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Sherlock is the one to answer the door.
Because of this, Joan doesn’t hear the first half of their conversation. Neither Sherlock nor Moriarty gives her any sort of explanation or detailed rundown until months and months later, so Joan spends a while largely confused and a bit wary, but—
It is what it is.
When Sherlock finally hollers for her to come downstairs with some urgency, Joan takes her time. Sherlock thinks that everything is urgent, and they’re not currently working on a case, and the book that Joan’s reading right now is just getting to a good part.
“WATSON, COME DOWN HERE AND TAKE YOUR WIFE OFF OF MY HANDS. PLEASE, I BEG OF YOU!” Sherlock hollers.
“My what?” Joan mutters, snapping the book shut with force and climbing out of her bed. “I’m sorry,” she repeats as she makes her way down the stairs. “My what?”
Moriarty is standing in the middle of their doorway, Sherlock’s arm is slightly barring her from entry as he clutches at the doorframe and glares at her. When she catches sight of Joan on the stairs, her face lights up with what looks like a relieved smile. Joan’s stomach twists at the sight warily. “Joan!” she calls out. “Sherlock seems to be undergoing a tinge of amnesia. I think perhaps we should go and get him checked out.” Her tone is light, but there is a genuine hint of concern there that has both Joan and Sherlock glancing at each other.
“Um…” Joan waits for Sherlock to explain further.
He does not.
“Sherlock, do be a dear and let me inside, would you?” Moriarty asks, her teeth are clenched in such a way that makes it feel less like a question and more like a demand.
“Absolutely not,” Sherlock says. “Not while you are behaving like an idiot.”
“Okay,” Joan crosses her arms and glares at them both, still standing on the bottom stair. “What is going on with you two?” she asks. “Because I’m really not in the mood for whatever this is,” she says, waving her hand between the two of them, posturing at each other like animals.
“Why don’t you tell her what you told me?” Sherlock says to Moriarty, almost cruelly teasing. Joan frowns at him, but waits.
Moriarty rolls her eyes. “I really don’t understand what your problem is with me this time,” she says with a huff. “Is this old jealousy rearing back up? Because really, Sherlock, I thought we were well beyond this by now.”
“Jealously!?” Sherlock yells, voice pitched high and incredulous. “You think that I’m actually—no, absolutely not.”
“Then what reason do you have from preventing me from coming inside and seeing my wife?” Moriarty snaps. “I’m on limited time—as you so often point out—and I’m tired, and sore, and not really in the mood for whatever this is, either!” she snaps, waving her hand between the two of them.
“I’m sorry…” Joan shakes her head. “Your what?”
“Oh darling, please don’t encourage him,” Moriarty says, glancing up at her fondly. “This is already irritating enough.” That’s when she twists her head and winces, and Joan and Sherlock both notice the blood pooling at the back of her skull at the same time.
“Shit,” Sherlock hisses, and wrenches her inside none too gently.
“Careful!” Joan snaps, on instinct.
“Yes, darling,” Moriarty pouts. “You tell him.”
“You — shut up,” Joan orders. Moriarty only pouts further, an entirely put on act that makes Joan want to slap her. Instead, she carefully directs Moriarty down into a chair and grabs a pair of latex gloves from the kitchen, gently checking the wound on the left side of her head.
“This isn’t quite what I had in mind,” Moriarty hisses when Joan carefully prods a little further.
“What did you have in mind?” Joan asks, before she can stop herself. Engaging with Moriarty is never a good idea.
True to form, a devilish smirk pulls on her lips and she shifts her head, tilting up towards Joan. “Ripping your clothes off with my teeth, for starters.”
Joan’s hands immediately lift off of Moriarty’s head. From her right, Sherlock scoffs hard.
“What makes you think I would ever let you do that?” Joan asks her, genuinely surprised.
Since she has met Joan—or rather, since she presented herself as Moriarty to them—she has been clearly flirty and suggestive with Joan, but not overtly so like this. There is clear interest, but it’s nothing more than a game; a headfuck to work out Joan like she is some sort of stupid puzzle; nothing more than to throw her off while in Moriarty’s presence so that Moriarty can peel back her layers and find out what, exactly, is worthy of keeping underneath.
The actual flirting is often a combination of blatant and subtle, depending on Moriarty’s mood and how much she is trying to shock Joan. But it’s never… explicit in the way that she just said. And never said so casually. That painting is etched into Joan’s brain, as are the looks that Moriarty gave her while working on her daughter’s kidnapping case, and the letter Joan received after Moriarty was released from prison. But, all of that had been well over two years ago—Joan hasn’t heard much of anything from Moriarty other than a few random letters and texts from a blocked number. Only two of which she ever responded to. She knows that Sherlock responds to her letters with more frequency, but they never discuss it.
Now, Moriarty simply smiles at her, all teeth but with… something that at least looks like genuine affection underneath it. “I have to keep my wife interested somehow, what with my constantly popping in and out all the time.”
Joan steps further away from Moriarty. “Your what?” she repeats.
