Elementary, My Dear Joan

Faults

When Sherlock arrived back at the small flat of Baker Street, she honestly didn't expect to see Dr Watson sitting in the large, antique armchair in front of the fire. Joan sat staring at the lecturn in front of the tall window but she turned as Sherlock stepped into the room. The detective linked her hands behind her back and cleared her throat "Hello, Doctor." Joan gave a weak smile and stood up, taking up a wide stance "Sherlock." A long silence ensued before Sherlock bowed her head "I wish to apologise for my sibling's behaviour-"

"Is it true?"Joan cut in shortly. She wanted Sherlock to tell her if she could trust Mycroft. The detective bowed her head in what appeared to be guilt. Finally, she steeled herself and set her jaw hard "Well, if you still intend to take up my flat share offer I suppose it's only appropriate to say yes" she muttered. Joan's eyes widened slightly. Sherlock looked down before moving over to the lecturn, taking her violin from the table and tilting it on her neck. She picked up her bow and began to play a familiar tune, although Joan couldn't quite place it. "When in university I got in with a rather 'bad crowd'; I became profoundly addicted to narcotics. They dulled my senses which enabled me to prevent my subconcious observations."

Joan folded her arms in interest and she continued "Unfortunately, I became rather ill. Mycroft forced me to attend a hospital which treated my type of addiction and got me back into the world." The doctor nodded slowly, taking it all in. Despite her slight anger at being kidnapped by her new flatmate's creepy sister she found herself overwhelmed with pity. "Then you were employed by Lestrade?"

"No" Sherlock answered as the melody sank into a steady humming "Like I said, the Police only consult me; otherwise I'm a private detective." Nodding once more, Joan stepped forward and smiled slightly "Well for all your faults you play the violin alright." Grinning widely, Sherlock picked up the pace of her song once more before finishing it abruptly and setting the instrument down on the table. She made her way over to the wall where photos of the man from earlier along with a few post-it notes were plastered on the peeling wallpaper. placing her palms together against her lips, she sighed "So, another man dead; finally we know the killer's nationality- narrows it down to what? 7.5 million immigrants in the British population and 143.5 million occupants in Russia. Hardly anything to go on, Miles better hurry up with that autopsy." Joan frowned inwardly at the messy display.

"Who are the other victims?" She asked. All of the photos were of men in their late thirties, pale and stiff from death. "Jack London, John Schama, and Micheal Cox" Sherlock stated thoughtfully "All wealthy businessmen in the centre of the city. They did a lot of trading of confidential goods in Eastern Europe." Another clue the gunman was Russian, in case that wasn't entirely clear. Joan chewed the inside of her cheek and put all of her weight on her left hip "See that makes sense; the cheese thing was just wierd." Sherlock's eyes narrowed slighly. Surely it wasn't that rediculous to be able to identify substances like that.

Eventually, Joan smiled and zipped up her rain mac once more "Right, I better get home and start packing up my stuff." Sherlock's brow creased slightly in mild confusion but she nodded all the same "Fine."

The doctor chuckled, grabbing her bag and slinging it over her shoulder "I don't scare that easily, Holmes. Your sister isn't that intimidating." Sherlock smirked; it was unusual to find someone not frightened by her domineering sibling. Power it had seemed had poisoned Mycroft's mind slightly but that was the government for you. Joan cleched her fist at her side before holding her hand for the detective to take. Sherlock grasped it firmly and shook once as she gestured to the door "See you tommorrow, Watson."

Once Joan had left, Sherlock's smile dropped and she tore off her coat and scarf, tossing them onto the sofa before proceeding to sprawl out on top of them. She steepled her index fingers under her chin slowly. Maybe Dr Joan Watson wouldn't be such a problem afterall.