storypaint (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
storypaint) wrote2015-02-16 02:44 pm
storypaint) wrote2015-02-16 02:44 pm
[Elementary] always be chasing the sun (Joan gen)
Title: always be chasing the sun
Fandom: Elementary
Length: 3147 words
Prompt: Written for![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
yuletide_admin 2014 for footnoterphone, who wanted Joan to go back to medicine.
Pairing: Joan gen
Other: Some spoilers for S3 and a number of Arthur Conan Doyle canon references, along with some themes of disability. Also at AO3.
Excerpt: When Joan got out of the hospital, her leg aching and stiff, Sherlock put her up in the front room, saying that the windows would be good for her. She would rather have had her room back, which was more private, but she couldn't imagine negotiating the stairs all the time, not any more. That was why she hadn't gone back to her own apartment. A lot of things would have to change, at least temporarily.
"I'm tired of doing squats," Joan said. She put her head down on her arms and sighed. This had seemed much easier when she was doing it for the first time. Not actually easy, not by any means, but easier. She was tired.
"Push through, Watson, push through," Sherlock remarked cheerfully. Joan lifted her head enough to give him a look. He didn't mind staying up all hours because he did it regularly. Joan was exhausted. She'd been out of the medical field for ten years -- practically a lifetime so far as technology went. She had a lot to learn.
Joan sighed and didn't move. She listened to Sherlock get up and move around the kitchen, his socks making soft sounds on the floor. She had dozed off a little when he placed a mug at her elbow. It was followed with the smart click of a plate.
"Feed your brain," he said. She opened her eyes. He'd made tea and found something edible in the fridge. She thought it was Thursday's leftovers. It smelled amazing. She picked up the fork.
"Thank you," she said, and Sherlock nodded. He crossed the room and disappeared into the den, re-emerging into the stark kitchen lights with a battered old book in hand.
"Cold case!" he said to her inquiring look, and held the book so she could read the cover. It was about Jack the Ripper.
"You'll be up all night," she said.
"I enjoy the challenge," he said, folding himself into a chair beside her, and there was silence between them after that, broken only by the clink of silverware and the turning of pages.
He was still awake when she staggered off to bed. He was scribbling feverishly in the margins of the book, muttering under his breath about the accuracy of the press.
"Go to bed, Sherlock," Joan said, her voice hoarse, but he didn't look up.
When she got up four hours later to take her exams, he was snoring on the couch. She tried to shut the door quietly behind her.
*
Everything had been different after she lost her medical license.
The first time someone said, "Ms. Watson?", she opened her mouth to correct him, and then she shut it. It was a mistake that strangers made all the time, even sometimes in a hospital setting.
But this was the first time she couldn't say, "Actually, I'm a surgeon, it's Doctor Watson," and that felt like a vise prying open her ribcage.
It wasn't that she missed the title. It was the absence of the acknowledgment of all the work she'd done, the life she'd built for herself. It was the emblem of her mistake, and the fact that her patient wouldn't be answering to any name, not anymore.
"Yes?" she said, standing up to shake a stranger's hand, and she made sure her grip was firm.
*
"I was happy," Lucy said, and she shook her head. "You think, you think, how could I have been happy when I was taking all those drugs? But I was. The drugs just made life easier to deal with. I could stay up for hours and work on my daughter's birthday party and go into the office the next day with perfect makeup and no one would notice. I never got angry. Never fought with my husband, except over the money. Everyone fights over that. I volunteered! I read books to blind people in the hospital."
Joan reached out and put her hand on top of Lucy's. Lucy's arms were still perfect. She'd ruined her feet, instead. She'd never wear sandals again. But that was easier to hide.
"I bet they really appreciated that," she said. "You could do that again, if you wanted."
Lucy sniffled. "No hospitals," she said. "I hate hospitals."
Joan smiled a little. "A lot of people hate hospitals," she said. "But we'll find something for you. That's what I'm here for -- to help you get back on your feet."
"Thank you," Lucy said. Joan handed her a tissue.
*
When Carrie invited Joan along on her consultation, Joan almost turned her down. The closer they got to the hospital, the more she wanted to leave. Instead, she made herself smile at a teenage soccer player and she did what she always did: she watched, and she listened. She paid attention to everything, and unpacked her feelings later.