“This!” Sherlock hollers, pointing his finger at Moriarty accusingly. “This is what I was talking about, Watson! She’s playing some ridiculous con about marriage.”
“What?” Joan gapes back and forth at them both. “Cut it out, that’s not funny.”
Now, Moriarty looks uncomfortable. Her eyes bore into Joan’s. “Alright, Sherlock is allowed to have his fun, but not you too, please. I really am very sore and tired.”
“Then stop being a brat and tell us what you’re doing here,” Joan demands.
Moriarty looks… actually a little hurt at Joan’s words and—despite herself—Joan feels a little guilt twist in her gut. “Joan… can we please just go to bed? I promise I’ll make it up to you after I’ve had a few hours of sleep,” she grins, mischievously and wiggles her eyebrows, intent clear.
“No!” Joan yells in frustration. “What the fuck are you even talking about?”
Moriarty is clearly frustrated now, too. She presses herself up out of the chair and stalks over towards Joan, Sherlock hollering at her to behave herself. “NO MURDER ALLOWED IN THIS HOUSE!”
“Joan,” she says firmly, ignoring Sherlock entirely. “Darling, cut it out. I’ve had a beyond trying day and I’m not in the mood for whatever game the two of you have cooked up in my absence.”
“What. Are. You. Talking. About?” Joan demands through gritted teeth. “I haven’t heard from you in months. I’m sure as shit not your wife, and whatever scheme you’ve got going on, I’m not helping you.”
Moriarty looks as though Joan has hauled off and slapped her and she rears backwards. Staring between Joan and Sherlock silently for a moment before she says, “What do you mean, you’re not my wife?” she asks. For the first time in all the years that Joan has known her, she sounds vulnerable, and just a little frightened. If this is an act, then it’s a great one. Even Sherlock goes silent and still.
“Jamie,” Joan says, using her first name for… perhaps the first time in her life. “We’re not married.”
“Yes,” Moriarty says, looking just a bit distressed, now. It’s… deeply unnerving. Sherlock is making a sort of whining noise and looking ready to bolt for the door. “We are. I know we are. I may have taken a hit to the head, but I know my own life. We’ve been married for over two years.”
“What?” Joan gasps. “No, we haven’t. I haven’t even seen you in the last two years.”
Moriarty’s mouth twists into a deep, contemplative frown. “Well… that’s not right.”
“This is the strangest mystery we’ve ever dealt with,” Sherlock mutters to himself.
Joan wants to scream.
…
…
The story comes out in bursts and pieces over the next few days—both due to Moriarty’s new spotty memories, and her old infuriating desire to needle Joan and Sherlock as much as possible.
The gist of it is this:
Moriarty remembers a lot of her life, or, at least, she is pretending to. The unfortunate truth is that neither Joan nor Sherlock knows enough about her childhood or rise to power as M to be able to corroborate or refute what she says.
She remembers Kayden. When Joan dances around this question, mentioning a kidnapping case that they worked together, and the name if not the relation to Moriarty, Moriarty rolls her eyes hard and pinches Joan on the ass. “I know who my own daughter is, thank you very much. I’m not an idiot, Joan.”
She remembers quite a bit about Irene Adler and her relationship with Sherlock, but from the look on Sherlock’s face as he questions her—not all of it.
The gaps in her knowledge—or the new knowledge—seems to be mostly concerning her recent memory. The last three years or so. Joan and Sherlock were only around her for one of those years, and so there isn’t a lot they can do about the two that she’s been gone from their lives, apart from letters and messages.
The last thing that she remembers is being in a—slightly troublesome, Moriarty’s words—shootout in Krakow.
“What were you doing in Poland?” Joan asks.
Moriarty merely winks at her in response.
"Why do you think that Watson is your wife?” Sherlock asks, again. “What could have possibly brought you to that conclusion? Head wound or no?”
(The head wound is minor, as far as these things go. Joan would be shocked if it was the sole cause of these memory problems. Not technically out of the realm of possibility… but, it would be surprising).
“We should take her to a hospital to get checked out,” Joan says, again. “There’s nothing I can do about this here.”
“But hospitals are so dull,” Moriarty argues. “And I feel perfectly fine. Nothing more than a slight headache. I just need some sleep and water and sex. Not necessarily in that order.”
She wiggles her eyebrows at Joan when she says this, clearly exaggerated and clearly intended to bother the both of them. Sherlock makes a face and Joan just rolls her eyes, but Moriarty looks delighted with both outcomes all the same.
“If you’re actually convinced that the two of us are married, and missing some things about when you were Irene, and this isn’t all some stupid long con, then we definitely need to get you checked out,” Joan says, and moves to grab her coat and keys.
“And if you’ve done something stupid, then they’ll arrest you and take you off of our hands,” Sherlock adds, cheerfully.
Moriarty shoots him a glare that makes Joan flinch, just the slightest bit.
…
…
There’s poison in her system.
“Hum,” is all Moriarty says to that revelation, her mind clearly already whirling with possibilities and modes of revenge.
