Archive of Our Own

1 –

The first time isn’t actually the first time, or even the second time really.  The first time was all about insulting Joan’s intelligence and the second time was far more of a celebratory sort of thing.  They had, after all, thwarted a bee-napping with minimal bloodshed and only a few raised eyebrows at the contents of Sherlock’s bedroom closet.  The third time, however, was a bit different.

The days have started to actually grow colder now, and Joan’s been bundling up in sweaters that might not actually belong to her.  Sherlock has commented on her strange penchant for stealing his clothing, and she says he can steal her’s if he wants.  This, naturally, leads to Sherlock parading around in one of her skirts for a few days.  Joan had been in hysterics when Ms. Hudson had caught sight of him and had spat out her drink as she and Joan had sat in the kitchen after sharing lunch of all the leftovers from the fridge that Mrs. Hudson had deemed “edible, but it has to be done today, Joan. Otherwise it’s probably a health hazard, much like the state of this kitchen.”  There had been no judgment in her voice over their penchant for eating out (and for both of them being pretty bad about cleaning up after themselves), and she’d taken old chow mein noodles and mixed them with the remainders of a Greek vegetable dish that Sherlock had ordered (and promptly decided he didn’t care for) and some of the broccoli that’s always in the fridge but never seems to get eaten and had turned it into a home cooked culinary masterpiece. 

“Sherlock,” Ms. Hudson says, her voice totally serious even after she dabs her mouth dry.  “If you’re going to wear a skirt, at least get one that fits you,” she says, and Joan is surprised that she’s able to keep a straight face as Sherlock looks down at the stretched out jersey skirt that he’s appropriated from her closet and frowns. 

“I think it fits fine,” he says.

Ms. Hudson holds him out a plate of the food she’s made and shakes her head.  “Eat,” she says, and he sits and gets two bites in before he launches into a debate with her about the merits of jersey and spandex and if his legs look nice in the skirt.

Joan, for her part, clears her plate and actually washes it before leaving them to it, shaking her head the whole way.

It’s late that afternoon, as Ms. Hudson sits with Sherlock in the front room, discussing gender in ancient Greek society, that Joan gets a text.  It’s not from a blocked number, which is odd for the sender.  No, it’s just the usual string of numbers and a 212 area code.  Joan’s eyebrows go up at that, because she doesn’t know many people who have a cell number with that area code.  Mostly that’s reserved for Manhattan businesses and long-standing ones at that.

212-674-2789: It’s occurred to me that I’ve never given you my mobile number. 

Joan stands with her phone in one hand and lets out a long-suffering sigh.  She slides her thumb over the message and types her response. 

Joan Watson:   It’s occurred to me that I never gave you mine.

212-647-2789:  Honestly Joan, I deal in information and secrets.  A simple mobile number is astonishingly easy to get. 

There’s a pause and Joan starts to reply, intent on informing the sender just how far out of line this truly is, when a second text comes through.

212-647-2789: And Sherlock was the one who gave it to me, so don’t worry.  He thought that I should have it in case I need to reach you.

Joan Watson: And did you need to reach me?

212-647-2789: I have tickets to see The Glass Menagerie and no one to go with.  I know you like the theatre, so I thought you’d want to go.

Joan bites at her lip and glances at the clock on the wall.  She could get over there, if she left within the next twenty minutes and caught the F Train.  The trouble is that she really doesn’t want to set a precedent with this sort of thing and saying yes is sure to do just that.  The first time had been all about insulting her, the second had been a celebration.  And Joan had sworn to herself that she would not allow there to be a third.

She glances towards the front room, where Sherlock is currently waving his arms about (having been talked back into pants after a rather unfortunate mishap with lack of proper sitting-in-a-skirt skills).  She doesn’t think that he’d understand, no matter how oddly congratulatory he was after the post thwarted bee-napping celebratory breakfast. 

“Do what your heart wishes,” He’d said after Joan had told him what had gone on.  She hadn’t mentioned the kiss on the cheek because he was, after all, five and would totally have latched onto it like he did all other vaguely romantic or sexual things Joan mentioned to him.  “But I feel I must warn you, she’s playing at some game, she always is.  You told me once that she’s never going to change, and while I am loath to remind you of something that you are obviously acutely aware of, she won’t, Watson.  She won’t change.  So don’t expect her to.”

And maybe it’s a whim, or maybe it’s the fact that those tickets are really expensive and the show’s going to complete its run before Joan can commit to being unavailable for an evening to go and see it; but she wants to say yes.  She understands that it’s probably not the best idea, and that she shouldn’t go, but she’s not entirely sure why she does want to go.  She decides to blame it on her want to see the show more so than her want to spend time with Moriarty.

Joan Watson: I’ll go.  Where should I meet you?

212-647-2789: There’s a Starbucks on Seventh and 45^th. 

Joan Watson: I know it; hopefully it’s not overrun with tourists.  I have to walk from Rockefeller Center, fyi, so I might run late. 

212-647-2789: I’ll be waiting. ♥

 Joan stands with her phone cradled between her fingers for a moment, staring down at the screen.  The emoji hearts aren’t entirely new, and Joan still isn’t sure that she likes them. She grins and moves to add contact, typing in Moriarty’s horrible alias from her first aborted attempt at asking Joan out via the dating site almost a year ago now. 

“Sherlock,” she calls, sticking her head into the living room where he and Ms. Hudson are talking.  “I’m going out tonight.  A friend has tickets to see The Glass Menagerie and offered me one.”

He gives her an odd, searching look, but nods.  “Will you be back late?”

Joan nods.  “Yeah, I think so.  I don’t know if we’ll have drinks after, and you know how the F Train can get after midnight.” She turns and grins at Ms. Hudson, who seems to have settled into her own, a book open on her lap and a notepad in hand.  She hopes that they’re not about to segue into the conversational dead-languages part of their evening together. If so, her fleeing will look like intimidation when it’s anything but, Joan just doesn’t have enough space in her mind for languages that no one speaks on top of the three she already knows.  “It was lovely to see you again, thank you for rescuing my poor skirt.”

“Don’t mention it,” Ms. Hudson replies with a serene smile. 

Sherlock doesn’t ask who she’s going with, probably because of her use of the word friend and not ‘your ex’ or ‘Moriarty.’  She wonders if the lie is worth how he’ll react to it later, or if she’ll even tell him.  She’s violating the bro code, she knows this, but Sherlock had at least told her to be true to how she felt.

Changing and catching the F train take less time than expected, and it’s clogged with people going into the city for the night.  She leans against a pole, rocking in time with the train as it grows fuller and fuller, her fingers twined around her purse strap.  She’s taking deep, even breaths, telling herself over and over that nothing needs to be read into this. 

Everything needs to be read into this, though, and that’s the crux of the matter.  She hopes that this doesn’t become a trend. 

Joan cuts down Sixth to avoid some of the insanity that is Times Square on a Saturday night, and walks up 45^th through the thick of it, scowling as her watch tells her that she’s getting closer and closer to being late.  She dodges around a pack of tourists wearing fanny packs of all the horrible fashion trends, and sidesteps into the Starbucks, feeling out of breath and relieved to be out of the chaos. 

Moriarty is perched on a high table, eyes trained on her phone and two cups before her.  One is blotted with lipstick, and the other is sealed shut with one of the green plastic stirrers that they give out at the counter.  Joan stands in the entryway for a moment, watching her, relaxed and uninhibited, messing on her phone.  She looks almost non-threatening in her business suit and heels, like a corporate lawyer, or maybe someone in publishing.  Certainly not like a criminal genius (albeit a slightly neutered one given how closely Moriarty is being watched according to Captain Gregson and everything that Marcus has been able to tell them about Interpol and the FBI’s tracking of her whereabouts), although Joan doesn’t think she can ever forget it. 

A large, loud woman bumps into Joan then, talking with a thick southern accent and wearing an ‘everything’s bigger in Texas’ shirt.  She has the audacity to glare at Joan as though Joan was the one who’d bumped into her.  Joan scoots around her and cuts over to slide into the seat across from Moriarty. 

“You’re late,” she says, not looking up.  She’s staring at a long line of her phone’s encryption in what looks like an email, a frown on her face. “I got you a drink.”

“Hello to you too,” Joan says, just as snippily.  Joan takes it and pops it open.  She’s not usually one for Starbucks, but it smells like chai and she’ll never say no to chai.  “And thanks.”

Moriarty looks up then, and she smiles almost coyly at Joan.  “Hello Joan,” she says, clicking her phone off and leaning forward to grasp one of Joan’s hands.  Her touch is warm, and Joan notices that she doesn’t look out of her mind with exhaustion for the first time in a long time.  Joan hasn’t actually seen her since their thwarted bee-napping together, almost a month and a half ago.  “I’ve missed you,” Moriarty adds.

Joan stirs her chai.  “We wondered where you went,” she says, fingers turning upwards to curl around Moriarty’s.  It’s a friendly gesture, but one that Joan thinks might be earned at this point in time.  “Sherlock thought you’d gone to ground.”

“It’s hard to go to ground when you have at least one FBI agent tailing your every move,” Moriarty says with an irritated-sounding sniff.  “I had to go to Atlanta to authenticate a painting, and then I went on to Rio to take care of a few things.”

“Authenticate?”  Joan asks, almost not wanting to know.

"Well, I had to be sure I hadn't forged it," Moriarty explains, pulling her hand back from Joan and pick up her coffee cup.  She flashes Joan a meaningful look and Joan rolls her eyes in response.  Leave it to Moriarty to talk up her own accomplishments until the cows came home.  What's strange is that Moriarty smiles then, wide and completely genuine, and Joan's not entirely sure how to react to it. 

She smiles politely back, and bites back the questions that blossom at her lips as she watches Moriarty watch her, that quietly amused smile drifting across her face. 

The sounds of at touristy Starbucks just off of Times Square rattle around in Joan's ears and she finds herself reminded, yet again, how she hates this part of the city.  This is the part that feels almost fake, all blinding lights and city-that-never-sleeps.  She hates the crush of tourists and the fact that even sitting completely still, she feels out of control, like they're racing around her.

"You want to ask me about it," Moriarty says after a moment. 

Joan shakes her head.  "I don't want to be compliant in any crimes you think you might be getting away with under the FBI's nose, Jamie."  And while yes, she is undeniably curious, she won't ask because that would make it too easy.  Moriarty will assume things, as she usually does, and Joan will try to put herself above the grandstanding to look past it and see the woman beyond.

The woman that genuinely interests Joan. 

Moriarty's face falls, and she tilts her head to one side, expression thoughtful.  "I would have thought you'd want to know if I..." She sighs and shrugs, straightening and her expression turning upbeat once more.  "No matter, it wasn't a matter of committing a crime, Joan." Moriarty shakes her head, "No, I have something of a reputation in some circles, a good eye for forgery, if you will.  My friend in Atlanta offered me a rather interesting tidbit of information in exchange for my assessment of his potential purchase."