Of course being a doctor was like being a detective sometimes, although generally a patient was more cooperative than a suspect. (Generally.) Joan liked figuring things out, whether they were the reasons that someone's toenails were discolored or the location of a kidnapping victim.
She missed being able to save people. She didn't get nearly as many opportunities to do that now. She was never going to get used to the bodies. She always felt like she'd arrived too late.
Carrie stood on the brownstone's steps and told Joan that she had been right, and then she walked away. Joan watched her go. Somewhere in the city, the girl that she had saved took another breath.
Joan breathed in, and she shut the door.
*
"That's it, Watson, that's exactly it!" Sherlock said, and his face lit up with his glee. Joan rose from her seat and looked at the evidence wall again but her own heart was soaring. They had fit all the pieces together and now it was time to get their man.
She turned to Sherlock and he was right behind her, surprisingly close, and he reaches out and takes her upper arms in his hands, moving in that jerky, delicate way he had.
"Thank you," he said, voice sincere, and squeezed. It was nearly a hug. He let her go and dashed for the door, pulling out his phone to call Gregson. He's on Sherlock's speed dial; number 4, and Sherlock jabs the button impatiently.
Joan reached for her coat and her keys, following behind him and even the stars seem brighter on this cold night when they have found the path to the truth, the salvation of the next people marked to die. They have not saved the ones who came before, but Joan knew how to be realistic. You didn't win every one.
They had won this one, and she was glad.
*
The brownstone was so quiet that Joan could hear Clyde rustling around the terrarium. She'd taken the travel terrarium upstairs with her for the company while she folded clothes and put them into boxes. She had a bag for charity that she was slowly filling as well. She liked taking the opportunity of a move to get rid of things she didn't need anymore, or no longer wore. There were fewer things than she'd like; being a detective led to a lot of weird stains and rips, and she didn't want to donate those things.
She didn't have much. Most of her stuff was still in storage; she'd be glad to see it again. She looked around at the grey-white walls of her bedroom. Somehow she'd never managed to put any artwork up. It didn't look like she'd managed to live here for two years.
Of course, she'd never intended to.
The thought made her more annoyed. She folded with more vigor than was really necessary. She'd expected that Sherlock would be upset that she was moving out. But somehow she had not expected him to leave the country over it.
She hadn't expected to lose the frustrating, brilliant man who had become her best friend to something so petty.
Joan was good at picking up the pieces, though, so she folded another shirt, taped up the box, and then crawled into bed. She didn't look at her phone. That wasn't going to make it ring.
"Big day tomorrow," she said to herself, and turned off the lights.
*
It bothered Joan that she was so upset that Sherlock had returned to New York. Of course, it made sense that she felt strange about seeing him, after they'd left so much unsaid. He'd cut himself out of her life, but not neatly, and she could feel all the edges against her skin.
She thought she'd done well by herself, but he hadn't even bothered to uncover all the furniture before stepping back into her cases and her precinct. And he hadn't come alone.
She liked Kitty as a person. She seemed bright and she was willing to do what it took to solve crimes, and Joan would probably enjoy working with her. But it did burn more than a little to think that Sherlock would so callously replace her.
"He won't stop talking about you," Kitty told her, her voice full of frustration, and Joan warred with herself over that one -- smugness, irritation, uncertainty.
"Sherlock doesn't have very many friends," Joan responded, finally, and figured that Kitty would figure out what that meant.
He'd chosen her for a reason. And Joan was sure they'd get along.
*
After Kitty went back to England, Sherlock rattled around the old brownstone alone. He made sure to tell Joan that her room was free, and that he hadn't let Kitty paint it any unusual colors (it was a rather nice shade of gray, actually), but he hadn't seemed surprised when Joan turned down his invitation to move back in.
"I don't mind not having someone else to plan for," he told her, and she didn't mention that he'd never really planned for her presence -- it wasn't as if he kept normal hours or remembered to wear a shirt or any of the things one normally did when one had housemates. Their relationship was still healing. She missed the buffer of Kitty sometimes; it seemed awkward now to talk about that period where they had lived together and been their most vulnerable. But Kitty had gotten a great job offer from Scotland Yard, Sherlock explicitly excluded, and Joan couldn't blame her for pursuing it. She seemed happy in her weekly calls with Joan.