It’s not a substance that is particularly known to cause amnesia or memory problems, but apparently, the combination of it, a small dose of alcohol, the head wound, and… what looks like a rare fruit that Moriarty ingested makes for… an interesting combination.
The doctors are, in a word, confused and thrilled by the revelation.
Joan is just annoyed.
“Wonderful,” Moriarty says. “Let’s get out of here.”
“Wait, we could—” one of the doctors begins to say. Moriarty cuts him off with a well-placed shove and stalks out of the room.
Joan shares a look with Sherlock, they don’t know how long this is going to take to wear off.
“Fucking perfect,” Joan mutters, and follows her “wife” out of the room.
…
…
The thing is, she remembers being Joan’s wife. Apparently.
She doesn’t remember the wedding. Specifics, darling, Moriarty says with a wave of her hand. Why would I care about a ceremony steeped in patriarchal and archaic traditions? The outcome is the only important part.
Well, she’s got her, there.
What she does remember is speaking to Joan regularly throughout the last two years. What Moriarty does remember is the way that her (unsent, largely) letters and directives to her underlings state about Joan. What she remembers is her own fucking feelings, her delight in pissing Joan and Sherlock off, and a HUGE jump to conclusion after the fact.
The fact that there are some actual legal papers she had drawn up that led her to jump to said fact is… alarming, at best.
Oh, is all that Joan says. Huh.
Moriarty smirks at her and Joan quickly gets up and leaves the room.
Like a coward.
…
…
The thing is, Joan is not a doctor anymore but she also is not someone capable of just abandoning someone who is in need of care—even an annoying, mass murdering, criminal mastermind psychopath who thinks that she is Joan’s wife.
It’s a very annoying quality of hers, but there’s not much Joan can do about it, right now.
Add into the fact that Sherlock finds the whole thing utterly fascinating now that he’s stopped being annoyed by her very presence and no longer thinks that it’s a ploy, and Moriarty is… convinced despite growing evidence to the contrary that she is Joan’s wife, thank you very much, and it’s perfectly clear that, Joan is, in a word, screwed.
“She is not sleeping in my room,” Joan declares, as the two of them sit cross-legged, on top of the kitchen table, facing each other in some sort of stare down.
“But darling,” Moriarty says without taking her eyes off of Sherlock. “I always do.”
“No, you very much always don’t.”
“She can have the couch,” Sherlock says, also without breaking eye contact.
“She’s recovering from a head wound,” Joan says, despite herself. “She can’t sleep on the couch.”
“Worried about my wellbeing, hum,” Moriarty says with a smirk. “Sounds like wife behavior to me.”
“It does a little, Watson,” Sherlock adds with a small frown.
“Both of you are idiots,” Joan says, walking out of the room.
“We’re actually two of the most intelligent people on this planet,” Moriarty calls after her.
“I hate to agree with her,” Sherlock starts. “But she is right about that.”
“I’m going to meet Emily!” Joan yells. “I’m not dealing with whatever this is all day.”
“Who is Emily?” Moriarty asks, voice pitched dangerously neutral. If Joan were entertaining this nonsense at all, then she might think that Moriarty actually sounds jealous.
…
…
“I need to change your bandage,” Joan says. “Also, I pretty specifically said that you weren’t sleeping in my room.”
“Do I look like I am sleeping to you?” Moriarty asks, sprawling her lanky limbs further around Joan’s chair by the window. She opens her legs further in the process and Joan does not roll her eyes or look down at them.
Moriarty smirks at her all the same.
“Are you going through my things!?” Joan reaches out for the papers but—even poisoned, with amnesia, and a head wound—Moriarty is faster.
“Your things,” Moriarty hums. She traces her finger slowly down the piece of paper—a letter. The fucking letter. Joan should have burnt it like she planned to. “If my eyes don’t deceive me—and I am currently suffering a head wound, so I suppose that could be in the realm of possibility—this letter originated with me, did it not?”
“But it was sent to me. So that makes it mine, does it not?” Joan counters.
“Hum, I would think, instead—like most things within a marriage—that would mean we share the custody and the burdens of it.”
“We’re. Not. Married,” Joan says through gritted teeth. “My mother would never shut up about it if I was married.”
That was the wrong thing to say. Moriarty’s face lights up and she swivels in the chair, knees dropping down and leaning forward. “And how is Mary?” she asks. “I should visit, I haven’t been a very dutiful daughter-in-law lately, have I? Though, to my credit, I have been very busy.”
“Do not go anywhere near my mother,” Joan says, firm. “I mean it, Jamie. This isn’t a game.”
“But I do so love games,” Moriarty pouts. “And I would only treat her to a lavish dinner at a five-star restaurant. Don’t you want to be able to spoil your mother?”
“Jamie, stop,” Joan says, only realizing that she has called Moriarty by her first name twice now in the span of a few minutes. She quickly tries to reorient the moniker in her brain. She cannot let herself become familiar with this woman.
