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Joan Watson was a proud, strong knight – the deftest knight in the region – and, as such, she was expected to perform high feats of glory. Such feats usually required slaying a wicked beast and saving someone. If that someone was a princess, then all the better. Bards loved singing epic poems and love ballads to the ravenous courts. Joan was only happy to help, rewarded each time by an intense feeling of satisfaction and, not to be discarded thoughtlessly, a heavy money-filled pouch.
In essence, she was a great knight – despite her ardent refusal to kill anyone – and all loved her, whose courage never wavered.
That, she thought morosely, staring down at the half-naked man before her, was before anyone had asked her to change her line of enterprise from saving princesses to princes.
It was clear to her almost immediately that Sherlock Holmes didn't want her there. Something about the way he first looked at her, with a disdainful sort of defiance, had made it obvious he thought of her as an annoying obstacle added to his own misfortune. But his father had warned her about his 'temper' and told her to ignore it. Easier said than done. The mark upon his chest might have made matters worse. She didn't know one bearer who liked having their curse flaunted like that for others to see.
''I'm the knight your father sent to save you,'' she repeated, growing more and more frustrated by his indifference. ''What more do you want? A signed parchment?''
He ignored her entirely, twirling his hands to jingle the shackles that imprisoned him. ''These are of great quality. I should take notes to buy some for my own pleasure.''
It was entirely too much to know so soon after meeting him. Rolling her eyes, Joan made her way to him and began to inspect his shackles. He observed her dispassionately. After a while, she was forced to admit defeat: she could not, yet, cut through metal with her sword and her ability to lockpick was mediocre. Perhaps if she could just–
He strained towards her, so abruptly their heads almost bumped. ''For as soon as I caught sight of you nothing of my voice remains in my mouth but my tongue is numb, a subtle flame flows down my limbs, with their own sound my ears are ringing, and my eyes are covered in a twin night.'' His words ended on a wistful breath, almost longing.
Joan was so intensely glad for her great helm that she could cry. ''What?''
''On the table are my belongings,'' he said, straightening, as though what had just happened was a normal occurrence for him. ''There must be a book. Give it to me.'' A pause, then almost sardonically, ''Please.''
His belongings were an assortment of various objects that didn't seem to go together: a few rolled parchments, a dried orchid, a bone finger. Beneath a crisp shirt, she spied a shoe full of herbs that she didn't recognize. They smelt terrible and she pushed it away to grab the book he wanted, trying not to think too hard about why a man would require so many strange objects. When she turned back to him, he was stretching his arms, free from his shackles.
''How did you...?''
He took the book from her and flicked through the pages until his face brightened. ''Ah! Perfect, as always.''
Handing her the book, he went to the table and began to gather his belongings. Curious, Joan looked through the pages until she found the poem he'd searched for. It was exactly as he'd spoken it, minus the fake passionate tone he'd used to trick her. A spark of rage twisted her guts but she breathed through it. Patience, patience. In a few hours he would be back to his abode and she wouldn't have to think about arrogant princes who thought they could do anything without consequences.
''Well, what are you waiting for?'' he asked, putting his shirt back on. She didn't miss the way he applied a discreet hand to the space above his curse mark. ''We have much work to do.''
With that, he left the room. She had to trot behind him to follow; the clinks and groans of her armor were embarrassingly loud in the heavy silence of the corridors. She thought she caught an amused twitch of his lips but it might as well have been a trick of the light. Sherlock Holmes didn't seem like a man who smiled much.
''What do you mean, work?'' she asked sharply.
''I mean exactly that. Work.''
She gritted her teeth. ''What sort of work?''
''Work that requires someone capable of handling a sword,'' he answered, looking down at the sword hanging from her hip. He didn't seem impressed. ''I hope you know how to use it.''
''Do you want me to demonstrate right now?'' She stopped and gripped the pommel. As always, a rush of excitement tinged with shame overcame her. Nothing in the world could compare to the strong reliability of her sword's pommel. ''I'd be happy to but I'm afraid the nearest available target is you.''
He stopped too. With an explosive sigh, he rubbed his face, then nodded. ''Alright. Social niceties. Well. I am Sherlock Holmes. You are the keeper Father sent to bring me back to his castle. I won't go back. You are not without strength, obviously, but I am myself an expert in multiple forms of combat. We could, I suppose, fight and see who wins. Were it any other day, it would be an interesting experiment to me, I assure you, but my time with Andrea has put me on the right path and I cannot waste the opportunity.'' He waited a bit, gauging her reaction. ''Is that a good enough reason to avoid getting hit in the face with a sword?''