They celebrated another year as a team by taking down a smuggling ring and time passed relentlessly as it often did. There was always another case, always more to learn. Joan moved again, to a nicer apartment. Sherlock gave himself another tattoo. Gregson retired. They might have gone on like this forever until retirement except for the car bomb case.
When Joan got out of the hospital, her leg aching and stiff, Sherlock put her up in the front room, saying that the windows would be good for her. She would rather have had her room back, which was more private, but she couldn't imagine negotiating the stairs all the time, not any more. That was why she hadn't gone back to her own apartment. A lot of things would have to change, at least temporarily.
She missed high heels. They were off the table. She missed so many things -- sleeping without pain and jogging among them. But she was alive, and Sherlock had caught the car bomber while she was in the hospital. Once she finished her rehab, she would still be able to walk as long as she had her cane, and Sherlock had already offered to find her one with a sword in it. That had made her laugh.
He was a terrible nurse and she was a horrible patient, and they were both relieved when she could go back to her own place. But the time she'd spent in bed, Joan had spent thinking, and not just about her life and her cases.
They were sitting in one of the conference rooms at the precinct, waiting for a suspect to be brought in, when Joan turned to Sherlock and said, "I'm going to go back to medicine."
Sherlock gaped. She almost laughed at the look on his face; it was hard to surprise him. He was positively boggling.
"After all this time?" he said. "Are you sure that isn't your painkillers talking?"
Joan knew that the meds bothered him, and this wasn't the first time he'd blamed her behavior on her pills, but that didn't make it any less irritating. He was still deeply uncomfortable with drugs of any kind, but she wasn't clouding her judgment with them, and she wasn't addicted to them either. She was sympathetic, but her sympathy had limits.
"Of course it's not!" she hissed back at him, but Bell was bringing the suspect into the interview room now so they had to re-focus.
"We'll talk more about this later," she said, and it took three twelve-hour days and a car chase before they could get back to it, but they did.
"I've reconsidered," Sherlock said, sprawled out on the armchair in the front room. Joan was sitting on the couch, leg straight out in front of her, trying to massage out some of the stiffness.
"Reconsidered what?" she said, with a yawn. She'd be leaving soon, now that the suspect was in custody. She was looking forward to her own bed. Sleeping in the brownstone was all right once in a while, but she wanted a shower that used up all the hot water and nice clean sheets.
"I wanted to apologize for my statement earlier," he said, picking at invisible pills of fabric on his shirt and only glancing up occasionally to judge her expression. "About the painkillers. You never make a decision without careful consideration first, much less one of such magnitude. It took me by surprise, so I reacted poorly."
Joan had always wondered why he disliked surprises so much, at least in certain circumstances. Sherlock Holmes walked a well-worn groove in his life, she supposed, nothing changing except when he wanted it, his excitement in the cases. He became upset when something came up and he hadn't seen it coming. At least this time he hadn't started packing for another country.
That would be slightly more difficult now, given that he'd completed his citizenship paperwork, but there were plenty of places he could have run. Instead he was here, and saying he was sorry. It was an improvement.
"Thank you for apologizing," Joan said. "I have been thinking about it for a while, but I didn't want to say anything until I was sure. I am."
Even considering Sherlock's less than ideal reaction this morning, Joan had felt a weight lift off her chest when she told him. She'd been carrying around the idea in one form or another for decades. It felt right to give it a voice.
"Ever since my beekeeping friend was fired, I have been disappointed at my lack of hospital contacts," Sherlock said. He looked hopeful.
Joan rolled her eyes. "I'm not going to get fired so you can check out bruising on corpses."
"It helps the investigation!" Sherlock argued, and they bickered easily for a while before agreeing to meet again tomorrow for the case post-mortem. After that, she was off detective work for a while.
Sherlock helped her into her coat at the door.
"If you need any help studying for your medical license, I'll find the time," he said quietly, his lips at her ear.
"Considering that you're the reason I'm so out of practice, you'd better," she said, smiling over her shoulder at him, and then shut the door on his protest. She was still grinning as she lifted her hand to catch the passing cab.
She was going to be a doctor again.
*
When Joan got home from her recertification exam, Sherlock was in her kitchen. She gave him a look and he held up a shiny housekey that she'd been sure he'd lost by now. He usually preferred to pick the lock when he came to visit.