Moriarty simply shrugs, sets the letter down on the nightstand—almost reverently, Joan notes—and turns in the seat, lowering her head towards Joan. “Do as you must, darling,” she says.
Joan ignores the term of endearment and makes quick and efficient work of changing the bandage, touching Moriarty as little as possible in the process. She leans into Joan’s touch regardless, letting out a small moan when Joan accidentally brushes the hair at the base of her neck.
“We technically do have a guest room,” Joan says, swallowing as she steps back away from her. “The bed is not made up and the room is full of Sherlock’s stuff, but I can find some clean sheets and I trust that you’re dexterous enough to make you way around the mess to get to and from the bed.”
“I’m sure that I’m capable of such a task,” Moriarty says with a shrug. She turns around and her eyebrows lift even as her eyes drop, traveling the length Joan’s body in such an unconcealed once-over that Joan has to take a deep, steadying breath.
With that, she leaves the room.
Fuck, Joan thinks. That’s not good.
…
…
Joan barely sleeps, spending that entire first night expecting Moriarty to show up in her bedroom.
She’s expecting that Moriarty will either… slit her throat, declaring that this was all some stupid game, a delicious bout of psychological torture to get her revenge for being sent to prison, or for her to climb into Joan’s bed and try to seduce her—some other type of game entirely. Once Joan admits to some sort of attraction, Moriarty will pull back the curtain and laugh, leaving Joan alone and embarrassed and aroused.
Neither happens, and Joan feels equal parts paranoid and stupid.
What does happen—when she finally stumbles downstairs around nine a.m. after giving up on trying to sleep any more entirely—is that she finds Sherlock and Moriarty having breakfast together, sharing the newspaper.
The image is such a jarring one that Joan just… doesn’t comment on it, stumbling over towards the coffeepot and rolling with it.
“Morning, Watson,” Sherlock says cheerfully. “Did you know that Moriarty can cook? She never cooked much as Irene.”
Moriarty shrugs, not looking up from the paper. “I didn’t want you to expect it.”
“Good for her,” Joan mumbles and sits down next to Sherlock to nurse her coffee, one knee propped up on the chair as she rests her head sleepily against it.
Moriarty shoots her a single glance. “Not much of a morning person are you, darling?” she frowns. “Hum, I think I knew that about you already. Wife knowledge, and all,” she says with a smirk and a wink. “There are eggs for you on the stove.”
Joan does not comment on the ‘wife’ statement and instead moves over to see what Moriarty cooked up. When she lifts the pan top away she’s greeted with scrambled eggs—exactly how she likes them—cooked together with broccoli, onions, peppers, and mushrooms. The small bottle of hot sauce that she likes is resting directly next to the stove.
It’s weird. It’s weird that Jamie knows this.
Joan shakes some of the hot sauce into her bowl and makes her way back over to the table to eat it, anyway. It’s stupid to let food that she likes go to waste simply because the woman who made it is a psychopath who thinks that she is Joan’s wife.
When Joan takes her first bite and hums unconsciously in pleasure, Moriarty’s smirk only widens.
…
…
“WATSON! WE HAVE A CASE!”
Sherlock stops hollering, which isn’t like him. Usually he starts rattling off information about the case until Joan appears, and then continues talking at a lower volume. Joan grabs her keys and her coat, slowly making her way downstairs to find Sherlock and Moriarty chattering away excitedly about the case in the front hall.
“Um…”
“Finally, Watson,” Sherlock says and flings the door open. “Let’s go.”
“Wait, wait,” Joan says as Sherlock holds the door open for Moriarty. “She can’t come.”
“Why not?” Both of them say at the same time, looking at each other and then at Joan.
“Because she’s…” Joan waves her arm around at Moriarty.
“Devilishly attractive and will distract you from focusing on the case when you want me to ravish you instead?” Moriarty asks with a smirk.
Sherlock wrinkles his nose in disgust and walks down the steps.
“No,” Joan insists. “A criminal whom we’ve already arrested once and who currently has a head wound.”
“I won’t do anything daring or dangerous, don’t worry, darling,” Moriarty promises, holding her fingers up in some sort of salute. “Scout’s honor. I wouldn’t want to worry my wife.”
“You have to stop saying that,” Joan hisses as she walks out of the brownstone with Moriarty and locks the door behind her. She is not going to win this argument, but that doesn’t mean that she’s just going to so readily accept Moriarty’s place in their home and life in the meantime.
“Another pair of eyes on the case will be welcome,” Sherlock says as the three of them make their way down the street together. “This one is going to be interesting.”
“Wonderful,” Joan mutters.
“Cheer up, darling!” Moriarty says, and pulls Joan close to her side, pecking her on the cheek before releasing her in one smooth motion. “I’ve read that on occasion, working together can improve spousal relationships, especially ones where you don’t often get to see each other regularly, like we do.”
“We are not spouses,” Joan reiterates.
“Aren’t we?”
“No.”
“Watson, focus please,” Sherlock says.
“Me?”
Moriarty’s smirk at Sherlock’s nod is infuriating.