''I guess,'' she said, after a moment. ''I'm Joan Watson.''
He flashed her a brief grimace. ''A lovely name, I'm certain. Now, given that my Father is paying you an absurd amount of gold to keep me alive, perhaps you should know your mission isn't over yet. I shall throw myself into the lion's den very soon.'' He seemed excited by the prospect of facing danger.
''Why?''
''I solve problems,'' he said, not without a hint of arrogance. ''I am very good at what I do. Sometimes it involves throwing myself into uncomfortable situations. As I said, I am perfectly capable of defending myself, but it would, without doubt, be much easier with a sure sword by my side.''
She narrowed her eyes at him. ''Are you asking me to be your knight?''
''Of course not. I am merely telling you that you'll probably have to drag back my corpse to Father if you don't follow me.''
Without waiting for her answer – he must have known she was about to argue – he walked away from her. Joan watched his retreating back, clinging to her sword. She couldn't very well let him die, could she? She had made a promise, so long ago, before ever taking up arms, that she would do no harm. Her sword had drunk little blood since then; she'd always tried her hardest to understand how much harm she caused and her hand, upon seeing widened eyes and caught breaths, tended to withdraw before dealing the final blow. Despite her own achievements and the sword hanging from her side, she could admit to herself she was more healer than anything else. In spite of everything.
But, by the gods, he was so utterly annoying.
''Okay,'' she said, to herself. Then, trotting back to him, she asked, ''What did you mean by 'my time with Andrea'? Were you even in danger?''
He gave her a small, ironic smile.
–
(Days later, as they sit curled up before a fire, she asks about the mark upon his chest. He evades the question and carefully does not press a hand on it but she knows. She knows. She's seen it, before, when she was still helping people. The indelible mark of a curse, spread so deep beneath the skin that one can rub until the skin turns red without erasing it. Not even the greatest healer can do anything about the pain and limitation a curse inflicts on its bearer.
She knows. She's tried.
''With all due respect,'' he says just as she's about to speak up, ''I do not care what a former healer has to say about it.''
''How did you...?''
He indicates her hands. ''Your fingertips are slightly tainted green. It happens to healers who handle medicinal plants all day long. Not even the calluses you've grown as a knight can hide them. Besides,'' he continues, sneering, ''your whole savior behavior betrays yourself. I've never met a knight so terrified about hurting someone else.''
''Said knight can definitely kick your ass,'' she replies coldly, raising one eyebrow.
That point, he doesn't argue. Instead, he stares at her from over the fire, and, deliberately nonchalant, says, ''I do wonder about your sudden change of career. I have no reason to doubt you were an excellent healer, given your dedication and competency. Why stop? Oh, you might have been bored, perhaps. But, again, your sense of duty is astounding. You would have need a strong reason to stop being a healer.''
For a moment, she can't speak. His eyes are very cold, despite the fire's reflection, and she realizes finally there is very little he doesn't see in her.
''I get it,'' she says, through gritted teeth.
''I hope you do,'' he retorts evenly, though the warning in his tone subsists. ''You keep your secrets, Watson, and I'll keep mine. It seems an honest deal to me.'')
–
I am going to personally kill him, she thought, dodging her opponent's punch to barrel into their chest. They fell down, groaning, and as she stood over them, her sword in her hand, there came the usual, sterile debate. Kill or not kill. Did they have a family? Children? How could she appoint herself judge of whether they could live or die? Could she-
Before she had time to decide, they crawled away, pushing themself to their knees and running away. She thanked them silently, slid her sword back in its pommel and went in search of Sherlock, who might very well end up thrown into the moat if she still felt like it when she found him. Opening doors after doors without success did not alleviate the roaring in her chest. On her hip, her sword weighed a thousand tons.
She had just wanted a nice, peaceful morning.
''Ah, Watson!'' came a voice, muffled by a door on her right. Taking a deep breath, she opened it and took in the scene before her. Sherlock was hanging by the hands from the ceiling; his reddened face betrayed the ache he must feel in his shoulders. It couldn't be embarrassment: being caught wearing a heavy, luxurious dress would not bother him even if it weren't her. ''You certainly took your time.''
