Going back into the vault, anything unpublished about For Science?
oh-ho. i adore you for this. i thought over the years i'd at least summarized everything i had cooking, but then i recalled this wip explaining how joan got her watsonian leg injury. reasonably certain i sent this to @amindamazed a decade ago. (hi a)
warning for blood, aftermath of violence
~
an ambulance screams past as he turns the corner and he turns his run into a sprint.
three uniform units outside the brownstone. an untold amount of people in his house. his partner and daughter not in view. None of the officers are recognizable at first glance.
One of them turns toward him, her quiet, "Sir?" breaking the spell.
He yells at the top of his lungs, "Can any of you tell me where my family is?" and as the officer asks pointless questions about his identity, he starts calling out their names. "Violet? Watson!"
"Sherlock?" He spins and Alfredo is on the sidewalk, the car Holmes abandoned just a few minutes ago now parked on the other side of the street. The officers clear a path to one of their vehicles, where Science sits, engulfed in one of their jackets. She lays a hand on the glass when she sees his face. Suddenly she's free and she's running to him.
"They took Watson," she cries, as though it were something that should've been in her power to prevent. "I don't know where."
He wants to breathe, but he can't. He wants to react, but his instincts are warring, pulled in three different directions. There is only one person in front of him right now. He shakes himself and gets on his knees to place his hands on her shoulders. "You're unhurt?" he says, hopeful and desperate. He touches her pale face, her neck, her arms. "You're all right?"
She gives one nod, then another and another and she throws her arms around his neck. He locks his arms around her and gets to his feet. "Okay," Alfredo soothes, saving Holmes from having to speak. "You're safe now, kiddo."
He isolates a snatch of radio chatter about a coroner and immediately hands Science off to Alfredo. "Stay close," he says.
Two detectives exit the house. One of them, he's seen more than once before, but he never learned the name. The other is a complete mystery. "Mr. Holmes, we're detectives Lewis and Baptiste. Have you any knowledge of what just went down?"
"Nothing. None. Tell me what happened to my partner."
"Joan Watson?" Lewis asks. "That's your partner?"
The last thread supporting his frayed patience snaps. He pushes past them, ignoring their shouts and barreling through the crime scene tape.
The stench of spilled blood fills his senses and makes him dizzy. There are people at his back, making noise about various things. He can't process their natterings when there is a body covered by a sheet lying just before the stairs leading to the kitchen. Later he'll chide himself for his shaking limbs and stuttering heart. Watson's shape does not match that of the person under that sheet. Her shoulders too slight, hips too wide. Right now he isn't capable of calculating and comparing. He peels away the covering to expose the victim's face, and promptly deflates, falling on his arse. Not her. Not her, not her.
Not anyone he knows, actually. It's a man, smaller than average, with light brown hair, receding hairline, and a knife between his ribs.
Holmes struggles to get his breathing under control.
"Listen," one of the detectives says from above. He thinks Baptiste. There's a slight Haitian accent. "Try that again and we'll put you in cuffs."
"This is the only one?" Holmes asks, his voice ragged and hoarse. "No other bodies?"
They finally take pity on him. "No other deceased. Miss Watson is on her way to Brooklyn Hospital," Lewis says. "She's in bad shape, but she's still alive."
Holmes lets out an explosive breath and shoves the heels of his hands into his eyes.
"Any idea who that guy is?"
He begins to shake his head, then thinks better of it. "He was a client. Passed himself off as one, anyway."
"He give a name? When'd you first meet him?"
"Never. Just. Watson's notepad is out." He points. "The door was kicked down by your people, not him. She had let him in and locked it behind them." And if he claimed to be a client, that means... "Her phone?"
He approaches a second, smaller pool of blood only a few feet removed from the first. Her phone lies an inch or two from the perimeter. After he shows the detective the gloves on his hands, he punches in her passcode. The screen opens to an unsent text.
I'm sorry it'll be ok take care of her I love you
She probably lost consciousness before she could click send.
"Mr. Holmes?" Baptiste says.
He erases the text with a few decisive thumb movements.
- dead guy worked for more powerful bad guy. he was supposed to kill joan and kidnap science, but she went absolutely apeshit the second she realized science was part of his plan. she managed to kill him with his own knife after he slashed her leg badly
- before she passed out she used dead guy's belt as a tourniquet
- when she woke up in the hospital groggy and dumb from anesthesia she was still stuck on MY DAUGHTER IS ABOUT TO BE MURDERED and sherlock had to be like "hi hi omg leave your IV alone she's okay. look here" and play a video of science giving a recent book report to calm her down. as joan was, again, not at her shining best, she talked back to science as though they were on facetime, reminding her to like brush her teeth and shit
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A series of short scenes, with a common thread: Sherlock likes watching Watson sleep. It calms him.
