Mortar & Stone: an Elementary fanfiction

Chapter 6

Joan shut the taxi door and made her way up the steps of the Brownstone. A misty rain still hung in the air, and Joan's hands stung from the cold as she turned her key in the already unlocked door.

This is New York Sherlock, she chastised him in her head as it clicked open, Even you're not invincible.

The door opened to reveal Sherlock, standing at the bottom of the stairs, waiting for her.

"Turns out Naples is an old college friend of our Mayor," he simply said. Then: "What are you wearing?"

No, 'Hello.' No, 'Sorry for ruining your sex life.'

Joan held her hand up, not stopping her stride, "Talk to me in the morning, Sherlock." She continued past him, ascending the stairs.

"Watson," Sherlock followed her, "this is important."

"And my life isn't?!" She spat, turning on him.

Sherlock said nothing, stunned by her uncharacteristic outburst.

She was fuming, but she was too tired to fight. Instead, she turned back, stomping up to the landing, and slammed the door.

"If cracks start to show in that wall I'm holding you personally responsible," Sherlock shouted up after her.

Joan sank down onto her bed, punching the mattress either side of her with a frustrated "Ugh!" A myriad of emotions overwhelmed her - frustration, anger, rejection - as tears welled in her eyes.

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The next morning, Joan instantly regretted opening her eyelids as sunlight hit her dry, gritty pupils. A dull headache radiated out from the centre of her skull, and she pinched the bridge of her nose, relieving the pain somewhat, as she reached over to pull out her bedside drawer, rifling around for her ibuprofen.

Water filled her parched mouth as she gulped down the tablets. She lay back down to wait for the painkillers to kick in, images of the night before flashing through her mind, and the feelings that came along with them.

The dance. Sherlock's stubbled jaw against her temple. Tom's mouth on her breast. Sherlock's phone call. Her tears.

She needed to talk to Sherlock about boundaries.

When the throbbing finally subsided, she tossed the idea of a jog around before deciding to let herself off for one, hung-over, morning. A coffee sounded much more inviting. She padded downstairs, only to see Sherlock standing in the kitchen with his back to her, already making a pot.

Just like Tom in his kitchen the night before, Sherlock was shirtless; all muscle and sinew. She could see them rippling under his skin as he retrieved a spoon, reached for two mugs, walked to the fridge. Sherlock didn't spend hours at the gym, Joan suspected he burnt all his energy by sheer frenetic thought. Even in her disgruntled state, one word floated across her thoughts as she took him in: beautiful. He reminded her of the most famous torso of all: Michelangelo's David.

He heard the last step creak and spun, two cups in hand, freezing when he saw her.

"You're up early... Coffee?" He asked, turning back to retrieve another mug from the cupboard.

"Sure," Joan walked into the kitchen, sitting at the table. He placed a mug in front of her as she chose her words. "Sherlock," She began. Better to get it over and done with. "Last night you knew I was with Tom, and it could have waited til morning. I just don't understand why you felt it was ok to-"