Counting to a hundred would not help. She closed the door, breathed a few times in the empty corridor, wondered absently how she would go about gutting him with so much frill in the way, then opened the door again when it seemed her hands would not try to strangle him on their own volition.
Now, Sherlock was watching her warily. ''You're angry.''
''Did you deduce that one on your own?'' she muttered. Stepping towards him, she tugged at one of his pink ribbons. ''What's with the dress?''
''I needed it for the case.''
''Do you know what else you needed for the case?''
Sherlock sighed. ''I suppose you want me to say you.''
''That would have helped with the whole situation, don't you think?''
His silence was answer enough. ''Look, Sherlock, I'm going to be clear about one thing, alright? I'm not some kind of fool you can dangle around on a leash and ditch behind when you want to be alone. That's not how this work.''
''It's not personal, Watson,'' he said, in that drawling tone of his she hated. She was almost certain he didn't realize how affected it sounded. It was a tone you'd put on like gloves to avoid touching something disgusting. ''We work admirably well together, I can admit it. But we are not friends. I don't need friends. What I need, however, is to stop dangling from the ceiling before my shoulders dislocate.''
She hadn't expected to be rebuked so thoroughly. They weren't friends, and for that he was right. Why was she even staying with him during his travels? She should have dragged him back to his father kicking and screaming a long time ago. He wasn't her problem and if he didn't even think of them as friends... Well, his life wasn't her responsibility. She didn't have to save him.
''Alright,'' she said. It was easy to sound even, controlled. She'd done it her whole life. ''I'm getting you out of here. Then, we'll go our own way.''
He seemed perplexed. ''That is not what I-''
He'd been bound with rope and one swipe of her sword made him slump to the floor like a stringless puppet. A quiet groan escaped him. She quashed a brief flicker of guilt – he'd done worse to himself – and hauled him to his feet. Uncharacteristically, he slumped against her; she almost recoiled until she realized he was too dizzy to stand on his own.
''You've got to be kidding me,'' Joan groaned. ''What have they done to you?''
Sherlock blinked. ''Not much, I assure you. At least, not when I was conscious.''
''Were you unconscious around them a lot?''
''I tried not to be,'' he grimaced. ''It's just fatigue, Watson, nothing else. Give me a moment.''
Sighing, she helped him sit down on the ground. ''This is why sleep is important,'' she said. Gods, he had her acting like an overbearing mother. The silence stretched for a moment as he took deep breaths. The highs and lows of unfamiliar voices sometimes reached them and she wondered how long they could remain here before someone stumbled onto their clumsy escape.
Sherlock must have read her thoughts somehow because he said, ''I'm afraid we shall have to make our escape sooner rather than later, Watson.''
''How do you propose we do that? You don't really look fit for running a dozen flights of stairs.''
''You will have to carry me,'' he said, matter-of-factly.
''I'm not sure I can-''
''Yes, you can.'' His eyes found hers. It was neither tentative nor judgmental. He knew. He just knew and she shouldn't even be surprised but she was. A familiar shiver ran down her back. She had to fight the overwhelming instinct to run away, relieved, in some way, for the way her armor disguised her. ''No panicking now, Watson. We do have to go.''
''Yes,'' she muttered, and bent down to pick him up. He wasn't the most stocky man, but he was heavy and she struggled a moment to find a grip that wouldn't send them tumbling down. For someone who seemed so reluctant about touching people, Sherlock didn't seem to have any qualm about clinging to her. Perhaps he was even more lightheaded than she'd thought at first. ''We must look ridiculous.''
He looked down at his absurd dress, at the way its bright colors clashed against the dull and faded metal of her armor. ''Isn't that how it is supposed to go? Does the knight not save the princesses in those stories of yours?''
''I'm not exactly a real knight, and you're not a real princess either.''
The bitterness in her own voice surprised her. She'd thought she'd made peace with herself a long time ago. Knighthood meant helping people: it didn't matter what lay beneath the armor, what expression was hidden behind the helmet. It shouldn't matter. And yet, each time she took off her helmet, there was something disappointing about seeing the same old face, the same unfit body. As though she was expecting, despite knowing better, that a miracle would happen when she was lost in the metal, that finally her body would turn to what she'd always envisioned it to be.
The armor didn't change anything. Neither did the dresses when she was still healing people. Nothing had ever worked, but at least, behind a helmet, she could pretend.