Sherlock & Joan, or Sherlock/Joan, whatever you want to read it. Rated: M. Words: 1,185. Hurt/Comfort. Sherlock needs a hug. Character study.
He liked watching her sleep.
It wasn't because he was a stalker; he most certainly was not. And once she had agreed to stay with him, he disgruntledly accepted her boundaries. Which were many, as far as he was concerned.
But when she was sleeping, she was calm. Peaceful. She brought him to a place of peace, a respite from the mundane noise of everyday life.
Something he desperately needed.
It always started the same way when they weren't on a case.
She would take off her stilettos and suit, and have an evening shower that lasted three minutes longer than her usual shower time. Then she would get into her pyjamas and slippers, and if it was cold, she'd put on that red cardigan. It was old, worn out and overused, but she always preferred it over any new ones he might have bought her over the years. It had been long since he'd stopped trying to replace it; he knew better by now.
She'd blow-dry her hair, then find him to say goodnight. Sometimes she'd stay a bit longer, share a cup of tea with him if she needed the company or thought he needed it. Sitting on the chairs of the media room, close together but without touching. Or in the library, close to the fire he had started, sitting on the ottoman or the armchair, sharing the silence.
Finally, she would retire to bed.
He would wait, sometimes for hours, until he was sure she was asleep. And then, he would walk up the stairs, minding the fourth step that creaked. Often, he would take off his shoes before, making sure his steps were silent.
She had two chairs in her bedroom. One served as a bedside table. The other was broken — it would take years to replace — and it always sat at the far end of the room, opposite the bed. Sometimes it was empty, more often than not it was full of clutter: books, water bottles or discarded clothes.
He would methodically take everything off the chair and then lower himself onto it, minding the leg that was broken. He sat, barely breathing at first, with his back straight.
And he watched.
He watched for minutes, often hours. Sometimes, when his mind was particularly troubled, he stayed until the first rays of the early morning sun came through the windows. Some other times, he'd found, much to his dismay, that being in that room with her calmed and relaxed him to the point of falling asleep. Who would've thought?
A full week into the end of the world, Sherlock spots the men approaching from down the the sidewalk. Two of them, sweaters not suits, pistols holstered at their side, bulges that might be tasers. He stops, turning enough to see the black car pull neatly next to him.
He’d been distracted, committed to working the problem, still unwilling to call it impossible, stubborn, stubborn, even as he sat in a mostly empty church basement with nothing to add to the quiet sobs. Joan hadn’t asked if he thought it was a good idea, venturing out—it wasn’t, clearly—instead, wished him safe passage with a look after Captain Gregson had sent them home. There were no more mysteries to solve, except, well.
“Mr. Holmes,” says the man closest to the street, (tall, possibly Greek). “We’re here to escort you.” Sherlock runs through the list of intelligence agencies, first American then international, dismissing them all with a squint. He’d already offered himself to all of them. He looks the men up and down, snide, just to gauge their response. “Another team is picking up Ms. Watson. You’ll be reunited with her shortly.”
“Doctor Watson,” he corrects automatically, but his heart stumbles. His phone is still in his hand and he can see them eye it, waiting to see if he’ll move to use it, or use it as a projectile. The car’s backdoor opens and another man steps out, then gestures to where he was sitting. “And if I refuse?”
“We would prefer if you didn’t,” the first man says. “Your phone, please.”
There are no handcuffs or bag over his head, and later he’ll think back wistfully over not appreciating his last glimpses of the city from street level as the car weaves through Midtown, to a building he knows has a helicopter pad. Two men march him quickly through the lobby and into an elevator, the others keeping the path clear, as a crowd has started to form on the sidewalk. Roads out of the city have been deadlocked for days.
The rotor is spinning, cavernously loud. He only starts to calm when they get closer and he sees Joan unharmed—fury and concern overtaking the pinched anxiety that had blanketed her usual reflexive calm. He’s put inside—literally, lifted by his arms—and another escort helps to buckle him in. He’s handed a headset. They’re in the air seconds later, his original guards growing smaller on the platform below. When he meats Watson’s gaze across the seat he gives her a nod, I’m okay, you’re okay? I’m okay.