And Joan can't help herself, because information offered freely is better than information deduced.  Sherlock's always told her that.  He's horrible at following his own rule sometimes, but Joan likes to think of herself as better with that part of the process anyway.  "And had you forged it?"

"Now, my dear Watson," Moriarty says, laughing quietly and leaning forward to whisper in a low, conspiratorial voice.  "If I had, do you think I would have mentioned it at all?"

Joan feels her shoulders slump and a breath she hadn't known she was holding escape her lips. She isn't quite sure what to say, and the way that Moriarty's looking at her makes her feel as though she's just another prize for Moriarty to win in her endless game.

She sets her chai down.  "Coming here was a mistake," she says, not meeting Moriarty's eyes.  She doesn't know how to say that she doesn't like being look at like that, or that she's not a piece of meat for Moriarty to examine and treat how she sees fit. 

Moriarty, for her part, says nothing.  She fiddles with her coffee cup glances out the window towards the chaos outside.  "You want something from me that I don't think I can give you."

"I want you to be yourself, Jamie," Joan replies, fingers curling into fists.  "If this is ever going to have even one iota of a chance at working, you have to be yourself.  Stop being Moriarty, stop being Irene, stop putting on airs and trying to impress me.  Just be you."  She looks up then, to meet stormy blue eyes.  "I like you," she adds and it comes out as the whisper of a confession she hadn't quite been ready to make. 

Maybe it's because if she's Jamie then she isn't Moriarty.  She isn't a woman that Joan knows has killed people and ruined lives.  She's just this woman who flits in and out of their lives, arguing with Sherlock about the bees and sketching the sunflowers on the roof in chalk pastels, a smear of yellow across her cheek and that stupidly oversized sunhat perched on her head.  It's easier to forget, to divorce the two personalities and Joan isn't even sure that she can ever think of Moriarty as Jamie.  Maybe that's what this is for, to see if she can get even better at lying to herself than she already is. 

"Are you going to leave?"  Moriarty asks, and she sounds almost small.  Joan can see her biting at the inside of her cheek, watching how the skin is sucked in and twitching. 

"I did tell you I'd go with you, I keep my promises," Joan replies.  "I just..." she gestures to the space between them.  "I don't know how to handle this."

A minefield. One wrong step and they could both be dead, Sherlock collateral between them.  Joan can't have that. 

Moriarty shakes her head.  "I will never understand you, Joan Watson."  She leans forward and her fingers curl around Joan's clenched fist.  "But I... I could try.  If you try too. I'm not an easy person, Joan."

"I never expected you to be," Joan says.

Maybe it's because they're both so out of their depths that when Moriarty leads them from the Starbucks and up 45th towards the theatre, Joan can almost imagine that this is somewhere between healthy and normal. 

Later, after the show, when Moriarty offers her a ride back across the river, Joan takes her up on the offer.  They sit next to each other in silence in the back seat not touching each other as Nicolosi, who has now been officially introduced to Joan as Moriarty's driver, hums along to the radio.  Joan's distracted, watching the city at night out the window, and she doesn't hear the privacy screen push up until it finally reaches the roof with a quiet sound of glass hitting fabric and rubber.

Joan turns to look at her, squinting in the semi-darkness of the backseat of the car.  "What would you say," Moriarty says and her expression unreadable.  "To doing this again?"

And she smiles slow and easy, because riding in the backseats of cars with girls as dangerous as Moriarty is exactly the sort of thing that Joan knows she shouldn't do.  She's curious though, she's so impossibly curious about this woman and who might be beneath the veneer of Moriarty.  "Maybe," she says, because giving a direct answer is too much.

The fingers that brush against her cheek and tangle into her hair are enough to make Joan want to change her maybe to a resounding yes, even more so when Moriarty leans forward, eyes glinting in the streetlights outside.  Her lips are warm and she tastes of coffee and smells so good that Joan just wants to sink into the feeling and linger there.  She can't do it though, and she lets it go on too long as it is.  She kisses Moriarty with everything she cannot put into words and when she pulls away their foreheads bump together in an almost intimate gesture that has no place in whatever it is between them.

Moriarty trails her thumb over Joan's lips and it feels like a promise of more to come.

They don't speak as Nicolosi drops Joan off in front of the brownstone, and Joan watches them drive off up the street, a pair of red tail lights in the dark.

"How was the play?" Sherlock calls from the doorway.  He's got a cup of something in his hand, soup by the looks of it, and is leaning against the door, his eyes narrowed. 

"It was lovely," Joan replies. 

"And Moriarty?"

"Irritatingly persistent."

Sherlock inclines his head to the side and sticks a spoonful of steaming soup into his mouth.  "She kissed you," he announces, exhaling steam and breath as a fog before him. 

"She did." Joan nods, because there's no sense denying it.

"This is a bad idea," Sherlock mutters as he turns, heading into the house and away from Joan.

-

2 -

Joan is cutting through the above ground tracks of Jamaica Station, eyeballing the Long Island Railway train as it lumbers off towards points east.  She’s coming back from visiting her mother, the sheer stress of the encounter pressing down around her.  She knows that it’s coming off of her in waves, the malcontent and the irritation, and she’s distracted enough not to take a moment to appreciate the beautiful murals of the jazz greats.  She loves this part of the station, and she so rarely sees it unless she’s coming back from the airport or maybe going to the beach.  The only reason she’s up here at all is because she’d wanted to collect the newspapers for Sherlock before heading home, to spare herself the trouble of going out again later. 

She’d made her purchase from the kindly old attendant, and is making her way back downstairs when she catches a glimpse of a tell-tale head of blonde hair heading the steps to the subway.  Joan quickens her pace, her purse full of three different newspapers that Sherlock for some reason cannot get delivered flapping against her side as she hurries and then falls into step beside Moriarty as they descend towards the subway.

"Hey," she says, with a tentative smile.  She's never known Moriarty to ride the subway, even if it's probably just the train from JFK.  "I didn't know you took the subway."

Moriarty looks exhausted, an expensive-looking overnight bag slung over one shoulder. She doesn’t quite smile at Joan, but Joan can see that there’s something dancing behind those tired eyes that looks a bit like excitement.  "Nicolosi is sick," she says and god, she sounds even wearier than she looks.  "And I've been traveling for close to thirteen hours now and was unable to arrange a replacement." 

"Where'd you go?"  Joan asks, swiping her metro card and stepping through the turnstile.  She doesn’t know why Moriarty insists on traveling like the rest of them, when she has the now-unfrozen (according to Marcus anyway) close-to-unlimited resources to fly private or at least get herself the hell out of coach.  Joan recognizes the cramped feeling that is oozing from Moriarty as she tries to fill, even in this relatively empty subway station, as little space as possible.  Thirteen hour in coach, Joan can’t imagine that.  The one time she’d been on a plane trip that long, she’d been out of medical school and actually making enough money to surprise upgrade her mom and Oren to business class. 

She stands on the other side of the turnstile and watches as Moriarty produces a very new looking metro card from her jacket pocket.  She contemplates it for a moment, before pushing it forward and swiping her passage through.

She'd been wondering at Moriarty's silence.  It had been noticeable as she and Sherlock threw themselves into wholeheartedly ignoring the exchange between them on the brownstone steps that night.   They'd caught a curious case that Sherlock had taken quite a while to put together.  They'd just figured out their villain yesterday and Sherlock had decided to spend the day with Randy as he felt he'd been neglecting their sponsor-sponsee relationship during the case.  They’re having what he’s dubbed an ‘adventure on sobriety’ which sounds like one of his horrible plots to make himself out to be a bad sponsor (which will backfire spectacularly, because Sherlock Holmes doesn’t mess up adventures), but Joan can’t help but be secretly pleased by how he’s positively flourished in the role of sponsor.

"Prague," Moriarty says, standing at the top of the steps and squinting up at the train listing.  "And then on to Dresden for a few days.  I'm sure Interpol is all a tizzy because I left the country; they were following me for quite a while in Dresden.  I've noticed that I've lost my FBI tail, though."

She doesn't say that she was almost glad that Moriarty hadn't called.  The silence has spared her having to explain her reasons for letting this continue to Sherlock. She won't lie to him about what's gone on, but she's grateful that he's acting the voice of her conscience, telling her that she has to stop this before she falls into this woman's web completely.

The problem is that she’s already stuck in it, and Joan can feel herself getting pulled deeper and deeper in with every passing moment. 

"Did you want to... come back with me for a while?"  Joan asks tentatively as an irritated-looking woman stalks around them and marches down the steps to the mostly empty platform below.  She’s pretty sure that Sherlock won’t mind terribly.  They’ve both grown somewhat accustomed to Moriarty being around, even if Sherlock’s been in a bit of a foul mood over the kiss that Joan has tried to put at the back of her mind.  She won’t let it happen again, she knows that much.  It’s too much, too familiar.  Too dangerous. "You look dead on your feet."

Moriarty says nothing for a long time, looking at Joan with an almost contemplative look.  They’re at a crossroads right now.  Moriarty could take the E Train and be back in the city in half an hour, to wherever she lives when she’s here.  Or they could take the J Train and then the C Train back to Brooklyn and the brownstone and a whole slew of things that Joan is trying very hard to not think about.  To the left is one, the other to the right.  "I think I'd like that." Moriarty replies, her fingers reaching out to brush against Joan’s forearm.

The trip isn’t exactly an easy one.  It takes a while and reminds Joan, yet again, why she tries to avoid going home to see her mother, preferring to visit when her mother comes into the city to shop or to go to the doctor.    The transfer takes very little time; luckily, as they’re getting close to peak hours and the trains are running more frequently.  They could make one more connection and get even closer to home, but Joan can see how Moriarty is dozing against her shoulder and knows that walking will probably do her some good.  She nudges Moriarty’s thigh and leads them out into the late afternoon sunlight.

As they round the corner and the brownstone comes into sight some twenty minutes later, a food truck that Joan doesn't recognize is parked on the corner. The smell of onions and peppers fills the air.  She turns to glance at Moriarty, who is trailing half a step behind her.  She looks half asleep, Joan thinks.

"Do you want to eat?"  Joan asks, knowing the implication of the action and trying to tell herself that she's being a decent person by being nice.  No one should be allowed to be that beautiful (and when did she start thinking that) and that bedraggled-looking at the same time.

"I could."  Moriarty replies, glancing at the food truck with some suspicion.  Joan understands her hesitation; they don’t tend to pop in residential areas like this as they tend to irritate the residents.  She wonders if these people even have a permit to be here, or if they’re just another FBI front or something equally nefarious.

Upon closer inspection, however, it appears to be a legitimate business.  The food truck is selling noodles cooked in a gloopy sort of sauce and served in Chinese take-out containers.  Joan eyeballs their restaurant license for a moment before reading the menu fully.  Food trucks have a reputation of being something of a problem in this part of the city, but the license is good so Joan can’t really complain too much if they linger for a few days.  Joan gets an order of the stuff, takes the two forks offered to her and they end up eating it on the brownstone steps, not quite ready to go indoors. 

