice, or so she'd been told. The details they had were running through her mind what felt like every waking moment. She'd nearly answered the phone with the victim's name yesterday, and wouldn't that have been a mess. She wasn't ready to let it go.
Sherlock didn't like to talk about failure either, but she'd already gotten into his box of unsolved cases more than once to look for information. The files were all notated precisely in fading ink, a few with brighter text that indicated a later revelation. He kept a lot in that brain attic of his.
There was a knock at her bedroom door -- she'd finally taught him that one, more or less, provisioned on this level of excitement that day. When she didn't respond immediately, she could hear Sherlock's comically loud sigh, followed by his usual clipped tones.
"Don't be discouraged, Watson," he said. There was a clink of china; she deduced that he'd brought tea, but was having trouble jimmying her lock with the limited mobility that the cups provided.
"There's no going back now," he continued. "Your resume has too many holes in it and your new skill set, while decidedly valuable, will be of little use in either the sober companion or medical fields."
His tone was muffled and vaguely cheerful in tone. The lock was new -- Alfredo had helped her install it last week, telling her that it was as close to uncrackable as any door lock could be, assuming you went the traditional route and forwent keypads or fingerprint scanners. Sherlock had gotten a lot better about randomly barging in, sure, but she also wanted to have something that would make him have to stop and think for a few minutes before completing his break-in. Maybe he'd consider whether or not it was actually a good idea.
The idea of tea seemed nice though, so she crossed the room and unlocked the door. Sherlock was squatting before the threshold, two lockpicks in one hand and a saucer with cup in the other.
She rescued the cup because his glazed look of interest in the lock made it clear that the steadiness of that hand, anyway, was not a guarantee.
It was British tea, Earl Grey, which she was secretly developing a fondness for. There were two other saucers resting next to the door. One held a coffee mug full of the same tea, and the other held the middle of Clyde, infinitely patient.
"I'm not discouraged," she said, holding the tea up out of his reach. He grabbed the turtle and his cup and found a seat on the kitchen chair that she had finally quit taking downstairs. He let Clyde off the saucer so he could move slowly around Sherlock's feet. Joan sat down on her bed and took a sip of tea, waiting.
"It's just for a few days," Sherlock continued, as if she hadn't spoken. "I need your aid on the Leadbetter case. Gregson has made it highest priority."
He leaned forward on the edge of his chair, like he always did. Clyde meandered over a stray sock. Joan hypothesized that Sherlock had brought him for moral support, and tried not to laugh at the thought. (He really did need more friends.)
She supposed Gregson was right. If you had to rank them, serial murders beat a single kidnapping. She wished that they didn't need to do that kind of math.
"A few days," she conceded with a sigh.
"Leave your diagrams up," he said generously, drinking his tea and directing Clyde with one stockingfoot. The socks were lemon yellow. "I give this one three days on the outside. He's sloppy."
Joan had been studying his casefiles when she needed a break from her own (what had her life become, she wondered sometimes). She had had an idea coalescing for a day or so now, and she decided to share it.
"She's sloppy, you mean," Joan said, putting her cup back down onto the saucer. Her tea, which she wanted to enjoy, would probably be cold by the time she attended to it again. Job hazard.
Sherlock's eyes lit up. "Do you -- yes, it makes sense now!" He got up from his chair and paced out into the hallway, muttering new ideas as he went. Joan only paused to collect Clyde, intending to return him to the terrarium downstairs.
The kidnapping case still nagged at her, but they were on the hunt now. She felt the adrenaline rushing in her veins.
She was learning. Maybe she couldn't save them all, but that didn't mean she wouldn't try. Everyone screwed up sometimes.
Occasionally, she thought, rushing into her coat and out into the bustle of New York, you get a second chance.