"Well, how did it go?" he said, bouncing up on his heels, and she had to laugh, putting her purse on the hook and coming into the living room. He'd fed Clyde for her -- the lettuce was new. That, and she didn't usually let him walk around on her floor without supervision. He was slowly making his way towards the darkness under the couch. She leaned down and flipped him around in the other direction.
"I don't know yet, they have to score it," she said. "Soon. I'm glad you used the key, but most people would have knocked."
"As you know," Sherlock said, adjusting his collar fussily, "I am not most people. The man living three doors down from you has a terrible crush on you, but I'm sure you know that by now. He was rather put out when I let myself in."
"Like I said, knocking."
"In any case, I don't think it's too early to celebrate," he said, and leaned down briefly. There was a rustle of a bag, and he produced a bottle. "Sparkling grape juice," he said. "We have reservations at seven at your favorite restaurant. Your mother's idea. She's very proud of you, you know."
Joan had always protested the way that Sherlock inserted himself into her life. At first it had been the most annoying sort of presumption. Now her complaints were mostly lip service. He had invited her into his life with the same whole-hearted way that he had come into hers. Honestly, her mother had probably called him to suggest a family get-together this evening, and had happily included him in it. He'd done his best to help her study and had only stolen her away from work a couple of times to work difficult cases. She suspect that would never stop happening, no matter how long she was back in medical practice.
She glanced at her watch -- five o'clock. There was plenty of time to have a quick drink and change before their meal. She took off her coat. They drank sparkling grape juice -- he'd gotten a pretty good bottle, honestly -- and talked about work and friends. Joan had a lot to catch up on. She'd been pretty buried in studying for the past few weeks. She was confident that she'd passed the exam, though, so it had been worth it. She'd already put out some feelers on the few medical contacts she hadn't burned bridges with, and she was expecting she'd be employed again swiftly. Her friends had been excited to hear she was coming back, at least part-time.
She had to reserve a little time for her other career, after all.
Joan went to her bedroom to changed and Sherlock examined all the books in her bookshelves, like he hadn't done it a dozen times before. He still managed to have commentary on a few of the newer ones, and they talked through her bedroom door as Joan dressed. When she emerged, he was waiting by the door.
"Shall we, Dr. Watson?" he said, waving an arm in invitation, and they walked out into a shining New York night.
Fandom: Elementary
Length: 3147 words
Prompt: Written for
yuletide_admin 2014 for footnoterphone, who wanted Joan to go back to medicine.Pairing: Joan gen
Other: Some spoilers for S3 and a number of Arthur Conan Doyle canon references, along with some themes of disability. Also at AO3.
Excerpt: When Joan got out of the hospital, her leg aching and stiff, Sherlock put her up in the front room, saying that the windows would be good for her. She would rather have had her room back, which was more private, but she couldn't imagine negotiating the stairs all the time, not any more. That was why she hadn't gone back to her own apartment. A lot of things would have to change, at least temporarily.
"I'm tired of doing squats," Joan said. She put her head down on her arms and sighed. This had seemed much easier when she was doing it for the first time. Not actually easy, not by any means, but easier. She was tired.
"Push through, Watson, push through," Sherlock remarked cheerfully. Joan lifted her head enough to give him a look. He didn't mind staying up all hours because he did it regularly. Joan was exhausted. She'd been out of the medical field for ten years -- practically a lifetime so far as technology went. She had a lot to learn.
Joan sighed and didn't move. She listened to Sherlock get up and move around the kitchen, his socks making soft sounds on the floor. She had dozed off a little when he placed a mug at her elbow. It was followed with the smart click of a plate.
"Feed your brain," he said. She opened her eyes. He'd made tea and found something edible in the fridge. She thought it was Thursday's leftovers. It smelled amazing. She picked up the fork.
"Thank you," she said, and Sherlock nodded. He crossed the room and disappeared into the den, re-emerging into the stark kitchen lights with a battered old book in hand.
"Cold case!" he said to her inquiring look, and held the book so she could read the cover. It was about Jack the Ripper.
"You'll be up all night," she said.
"I enjoy the challenge," he said, folding himself into a chair beside her, and there was silence between them after that, broken only by the clink of silverware and the turning of pages.
He was still awake when she staggered off to bed. He was scribbling feverishly in the margins of the book, muttering under his breath about the accuracy of the press.