They can’t talk without being overheard, but he bumps his knee against hers. She takes his hand and squeezes it, and under the gesture, scratches a letter into his palm. They watch New York disappear.
It began with the appearance of a low wire pen in a corner of the lock room, equipped with a water bottle and litter box. Watson didn't volunteer, and Sherlock didn't ask.
The next evening, when Sherlock bellowed "Watson!" as he came in the street door, a wide-eyed and agitated Watson met him at the inner door.
"Lower your voice!" she hissed, "You're scaring him!"
"Scaring whom?" Sherlock asked, but Watson had already retreated to the wire enclosure.
Sherlock followed her curiously, but there was no "him" to be seen, "he" having evidently retreated to a cardboard structure inside the pen. The litterbox showed evidence of recent use, however, and there were a few white and gray hairs scattered about. Sherlock squatted down so he could see inside the cardboard structure. A small, shaggy, white-and-gray face looked back at him.
"A rabbit?"
Watson's smile was dreamy. "I always wanted a bunny when I was a kid."
Taking a heavy sigh, you stared at the red and blue lights. Flashing against the walls, illuminating the darkness. Two police officers came in your sight. A man cuffed between them. He slowly turned his head to you, curling up a grin. Making you exhale with a shudder as he got carried away. Reaching the police car.
Head bowed down to push him into the backseat. Moving your arms over yourself in an embrace, you felt a presence at your side. – “Are you okay?” – turning your head slightly to Joan at your side. Humming in response with a few nods. She came laying her head down on your shoulder, taking a hold of your arm. – “I’m so sorry.” – she whispered knowing how you must feel.
Her comment made you lower your gaze, numbly. The police car drove off as you saw him through the window. His gaze still clear on you. Grimacing joyfully at his achievements. At his achievement of having deceived you.
Unable to look more at him, you turned your head away. Eyes closing to withhold your tears. Tears for how ridiculous and ashamed you felt. Ashamed that he had found a way to get close. Too close. You thought you knew him. It all started out as a helpless neighbour. Then it became familiars to friends.
He had woven a way in your life without knowing his true intentions of background. Unaware of the fact that he was out for a reckoning. Sizzling like a snake just to find a moment to strike. Countless of other women he had already kidnapped and tortured. If it wasn’t for Sherlock, you might have been next.
Wiping your cheeks, Joan moved her head up from your little movement. – “I’m alright.” – you reminded her once more. Turning around as your gaze fell upon him. Sherlock Holmes. Something unreadable in his expression.
It made Joan look between the two of you. Taking a deep breath, he approached you. Curling up a saddened smile, you readied yourself for an embrace. Arms already opening a bit till they lowered. Struck by another reality.
Sherlock’s expression hardened as he removed his hand from his pocket. – “I can’t believe you!” – he called out, making you flutter taken back by his words. – “Have you truly become that blind by a guy? So blind that you couldn’t even deduct his intentions.” – he shouted out, waving his hand around in accusations.
“If it wasn’t for me smelling his intentions from a mile away, you’d be looking a lot less nice as you do now!” – his words firing at you like bullets. – “Sherlock.” – Joan said seeing how this was not helping right now.
Sherlock threw his hand up to her for silence. – “Well it was almost over, you know.” – Sherlock began once more. – “O-our little family unit. You, me, Joan!” – he shuddered out. Lip quivering that tiny bit as you noticed the change in his eyes. More saddened than ever. – “I know.” – you responded lowly, batting your gaze down.
Sherlock shifted the weight on his feet. – “We’re supposed to be partners!” – his words shouting at you. Blaming you for not noticing it. For not telling him. For not seeking comfort. – “I know.” – was the only response you could give him. – “I can’t believe you have been this stupid, Y/n!” – his final words making you swallow hard.
Lifting your head up with tears in your eyes. – “Yes, I have been stupid!” – you shouted back. – “I am the things you accuse me off. Stupid, blind, clueless and I should be ashamed of myself, but believe me Sherlock I am!”
Joan stared with wide eyes back at you. Then at Sherlock, seeing him tense his jaw. Trying to hide his true emotions. – “I…I can’t be around someone this clueless.” – he mumbled to himself, turning away to pinch his nose bridge. – “Don’t say that.” – Joan said touching
Sherlock by his arm, but he just shrugged her touch away. Sniffing loud, you searched your pockets, trying to withhold a sob. Sherlock turned his head curious hearing the dangling of keys. Eyes slightly widening when you held your keys up.