The sunlight is streaming down through a gap in the clouds, and it feels like it could almost be summer outside, if not for the harsh bite in the air as soon as the clouds shifted to cover the sun once more.  “What was in Prague?"  Joan asks, poking at a stray noodle that's falling out of the side of the carton with her fork.  It really is unseasonably warm today, but there's a stiff breeze.  They should go inside. 

Moriarty turns and stares off into the middle distance, her expression completely unreadable.  "A lot of dead ends."  She turns to look at Joan, eyes crinkling at the corners.  She looks exhausted, Joan thinks, and wonders when she'll actually take the time to stop and rest.  She's behaving like she's on the run when there's no need to be.  "How's your mother?"

Joan scowls.  "How did you know?"

"You smell like old lady," Moriarty pokes Joan's shoulder with an almost affectionate smile.  It looks alien on her face.  "You don't favor that scent, and the only people I can think of who do tend to be over the age of fifty.  I don't know you to have any older cousins or aunts, so the logical guess is your mother."

"You should like Sherlock," Joan grumbles, stabbing at the noodles.  "I suppose that meeting you in Queens probably had something to do with that as well."

Moriarty grins at her, and bats her fork away to get into the carton of noodles.  "That could have something to do with it.  At first I thought you'd come from the airport as well, but I couldn't think of anywhere you might have gone."

"I... I go places," Joan retorts almost petulantly. This assumption that she doesn’t travel is a little alien to her.  She’s spent a great deal of her life traveling.  Every vacation she could get as after the insane rush of medical school and then her residency ending had been spent anywhere but New York.  She’s been all over the US now, and a few places beyond.  She’d definitely well-traveled, even if Moriarty doesn’t see it at all.  Joan eyes Moriarty as she fiddles with her fork, and eventually decides to just let it go.   "But yes, I went to see my mom."

"And did it go as well as it usually goes with her?"

Joan bites her lip, not wanting to admit the truth in that particular statement.  She knows that it's just another guess, and she can understand why Moriarty would make that assumption about her.  It's somewhat true, after all.  But it's getting better, a lot better actually.  Her mother actually likes Sherlock, which is huge, and she adores the cases that Joan tells her about.  Joan's mother has always been a total mystery buff, solving bodega crime novels before the first few chapters were completed and following the mob wars that were waged during Joan's eleventh and twelfth years almost as closely as Joan did. 

"Why do you think I have a bad relationship with my mom?"  Joan asks, calling the bluff and moving forward.  She doesn't want that to ever be on the table again.   She doesn’t know what sort of stereotypes and guesswork those assumptions will bring into Moriarty’s mind, and she doesn’t like the implications of any of the ones that spring to mind.

Moriarty sighs, her shoulders slumping.  "Doesn't everyone?" she asks. And maybe it’s the way she asks it, or maybe it’s the way that her demeanor seems to change as Joan glares at her, but Joan swears that there’s something of who Moriarty is in that statement as well.

At Joan's steely look Moriarty adds, stabbing her fork moodily into the container, “Sherlock mentioned in his letters that your mother had trouble, after you left your career in sober companionship and moved on to working as a consulting detective.  He told me that she couldn't understand why you'd left another lucrative position, and then talked about how he, for a time, couldn't understand it either."

"I like the work," Joan replies, filing that tidbit away to discuss, at length, with Sherlock once he gets back from his adventure with Randy.  He needs to stop spilling her every secret to Moriarty, it levels the playing field to something that maybe could be considered even, and Joan cannot help but enjoy how flummoxed Moriarty is by her at times. "Moreso than anything I've ever done before in my life.  My mom didn't really get that at first, but we've worked it out.  I went over there to try and politely turn down her invitation for Sherlock and I to go to the big Chinese-American Thanksgiving thing she does every year."

"And did you succeed?"  Moriarty asks like this is the sort of conversation she knows all too well.

Joan sighs, thinking of her mother's expression when she'd said that she'd made other plans.  It's the first time in a long time that she's even considering ditching Thanksgiving; the last time was during her residency, when she'd lacked the seniority to get the day off.  She just... doesn't want to deal with that cluster of bilingual people expecting her to speak Mandarin better than she does and the constant pressure of feeling like a disappointment whenever she describes her work. 

Besides, Marcus and Andre have nowhere to go unless they want to go two hours upstate and Ms. Hudson's relationship with her family isn't good and Joan sort of wants to gather all of their destination-less friends together and have a meal and maybe go rummaging in her storage unit to find some old video games from when they were all kids and fire them up.  She thinks she still has Oren’s copy of Mario Kart and a few working N-64 controllers somewhere.  Even if it requires her to cook, which is a mildly terrifying idea in and of itself. 

"It's hard to tell," Joan says judiciously.  She's sure that in the next week or so there will be at least two, maybe even three more attempts to coax her into going.  Joan might have even been convinced, if Oren hadn't texted her as she was leaving her mother’s house, saying that mom had invited all of Gabrielle's family and oh god, Joan wants none of that. "Ask me in two weeks."

The noodles have gone cold and Joan throws them away as they head inside, shivering a little and shaking in the cold. 

"What were you looking for?"  Joan asks as Moriarty stands in the middle of the living room, hands till plunged in her jacket pockets.  Her bag is by the door, though, and her shoes have been kicked off besides Joan's boots. It feels almost domestic, and Joan isn’t entirely sure what to make of it. "In Prague, and in Dresden."

"I'm afraid I can't tell you that now," Moriarty confesses, her expression softening.  "I want to, but it’s not the right time, Joan.  You must understand, I will tell you, in time."

Joan blinks at her, not quite understanding, but getting the point easily enough.  Moriarty doesn't want to talk about it just yet, and Joan can respect that, even if it means even more questions than answers.  That’s how it usually is between them, but it seems that she’s at least willing to share some things.  It’s interesting, and Joan’s intrigued.  She turns then, gesturing to the stairs and the guest room on the second floor, across from her bedroom.  "The guest room's all yours, if you want to crash for a few hours."

And when Moriarty brushes by her, pressing a gentle kiss to her cheek and vanishing towards the stairs, Joan is frozen, completely immobile, trying to figure out how best to respond.

-

3-

The weekend before Thanksgiving, after spending much of the week dodging calls from her mother and working on a fairly open-and-shut case (to Sherlock at least, it had taken everyone else at least two extra days to find enough proof to actually arrest the killer he’d deduced from, of all horrible things, a porn collection and a dirty sock), Joan finds herself alone in the brownstone.  Sherlock's gone to a meeting, Alfredo and Randy picking him up some twenty minutes ago, and Joan's alone in the absolute silence of the moment.

She's almost tempted to put on Madonna or some other artist that Sherlock hates at top volume just because she can without having to disrespect the housemate code of conduct.

Her phone buzzes, and Joan answers it distractedly, not bothering to look at the caller.  "Hello?" she says.

"Hello Joan Watson."  And despite of the distance and the fact that Joan knows she's alone in the brownstone, a chill still shoots up her spine.  She's not used to this, even now that she thinks she might actually understand Moriarty a little. 

She forces herself to be calm, and lets out a quiet sigh.  "Hello Jamie."  It still feels odd, not quite right, to call her that.  Joan's not about to call her Moriarty to her face, even if that's all she can ever think of the woman as.  She won’t let herself moved past it, she doesn’t think she can.  If she does then she’ll surly fall into the same trap that Sherlock has with her: unable to look past who she was for who Moriarty truly is.

"I was in the area," Moriarty drawls, her tone light and airy and almost distracted-sounding over the phone.  "And I thought that you might be amenable to lunch?"

The clock on the wall that Joan's pretty sure is right reads noon and Joan hadn't realized it was that late already.  Her run must have taken longer than she thought.  "I um..." Joan says, biting at her lip and then decides to throw caution into the wind.  "Sure."

"Give me ten minutes to get over there, traffic's horrible," Moriarty replies, and the line goes dead.  Joan wonders if she's even driving, or if poor Nicolosi is stuck listening to his boss complain about the traffic.  Probably the latter, Joan decides, and heads upstairs to collect her things.

She's in the process of leaving a note for Sherlock saying that she's gone out to lunch and that she should be back later when there's a knock on the door.  Joan hurriedly adds that she has her phone and will text if anything changes, and hurries to answer the door.

Moriarty has on a thick wool overcoat and a scarf wrapped around her neck so many times that it looks almost comical, but Joan's not about the blame her.  The weather is horrible today, and with the wind-chill the temperature is dipping well below the average for this time of year.  Her run earlier was enough to almost have Joan convinced that curling up in front of the fire under several blankets was clearly the best way to spend the day.  She steps in and Joan pulls the door shut behind her, watching as she starts to undo the intricate wrapping of the scarf.

Joan pulls on her own jacket and when Moriarty's unearthed her mouth enough to talk, she grins.  "I take it the weather hasn't improved?"

"You've already been out in it?"  Moriarty asks, fiddling with her scarf.  Joan tugs down her own scarf, merino wool and rummages for a hat in the basket beside the door.

"Yeah, I went for a run this morning," Joan explains, tugging the hat on and making sure it's covering the tips of her ears.  She slings her purse over her shoulder, a smile pulling at her lips as Moriarty regards her like she's insane.

"In this weather?  Why, Watson, you'll catch your death," Moriarty says, and she's stepped forward to press her freezing fingers to Joan's forehead.  Joan talks half a step back, surprised by the sudden physical contact and not liking the cold fingers on her one bit.

"I'll be fine," Joan replies evenly, choosing to ignore the oddly chest-fallen look that flits across Moriarty's face before it vanishes behind her usual mask of disinterested inquisitiveness.  "I go most days, wait ‘til January if you're really worried about me."

They head out and as Joan turns to lock the door behind her, Moriarty says, "A runner's high can still create an addict, Watson."

Joan rolls her eyes, because she's not about to deny the fact. She's not about to acknowledge to Moriarty that she probably is at least somewhat dependent on the routine that running every morning provides her.  She's not going to mention how mornings when they're out on a case or on a stakeout and she cannot make her run lead to her being in a truly horrible mood.  She won’t give Moriarty that satisfaction.

"Probably," is all she says, pocketing her keys and glancing around. The now familiar black Lexus is parked a few doors up, carefully wedged into a parking space that Joan's pretty sure is reserved for Mrs. Larson, the woman who lives on the first floor of that particular house.  She's apparently out, as Joan doesn't see her Buick anywhere.

"Why were you over here?"  Joan asks.  Through their, granted relatively limited, conversations, she's been able to determine that when Moriarty's staying in the city, she tends to favor upscale Manhattan hotels.  She has studio space somewhere too, but Joan's never been able to figure out where, and Moriarty's never been particularly forthcoming with the information.  Joan wonders if it’s because it’s full of forgeries, or if it’s because Moriarty is relatively private about her art. 