…
…
Marcus and Gregson are, in a word, far too amused by the whole ‘wife amnesia’ situation for Joan’s liking.
“You are supposed to be on my side,” Joan hisses to Marcus.
“Oh, I am,” he assures her. “One wrong move and I’m arresting her so damn fast. But, you gotta admit, this is kind of hilarious.”
“Yes, I’m laughing so much that I have a stitch in my side,” Joan deadpans.
“Darling, sarcasm truly becomes you,” Moriarty says as she whisks past with Sherlock.
Marcus snickers and Joan elbows him in the gut, none too gently. “Ouch. Damn, girl,” he groans. “It’s a little funny, you can admit that, at least.”
“She thinks that I am her wife Marcus. Her wife. She is the person responsible for Sherlock’s descent into addiction and isolation. She has murdered countless people and irrevocably harmed even more, all for her own selfish desires. She doesn’t even like me as a person. She called me a mascot. Why, on Earth, would I want her to be my wife?”
“Because I am absolutely fabulous in bed,” Moriarty says with a straight face. Not even looking up from the crime scene photos. “I think I know who we might want to contact, about this,” she says, looking over at Marcus. “I’ll go make a phone call.”
He immediately snaps into work mode and ignores Joan’s clenched teeth.
…
…
The fact that Moriarty assisting on the case is helping—a lot—is sort of infuriating.
When they make it back to the brownstone late that night, it’s with a prime suspect sitting in a cell for the evening, having already had one go at interrogating him. Gregson sends them home to get some sleep, let him wait it out, and tells them to come back tomorrow around lunchtime.
Joan is exhausted. The kind of bone-deep tired that sets in after running around on your feet for over twelve hours, sitting hunched over photographs and information, reading till your eyes hurt, and skipping meals. She doesn’t have the energy to tell Moriarty to leave her alone, or downplay her invaluable help, so Joan just clamps her mouth shut and walks upstairs to her bed.
She makes quick work of a shower, scrubbing the smell of the station off as much as she can before wrapping her long hair up into a small towel. She doesn’t bother with pants, just throws on a tank top and some underwear and walks into her bedroom, ready to flop into the bed and not get back out again until 11:50 tomorrow morning.
Moriarty is in her bed. Because, of course she is.
“No,” is all Joan says with a tired sigh.
She thinks about quickly moving to find some shorts and then decides against it—it will only serve to make Moriarty delighted that she made Joan uncomfortable. Better to act like she doesn’t care. Because she doesn’t. Because, no matter what nonsense Moriarty has cooked up, because no matter how attractive she is, she is still Moriarty. And so, Joan is not going there, not even a little bit.
Moriarty doesn’t have any pants on, either, though. And dammit if that isn’t the slightest bit distracting.
Moriarty’s eyes track her gaze and she preens underneath it, shifting again now that she knows Joan is looking at her bare legs. Joan sighs and rolls her eyes. “Aren’t you tired?” she asks. Because even Sherlock, who will go and go and go and go in the middle of a case unless someone stops him, had admitted they had done what they could and coming back in the morning would suit them all. Even Sherlock is crashed out on the couch right now. Moriarty looks… normal.
She smiles at Joan, all teeth, and stretches like a cat across Joan’s bed. “That’s why I’m in the bed, darling.”
“Oh, that’s why,” Joan says with a snort.
“Whatever else did you have in mind, darling?” Moriarty asks, with perfect feigned innocence. “What else could wives get up to in a bed besides sleep after a long day, hum?” she asks before looking up at Joan, all rakish, wicked implication.
The thing is—Joan is pretty sure that Moriarty isn’t toying with them. She had thought this was all an act when she first showed up, even still for a tiny bit after they had her checked out at the hospital. But then she overheard Moriarty talking with Sherlock in the kitchen, heard the slight shake in her voice when she asked really, are we really not married?
Moriarty is a good actress. Joan knows that. Sherlock knows that. They also both—sort of—know her. If the amnesia is all an act, then it’s beyond Oscar worthy.
“Do I look like I’m in the mood?” Joan asks. She means for teasing. She means for games. It sounds like she means for sex.
Moriarty smirks at her—which seems to be her default mode, around Joan. Then, something horrible happens. Her smirk turns almost soft—fond. And that’s the moment that Joan knows, to her bones, that Moriarty isn’t faking. She would never look at anyone like that if she was playing them, not even for an act. Not like this. Sexual, coy, mischievous, threatening, manic, sure, but soft? fond? Absolutely not. Not like this. Joan goes still for a moment, then quickly whips around and tugs her wet hair out of the towel, so that she doesn’t have to keep looking at Jamie’s face looking at her like that.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. This is real. She actually thinks that they are married.
Joan takes her time shaking out her hair. She doesn’t bother brushing it, or drying it further. Instead, she hangs the small towel over the back of her desk chair and sucks in a breath before turning back around. She forces her face to go flat and distant. “I’m really tired, Jamie.”