The keys to the apartment you shared. – “Then don’t.” – you spoke taking a step forwards. Slapping your keys in his hand. Urging him to take them. The keys nearly falling out of his hand, making him stumble to keep a hold of them before dropping to the ground.
“Y/n… please… Sherlock didn’t meant it…” – her head went with a glare at him. – “Did you Sherlock?” – keeping her glare on him to think before he speaks. – “I did.” – he responded without a second thought. Joan closed her eyes with a heavy sigh.
You knew enough, turning on your heel. Taking off in the night, leaving your once known partners alone. Joan came up to his face, making him jump out of his skin. – “You know not everything is about you, you know that right?” – she told him.
“Because congratulations Holmes, you just broke up our little family unit as you so love to call it.” – Joan left with those words, giving him something to think about. Sherlock stared a bit into the distance before following her back to the apartment.
Joan sighed loud at the scenery. Sherlock sitting in silence, staring at the dangling keys between his fingers. Your keys. – “Stop being stubborn and call her back.” – Joan told him, having enough of his contemplating. – “No…” – Sherlock muttered out, not tearing his gaze away from the keys.
It made Joan sigh even louder to let him know how ridiculous he was being. – “You are being ridiculous.” – she said, throwing a shirt at him. It made him jump up. – “I am not!” – he shouted back. Expression stern and grumpily. Having heard something he didn’t like.
With a huff, he pulled his shirt a bit more down, taking his leave. Joan rolled her eyes at him. Sherlock slowed his pace nearing your door. Touching the cuffs on his sleeve to occupy himself thoughtfully. Brows slightly furrowed, contemplating about you. Something missing ever since you left.
Clearing his throat, he moved further, going towards his room. Closing the door behind him. Pulling his chair back as he came sitting at his desk. Pulling the folder a bit closer to him. Reading the first few lines of the police report with a smile. – “Y/n would love this.” – he spoke to himself.
When he caught himself smiling, he quickly cleared his throat. Letting his smile falter. – “It was not I that got themselves manipulated.” – he scoffed out, crossing his arms. Puffing loud, he tried to make himself feel better by acting a bit cocky. That something like that would’ve never happened with him.
When the sun was setting knocked Joan at his door. – “What do you want for diner?” – she asked on the other side of the door. Sherlock got up, opening the door. – “What does Y/n want?” – he blurted out as his eyes suddenly widened. Joan quirked her brow up.
“I…I…I mean whatever you want.” – he quickly tried to recover, but Joan was already smiling. – “Just call her. You missing her is starting to get a bit annoying.” – she gave him a little shove to get it in his head. Sherlock cleared his throat. – “I…I don’t miss her.” – he responded.
“Uh-hu.” – Joan said unbelieving. – “So constantly looking at her door, beginning a conversation to her when she is not here is not missing her?” – she explained further, needing him to understand just how much he missed he. – “I..I don’t do that.” – Sherlock called out, his voice going a pitch higher.
“Your voice pitched.” – Joan pointed out. – “It… it did not.” – he deepened his voice with a little clearance. Joan rolled with her eyes, taking out her phone. – “Call her!” – making it clear to him.
Sherlock swallowed nervously when Joan shoved her phone closer to him. He shakingly accepted it. – “Be honest with her, Sherlock.” – she finished, taking her leave. Sherlock stared down at the phone before dialling your number. Waiting for your answer. “Hello Joan.” Hearing your voice made him close his eyes with a warm sigh. – “Hello Y/n.” – he spoke.
There was a silence at the other end as he knew you were caught by surprise. – “I…I’d like to see you if you allow me.” – he continued, hoping you would agree. Another pause, making him fear the worst. – “Fine…” – you agreed with soft sigh. Sherlock asked you to come to the apartment. Joan took her leave, wanting to give the two of you some privacy.
Sherlock waited patiently for you. Taking a deep breath when the door opened. Curling up a tiny smile at the sight of you. – “You wanted to see me.” – you said stepping closer to him. – “Yes… and I very much like you to listen to me.” – he began. – “Sherlock, I think I have enough of your blaming.” – you interrupted him.
“No-no-no wait, listen to me Y/n.” – he quickly jumped in, not wanting you to leave. You gestured at him to continue, crossing your arms. – “I… I know I tend to make things all about me. Speak before I think. I shouldn’t have acted that way. I should’ve comforted you instead.” – he went further, nervously fumbling with his hands.