Sherlock's eyes didn't leave her until they somehow made it back outside the castle unharmed. When she gently put him down against the nearest tree to give him something to drink, he lay his head back against the trunk, closed his eyes and said, ''I would be remiss if I didn't say this, Watson, but you are quite clearly an asset to my work.''
''Wow, thanks,'' she said dryly.
''I mean it. I believe it would be a great loss for my work to let you leave.''
She sighed. ''For your work.''
''You have helped me a great deal,'' he said reluctantly, as though he was tearing the words from his mouth. ''It is not a selfless bargain I am trying to strike, far from it. You are intelligent, capable and not without interest for the oddities of my work. But you have also helped me on more personal matters.''
Despite her lingering anger, she felt herself flush at his words. High praise, coming from someone like Sherlock Holme.
''You are under no obligation to remain, of course,'' he continued, giving her a gauging look. ''But as I said, I would be remiss... That is, I believe you are...''
Taking pity on him, she smiled. ''You want me to stay.''
''That would be agreeable to me,'' he replied primly, barely covering his look of relief. ''If it is to you, evidently.''
She waited a moment, just to let him stew, then nodded. ''I guess it is. As long as you don't ditch me again,'' she warned, glaring at him. He nodded, without a hint of frustration on his face. ''Now, drink up before you collapse on me again. Also, it does mean we're friends now.''
''Partners,'' he corrected, which, to him, seemed even better than any sort of friendship.
''I'm sure we can try to be both.''
The grateful glance he gave her wasn't just for the water.
–
(''I was a princess, once,'' he says, in the middle of the night. Then, when she doesn't answer quickly enough, ''I know you're awake, Watson. You haven't started snoring.''
''I don't snore,'' she retorts, turning on her side to face him. They behold each other underneath the moon's benevolent gaze. An immense wave of emotion is choking her. ''You don't look- How did you...?''
He smiles mirthlessly and taps his chest. ''Fortunately, magic isn't just good for curses.''
''Is that how you guessed? About me?''
''I don't guess, I know.''
''So you knew I was one of your kind.''
He scoffs. ''One of my kind. We're not an entirely new species, Watson. And I suppose, yes, that is how I knew, in part. But you don't hide it.''
''I actually do,'' she says, smiling. ''It's easier like that.''
''Well. I observed it.'' He sounds perplexed and she laughs quietly. Bless this strange, strange man. ''There are certain tells. The way you carry yourself, your obsession with having your helmet down even though you know it prevents you from creating an equal rapport with the people you help, your-''
''I don't need the whole list.'' Then, softly, almost delirious with relief, ''I'm glad you know. I'm glad you're one of my kind.''
Sherlock remains quiet for a long time, his eyes never leaving hers. He won't say it, she knows, but it's there, in the relaxed line of his mouth.
''I think you should start taking off your helmet,'' is all he says before turning away.)
–
Everything hurt.
A pulsating, roaring storm in her ears had made her deaf to the screaming swords a long time ago and she was grateful for it, however dizzy it made her. She was spared the sound of flesh coming apart beneath the ravaging kisses of metal. She was spared the human cries, the choked sobs, the howl of the fire, which was now spreading too fast for anyone to control. Its warmth chased away the cold numbness starting to nestle into her heavy arms.
Joan couldn't be numb right now. There was too much at stake.
Darting away from her opponent, who fell to their knees with a soundless groan, she scrambled to an empty corridor to take a breath. Her hands were shaking. She stared at them a long time, coated in crimson, then shook herself out of it to look for Sherlock. The sneaky thought she'd been trying to dispel since she entered the prison asserted itself again in a moment of weakness. She was too slow to banish it.
He might already be dead. All of this would be for nothing.
''C'mon,'' she told herself. ''C'mon. Quick and efficient, like you used to be. No thinking until it's done.''
It took her forever to find him. Later, in feverish nightmares, she would wander those corridors incessantly until her armor rot away, trapping her in its decay. There would be an eternity of anguish, in those dreams. It wouldn't hold a candle to the despair she felt now, beneath the careful layer of concentration she'd applied in her mind. It howled, deep inside her chest, and gnawed at her heart until she was almost certain she would keel over from the sheer fear of finding him dead.