(Except when it’s a giant picture of Joan, and Joan still hasn’t asked her about that and she’s not sure that there will ever be an appropriate time to ask about that.)

Moriarty opens the door for her, and Joan climbs into the back seat and watches as Moriarty glances around before following her inside.  She tells Nicolosi the name of a deli that Joan and Sherlock both tend to favor a few blocks over.  Joan watches as the privacy screen rolls up, wondering what Moriarty might want to talk about that her driver could not overhear.

"Paints, if you must know," Moriarty replies.  She bends over then and picks up a small plastic bag that Joan hadn't noticed from the foot well and holds it out to Joan.

There's the sound of glass inside, rattling around and two brushes are poking up through the top of the bag, their bristles carefully protected in little plastic shields.

"I don't know much about art," Joan confesses.  She'd always liked it when she was in elementary and middle school, but there hadn't been time once high school came around for her to take anything but the required art class for graduation.  She doesn't pry, doesn't pull out the bottles and inspect them. She knows that Moriarty is an artist in more than one sense of the word, but Joan knows that it is in the art that Moriarty's passion lies.  "I never had time in school."

She hands Moriarty her bag back, watching with curious eyes as Moriarty carefully situates the brushes so that they will not get jostled.  "And after?" she asks, turning to look at Joan.

"I..." Joan starts, and then stops.  She goes to museums, she looks at art.  She knows how to appreciate it, to admire beauty. But she can't really talk about it with any sort of authority.  Not like how Sherlock does when he thinks he can get away with being passionate about something, or Marcus when he's pretending he's not appreciating street art and particularly artistic graffiti. "I've learned to appreciate it, but I can't talk about it with any sort of authority."  Joan shrugs.  "I don't speak the language, you know?"

Moriarty smiles then, the warm and affectionate smile that Joan's caught glimpses of here and there.  It's the smile that Joan could look at forever, the one that could make Joan forget all that Moriarty is and see only this charming woman before her.  "It's easy to pick up," she says after a moment.  "I studied maths in school; there wasn't much time for anything other than proofs. I had to learn it afterwards."

It's a piece of information, freely offered. And it's something that Joan would have never expected from her.  She tilts her head to one side, "Why math? Given your talent I would have assumed you would have chosen studio art or something."

The question lays heavy, like a haze around them, and Moriarty seems to debate every word that tumbles from her lips, her fingers twisted up in her scarf, unwrapped as it is around her neck.  "Art is not a suitable field of study for someone like me," she says quietly, like it’s a line she’s repeated all her life.  "Art is a hobby, nothing more."

Nothing else is said for the rest of the drive, but when Joan reaches out while they're stopped at a light and touches Moriarty's hand, she does not pull away.  Joan curls her fingers around the clenched fist and tries to coax it to relax, fingers warm and gentle against Moriarty's cool skin.

It's still the middle of the lunch hour, and the deli is packed.  Joan spots a table tucked away towards the window, and she leaves her coat on it as they both wait in line, Moriarty eyeing the menu almost suspiciously.  "The salads are good," Joan says, and Moriarty blinks at her before nodding once.

They end up getting the same thing – an arugula salad with raspberries and almond slivers - and the guy behind the counter asks Joan where Sherlock is.  Joan's seen him at a few of the meetings she attended with Sherlock, back during the start of their partnership, and says that he's off with Alfredo and Randy.  The guy doesn't know Randy, but he does know Alfredo and nods knowingly before passing her the two bowls of salad.  "Tell him he's got to come in before the end of the month to use up his sandwich card, will ya?"

"I will," Joan promises.  She weaves her way carefully through the clutter of jackets and tables and chairs.  People chatting and eating lunch, going about their day without a care in the world.  She feels almost like a trespasser, for letting Moriarty bring her hear.  This is a place that is her's and Sherlock’s.  It doesn't belong to a career criminal interloper, despite how casually the name had been provided to her driver.

Moriarty is staring out the window, watching the cars go by outside, her chin resting in her palm.  "Do you come here often?" she asks.

"You know we do," Joan replies, handing her a fork and a napkin. She’s not about to let Moriarty’s games start, not when she can shut them down right out of the gate.  "The precinct is two blocks up, and this is the closest deli that actually serves chicken salad that Sherlock likes, so we're here a lot when we're working.

"The celery," Moriarty guesses, and Joan nods.  Sherlock's insistence on his chicken salad having a crunch had struck her as odd the first dozen or so times she'd heard him inquire as to the make up of a particular deli's chicken salad, but after that she'd just brushed it off as another Sherlock thing that she could never even pretend to understand.  "He's always been particular."

All that Joan can see is Sherlock crumbling before her eyes, and her appetite is suddenly completely and utterly gone.  She sets her fork down.  "I'd rather not talk about him, if that's okay."

"Don't want to remind yourself?"  Moriarty says, stabbing at a piece of lettuce.  Joan thinks her lips should be curling into a snarl of discontent as she says it, for its obvious those are the emotions she's feeling. Her tone is cutting; stabbing at Joan’s resolve like it is butter.  "Or is it that you'd rather forget what I'm capable of?"

"Neither," Joan replies quietly.  Because she could never forget, and while yes, she doesn’t like the reminder, she sometimes things she needs it.  She's dancing with the devil here, getting pulled further and further into Moriarty's web and her little trail of breadcrumbs and personal details that Joan shouldn't be so keen to learn more of.  "I just don't like to think about how easily I could end up just like him."

"Oh come now Watson, you don't honestly think I'd destroy you, do you?"  Moriarty's got her elbows on the table, fork twined between two fingers as she rests her chin on her joined hands.  "You're far too interesting for that - and you see too much for me to ever get that far."

It's a high compliment, especially coming from one who thinks so highly of herself, and Joan knows it.  Still, if there's one thing that she's learned about this woman, it's that it's far easier to not rise to the bait of the occasion, and simply leave her to stew on careful words and not-quite truths.  "I think you could figure it out," Joan replies, picking up her fork once more.  "If you put your mind to it and stopped jet setting around the world like you're a fugitive on the run."

Moriarty laughs then, and Joan knows she's said too much.  She sticks some lettuce and tomato into her mouth and chews, watching Moriarty with careful, curious eyes.

"I am hardly behaving like a fugitive, Joan," she admonishes, but there's a smile about her face that makes Joan feel almost comforted.  She watches as Moriarty takes an almost delicate sip of water before adding, "If I was, you'd never know I'd left at all. I can be terribly sneaky when I need to be."

"I'm sure," Joan replies dryly.  She doesn't know how to say that the jet set life is going to kill her if she doesn't slow down.  She looks well rested today, but who's to say that she won't look dead exhausted the next time she drifts into their lives.  Joan doesn't want to call it a concern, because these trips must have a reason behind them, but she isn't entirely sure what that reason could possibly be.

Moriarty sighs and sets down her fork, suddenly seeming business like when she'd been so playful before.  "You want to ask me about what I'm up to, don't you?"

Yes, Joan thinks, but she keeps her face impassive.

"I'm not an idiot," is what she says instead, "or fool enough to think you've quit the business just because Interpol and the FBI are watching you so closely that you probably can't sneeze without them knowing.  You have your ways, and you're not about to quit."

"You're far more insightful than I gave you credit for, Watson, I was halfway to convincing myself that you'd try and save me," Moriarty replies smoothly.  "And as much as I'd love to draw you into my world and corrupt your soul completely, I don't think it's possible."

"So where does that leave us?"  Joan asks.

"A détente."  Moriarty leans forward, her fingers catching Joan's hand and drawing it forward across the table.  Joan feels a temporary surge of panic, feeling the eyes of everyone in this place on her, and remembering how horribly her mother had reacted that one time she'd been caught kissing a girl.  She forces herself to relax, and watches with confused eyes as Moriarty lays a gentle kiss on her hand, eyes shining with an intent that Joan can't put into words.

Their destruction is mutually assured, and the only things that are keeping that from happening their own actions.  A fine line, the adage goes, and one that Joan knows well.

It's a promise; she realizes later, after Moriarty drops her off in front of the brownstone and kisses her slow and easy against the side of the Lexus.  Joan's fingers are all tangled in Moriarty's scarf and hair and she likes this far more than she should, the way that Moriarty, even wrapped up in a coat and bulky sweater underneath it, feels pressed against her.  A promise to live and let live, and while Joan thinks that guilt of pretending to forget will corrupt her soul without any help from Moriarty, she cannot help but think that maybe, just maybe, some of her goodness will end up in Moriarty.

-

4 -

In mid-December, after successfully begging off Thanksgiving at home and having a truly lovely time with what Joan has come to think of as her second family, they land an art heist case.  Joan is pretty sure that they only reason they've been called in to consult at all is because everyone knows that Sherlock and Moriarty are sort of two halves of the same coin and they think she did it.

Joan, unfortunately, is stuck with the odious task of being the alibi for one Jamie Moriarty. 

Marcus is pissed off at her, which Joan sort of understands, really she does.  She understands how his hands still shake and how he'll never let go of that anger, at least not completely, but he's back on their side now, and he's sitting across an interview table from her, and it feels really weird and totally wrong. 

"So you and Moriarty are what... going out?" He asks, flicking his pen to his left hand and curling his notepad around so that ink won't smear across his palm. 

Joan sighs; she doesn't want to have this conversation.  "Not exactly," Joan says.  "She kept asking, I acquiesced once or twice, it might have turned into something. I wanted to see where it went."

And the look on his face is enough to make Joan rethink the whole thing.  She knew that this had had the potential to happen, but she'd tried to ignore it.  "And last night was?"

"Unfortunately," and Joan winces, meeting his gaze, "One of those times."

Moriarty had breezed in with what, according to Sherlock, was the coolest present ever for him yesterday afternoon.  She'd smiled and said that this was her way of saying that she was sorry for insulting his bees multiple times over the summer.  Sherlock had been almost vibrating as he held the gift up to the light.  "It’s sourdough starter, Watson!" he'd practically cackled.

For the past two weeks, he'd been talking practically non-stop about how he'd wanted to try his hand at making bread with Randy as a further 'adventure in sobriety.'  Joan has been stepping around half-read books on bread making for a while now, as Sherlock's left them littering the floor, freshly borrowed from the library.  She hopes that he remembers to return them in a timely manner, because she's not going to return them for him.

Joan had moved to take a closer look at the Mason jar full of a creamy-colored goop that looked both alive and slightly diseased for a moment before she allowed her gaze to shift to Moriarty.  She'd been standing a few paces off from Sherlock, arms folded over her chest and a peculiar expression on her face.  It hadn't so much been vindicated, as quietly pleased.  She'd been glad to do this for him, and Joan hadn't been sure how to react to this.

"You went to San Francisco?"  Joan asks.  She's been jet setting all over the place recently, enough to make Joan and Sherlock both start to wonder what the hell she's up to.  There've been no red flags, and Sherlock's Interpol contacts have been astonishingly quiet when he's called them to ask what she's up to when she goes to Europe.