"Go to bed, Sherlock," Joan said, her voice hoarse, but he didn't look up.
When she got up four hours later to take her exams, he was snoring on the couch. She tried to shut the door quietly behind her.
*
Everything had been different after she lost her medical license.
The first time someone said, "Ms. Watson?", she opened her mouth to correct him, and then she shut it. It was a mistake that strangers made all the time, even sometimes in a hospital setting.
But this was the first time she couldn't say, "Actually, I'm a surgeon, it's Doctor Watson," and that felt like a vise prying open her ribcage.
It wasn't that she missed the title. It was the absence of the acknowledgment of all the work she'd done, the life she'd built for herself. It was the emblem of her mistake, and the fact that her patient wouldn't be answering to any name, not anymore.
"Yes?" she said, standing up to shake a stranger's hand, and she made sure her grip was firm.
*
"I was happy," Lucy said, and she shook her head. "You think, you think, how could I have been happy when I was taking all those drugs? But I was. The drugs just made life easier to deal with. I could stay up for hours and work on my daughter's birthday party and go into the office the next day with perfect makeup and no one would notice. I never got angry. Never fought with my husband, except over the money. Everyone fights over that. I volunteered! I read books to blind people in the hospital."
Joan reached out and put her hand on top of Lucy's. Lucy's arms were still perfect. She'd ruined her feet, instead. She'd never wear sandals again. But that was easier to hide.
"I bet they really appreciated that," she said. "You could do that again, if you wanted."
Lucy sniffled. "No hospitals," she said. "I hate hospitals."
Joan smiled a little. "A lot of people hate hospitals," she said. "But we'll find something for you. That's what I'm here for -- to help you get back on your feet."
"Thank you," Lucy said. Joan handed her a tissue.
*
When Carrie invited Joan along on her consultation, Joan almost turned her down. The closer they got to the hospital, the more she wanted to leave. Instead, she made herself smile at a teenage soccer player and she did what she always did: she watched, and she listened. She paid attention to everything, and unpacked her feelings later.
Of course being a doctor was like being a detective sometimes, although generally a patient was more cooperative than a suspect. (Generally.) Joan liked figuring things out, whether they were the reasons that someone's toenails were discolored or the location of a kidnapping victim.
She missed being able to save people. She didn't get nearly as many opportunities to do that now. She was never going to get used to the bodies. She always felt like she'd arrived too late.
Carrie stood on the brownstone's steps and told Joan that she had been right, and then she walked away. Joan watched her go. Somewhere in the city, the girl that she had saved took another breath.
Joan breathed in, and she shut the door.
*
"That's it, Watson, that's exactly it!" Sherlock said, and his face lit up with his glee. Joan rose from her seat and looked at the evidence wall again but her own heart was soaring. They had fit all the pieces together and now it was time to get their man.
She turned to Sherlock and he was right behind her, surprisingly close, and he reaches out and takes her upper arms in his hands, moving in that jerky, delicate way he had.
"Thank you," he said, voice sincere, and squeezed. It was nearly a hug. He let her go and dashed for the door, pulling out his phone to call Gregson. He's on Sherlock's speed dial; number 4, and Sherlock jabs the button impatiently.
Joan reached for her coat and her keys, following behind him and even the stars seem brighter on this cold night when they have found the path to the truth, the salvation of the next people marked to die. They have not saved the ones who came before, but Joan knew how to be realistic. You didn't win every one.
They had won this one, and she was glad.
*
The brownstone was so quiet that Joan could hear Clyde rustling around the terrarium. She'd taken the travel terrarium upstairs with her for the company while she folded clothes and put them into boxes. She had a bag for charity that she was slowly filling as well. She liked taking the opportunity of a move to get rid of things she didn't need anymore, or no longer wore. There were fewer things than she'd like; being a detective led to a lot of weird stains and rips, and she didn't want to donate those things.
She didn't have much. Most of her stuff was still in storage; she'd be glad to see it again. She looked around at the grey-white walls of her bedroom. Somehow she'd never managed to put any artwork up. It didn't look like she'd managed to live here for two years.
Of course, she'd never intended to.
The thought made her more annoyed. She folded with more vigor than was really necessary. She'd expected that Sherlock would be upset that she was moving out. But somehow she had not expected him to leave the country over it.