He was fine. That was the strangest thing to see, she thought, hovering in the doorway. There had been so much blood, so much pain, and in the heart of the prison, fire sang its wailing melody, holding its arms out to embrace them all. But Sherlock appeared fine, unharmed, albeit a little pale. When he saw her, he jerked against his shackles with a strangle sound she'd never heard anyone make before.
''Watson?'' he called. She wondered absently why he seemed so surprised until she realized she'd lost her helmet in the fight. Her face must be covered in blood. He'd never seen her like that.
She stumbled towards him. ''Are you alright?''
''Watson-''
''You don't look hurt,'' she muttered and, against every medical instinct she possessed, pressed a trembling hand against his throat, feeling for his pulse, even though she could see he was obviously fine. His heart beat a steady, if quick, rhythm and she sighed, letting her hand linger. ''You're okay.''
He straightened, dislodging her hand. ''You're not.''
If she'd thought him pale before, it was nothing compared to now. His face had taken the composure of a wax mask; his narrowed eyes studied her, his mouth twisted in a grimace. Fear didn't look good on him. It made him seem lost and small, unlike anything she'd ever seen him be. Incoherently, she reached out to his face before realizing her hands were coated in blood and that he did not like to be touched at all.
''Don't look at me like that,'' she slurred. The exhaustion that had slowly been creeping on her was overwhelming now that she'd found him. Clumsily, she tried to unfasten his shackles but his hands gripped hers before she could move. ''Sherlock, we need to go. There's a fire downstairs. And people intent on getting your head, apparently.''
''Watson,'' he said, and she stopped. Nothing came after, just her name, spoken in a hushed whisper, as though crushed down by his tone. He stared at her, unblinking, but his grip on her hands was tight to the point of discomfort. ''Watson.''
It snapped her back into herself. ''I'm fine.''
''You're wounded.''
''Which is why we really have to go now, Sherlock.''
He finally blinked, nodding. ''Yes. Yes. Watson, I-''
''Just help me get you out of these things.''
Together, they managed to overcome her dizziness and his incapacity long enough to free him. As soon as he was, he jumped to his feet. For an absurd moment, she thought he was about to embrace her, but he only pressed a trembling hand to her shoulder – which she didn't feel because of the armor – and helped her out of the room.
If the journey to his cell had taken forever, she could not say the same for their escape trip. Everything passed her in a blur, though she kept a tight grip on her sword. At one point, a zealous guard tried to sneak on them but she knocked him out before Sherlock could.
''I know how to defend myself,'' he hissed, frustrated.
''Yeah, well, I'm the one with a sword, okay?''
Although he clearly wanted to protest, Sherlock stayed silent and followed her. Her knees almost buckled when they finally got outside, leaving behind the acrid smell of blood and letting the gentle breeze ruffle their hair. The inane desire to slump on the lush grass and curl up there almost overtook her. One look at Sherlock's strained expression was enough to rekindle her determination. She would sleep later, when they were both safe and sound.
''Where are the horses?'' Sherlock asked, glancing behind.
''I left them in a clearing, not far from here.''
He stopped abruptly.
''Sherlock, we have to-''
''You're not going to make it that far,'' he said in a muted tone.
''I'm fine.''
Her body chose that moment to betray her. His arms were around her before she could really start falling. In an instant, he was laying her down on the ground and unfastening the clasps of her armor. Had it been anyone else, Joan would have recoiled. But Sherlock's eyes appeared distant, focused on a point outside of her perception, and he understood her on a level that nobody had before. One of her kind. She trusted him with everything she had.
''You were stabbed,'' he stated. ''Your left arm is broken. So are your ribs.'' She didn't look away from his face, wondering if he was going to cry. He certainly looked like it. ''You've lost a non-negligible amount of blood.''
''That's not how you're supposed to do it,'' she said, smiling. ''You're supposed to sound reassuring.''
His eyes snapped to her, huge and wet, pleading. ''Watson, you'll have to heal yourself.''
''I can't.''
''Watson-''
''You need focus for healing,'' she explained. The pain was starting to settle in, inch by inch. ''I can't do it right now.''
He couldn't do it either, of course. The curse mark he bore made sure of that.
Closing her eyes, she managed to mutter, ''There's a village, a few miles away. If you manage to stop the bleeding-''
''You might not die,'' he finished. The cracks in his voice were showing. ''Watson, I forbid you to die.''