As far as they know, she's going to see people who are not known criminals.  They're just average ordinary sorts of people that appear completely random to the untrained eye.  And even Sherlock, who has a whole folio of these people now, can see no connection.  Some of them are tangentially related to criminals, but never the same sorts of criminals they'd associate with Moriarty.

She's definitely up to something, and they both know it.  Joan had resolved, under the promise that there would be no more kissing, that she'd take Moriarty out and try and ask her outright.

“I did,” Moriarty replies, offering Joan her arm.  There’s that sort of private smile playing on Moriarty’s lips – the one that Joan has come to know as just for her.  This time she doesn’t ask Joan explicitly, and Joan goes along without a question as to where they’re going.  Maybe it’s been long enough that they’ve started to work to trust each other.  Maybe it’s just that Joan wants to spend time with Moriarty, and that smile is enough to intrigue her all the more.

They'd left Sherlock to his sourdough starter and carefully written out instructions on how to care for it.  He'd already taken a black sharpie and written 'edible - do not throw away' on the top of the jar.  Joan doesn't think that Ms. Hudson would do something like that, but it's probably better that she doesn't think the jar of what looks like baby vomit is disposable.  He'd been on the phone with Randy as they'd left, telling him excitedly that he was going to go to the meeting that evening, and if Randy wanted to meet him after, they could try their hand at baking some bread.

Joan had fully expected to come home that evening to a flour explosion in the kitchen and quite possibly a house fire.  She'd confessed this to Moriarty as they walked up the street towards where Nicolosi was waiting with the now familiar black Lexus.

"I think that it needs to rise overnight," Moriarty had pointed out.  "So you'll probably come home to them playing chess."

Joan had laughed then.  "I don't think Randy plays, but I wouldn't be surprised if Sherlock starts to teach him."  Randy's been having a rough time recently, Christmas time is always hard for an addict, and his family situation doesn't allow him the safe and stable home environment that he probably needs at this time of year.  There are drugs everywhere around him, and Sherlock's really put in a great deal of time and effort into helping Randy through this time.  Their caseload usually increases around the holidays, but it's been relatively quiet, so Sherlock's had more time and Joan's really glad.  Randy needs the support, he really does.

"I get it, you guys went out," Marcus interjects, tapping his pen on his note pad.  "Where did you go?"

"This tiny, hole in the wall place in the East Village," Joan reaches for her purse and rummages around for the card the waiter had given her. She finds it tucked into her wallet, wedged underneath a receipt for coffee this morning and a crumpled five dollar bill.  "I’ve got no clue how she’d ever even heard of it… But, here; the waiter gave me this last night to pass along to a friend.  I think they're trying to drum up a buzz, but he should remember us.  We were there for long enough."

And that bottle of wine could not have come cheap, Joan thinks but does not add.  She watches as Marcus sets the card on the table after noting the address in his usual, precise hand.  His hand barely shakes these days, but Joan can see how hard the pen is for him to grip.  He’s putting on a great show, and Joan’s glad for him.  He needs this just as much as she or Sherlock does.  The work is what keeps them all going, after all.

Marcus looks almost apologetic now.  Joan knows it's because he's jumped all over the fact that Moriarty's actually around right now, and somehow it seems easy to finger her for this heist. It’s a common problem in police work; Sherlock’s told her many times, to go with the path of least resistance.  Killers, he says, aren’t always the obvious ones.  It’s the sneaky, clever ones, that are truly the ones that need to be locked away.  Unfortunately, he’d gone on to add.  They’re also the ones that get away with crimes the most.  "So when did you guys get there?"

"About seven, we stayed until after eleven, and then we walked around the village for maybe half an hour before her driver - Nicolosi something, I never found out his last name - came and got us," Joan explains.

"And after?"

An embarrassed flush blossoms across Joan's cheeks and nose and she looks away.  After had been something she hadn't planned to happen. She hadn't planned on inviting Jamie inside, or for Sherlock to have already gone to bed, the radio quietly playing in his bedroom the only indication that he hadn't gone out.  She hadn't meant to smile and nod towards her bedroom and she certainly hadn't meant to press Jamie against the wall and kiss her until she could scarce murmur anything but Joan’s name.

What had happened next was against Joan’s better judgment, but the bed was right there and they were both partially undressed anyway, a little drunk on good wine and thankfully easy conversation.  Jamie had asked Joan how one went about being good, and considering others in her own actions, and Joan had told her that it came from the heart.  And as Jamie had drawn Joan down with her onto the bed, her hand had pressed against Joan’s chest, her lips on Joan’s neck, and all that Joan could hear was the steady beat of her own heart, echoing inside her head. 

Marcus is looking at her oddly, and Joan swallows, ears burning.  "That doesn't really matter, does it?  The theft occurred at about ten last night from what Sherlock told me."

"I'm just trying to establish a timeline, Joan," Marcus replies, but she can tell that he’s feeling uncomfortable, probably because she’s blushing and he’s a guy who obviously has eyes and isn’t stupid.  He can put two and two together, and he probably already has.  Marcus makes a note and then looks up at her, meeting her gaze evenly.  "What the hell are you thinking, getting involved with her?"

Joan has no answer to that.  She bites her lip and looks away, not daring to meet his gaze.  "I don't know," she confesses.  "And I truly wish I did."

He has to let them both leave, but Joan can see that he hates everything about this situation.

Moriarty is sitting on a visitor’s bench outside the interview room, staring through the window at the whiteboard that they've designated to document the case.  Her expression is completely closed off and unreadable as she hands Joan her coat and waits for Joan to put it on.

Joan tilts her head to one side, fiddling with her scarf.  Her body aches in a way that isn't entirely unpleasant and she's overtired and a little hung-over, but she feels oddly angry at the whole thing.  She knows that Moriarty is a planner and a schemer, and that she could easily orchestrate something like this from the quiet comfort of a wine bar in the East Village.

She doesn't like being used, and she doesn't like the implication that she can ever be a convenient alibi - because she's a goddamn saint who can do no wrong in the eyes of the NYPD, apparently.  She's about to say something about it, too, when she notices Moriarty's fingers twitching where they hang loosely by her side, her eyes moving rapidly over the whiteboard.

"What is it?" Joan asks, moving to button her coat.  She hasn't seen this look on Moriarty's face since they'd encountered the bee-napers on their room at the beginning of September.

"I recognize the work," Moriarty replies, her fingers resting on the windowpane. 

And Joan's about to make a crack about how it could so obviously be Moriarty who's done this, when Moriarty says it first.

"This job would be easy, three men maybe two if they’re skilled, you know?  All it would take is a few computer access points and a general knowledge of the security rotation and the precautions in place on the art," she sighs and turns to look at Joan then, her eyes stormy and dark in the harsh light of the precinct.  Joan would say she looks murderous, but she knows that look on Moriarty far too well, and this is not it.  This is more a speculative anger, annoyance at being dragged in like a common criminal, the sort of anger that Joan feels like is entirely unmerited, given the circumstances.  "The key is the calling-card.  I've never been one for them; they're far too flashy and attract the wrong sort of attention."

In the place of the strange post-modernist sculpture that was taken, a single can of Campbell’s soup had been left.  Switched so quickly that the motion-detecting switch that had been hidden in the base of the display case hadn't been tripped.  Joan had commented almost at once that it was like something out of Indiana Jones.  Sherlock had agreed with her, right up until they’d found a piece of tape covering the sensor that would have triggered the pressure-based alarm.  Now they’re just looking at very talented art thieves.

"Who did it then?" Joan practically demands.  "Jamie, if you can give them a name..."

She shakes her head.  "Not without tipping my whole hand," she admits.  "And while I'm sure that the police here will appreciate my revealing all the cards, it isn't what I want. Not just yet, at any rate."

Joan hadn't mentioned their conversation at the wine bar to Marcus, and she doesn't intend to bring it up here.  She hadn't gotten a straight answer out of Moriarty about what she's been getting up to the past few months, but she'd gotten a big enough (and probably completely intentional) hint.

Moriarty is looking for someone, as far as Joan can gather, and Joan has a pretty good idea what brought this search about.  Back before the thwarted bee-napping she'd mentioned that she'd been to Seattle and that she'd met someone she hadn't anticipated there.  Joan wonders if it's an ex-lover or a rival or potentially even both.  She needs more time to think about the conversation, to rehash it completely, and she's starting to get worried that it's time she doesn't have.

Joan stares at her for a long time, but finally nods judiciously.  "Okay," she says, even though she feels anything but okay.  She swallows, throat sticky with emotion she can't quite name. Disappointment, maybe, or sadness that she’d guessed wrong, and nothing of herself could ever be instilled in Moriarty.  "You have all the ability in the world to pull off something like this," she says, and she hates that it comes off as flattery.  It's not meant to be.  Joan means it as a caution, a warning to tread carefully.  "I need you to tell me that you didn't do it."

She bites her tongue and doesn’t say anything more.  Watching as Moriarty takes in the whiteboard through the window, her lips pitched downwards in a deep scowl.  After what seems like forever, she turns to look at Joan, her hair falling into her eyes and her expression completely unreadable.  "These walls have ears," she says, and walks towards the doors and the stairs to the main entrance.

Outside the day is cold and blustery, and Joan shivers as the blast of frigid city wind hits her square in the face.  It's enough to steal her breath away, to crack through her startlingly calm exterior to the turbulent emotions beneath.

Moriarty leads them around the building towards the back, where there’s a little smoking alcove that is blissfully empty.  It’s sheltered from the wind, and Joan lets out a breath, watching as it fogs before her eyes, dissipating into nothingness. Moriarty stands before her, her coat still open, her eyes trained on the street before them.  Cars are stopping at the traffic light, and across from them, an old woman is waiting to cross the street, her arms full of groceries. 

“I did not do this,” Moriarty says.  She closes her eyes and sucks in a breath of air.  Joan can see her let it out, a three count later.  It fogs the air between them and Joan steps forward and into that haze.  It’s like her heart, like all that she knows she should not do, done and wrapped into one.  “Snatch and grab has never been my style, you know this Watson. If I were to have done this, I would have spent weeks preparing a forgery to replace the original with, and I certainly would not have taken a piece of avant-garde statuary by an all but unknown local artist.”

Joan folds her arms over her chest, scowling.  “Last night you asked me how to understand what consequences your actions might have,” she begins, her mind already racing.  “And until you understand that, the doubt is all you are ever going to receive.”

"You know," Moriarty says, seemly unperturbed by the cold.  Her lips are twisting upwards into a smug smile, a cat who’s eaten the canary.  "I never expected your doubt, or your blessing."  She's got her hands deep in her pockets and her coat is unbuttoned, flapping in the breeze.

"It wasn’t - isn't - a blessing," Joan says, shaking her head. What they’d done together had not been a blessing or an endorsement or anything even remotely close to that.  She knows that the doubt is something that cannot be removed without far more work on both their parts.  Joan isn't about to absolve Moriarty of her criminal pursuits, and Moriarty isn't about to expect Joan to take off her white hat. "I just know you're looking for someone and that this could be a valuable piece of that puzzle for you."