Moriarty is undeterred. Which, honestly, Joan should have expected that. “Then come to bed, darling.” Before Joan can… yell? admonish? she’s not sure exactly what, Moriarty rolls over onto her side. Facing the door and away from Joan, as she makes herself comfortable.
“I need to change your bandage before you fall asleep,” Joan says, as the sight of the white gauze is suddenly presented to her.
“Alright,” is all Moriarty says. She doesn’t move.
Joan sighs and turns back to the bathroom. She just wants to sleep. She doesn’t have the energy to do anything but grab the supplies, crawl onto her bed, and lean over and quickly—but gently—change the bandage. “It’s looking a lot better,” she says, tossing the old one into the trashcan beside her desk.
“A very talented doctor is taking care of me,” Moriarty says.
“Not a doctor anymore.”
“I don’t think of it as a profession, so much as the skills and the intuition that remain. The core of you.”
“What’s at the core of you?” Joan asks, before she can think better of it.
Jamie rolls back over slightly, enough that Joan can see her face. She holds Joan’s gaze for a moment, revealing and saying nothing, then, her face does something peculiar, and sharp, and deeply unfriendly. “I think you already know the answer to that question, darling.”
Joan studies her. Jamie sits there patiently and allows it, unmoving in a way that is almost alarming. “No,” Joan finally says. “I think that you think you know the answer to that question.” Joan tilts her head, keeping her gaze sharp on Jamie’s eyes, her mouth, her still, immovable body. She catches the flinch—so tiny that nearly anyone else would miss it—but Joan is looking for it. Joan knows how to read Moriarty’s face, if nothing else. “But I’m not sure that you actually do,” she finally adds. Then she rolls away from Jamie and turns out the light, settling down on her side of the bed and finally falling asleep.
She is only about 90% sure that Jamie isn’t about to kill her the minute that her back is turned. But at this point, she’s too tired to care.
…
…
Joan wakes up to sunlight streaming through her window. There is a warmth surrounding her, and it takes her a moment to realize that Jamie is in the bed—still sleeping.
She’s careful as she shifts her head to look, not wanting to wake her, wanting to see what the famed Moriarty looks like in her sleep. Her blonde hair—slightly longer than the last time Joan saw her, just a bit past her shoulders, now—is tousled all around her face. She looks younger in sleep; a bit less like a trained killer and a bit more like a woman in her early thirties, just… a person.
Though, there’s still an air about her—even in sleep—of a predator. Her body is angled in such a way that Joan finds it easy to believe that she could jump out of her sleep and block anyone coming though the doorway in a matter of seconds.
Joan looks down and realizes that during the night their limbs have shifted into a state of relaxed sprawling. Joan doesn’t know when it happened, but her left leg is draped over Jamie’s right and their sides are touching. Joan is still wearing only her tank top and underwear, in deference to the July heat. The bare skin of their legs as they touch is… annoyingly intoxicating. Jamie is in nothing but an oversized t-shirt—one of Sherlock’s, Joan thinks—and one side has fallen down to expose her bare shoulder. If Joan looked, then she would easily be able to see Jamie’s breasts rise and fall with her breathing, their shape just discernible under the worn cloth of the t-shirt.
But she isn’t looking. And she won’t.
This situation is dangerous. Joan knows how just dangerous Jamie Moriarty is, has seen it with her own two eyes. Joan has seen exactly what the aftermath of loving her looks like first hand—and it is absolutely not worth indulging in the arousal pooling low in her belly right now, at the mere thought of Jamie shifting to roll on top of her, to put her hands and her mouth on her.
This is so stupid.
Jamie Moriarty is a liar and a thief. A murderer. A kidnapper. A criminal mastermind years in the making who likes it. She likes hurting other people to get what she wants. She likes toying with them, picking them apart to see what’s inside, what makes them tick. What makes them cry and bleed and want. She takes what she wants and she does not care how that affects anyone else—how it affects the world writ large.
(There is something… disturbingly flattering about being something that a person like that wants. There is something equally disturbing about the fact that Joan wants her back; it’s maw-mouthed and made entirely of teeth, this want of hers, and it’s dangerous and fucked up and very stupid).
But Joan isn’t stupid. Jamie wants her now because Joan hasn’t given her an inch. Jamie wants her now because Joan surprised her. Overlooked her. Jamie wants her now because Joan has said no, repeatedly, and it will be satisfying to finally get her to say yes, instead. Jamie wants Joan because someone poisoned her, and hit her over the head, and knocked her memories out of whack, a little.
It’s not real.
Jamie’s memories will come back soon—the poison has already begun to work its way out of her system and her head wound is healing up nicely. It’s probably only a matter of days. If Moriarty does get Joan into her bed—metaphorically, instead of… as they are now, literally sharing a bed—then she will gloat and preen and tease and leave Joan without a second glance, after. Joan will be yet another conquest under Moriarty’s belt and then she will be discarded.
I’m drawn to things I don’t understand. Same as Sherlock. Once I’ve figured you out, I’ll move on. Same as Sherlock.
It’s not worth it. No matter how good Joan is sure that Moriarty would be in bed.