''You're not the boss of me,'' she murmured, vainly trying to resist the curtain of darkness swallowing her. The pain faded to a distant pulse, the roar in her ears withered to a whistling. Sherlock was cradling her in his arms and she felt warm, despite the numbness. She thought she should be scared, but it was fine, she had done what she was meant to do. She'd healed again, in a way.
Faintly, she heard his voice, though she couldn't understand anything but the steadiness of his body. I'm your knight, she wanted to say, and that's what knights do.
Then, it was all gone.
–
(When she opens her eyes again, he is watching her calmly, which is probably due to the fact they are in a nice, cozy room and not covered in her blood anymore. Unable to swallow, Joan thinks very hard about getting a glass of water and is rewarded by his unwavering attention to detail.
''It's been three days,'' he says hoarsely as he helps her drink. It explains how rough he looks. ''You've been awake here and there, but never for long.''
She nods, croaking, ''How do you feel?''
''Don't, Watson,'' he mutters. Ah, angry at her still.
''I'm sorry.''
''You're not. Do not lie. Don't- Don't do anything.'' He rubs his face harshly. Then, from behind his hands, he murmurs, ''I am deeply relieved.''
An olive branch she seizes eagerly. ''Me too.''
His hand squeezes her wrist, warm fingers lingering onto her pulse. They remain quiet until she falls asleep again.)
–
Sherlock raised his eyes to her; they glinted dimly and she thought, for an absurd moment, that he'd been crying. He hadn't. When he cried, it came from within and barely reached the surface. This, all the raw vulnerability, the softness, the fear, it wasn't Sherlock at all and she recoiled, though he didn't seem to see it. The cramped cell was pressing in on them; the hard, cold stones were as jagged as the precipice they were walking on and she felt, suddenly, so very afraid.
''Watson,'' he murmured. It was a whole world in his mouth. Syllables bent underneath the memories he infused in her name. Somehow, he'd made her family name hers in a way nobody had been able to before. ''I thought...''
''That I wouldn't find you?''
He nodded, eyes flitting away, to a cracked stone in the ground. Where was Sherlock in the man she was looking down upon? Gripping her sword, she shrugged, said, ''I guess I know you more than you realized.''
''You're not angry,'' he stated.
''I'm not.''
''Why?''
''I understand why you thought you had to do it.''
He tilted his head but didn't meet her gaze. ''Do you? Understand?''
''I think I do, yes,'' she said. Taking a deep breath. Her heart hammered in her chest, begging her to stop. But he looked lost, desperate, and she had to give him a hand, even though it felt like cleaving herself in two. ''I also know what it's like to kill someone. I don't want you to have to go through it.''
''Moriarty deserves it,'' he hissed, snarling. Completely gone was his usual composure; she could have just as well been looking down at a mad dog. ''For what he did to her.''
''Maybe. But I don't think you understand what it's like.''
''I am capable to endure such a stain on my soul.''
''You're not,'' she said quietly. Brutal honesty had always worked on him; his façade shattered in an instant as he fisted his hands on his lap. Perhaps he'd known all along and only needed someone to tell him. ''I don't think anybody in their right mind can endure it, no matter the circumstances.''
Slowly, she let her hand fall from her sword and began the arduous task of getting him out of those shackles. With his help, she'd greatly improved her lockpicking skills. He could have freed himself if he'd wanted to. His hands were cold. When she was done, she wrapped him in her cloak and he didn't even protest.
''I'm going to get you out of here,'' she said. ''Then, we're going to find him together. You don't have to do this alone.''
Finally, he looked at her. ''You are not the cursed one. I cannot very well demand that you–''
''I wasn't asking, Sherlock. It's either I help you or I let you rot here if that's what you want. But you can't ask me to be your partner and then tell me to stay behind when you clearly need me. When it comes to us, it's both or none, right?''
He was staring at her with too much adoration. Clearing her throat, she mumbled, ''You need a good sword, anyway.''
''I know how to defend myself,'' he pointed out, but, for the first time, he seemed amused rather than frustrated by her attempts to protect him, as though it had become a shared joke between them. As though he'd finally understood that she would go the same lengths he did to defend the delicate bond between them. ''Swords are so brutish, Watson.''
She snorted. ''Yeah, because punching people is so much more elegant.''
''Says the woman who keeps punching instead of swording.''
''Swording isn't a word.''
''What constitutes a word?'' he asked, lips twitching. ''Is it a mere combination of phonems or semes? Is it defined by the locutor's intent or by the rapport between two locutors, both agreeing the word is a word? If we were, Watson, to agree on the fact swording is a word, would it appease your grammatical rigidity?''