She hadn't expected to lose the frustrating, brilliant man who had become her best friend to something so petty.
Joan was good at picking up the pieces, though, so she folded another shirt, taped up the box, and then crawled into bed. She didn't look at her phone. That wasn't going to make it ring.
"Big day tomorrow," she said to herself, and turned off the lights.
*
It bothered Joan that she was so upset that Sherlock had returned to New York. Of course, it made sense that she felt strange about seeing him, after they'd left so much unsaid. He'd cut himself out of her life, but not neatly, and she could feel all the edges against her skin.
She thought she'd done well by herself, but he hadn't even bothered to uncover all the furniture before stepping back into her cases and her precinct. And he hadn't come alone.
She liked Kitty as a person. She seemed bright and she was willing to do what it took to solve crimes, and Joan would probably enjoy working with her. But it did burn more than a little to think that Sherlock would so callously replace her.
"He won't stop talking about you," Kitty told her, her voice full of frustration, and Joan warred with herself over that one -- smugness, irritation, uncertainty.
"Sherlock doesn't have very many friends," Joan responded, finally, and figured that Kitty would figure out what that meant.
He'd chosen her for a reason. And Joan was sure they'd get along.
*
After Kitty went back to England, Sherlock rattled around the old brownstone alone. He made sure to tell Joan that her room was free, and that he hadn't let Kitty paint it any unusual colors (it was a rather nice shade of gray, actually), but he hadn't seemed surprised when Joan turned down his invitation to move back in.
"I don't mind not having someone else to plan for," he told her, and she didn't mention that he'd never really planned for her presence -- it wasn't as if he kept normal hours or remembered to wear a shirt or any of the things one normally did when one had housemates. Their relationship was still healing. She missed the buffer of Kitty sometimes; it seemed awkward now to talk about that period where they had lived together and been their most vulnerable. But Kitty had gotten a great job offer from Scotland Yard, Sherlock explicitly excluded, and Joan couldn't blame her for pursuing it. She seemed happy in her weekly calls with Joan.
They celebrated another year as a team by taking down a smuggling ring and time passed relentlessly as it often did. There was always another case, always more to learn. Joan moved again, to a nicer apartment. Sherlock gave himself another tattoo. Gregson retired. They might have gone on like this forever until retirement except for the car bomb case.
When Joan got out of the hospital, her leg aching and stiff, Sherlock put her up in the front room, saying that the windows would be good for her. She would rather have had her room back, which was more private, but she couldn't imagine negotiating the stairs all the time, not any more. That was why she hadn't gone back to her own apartment. A lot of things would have to change, at least temporarily.
She missed high heels. They were off the table. She missed so many things -- sleeping without pain and jogging among them. But she was alive, and Sherlock had caught the car bomber while she was in the hospital. Once she finished her rehab, she would still be able to walk as long as she had her cane, and Sherlock had already offered to find her one with a sword in it. That had made her laugh.
He was a terrible nurse and she was a horrible patient, and they were both relieved when she could go back to her own place. But the time she'd spent in bed, Joan had spent thinking, and not just about her life and her cases.
They were sitting in one of the conference rooms at the precinct, waiting for a suspect to be brought in, when Joan turned to Sherlock and said, "I'm going to go back to medicine."
Sherlock gaped. She almost laughed at the look on his face; it was hard to surprise him. He was positively boggling.
"After all this time?" he said. "Are you sure that isn't your painkillers talking?"
Joan knew that the meds bothered him, and this wasn't the first time he'd blamed her behavior on her pills, but that didn't make it any less irritating. He was still deeply uncomfortable with drugs of any kind, but she wasn't clouding her judgment with them, and she wasn't addicted to them either. She was sympathetic, but her sympathy had limits.
"Of course it's not!" she hissed back at him, but Bell was bringing the suspect into the interview room now so they had to re-focus.
"We'll talk more about this later," she said, and it took three twelve-hour days and a car chase before they could get back to it, but they did.
"I've reconsidered," Sherlock said, sprawled out on the armchair in the front room. Joan was sitting on the couch, leg straight out in front of her, trying to massage out some of the stiffness.
"Reconsidered what?" she said, with a yawn. She'd be leaving soon, now that the suspect was in custody. She was looking forward to her own bed. Sleeping in the brownstone was all right once in a while, but she wanted a shower that used up all the hot water and nice clean sheets.
