“Oh for fuck’s sake! I’m gay!” Joan is exasperated.
Not that it makes any difference. Nothing makes any difference. They all still assume that Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Joan Watson are either sleeping together or that at least the good doctor would like to. Usually she doesn’t care what anyone thinks about her. But when it comes to her sexuality and their relationship it becomes an issue. Perhaps its because she fought so hard for all of it. Sherlock thinks she is being irrational.
Sherlock, the lanky git, may be taller than her and have testosterone enough to easily build muscles if he wanted, but he has never obsessed about eating right, never spent days chasing a ball across a pitch. But Joan has spent a lifetime being scared she'll end up pudgy like her mom, not being able to play, so Joan is just as strong as him and in some cases stronger. In recent years, Sherlock probably hasn’t lifted anything heavier than his violin (perhaps the harpoon). Joan, however, has trekked the sands of Afghanistan, in searing heat (try 40-50 degrees C), carrying her own weight in a backpack and the rifle, the ammo, the works! Sherlock possibly never got into an all out fight; she thinks he simply used his venomous tongue to crush the opposition. Not so for her. Whether it was the pitch, the wards or the army. Dyke jokes were aplenty. There were enough blokes who challenged her to games (rugby is a contact sport), to drinking, shooting, and it always ended up in a scuffle. Her unit was okay though, scratch that, the boys were great. What she wouldn’t give to introduce them to each dick in medical school who claimed that anyone blonde and possessing tits should be handing over the scalpel and not wielding it. So yeah!
And then of course there was the whole, spend a night with my cock, baby, and you will forget about girls! Really?
So yeah, she has learnt long back to not let it bother her and usually it doesn’t but for those few instances when someone blatantly tells her that she is lusting after her flatmate.
She takes a deep breath now; jaw clenched tight and walks to the other side of the room. Sherlock frowns at the corpse, flicks a look over his shoulder at the new sergeant in Lestrade’s team and then walks over to her side. Then he proceeds to completely ignore her as he crouches to observe the carpeted corner. She is both gratified and mortified.
They leave shortly and she isn’t sure whether they are done with the case or simply the site of the murder. It isn’t like her to be so rattled but today she was concentrating so hard on not concentrating on Sherlock that she succeeded brilliantly and missed everything. She is still cursing herself when they go up the steps to their flat. Oh hell! It’s possibly PMS.
“No it’s not.”
“Sherlock! How… what…”
“Don’t be daft, Joan, your periods ended six days ago. Oh that? Your current chain of thoughts is hardly doctorate material, though if the quality and quantity of Ph.D.s in this country is anything to go by it perhaps is now.”
“Sherlock!” she stomps away to the kitchen and switches the kettle on.
“What exactly upsets you about these insinuations of a sexual relationship between us?”
“I am not talking about it.”
“Oh come on. Help me a little. You have banned me from deducing you aloud.”
“Ohhhh! So that was you NOT deducing me.”
“Sarcasm, Joan? And I was only deducing your thoughts, not you.”
“So go ahead then. Fucking deduce me as well. Its not like you are going to stop for my bloody sake.”
“I would you know. I did stop after you insisted so vociferously.” Sherlock’s voice is almost meek and conciliatory and even though she knows he’s shamming it she does accept that he tried and breaks into a smile, shaking her head. It’s so typical of him.
Then in a total Sherlockian about turn he says, “Plus, I would say they are complimenting you after all. That you are engaging in sexual congress with me, instead of those empty headed women you insist on dating, speaks volumes for your good taste.” Thus evaporating any good will he had garnered and normalcy is restored in 221B.