"And do you know what I'll do to him, when I find him, Joan?" Moriarty asks, and Joan lets the sick feeling of her pronouncement wash over her.

Her eyes flutter closed and she swallows just once.  "I hope to god you won't kill him," she admits, even though the revulsion at what she's done, what she's allowed to happen between them.

"There are fates far worse than death, Joan," Moriarty says.  "And I intend to humiliate him completely before he comes to any harm at all."  She turns then, her back to Joan.  "Tell Detective Bell that he should compare this case to the 2009 heist at the British Royal Museum, and to consider checking recent flight manifests into the country for the name 'Sterling Wagner.'"

And with that, she walks away, vanishing into the crowd of mid-day lunch time traffic, and Joan stands alone on the sidewalk, feeling as though she doesn't understand anything at all.

-

5 -

The next week and a half is dedicated to two things: baking bread, which Sherlock and Randy have apparently mastered quite easily (Joan doesn't think she's ever eaten more bread in her life); and working on the Wagner case.

"I don't understand why she told you the culprit's name if she wasn't willing to help with the investigation," Sherlock grumbles, taking the toast that's just popped up and setting it on a plate.  He passes it over to Joan, who's deep in the fridge, hunting for the jam that Oren and Gabrielle had made over the summer.

They've been over this at least three times in the past twenty-four hours and honestly, Joan's a bit sick of talking in circles about it.  There's no new insight to be gained from that one sentence, and Joan's already told Sherlock what her suspicions are regarding what Moriarty's actually up to.

"And I fail to see how being 'around' a former rival that she plans on humiliating is going to do anything other than pull her back into that world," Sherlock adds, slicing another two slices of slightly-misshapen homemade bread and loading the toaster once more.

Joan stares at him then, her lips tugging downwards and her eyes closing.  "Sherlock," she says quietly, her tone as mild as she can possible keep it.  "You don't really think she's gone and given up her enterprise, do you?"

"Well you obviously do," Sherlock points out.

Shaking her head, Joan turns towards the table, jam successfully unearthed.  "I don't," she says quietly.  She sets her plate and the jam jar down.  "I know she's still plotting, still planning, and I hate that I know and I don't know how to stay away from her.  But I've never, not once, thought she'd turned over a new leaf."  Joan twists the cap off of the jar of jam and pops the seal on it with a satisfying sound of air being released and rushing into what was once sealed.  "She sticks around because she knows we can't touch her, and because, like it or not, she enjoys our company."

"How can you be so sure?" Sherlock asks, taking his own toast and nearly dropping one slice that was apparently hotter than he'd anticipated.  He sucks his finger into his mouth and quickly maneuvers the toast onto a plate.

"Because she's still trying to figure me out, and if she'd truly given up her enterprise, I think it'd be easier for her to finally work it out," Joan explains.  She’s thought a lot about this, over the past few days, the memory of the night that should not have happened still fresh on her mind. She wants, oh, how she wants, to do that again.  To know Moriarty – Jamie – so intimately and to be able to see through all the airs and ego to the woman underneath, that’s what Joan truly wants.  "I didn't try and make her tell Bell what she knew, that surprised her.  A few weeks ago, she thought I had a horrible relationship with my mother - she keeps taking these stabs in the dark, Sherlock, and none of them are even close to being right."

The bread is amazingly good, fresh and fluffing and really good with strawberry jam.  Joan eats and sips at her coffee.

"You slept with her," Sherlock says at length and Joan has nothing to say to that.  This is like what happened with Mycroft or anyone else Joan's slept with since they've been partners.  Sherlock's gotten his rocks off in loud, somewhat ridiculous ways (in Joan's opinion, anyway, but live and let live, she always says).  It's cruel to think that her getting involved with the woman who's hurt him so badly is a good idea, or even one that Joan should ever consider.

And yet it's happened, almost by accident.

"I did," Joan says quietly.

He bites a piece of his toast, reaching for the jam.  "I hope you know what you're doing."

Me too, Joan thinks.  Me too.

Later that morning, Joan and Sherlock end up back at the precinct.  Marcus had called when Joan was out for her run, saying that Captain Gregson's Interpol contact had come through and had finally given them something that they could work with on Sterling Wagner.  The whiteboard in the conference room that Marcus and Sherlock had appropriated for the case is now littered with multicolored printouts and photographs of the 2009 heist and Joan is slightly vindicated when she sees that Moriarty had been right.

"She was telling the truth," Sherlock mutters to himself, scratching at his chin. "Fancy that."

Sterling Wagner is an Austrian national, the bastard child of an Austrian girl and an English business man who'd carried out a three-year long affair with her while she was studying in London.  The business man, Sterling Mattison, had given his name to the child and nothing else, some thirty-five years ago.  Joan stands before the whiteboard, before the picture that Marcus has tacked up of him.

He's an attractive looking guy, Joan will give him that.  It's the eyes that get to her, steely blue and ringed with dark circles in this photograph.  They're ice cold, same as Moriarty's, completely and utterly devoid of feeling.  He's got a stock of greying black hair and high, aristocratic cheek bones.  He doesn't think like someone Joan would finger for an art heist, but then again, she wouldn't finger Moriarty as a criminal mastermind.

Appearances, she knows, can be utterly deceiving.

It seems that Sterling Wagner favors sculptures for his heists, which Joan is pretty sure has to be important.  A piece of statuary is easier to transport than a painting; she thinks, but harder to hide in the long run.  "Why do you think he goes after sculpture?"  Joan asks, pulling down the picture of the twisted metal and glass sculpture that had been taken and then the carved soapstone that had gone missing in 2009.  They're about the same size; the more recent sculpture is a relatively minor work of a local artist named Perrine, who's apparently just starting to gain notoriety in the art scene.

According to the museum's curator, the only reason it was included was as a place holder until a piece arrived from a museum in San Francisco of a similar quality.

"Easier to transport?" Marcus guesses, looking up from the Interpol notes that Sherlock's translating from French into English for him.  "And there’s less of a risk of damaging it during the getaway."

Sherlock pauses, his lips rolling around a French 'r' with a decidedly hilarious expression drifting across his face.  Joan covers her mouth to hide a smile, eyeing him as he speaks. "A painting would be easier in the long run, I think," he says, setting down the notes and hopping to his feet.  "See here, these two sculptures are alike in many qualities save the most important one.  The one from 2009 - the Benson - is a famous piece.  No one really knows of Perrine except those active in the New York art scene."  Moriarty had even made a point of pointing that fact out.

"Do you think they were after the piece from San Francisco and took the wrong one?" Joan asks, setting the two photos down and moving to rummage through her own notebook.  She'd asked the museum's curator for a picture of the piece that had been delayed in arriving from San Francisco on a whim, but now it looks like she might have actually made a correct hypothesis.

The picture, a postcard that the museum had had preprinted, falls out of her notebook and Joan reaches for it and her breath catches at the back of her throat.  "They could be a matched set," Joan mutters, reaching for the picture of the Benson from the 2009 heist.

Both are figures of women, intricately carved out of what could have easily been the same piece of soapstone.  Joan stares down at the two pictures, eyes flicking from one to the other.  The piece from San Francisco is far older than the Benson, dating back to at least the mid-1800s.  It's Russian in origin, carved by an unknown person on a journey across the great steppe there.

"Google this for me," she says to Sherlock, who's hovering over her shoulder, his phone in hand. Joan glimpses a French-English dictionary app, but doesn't mention it to him as he moves to his Internet browser. "Was Benson inspired by this piece?"

They end up on Wikipedia of all places, but find a cited source that Sherlock trusts as reputable.  "Woman 2" - as the piece is known, is said to have been created while Richard Benson was still in school, participating in the age-old tradition of copying fine art to learn artistic techniques. "It is reportedly a copy of an unnamed piece by an unknown Russian or potentially Native Alaskan artist that was on display along with an exhibit of non-traditional mediums at a museum not far from where Benson went to school," Sherlock reads as Joan stares at the two pictures.  "I think is safe to assume that Mr. Wagner was not after the Perrine."

Marcus pushes himself to his feet.  "I'll have the canvas pulled," he says.

"No, don't," Sherlock replies.  "Send them around to check the dumpsters around any major five-star hotels in the area.  Mr. Wagner is accustomed to luxury and getting his way, I think.  He'll be staying in the best available - and I would not be surprised if the missing piece turns up in a dumpster as it is clearly not what the thieves were after."

Marcus nods and disappears from the room, heading into Captain Gregson's office, obviously intent on telling him what they've found.

"Watson," Sherlock says, "What day was the statue supposed to arrive from San Francisco?"

"A week and a half ago yesterday... Tuesday," Joan says, flipping back in her notes.  A sick feeling has lodged in the pit of her stomach and she knows exactly what he's thinking.  A week ago yesterday, Moriarty was just walking into their living room, a jar of sourdough starter in her hands and wide smile on her face, enticing Joan out into the city at night.  "We need to find her.”

"I think so, yes," Sherlock replies.

Joan closes her notebook and reaches for her phone, scrolling through her contacts until she hits the 'J's.  She finds that awful alias from what seems like forever ago and taps it twice.  A new text message pops open and Joan begins to type, hesitating only for a moment.

Joan Watson:  Need to see you.

"Really, you put her in your phone as that horrible pseudonym?" Sherlock comments, reading over her shoulder as he tends to do when she’s the one handling the phone. 

"She's in your phone as Irene, Sherlock," Joan points out.

"How'd you--" He stares at her with narrowed eyes for a moment before shutting his mouth, scowling at Joan's raised eyebrow.  He has absolutely no room to talk. 

Janie Bloriarty: I'm afraid that's not possible at the present moment, Joan.

Joan Watson: Is this because you're involved with this?

There's a beat and then the response comes in three curt texts.

Janie Bloriarty: Really Joan, have you so little faith in me?

Janie Bloriarty:  Wagner knows my face.  If I am seen within a mile of this case he will bolt and you'll never get your horrible sculpture back.

Janie Bloarirty: Do you know Erie Basin Park?

Joan does, it’s over by the Ikea, a thin strip of green carved into the built-up concrete of the area.  Joan runs there some days, when she’s up for a long haul run.  Still, she clarifies the neighborhood, because there could very well be another one, given all the parks in the city that Joan has yet to explore.

Joan Watson: In Red Hook?

Janie Bloriarty:  One o’clock Joan.  Tick tock.

"It's twelve thirty, and that's at least a forty minute walk.  Does she seriously think you'll make it?"  Sherlock sighs and glances towards Captain Gregson's office.  "Ask Bell to drive you."

Joan laughs.  "I'm not pulling him away in the middle of an active investigation to act as my personal chauffeur.  If she wants to see me, she'll wait.  We both know her well enough to know she'll never miss out on a chance to gloat."