Not to mention that, technically, Jamie’s faculties are not altogether there, right now. She thinks that they are married. If Joan were to say, ‘fuck it’ and have some fun and not worry or care about the fact that Moriarty would leave her laughing in the dirt somewhere, afterwards, then Joan would still be the one taking advantage, in a way.
It’s not happening, and so this is all very, very stupid.
Jamie shifts, her eyes fluttering open, and once she catches sight of Joan looking at her, she smiles. “Good morning, Joan,” she says, sleep still hovering in the back of her throat. She stretches and then curls her body around Joan’s, possessive and feline and Joan has to swallow back a groan as Jamie nuzzles into her neck. She bites down, half a beat later, and Joan jumps and hisses at the sting of it.
“Cut it out,” Joan demands, her voice a little hoarse.
Jamie’s breath is hot on Joan’s neck, and her teeth scrape along her jaw. Joan can feel Jamie’s smirk against her skin. “Do you really want me to?” she asks, a dare if there ever was one.
Sherlock saves her from answering. “WATSON! MORIARTY! GET UP! WE NEED TO GO BACK TO THE STATION,” he hollers from downstairs.
Joan leaps at the distraction, quickly shoving Jamie off of her and climbing out of the bed so fast that she bangs her shin on the chair in the process. “Fuck,” she mumbles.
Jamie’s melodious laughter follows her out of the room.
…
…
“Oh,” Joan says, looking up from her file. “I think this is him.”
Sherlock and Jamie are both flanking her in seconds. The hushed, serious tone of her voice like an alert that they can’t help but respond to. Both of them quickly scan the file in her hands while Joan holds her breath and tries not to feel equal parts crowded and supported. Jamie’s hand is resting on Joan’s shoulder, balancing herself to lean over and read the file. Her thumb begins rubbing small circles on Joan’s bare skin almost subconsciously. Joan’s trying very hard not to be affected by it, and deeply annoyed at how much she is failing to do so.
“Watson, you are brilliant!” Sherlock says, far too loudly for how close his mouth is to her left ear.
“Jesus, Sherlock,” Joan protests and shoves at him, a little. Jamie moves then too, her hand giving Joan’s shoulder a final squeeze before standing in front of her beside Sherlock. They both smile at her like demented, proud parents, even though she’s clearly annoyed with them both, and it just notches her anger up to another level. “I’m going to find Marcus,” she announces, and hastily leaves the room.
…
…
Joan tugs the bulletproof vest on quickly.
She’s not thrilled about this prospect—usually she and Sherlock are not the ones heading out into the field in this manor—but Gregson and Marcus cleared the three of them for today. Jamie is a wildcard, but it’s her contact. It’s possibly the stupidest thing they’ve ever done, but they’re letting her go in alone ahead of them.
Joan is obviously worried because there’s the possibility that Jamie has indeed been lying to them all along. And now this is the part where she turns on them all and leaves them in the dust—literally. Not because Joan is worried about her safety, going into an abandoned building alone, with a head wound and slightly dulled reflexes and patchy memories. That, would simply be ridiculous.
Jamie saunters over to Joan. “Don’t worry, darling,” she whispers directly into Joan’s ear. “This is what I’m good at.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Joan counters.
Jamie quirks an eyebrow. Joan doesn’t fidget, she allows the careful study of her body and expression and hates every minute of it, but she doesn’t fidget. Finally, Jamie gives her a wicked grin and bends down. Before Joan can react, Jamie kisses her—technically on her cheek—but in practice, it’s far too close to the corner of her lips to actually resemble a platonic gesture. And then she steps back, moving past Joan as she struts like a feline into the building.
Sherlock gives her a pointed look and Joan can only rolls her eyes, desperately trying to calm herself down.
They wait for thirty minutes before anything happens and Joan can easily picture Jamie pacing the length of the building like an impatient, caged animal.
When the gunshots begin to ring out, Joan freezes and bites down on her lip—hard.
Finally, Marcus comes out of the building with a man in handcuffs and Jamie slinking along like a panther beside him. There is some blood pooling on forehead, and Joan moves towards her before she can question it.
She says, thank god, I was so worried, only it comes out as, “What the hell were you thinking?” as she quickly tugs Jamie’s head down towards her to get a better look. “Is it the same wound or is it a new one?”
“It reopened when he knocked me into a wall,” Jamie says. The timber of her voice has Joan’s hands suddenly stilling in their exploration. She doesn’t know what it is, exactly, about it, but she knows immediately that something has changed.
“You got your memories back, didn’t you?” she asks.
“Perhaps I should have thrown myself at your wall yesterday,” Moriarty quips, but there’s a detached sound to it. Distance is being placed between them already. Joan is so stupid, but it hurts, just a little.
“That would have been incredibly dumb,” she says. “It could have made it worse than it already was.”
Moriarty shrugs. Flippant. Unbothered. Joan hates it. She had thought that when her memories came back, Moriarty would have actually amped up the teasing, delighting in the fact that she infiltrated their lives yet again and toyed with Joan. She never thought that it would be this… weird detached almost bored act instead.