“We both know that isn’t like you.” – you responded, turning away from him. Sherlock moved forwards, grabbing you by your elbow to keep you in place. – “I was a dick. I tend to say the wrong things whenever I don’t know how to deal with it.” – he called out, pulling you towards him. – “I’ve been wrong again, wrong. I…I’m sorry…” – he let out taking you by your other elbow as well.
Staring deeply at you. – “I…I… Joan wants me to admit that I have missed you… and to be truthful I have. I have missed you Y/n. Very much.” – you blinked surprised when he pushed a stray of hair behind your ear. – “I’m sorry…please forgive me and come back… for I can’t fantom not having you by my side.” – he breathed out letting his touch go down your cheek to your chin.
Shuddering out a breath at his touch. Sherlock took another step closer to you. – “Please… come home.” – he wanted nothing more. You curled up a smile, touching his shoulder as you brought your head closer to him. Leaving a caring kiss against his cheek. Leaning a bit back, your gaze got caught with his. His breath hot on yours. Gaze falling lower with a yearning. Sucking in a breath, you felt compelled. Before you knew it, his lips were on yours. Kissing you deeply.
Breaking the kiss off, Sherlock took a step back with a clearance of his throat. – “Not a word to Joan about this.” – he said making you laugh loud.
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WIP meme. All Elementary. Thanks @sanguinarysanguinity!
—–this fragment was actually posted during JWP, but at the time (and still) I thought it might be part of something larger:
She snapped the laptop shut and stood up; her stomach quailed at the thought of more caffeine. She could just try again later in the day. Maybe afternoon would be better. Or night. She swayed a bit, indecisive. The silent weight above pressed down. She hunched her shoulders against it and turned to the basement door. The hinges squealed, never quite the same once the nails were removed. She’d joked to Alfredo it was her office alarm system when he offered to fix it. She didn’t bother turning on the light as she made her way down.
—–one of my oldest WIPs! Maybe someday?
Nevertheless, his requirements are defensive, not prurient, so the camera in the second-floor hallway remains but the ones in the guest room and bath were repurposed the same time he adjusted her alarm clocks. At first, surveillance was simple because she sticks like a burr on his cuff except when she sleeps. She told him she would be sending weekly updates to his father, and monitoring confirms no other communication about him to his father, or to anyone else, to date.
—–from the epilogue to “What the Beekeeper Saw.” I know I’ve posted bits from this before and haven’t checked to see if this is one of those.
He frowned, considering something. “Hmm, the case we finished that week was an especially ugly family entanglement.” He closed the book and shrugged his shoulders up, stretching. “You and Watson chatted over coffee, as I recall. I suspect I was not very good company.” Another pause, and he started tapping the fingers of his left hand over his thumb, forward and back. “If you don’t mind indulging me, what told you I’d known Watson a long time? I don’t believe she even came up to the roof that day.”
It was an odd question, but I owed him, after the train wreck that started this conversation. I thought back, not sure I could separate out those first impressions from the other times I’d seen the two of them since.
—–ooof this one will take a lot of work to pull off well and I keep making other choices about how to use my time. another maybe someday.
Ms Watson was clearly prepared for incredulity when she explained she was a private investigator. “I have records here, police records from New York City, indicating my involvement in the case last year when Moriarty — you know that’s the name she uses now? — resurfaced using your identity again. Those copies are yours to keep, if you like.” She fanned them out on the Formica table top, and carefully slid them an inch in her direction. Irene pulled them over, sloshing some coffee on the edge of the folder. Before she could ask, Ms Watson held out a driver’s license and another identification card. “Here’s some ID. You can also call the precinct for verification.”
—–a possible part-two to my untitled episode tag for 5x13 (Over a Barrel), after the hostage situation was resolved.
He’s deduced crying after the fact a number of times. He’s seen tears on her face just a handful. She’s been a kind presence to clients and victims, following their lead for contact and generally remaining at a sympathetic arm’s length. He’s offered tea, coffee, breakfast, cases, projects, tasks, and sometimes just his company as a balm to her occasionally agitated spirits. He’s arranged events and manipulated people to meet her needs. But this. He’d never imagined. Almost five years, and he’s brought up short as he hurried through the labyrinth of responder and tv-crew vehicles to see his partner, sitting on the back of a truck, not only accept the Captain’s offered arm but lean into the touch. His eyes sting a bit in the cold dry air, and he scowled, angry. Why is he angry?