He waves her off and Joan goes, shoving her notebook into her purse and buttoning up her coat as she goes.  She’s not wearing pants or even shoes that are good for running, so she walks as quickly as she can and hopes to god she's right about Moriarty.

The questions swim in her head and she really isn't sure what she's going to sat to Moriarty, the sting of betrayer bites deep into her and she finds herself hating the series of poor decisions that have led to this feeling.

"What the hell are you doing, Joan," she asks herself, head bowed against the wind and mostly muttering into her scarf.

Sherlock had been right, and the walk takes Joan long past the bells tolling one o'clock.  And when Joan finds herself in the shadow of the hulking yellow and blue mass of the Ikea building, she doesn't really wonder if this is why Moriarty picked the place.

The park itself is abandoned, and Moriarty is sitting by herself on a bench that faces the river, her hair blowing in the stiff breeze.  It's the perfect place for a clandestine meet.

Joan draws level with her, slightly pink-cheeked and out of breath.

"You're late," Moriarty says, turning to look up at Joan.  Her eyes are bright, full of something that Joan can’t quite put into words.  They haven’t seen each other, haven’t spoken to each other, since that night.  The morning after had been non-existent; a flurry of motion, Moriarty ducking out of the brownstone in the wee hours of the morning, before Sherlock had stirred from a rare full night of sleep. 

"You knew I'd be late when you told me to come here.  You know I don't have a car," Joan retorts, moving to sit down next to her.  She turns against the wind as best she can, facing Moriarty and taking her wool overcoat and beanie in with a raised eyebrow.

"Yes, but I never expected you to walk," Moriarty tuts.  "There are cabs, you know."

"I think we both know at its quicker to walk at this hour," Joan points out.  They’re in the shadow of a huge faceless cooperation in a little patch of green carved out of the bare rock of this built up area.  "But that's not why we're here, is it?"

Moriarty looks away, her bangs blowing into her face, obscuring her eyes.  "No, it isn't."

"The two sculptures were supposed to be a set, weren't they?"  Joan asks.  It’s not really the question that she wants to ask, but it’s one that she knows she must all the same.  She has to assume that Moriarty knows as much about these sculptures as they do by now, if not more, given that she’s an artist who can speak with authority on the subject. "Even though they're carved by different artists, they go together perfectly."

"One is an imperfect copy, the other a stroke of brilliance from an untalented hand, Joan; they are worth little unless they are together."  Moriarty lets out a small breath of air that could be an irritated sigh if Moriarty betrayed her emotions like that.  "And I have neither of them, before you ask again."

"You were in San Francisco, you can't tell me that you didn't attempt to delay the shipment of the Russian piece in order to mess up Wagner's plans and expect me to believe you," Joan replies, putting things together in quick order.  That meeting in Atlanta to verify the authenticity of something with a contact who could easily have an ear into the black market art trade…

She’s about to expound her theory, parade it out for Moriarty to see, when Moriarty leans forward, her hand snaking out to catch Joan's shoulder.  Her eyes are hard and cold and lack any of the warmth that has trickled into them in the quiet moments between the two of them.  She's like an animal like this, all hard lines and sharp anger in every movement of her body.  Her grip is tight but not painful and Joan doesn't push her away.  "If you believe that placing a call to the museum and telling them of Wagner's plans is a criminal act, by all means, call up your Detective Bell and arrest me Joan."

They're so close together that Joan can feel their breath mingling, fogging up the air between them.  The wind is whipping in off the river now, and Joan shivers despite herself.  She's not sure if it's the cold or the cruel look in Moriarty's eyes.  "At least tell me what you're up to, Jamie."

"No darling, there is no Jamie in this," Moriarty says placing an icy cold finger over Joan's lips.  "There can't ever be, either," she explains with a sad smile.  "You'll get your man, and I'm sure if you ask the museum they'll tell you of the tip that they received.  I may have pretended to be very French and working for Interpol, but I did not lie to them.  There was a plot to steal that statue from them.  In delaying, a lesser, poorer piece was stolen.  And if I know Wagner at all, he'll have gotten rid of the piece by now and will be plotting his next move."

So Joan tries a gambit and takes her gloved fingers reaching forward to touch Moriarty's cheeks, icy cold eyes widening a fraction before returning to how they'd been.  She tilts her head forward, so that their foreheads are resting against each other.  "And how does this figure into your grand plan?"

Moriarty laughs, and it's got the warm friendly undertones that Joan's come to expect from her.  "Oh, my dear Watson," she says, and leans forward.  Her kiss is warm and sweet and everything that her nature is not. It's impossible for Joan to pull the two personalities apart and she's not sure how to stomach it. Joan lingers longer than she should, biting at Moriarty’s lower lip and enjoying the quiet hum of enjoyment that wells up at the back of Moriarty’s throat when she moves her teeth and bites just a little harder than she should.  "You are truly a marvel and a mystery to me."

"Tell me," Joan insists, not quite wanting to go as far as whining or even begging.  She thinks Moriarty will crack; it's just a matter of applying the right pressure.  "If you..."

Something changes then, and everything around them seems to tighten.  Moriarty looks as though she’s weighing a decision heavily, her shoulders shifting and her fingers, still resting on Joan’s shoulders twitch.  Finally, Joan can see the resolve in her eyes crumble and soften, her expression growing from something that could maybe even have once been affectionate, to the look of a woman at war against her better instincts. 

Moriarty takes a deep breath, Joan can feel her suck it in, caught up in the idea that this is truly a revelation that Moriarty’s about to utter.  "His name is Claude Fisher and he is Kayden Fuller's father," Moriarty says tersely, pushing away from Joan and getting to her feet.  "I intend to destroy him utterly."  She pauses then, hands in her pockets, a black blur against the steely gray of the river behind her.  "I don't know if I'll be able see you again, Joan."

"What does Wagner have to do with this?" Joan asks, because asking why Moriarty could not see her again would be too familiar and Joan isn’t sure that she wants to hear the answer.  She’ll chalk it up to Moriarty being defeatist and a tad over-dramatic, and go home feeling happy about that.  It’s all she can do, after all.  To ask anything more from this not-relationship would be a fool’s errand, and Joan does not suffer fools.

"Haven't you figured it out yet?  Wagner is his puppet, like Moran was mine." Moriarty says.  "You need one to draw out the other."

Joan gets to her feet, wearily eyeing the cab stand by the Ikea and fairly convinced that she was going to cab it home.  "You're not going to kill him?"

"Oh no, Watson," Moriarty laughs and Joan doesn’t feel reassured at all.  "He needs a lesson in discretion, as I told Sherlock before."

In her pocket, Joan's phone buzzes, and she moves to pull it out.  Sherlock's sent her a picture of the sculpture, looking a little bent but relatively in one piece. He's sent an address as well, and Joan looks to see that Moriarty is gone, the black Lexus rolling past her from the street beyond.

She texts Sherlock back that she's on her way, and closes her eyes.  Her gambit had worked, or Moriarty had wanted her to know.  Either way, they had a name, and Joan had even more questions than ever about Moriarty.

-

& -

They catch Wagner's crew that day, and then Wagner himself the next morning beaten and bloodied and absolutely silent.  She and Sherlock sit on the interview, and Joan waits, watching as Marcus slowly brings up the name Claude Fisher, in an almost casual way.  They've gotten a decent list of associates from Interpol, and the way that Wagner's face goes absolutely ashen is enough to tell Joan everything she could ever want to know about the man.

Joan has mentioned to Sherlock what Moriarty's told her, but she's held back the detail about Fisher being Kayden Fuller's father.  This brings the number of ex-lovers of Moriarty's that Joan has become aware of to three, and Joan's not entirely sure she likes the company she's keeping. 

She doesn’t know why she’s held back, fear of what he might do, what he might say at her telling him Moriarty’s darkest secret.  He still considers her to be Irene, at least on some level, and Joan knows that it isn’t healthy, but it’s all she can do some days to remind him that Irene isn’t dead.  There wasn’t ever Irene, there was only Moriarty.  And she’s not gone from their lives, she drifts in and out and argues with Sherlock about his bees and his bread and the state of his rooftop. She takes Joan out to expensive wine bars and orders old vintages that Joan knows nothing about.  She’s established herself as part of their lives when neither of them, it seems, were paying attention.  

Wagner's accent is thick, but Joan can hear him demand to know how Marcus got the name, and Marcus shows him the carefully doctored list of Interpol contacts.  They’d had to add Fisher’s name onto the list, after Captain Gregson’s Interpol contact had told him to never mention Fisher’s name over the phone again.  It seems that where Moriarty prides herself on being unknown, Fisher – the Kingfisher as he’s known – is quite well known at Interpol.  "It cannot be," he mutters, taking the list in his handcuffed hands and staring at it.

It's nearly Christmas and Joan has no plans save going home on Christmas Eve.  She sits in the brownstone that evening, staring up at the wall where Sherlock's put up all of their case notes.  Captain Gregson's Interpol contact has informed him that two other associates of Claude Fisher have been arrested in similarly humiliating fashion within the past two months as well, one in Rio, another in Dresden.

"So this is your game," Joan says to herself, pulling down the papers from the wall and crossing the room to find a map of the world.  She puts up Wagner's picture above New York, the woman arrested in Rio on suspicion of drug running out of Brazil, snorting coke off of a dirty mirror at the back of a club while a stripper in a neon thong gave her a lap dance, and the man in Dresden who'd been caught with his pants down, screwing a hooker against a case of stolen M16s.

Russia is still a question, as are China and all of South Asia.  There's a potential for an Australian connection, and Joan is almost positive that they'll find someone in Africa if they look hard enough.

"I see you've picked up on the pattern."

Joan jumps about ten feet in the air and splutters, coughing on her hastily inhaled breath.  Moriarty is standing at the entrance to the living room, leaning slightly against the wall, her expression closed off and somewhat distant.   "Who the hell let you in?"

Moriarty holds up a familiar leather case of lock picks and smirks.  "We both learned from the best, it seems, Watson."

Joan folds her arms over her chest, scowling and irritated.  At least Moriarty's not traipsing snowy boots across Ms. Hudson's nicely cleaned floor.  No, she looks as clean as always in the dim light of the living room, but there’s something off about her gait.  A tremor, or maybe a hesitation in each step.  Joan’s eyes narrow, watching as Moriarty moves, trying to see what’s wrong.  "I though you weren't going to see me again," she says.

Moriarty regards Joan with a serenity about her features that sets Joan's teeth on edge. "Things change."  There's something about her that seems to crumple and she takes one step forward, and then another, until she's all but collapsed in Joan's arms.  Joan holds her, afraid to let her go, afraid she'll fall.  She’s trembling, her breath coming in hot, shallow breaths. 

"You aren't safe," Moriarty whispers, her lips pressing into the hollow of Joan's neck.  She smells of gun smoke and blood, and Joan’s nostrils flare as she buries her nose in Moriarty’s hair.  "Fisher knows who you are and what you mean to me.  I need to keep you safe."