Joan swallows it all down and fixes the bandage with clinical detached motions of her own.
“Your lip is bleeding,” Moriarty comments.
“I bit it,” Joan says. “It’s fine.”
Moriarty reaches down and presses her thumb against Joan’s lip. She holds it there for a moment, and then presses against it, hard. Joan hisses and wrenches her head back. Moriarty doesn’t say a thing. She just… looks at her bloody lip. Never taking her eyes off of it.
“Bravo,” Sherlock says, walking up to them and breaking the moment. “Gregson has released us from our duties. I’m famished. Anyone else?”
“Yeah,” Joan says, her voice cracking a bit. “I’m starving, actually.” Joan quickly turns her attention to him and away from Moriarty.
“You’ll be paying,” she says to Sherlock. She does not look back over at Joan once.
…
…
Joan wakes to an empty bed.
Jamie—Moriarty—had not followed her into her room again last night. She hadn’t made any more teasing remarks to Joan than she had with Sherlock during dinner. Taunting them both only a little as she quietly ate her meal before slinking off to their “guest room” and shutting the door behind her. Her mind had clearly already been on her next plans, revenge for her poisoning, and whatever new scheme she intends to use in order to wreak havoc on her enemies.
“She’ll probably be gone by the morning,” Sherlock had commented in her wake. When Joan had looked up, she saw his gaze directed at the closed door.
“Probably,” Joan agreed.
Sherlock said nothing in response, but when he stood, his hand had rested on Joan’s thigh and squeezed, once, before retreating to his own room.
Joan wakes to an empty bed, but when she runs her hand over the sheets, the other side of the bed holds a hint of warmth, anyway, as if Jamie has only gotten out of it recently. Joan shifts again and hears the distinctive noise of paper crinkling. There is a letter resting on the center of her other pillow with Joan’s name etched onto the front of it. Joan sits up and stares down at it as though it might explode.
When she takes the letter, it throbs in her hand like a warning.
Joan,
I was taught manners, as a child, and so I am required to send you my thanks in caring for me so diligently while I was indisposed. I’ve already undergone a tox screen, and it appears that the poison is indeed entirely out of my system. I’ve plenty of bandages, and plenty of experience in changing my own—though I will miss your deft hands—so there is no need to worry yourself. I am releasing you of your duty of care.
I am sure that we will see each other again. Until then, take care of yourself. I would so hate to see anything untoward happen to you unless it were at my own hands.
Should you ever be in want of a wife in reality, then I am sure that you could find me if you put your mind to it. Truly, only someone who was capable of that game would ever be worthy in my eyes.
Farewell for now,
—J
There is a sketch of a sleeping Joan on the backside of the letter. Her face, peaceful and calm and beautiful in a way that Joan has never thought of herself, before. Jamie is good at capturing the essence of a feeling in her art. And the feeling in this sketch is clear—desire, possession, and—somewhere in there—affection.
Joan blows out a slow breath, sets the letter down on the desk and crawls out of bed.
She shuffles downstairs after sluggishly getting dressed—yesterday really took it out of her—to find Sherlock once again sitting cross-legged on top of the kitchen table. He’s shirtless, eating cereal out of a large mixing bowl as he reads something on his phone.
“She’s gone,” he announces without looking up at her.
“I know,” Joan says and moves to get some coffee.
“She left me a letter.”
“Me too.”
Sherlock looks up from his phone, now. “What did yours say?” It should be a simple question, but the answer feels significant for reasons that Joan hasn't entirely sorted through, yet.
“Mostly, ‘thanks for changing my bandages’ and a few small veiled threats and some taunting,” she answers, mostly honest. “And you?”
“It said, verbatim: You missed a clue in the case. Write me when you’ve discovered it. Tell Watson that I shall see her later. Thank you for the hospitality, and do take care of yourself. I’ve left fresh peaches on the kitchen table. She signed it, M.”
Joan looks over to his left. And indeed, there is a small bowl of fresh peaches resting there. Joan’s mouth waters.
“They’re delicious,” Sherlock says, holding up his cereal bowl. “I’ve already tested them for poison.” Joan quirks an eyebrow at him and he shrugs. “One can never be too careful, with her.”
The double meaning there is obvious. Joan doesn’t know what is going to happen, now. She still wants Moriarty. It’s still very stupid of her. And yet—
Joan walks over to the table and sits down, taking a peach into her palm and rolling it back and forth between her fingers as she sips her coffee.
Should you ever be in want of a wife in reality, I’m sure that you could find me if you put your mind to it.
It’s a dare, of sorts. An offering.
A proposal, if you will.
Joan looks at the peach in her hands, rolls it back and forth once more, thinking of the sketch in her bed, the press of Jamie’s thumb on her cut, the way that the word ‘wife’ fell out of her lips, and then she takes a slow and deliberate bite of the peach.
Its juice spills down her chin like a caress, stings sharply into the cut on her lip, and Joan smiles.