"I wanted to apologize for my statement earlier," he said, picking at invisible pills of fabric on his shirt and only glancing up occasionally to judge her expression. "About the painkillers. You never make a decision without careful consideration first, much less one of such magnitude. It took me by surprise, so I reacted poorly."
Joan had always wondered why he disliked surprises so much, at least in certain circumstances. Sherlock Holmes walked a well-worn groove in his life, she supposed, nothing changing except when he wanted it, his excitement in the cases. He became upset when something came up and he hadn't seen it coming. At least this time he hadn't started packing for another country.
That would be slightly more difficult now, given that he'd completed his citizenship paperwork, but there were plenty of places he could have run. Instead he was here, and saying he was sorry. It was an improvement.
"Thank you for apologizing," Joan said. "I have been thinking about it for a while, but I didn't want to say anything until I was sure. I am."
Even considering Sherlock's less than ideal reaction this morning, Joan had felt a weight lift off her chest when she told him. She'd been carrying around the idea in one form or another for decades. It felt right to give it a voice.
"Ever since my beekeeping friend was fired, I have been disappointed at my lack of hospital contacts," Sherlock said. He looked hopeful.
Joan rolled her eyes. "I'm not going to get fired so you can check out bruising on corpses."
"It helps the investigation!" Sherlock argued, and they bickered easily for a while before agreeing to meet again tomorrow for the case post-mortem. After that, she was off detective work for a while.
Sherlock helped her into her coat at the door.
"If you need any help studying for your medical license, I'll find the time," he said quietly, his lips at her ear.
"Considering that you're the reason I'm so out of practice, you'd better," she said, smiling over her shoulder at him, and then shut the door on his protest. She was still grinning as she lifted her hand to catch the passing cab.
She was going to be a doctor again.
*
When Joan got home from her recertification exam, Sherlock was in her kitchen. She gave him a look and he held up a shiny housekey that she'd been sure he'd lost by now. He usually preferred to pick the lock when he came to visit.
"Well, how did it go?" he said, bouncing up on his heels, and she had to laugh, putting her purse on the hook and coming into the living room. He'd fed Clyde for her -- the lettuce was new. That, and she didn't usually let him walk around on her floor without supervision. He was slowly making his way towards the darkness under the couch. She leaned down and flipped him around in the other direction.
"I don't know yet, they have to score it," she said. "Soon. I'm glad you used the key, but most people would have knocked."
"As you know," Sherlock said, adjusting his collar fussily, "I am not most people. The man living three doors down from you has a terrible crush on you, but I'm sure you know that by now. He was rather put out when I let myself in."
"Like I said, knocking."
"In any case, I don't think it's too early to celebrate," he said, and leaned down briefly. There was a rustle of a bag, and he produced a bottle. "Sparkling grape juice," he said. "We have reservations at seven at your favorite restaurant. Your mother's idea. She's very proud of you, you know."
Joan had always protested the way that Sherlock inserted himself into her life. At first it had been the most annoying sort of presumption. Now her complaints were mostly lip service. He had invited her into his life with the same whole-hearted way that he had come into hers. Honestly, her mother had probably called him to suggest a family get-together this evening, and had happily included him in it. He'd done his best to help her study and had only stolen her away from work a couple of times to work difficult cases. She suspect that would never stop happening, no matter how long she was back in medical practice.
She glanced at her watch -- five o'clock. There was plenty of time to have a quick drink and change before their meal. She took off her coat. They drank sparkling grape juice -- he'd gotten a pretty good bottle, honestly -- and talked about work and friends. Joan had a lot to catch up on. She'd been pretty buried in studying for the past few weeks. She was confident that she'd passed the exam, though, so it had been worth it. She'd already put out some feelers on the few medical contacts she hadn't burned bridges with, and she was expecting she'd be employed again swiftly. Her friends had been excited to hear she was coming back, at least part-time.
She had to reserve a little time for her other career, after all.
Joan went to her bedroom to changed and Sherlock examined all the books in her bookshelves, like he hadn't done it a dozen times before. He still managed to have commentary on a few of the newer ones, and they talked through her bedroom door as Joan dressed. When she emerged, he was waiting by the door.
"Shall we, Dr. Watson?" he said, waving an arm in invitation, and they walked out into a shining New York night.