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A Dress for Watson

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“Oh dear,” Moriarty said lightly with a small sigh. She bent down and picked up Joan’s dress, tsking delicately. “You can’t go out in this.”

Joan only gave her a look before taking the dress out of her hands. Moriarty ignored the abruptness of her gesture and turned away, shaking out her bed frazzled hair.

“You know Sherlock will see the wrinkles in it and wonder where you’ve been,” Moriarty said as she stepped over to her closet. “Who you’ve been with. Do you really want to face all his questions?”

From the small smirk on Moriarty’s face, Joan knew the woman had already guessed her answer. With a roll of her eyes, Joan draped her dress over the back of a chair. “And walking into the brownstone with one of your outfits would be inconspicuous, I’m sure.”

“Oh, my dear Watson,” Moriarty crooned. “I’m disappointed in you. Do you think I’d really be so obvious?” She pulled out a dress that looked suspiciously like something Joan would wear. “I know our relationship is more of a casual affair than something serious, but after all this time, I would expect you to know better.”

Joan did know better. She knew that Moriarty thrived on the risk of Sherlock finding out that his archnemesis and true love was sleeping with his partner. Everything Moriarty did was calculated down to the tiniest details; of course she would have a dress for Joan to wear. She’d probably left the dress on the floor intentionally after ripping it off as she had.

“Come now,” Moriarty said, waving the dress to her. “Put it on. You don’t want to be late returning home.”

Setting aside any questions she had about Moriarty caring enough to buy clothes that could pass for her own personal fashion style, Joan took the dress from the criminal.