Elementary, My Dear Joan

False Pretences

Joan kept her head low as she made her way through the howling crowds of Oxford Street Circus. The air was thick and biting. She let out unintelligible mutters of frustration as her battered briefcase kept getting caught between the tall business men who forced themselves past her; of course their lives took priority over hers, she thought bitterly. It wasn't their fault her mood was foul. Rent payments and bills were piling up around her and there was no way she could afford them on her own, let alone to buy a new apartment like she wanted.

When she finally reached her train on the Underground, Joan found herself drawing out her phone. Strangely enough, last night it wouldn't send any of her texts. She dismissed it as a coincidence and realised it was probably time to get it looked at or maybe even treat herself to a new one. Her fingers drummed idly on her leg (luckily she'd gotten the last seat in the carriage) and she slipped it back into her bag as the train screeched to a halt. Stepping off, she whipped her head to the left and continued walking up the stairs onto Chancery Lane.

The cold Autumn chill caught her military green rain mac once more and her long, blonde hair whipped about slightly in the wind. She huffed, tightening her grip on the strap of her bag. Two days at St. Bartholomew's Hospital. Joan had wondered whether she may meet Miss Holmes again or whether it was just a chance meeting. She even thought about taking her up on the offer of going to the morgue but it was a stupid idea; going out of her way to talk to a woman that had done nothing but insulted her. Although, Joan didn't think that was Sherlock's intention. The woman seemed quite sad to her, thinking that the best impression she could make was one of arrogance and indifference.

~~~~~~~~~~~

"Yes, I'd recommend strongly you consult Mr Prem. An expert's opinion seems to be in order, Miss Knight. Hm? Hm" Joan lectured down the phone which rested firmly between her shoulder and ear. Luckily, her last appointment couldn't make it so she only had to contact her through the landline. Diagnosis over the phone wasn't ideal but laziness meant she didn't care at that moment; a bad back was nothing to the stuff she'd seen in Afghanistan: limbs torn clean off, eyes hanging out of sockets. The memory made her shudder.

Suddenly, her pager bleeped beside her and she groaned, putting down her pen. "Okay Miss Knight. I can promise you Mr Prem will be able to recommend the best treatment but for now I'd suggest about thirty milligrams of 'Volterol'. Okay. You take care now, goodbye." After she'd hung up, Joan slammed the phone down and picked up the still bleeping pager '441234567890'. Unknown number. Joan rolled her eyes and re-clipped it to her waistband before sliding back her chair. She drank the last cold dregs from her mug of coffee and put the paperwork back in its file, picking up her bag from beside her and grabbing her coat.

She hurried down the corridor; if she was quick she had a chance of catching the Tube early. However, as she passed the morgue, she was stopped by a tall man in a pristine lab coat. His sapphire eyes were wide and friendly, his face soft and young. His cropped, curly hair was gelled. "Excuse me? You're that resident doctor, right?" Joan couldn't help but notice the smoothness of his voice. She quickly gathered herself and smiled "Yes. Can I help you at all?"

"Actually you can" the man grinned back "I'm Miles, Miles Hooper." He held his hand out politely and Joan took it firmly "Joan Watson. What can I do for you?" Miles gestured to the lab behind him and took a step back "Um, I just need a little verification on something. My colleague and I are at a bit of a crossroads at the moment and she thinks a your opinion may help being a soldier and all." Joan bit her lip uncertainly; the train would get to the station in ten minutes. Maybe a quick look wouldn't hurt.... If she was willing to run "Okay."

She followed Miles through the doors of the morgue into a large lab with a half dissected body lain flat on the stainless steel work surface. A woman with her back to them both stood hunched over the body, picking at the small intestine with a pair of tweezers. Her dark hair was piled up in a loose bun at the base of her neck, small wisps escaping around her ears. Miles touched Joan's shoulder lightly, the dimples in his cheeks becoming more prominent as his smile grew tighter "She's here." His announcement didn't seem to faze the woman at first as she continued to dig the instrument into the organs, as if looking for something.

Miles sighed and stepped forward "Joan Watson. She's here." Joan frowned slightly "Maybe I should-"

"Aha!"

She was cut off by a triumphant cry as the woman held the tweezers up in the air, a small piece of metal between the tips "I knew it was in there. It was illogical to think it could be anywhere else." Joan froze at the voice. She'd recognise that upper class, courteous tone anywhere "Miss Holmes?"

Sherlock turned, the corner of her lip quirked up slightly "Ah, Miss Watson. I'm so glad you came." She put the tweezers down and folded her arms "Curiosity weighing you down, was it?"

"Sherlock" Miles warned lowly "You asked me to fetch her. Please don't tell me you're going to torture the poor woman." His voice was pleading; obviously he knew what Sherlock was like. Joan lowered her gaze uncomfortably "What do you want?" She'd promised herself she'd avoid this woman for the rest of her life and now she'd just unwittingly walked right into her office.

Sherlock's small smile dropped quickly and she made her way over to them "How's the phone?"
"Fine" Joan lied, raising her head to look her square in the eyes. Sherlock hummed in response, pretending to be convinced. Miles gulped and stepped round the pair, turning shyly back to the body. "What do you think of the violin?" Sherlock asked suddenly. Joan frowned and shook her head in confusion at the random question "Okay, I suppose. Why do you want to know?"

"I play the violin when I'm thinking, sometimes at horrendous hours. Would that bother you?"

"A little" Joan admitted. She honestly didn't see what this had to do with anything. Sherlock paused but then raised an eyebrow "I've got a flat in Westminster, on Baker Street and I'm struggling a bit to pay rent. I was wondering if you were looking for a place to stay?"

The room fell silent as Joan bit her lip. Did she really want to share a flat with this woman? She was desperate afterall.

"Is that what you wanted? To invite me to live with you. How the Hell did you even know I'm looking for a new place?" Sherlock rolled her eyes and Miles glanced back in sudden interest. She curled her tongue in her mouth "You're a resident doctor, of course you're tight for money. You're army pension isn't enough to support you alongside mediocre wages and you obviously can't get a permanent job." Joan narrowed her eyes at the implication, trying once again to decipher how she came to her conclusion. But, before she could ask, Sherlock sped past her and tore off her lab coat before replacing it with a long, navy double-breasted coat. She turned briefly before opening the door "The address is 221B Baker Street. Two O'clock sharp, if convenient."