''I'm going to leave you here, actually.'' But she was smiling too much for her threat to be effective.
As she helped him to his feet – he complained of pins and needles – she squeezed his wrists and he gave her a brief, faint smile. They didn't need more to understand each other's gratitude.
''Ready?'' she asked.
''My dear Watson, whenever am I not?''
–
(''You okay?'' she asks, fully aware of how futile it sounds. There's not much else she can do.
He nods but his focus is elsewhere. Perhaps still inwardly examining all that he's missed before. At least he hasn't started looking like he wants to throw himself in their fire.
''I'm sorry,'' she says. ''About everything. It sucks.''
''Sucks,'' he repeats laconically. ''An eloquent word to describe the situation.''
''Sherlock-''
''No, no, it is appropriate. It surely sucks when the woman you have been painfully in love with, whom you thought was dead because of you, turns out to be not only the criminal mastermind you've been chasing for years but also the person responsible for cursing you.''
She sighs. ''You're done?''
''What, you don't find my self-pity charming?'' Before her unimpressed expression, Sherlock deflates, rubbing his mouth. ''I apologize, Watson. It isn't your fault, of course.''
''At least, now you know.''
''Certainty is assuredly a balm to the soul,'' he drawls, only half-ironically. Then, after a moment of silence, he continues, ''What I am uncertain about, however, is my next course of action.''
''How so?''
He hesitates, then throws her an odd look. ''I have spent a long time tracking Moriarty down, believing I could kill two birds with one stone. Revenge Irene and find the necessary cure. But I have come out of it bereft of a revenge and a cure, and I am unsure... I do not know how to...''
When it becomes clear he can't continue, she nudges his foot with her own and says, ''How to live like that?''
He nods mutely. She tries to give him a reassuring smile but it's the old age question the world keeps asking and she isn't sure anyone has found a definitive answer yet.
''One day at a time,'' she says. ''That's how everyone does it.''
''I was hoping for a more practical answer,'' he sighs, ''but I suppose it might come to me later on.''
As he rubs his torso, where the curse mark will remain until his body turns cold, she can't help but say, ''You don't have to do it alone now. That's an improvement.'' She tries not to make it sound like a question.
He doesn't even stop to think before saying, ''Of course it is.'' His mouth twitches as he considers her. ''Fishing for compliments, Watson?''
''You know you have to sustain my massive ego, right? The conductor of light compliment happened too long ago.''
To her surprise, his amusement fades to something quieter, more charged. For a long time, he studies her, with that unflinching attention she used to find invasive and still can't quite bear. He looks at her like that too, when he thinks she doesn't see. Never has she seen him direct such warm focus to anyone else, not even Irene – or Moriarty, she supposes.
''You have saved my life, Joan,'' he says quietly. ''One cannot feel cursed in such circumstances.''
Before she can even recover enough to formulate an answer that isn't abysmally lacking, Sherlock stands, dusting his knees and adds, in an abrupt tone that does nothing to mask his embarrassment, ''I need to urinate.''
He is gone in an instant and she starts to laugh at his retreating figure, overwhelmed by an immense, indescribable wave of emotion.)
–
Joan opened the door with one strong push of her shoulder, revealing the delighted face of Sherlock behind, who did not seem much bothered by the fact he was yet again shackled, awaiting her rescue.
''Watson, I do believe you've broken a time record,'' he said, leaning forward to throw a glance at the sun's position through the window.
She smiled. ''You know, I think I'm really starting to enjoy getting out of these places. It's a good exercise.''
''Well, it's certainly better than when you get abducted. I can't quite seem to perfect the knight in shining armor's charm as you do.''
''Don't worry, you've got the damsel in distress look under control.''
He rolled his eyes but his good humor wouldn't vanish and, for a moment, they both stared at each other like dorks.
''Should I get you out of here, partner?'' she asked.
Sherlock raised his shackled wrists to her, almost an offering. ''Please do. We still have much work to do.''
As she expertly freed him, as they shared a look of complicity, as the freedom of the day still unfolded before them, Joan realized that, as odd as it was, she would give anything to be able to do this forever. He must have caught a trace of her thoughts on her face because Sherlock winked at her and said, ''The one constant in our lives, hmm?''
She could only nod and grin back.