If this was all a lesson in subtlety, Joan thinks bitterly, then someone's done a bang-up job of it.  She takes half a step back and regards Moriarty in her battered looking jeans and scuffed boots.  Her coat is the same that it's always been, wool and a quality that makes Joan silently envious, but she's wearing an 'I Love New York' t-shirt that has red splatter all over it that Joan knows cannot be ketchup or tomato sauce.  She's not sure what is more shocking; the fact that Moriarty is wearing a t-shirt or the fact that it's a blood splattered one.

"Take off your coat," Joan says and it isn't a question.  Moriarty hesitates for just a second, wincing as she shrugs off the coat.

"It's a graze," Moriarty says, before Joan can even more to take the coat and throw it aside.  She’s not meeting Joan’s gaze, and when she continues, Joan knows why. "Nick... took the brunt of it."

And Joan cannot handle this anymore.  She crosses over to the lamp and tosses Moriarty's coat over the back of the couch as she flips on the lamp.  The room is drowned in a warm yellow light and Joan can see just how ashen-faced Moriarty is.  She's probably in shock, Joan realizes, and wonders if Moriarty even knows that she's dangerously close to losing her grip on consciously.

"Who did this?"  Joan demands, steering her over to the couch and having her sit down.  The price tag is still sticking onto the back of the t-shirt, and she peels it off gently before lifting the shirt away from the fresh bandages that she can see applied to a wound.  There doesn't seem to be any blood seeping through them, which is good, it probably is just a graze then.

Moriarty's jaw draws into a hard line and she reaches out, catching Joan's hand before she can pull the bandage away to get a better look at the wound.  "Don't," she says.  She leans forward, her face impossibly close to Joan's.  "I need you to believe me invincible for just a little longer, my dear Watson.  He probably followed me here, after all."

Joan's hand flies to her pocket where her phone, tucked away in her back pocket, is digging uncomfortably into her ass.  She can have Marcus, as many cops as possible here in five minutes, maybe less if she tells them to hurry.  Sherlock's upstairs and probably doesn’t even know that they have a house guest.  "Who?" she asks.

"The Kingfisher," Moriarty scoffs.  She shakes her head.  "Or at least that's what he likes to be called.  He got the jump on me, figured out my game before I could put all the pieces into place somehow.  My man in Interpol says there are at least two double agents there, which means he's been following my tails. Watching them, it would be fairly obvious, I suppose…"  Joan can tell that Moriarty's working this out herself, through probably a haze of pain.

There's a bang upstairs and then a shout.  Both of them freeze, listening as there’s the sound of something scraping across the floor directly above them – Sherlock’s bedroom – and then a thump that Joan knows can only be the sound of a grown man hitting the floor, knocked out cold or dead.  Her heartbeat echoes loudly in her ears and she tugs her hand away from Moriarty's injury and scrambles to her feet. 

Someone is in the house.

"Sherlock?" Moriarty asks in a low, dangerous sounding voice. All the haziness about her is gone, replaced by a determined and grim look, her eyes already resigned to what’s about to come.

"Upstairs," Joan replies.

Moriarty says nothing, her expression utterly resolute as she leans over and flips over part of her coat, turning it so she can get to the pocket.  She pulls a gun, the same sort of gun as the last time Joan had seen her with a gun, back in September, from the pocket and then roots around for something else.  A moment later she unearths a silencer and screws it grimly onto the barrel of the gun. "It seems, Joan, that we have a date with danger."

And despite the situation, it’s the corniest thing that Joan’s heard in a long time.  Joan doesn't roll her eyes, but it's a close thing.  "I'm going to call the cops," she says, pulling out her phone and then thinking better of calling.  Their conversation, if they keep it quiet, could probably be heard through the heating vents through to upstairs.  They had to be quiet about it, to give themselves the element of surprise.  “I’ll text them,” she says, knowing Marcus will come, no questions asked.

"Do it," Moriarty agrees, resolutely checking the gun and not quite meeting Joan’s eyes.  Joan is absolutely shocked by this pronouncement.  She's never known Moriarty to be one to seek the police, but she supposes that she's sort of been doing this all along.  "Fisher is a thief by trade, it's how we met." At Joan's curious look, she adds, "He tried to steal from me, early in my career. I caught him." She looks away, as though the memory is painful and Joan is willing to wager that it is, judging by how Moriarty's hands tighten around the gun's grip. "If this is how he's to be caught, then so be it.  It will ruin his reputation."

"And your being here?"  Joan asks, because it's actually a legitimate concern.

"If they hurry, I won't have to explain why I shot anyone."

Joan nods, her expression grim and resolute.  They're in complete agreement about this.  Sherlock does not thump like a body landing on the floor on his own (unless he has a friend over).  They creep up the stairs, Joan sending texts to Marcus after switching her phone to silent and waits for the notification to appear on the screen saying 'on our way'.  Her phone lights up and Joan doesn’t even bother to read the message – she knows what it contains.  She shoves her phone into her back pocket and follows Moriarty as silently as she can up the stairs.

Sherlock's room is on the far end of the hall, and Joan can see the dark silhouette of a broad shouldered man standing in the doorway.  He’s too tall to be Sherlock, too broad across the shoulders, and the knot of fear pools at the pit of Joan’s stomach like an old friend.  She’s flirted with danger for so long now, that the face of someone other than Moriarty (who had an admitted weakness for Joan and Sherlock both) who is truly a villain, is enough to send her into a mild state of panic.  The fact that Moriarty looks nervous does little to alleviate the feeling, and Joan watches as Moriarty swallows once, and lets the gun fall against her side.

"What are you doing?" Joan hisses.  She needs to go in there and take this guy down.  Or something.  Joan doesn’t actually know what someone like Moriarty should do in this situation.  She’s half a mind to march in there and hope to god this guy isn’t armed because no one invades her sanctuary – her privacy like this – not even Sherlock. 

Joan can’t, though, and she knows it.  This guy could kill her; this guy might kill them both.  They don’t know anything, and all Joan can do is watch Moriarty lower her gun and it makes her feel absolutely sick to her stomach. 

Moriarty shakes her head.

"Hello Claude," she says.  Joan's squarely behind her; it’s an almost protective gesture, if Joan believed Moriarty capable of such a thing.

(And the worst part is that she does, and she feels safe, hiding behind a blonde woman who’s a fraction of the height of this guy, towering over both of them like some sort of demon ghost from Joan’s grandmother’s bedtime stories.  Joan curls her fingers in the back of Moriarty’s stupid t-shirt and hopes to god that this guy doesn’t just haul off and shoot them both.)

Claude Fisher turns, and Joan can see that there's blood all over his face and clothes as well.  Oh Nick, she thinks, she'd really liked him.  He'd saved her ass during the bee-napping fiasco, and he’d seemed like a decent enough guy regardless of whom he chose to spend his time driving around.

Fisher is tall and thin, with a stock of dark curly hair cropped short on the sides and running wild on the top.  It's a fashionable haircut, but it does little to make up for the sneer that's cutting his face into two ugly pieces. He does not look like the sort of person that Joan could see Moriarty taking up with.  Isabelle Jones, Sherlock, they both had their beauty in their own way.  There’s nothing like that with this man. He’s all cruel lines and harsh angles – the opposite even of Moriarty, who Joan thinks of as those things as well. 

"Jamie," He says, and Joan can almost feel the contempt in his voice.  It pierces the space between them with a knife and burns at the back of Joan's ears. "So sorry about your driver."  He turns then, and Joan lets out a small gasp of air.  Sherlock’s lying on the floor, still breathing, thank god.  He's knocked Sherlock out with his single stick, judging by the bruise growing on his forehead and the single stick lying useless beside him.  "Is this the company you keep now?  I would have thought you better than that."

"Who I keep in my company is none of your concern, Claude.  I told you this when I fired you," Moriarty replies coolly.  She doesn't say anything else, but Joan knows that there has to be some sentimentality in the reasons for his still being alive.  She's willing to bet that most people who leave Moriarty's employ do so in a body bag.

"And yet here we are, because you've been mucking with my plans," Fisher raises his hand, and Joan can see the gun then.  He pulls the hammer back and stares at Moriarty.  "I won't miss again, love."

Joan swallows, and Moriarty steps forward once, and then again, until the barrel of the gun is pressed against her shoulder.  She stares down Fisher like he’s a child, someone she’s just toying with, even though he’s got the better of her as far as Joan can tell.  "You won't do that," she says, and pushes it away.  She leans forward, hand resting on his chest in an almost tender gesture, and whispers something in his ear.  Joan can't hear it, or even make out what's being said, but she knows by the way that the gun relaxes in his hand that she's got him.  Blackmail and secrets are Moriarty's business, and this is just another piece of the puzzle.  Joan decides then and there that she doesn't want to know what Moriarty's threatened him with. Her mind is conjuring up horrible images and so many of them seem to end with that little girl dead before her time.

There's a bang downstairs, and Moriarty hands her gun to Fisher, who takes it, a dumbfounded expression drifting across his face.  Marcus is the first up the stairs and he pushes Joan back, and then pulls Moriarty back as well, reaching for the guns and yanking them out of Fisher's hands.  "Claude Fisher, you are under arrest," he says, and takes the handcuffs that are offered to him.  He leads Fisher back down the stairs and Joan pushes past officers Muckey and Blackburn to go and check on Sherlock, who's starting to come to, his arms flailing about and his eyes wide and frightened.

"Hey," she says, cradling his head in her lap.

"Think we have a burglar, Watson," he replies, struggling to sit up.  She pushes him down gently, all tender hands and skills that she doesn’t think she’ll ever forget.  She checks his neck and then his head, mildly impressed by the size of the lump there.  He must have gotten hit pretty hard. 

“What’s your name?” she asks, beginning the standard concussion test. 

“Sherlock Holmes,” he says, and relaxes.  “Today is the twentieth of December and it is currently around ten thirty in the evening and your president is Obama, I don’t have a president, as I am not a citizen.”

“Don’t say that too loud, Holmes,” Marcus says, whistling low and long at the size of the lump on Sherlock’s head.  He’s come back up the stairs, apparently wanting to check to make sure that Sherlock was alright.  “INS might remember all the times you’ve yelled at them for denying people citizenship who deserved it and try to deport you.”

Sherlock tries to sit up.  “They would never.”

Someone passes some ice in a ziploc bag to Joan, and she glances up to see Moriarty pressing a second bag of it against her side.  "Thanks," she says, setting it down on Sherlock's head.  He winces and turns to stare at Moriarty, one hand clutching the ice to his forehead.  "I take it that our burglar was your doing?"

She inclines her head to one side, and Joan watches as she shifts, wincing as she moves to squat next to Sherlock. There's a strange play of emotions across Moriarty's face as she touches Sherlock's forehead and pulls the ice away.  "If you honestly think I would send someone as deranged as Claude Fisher into your home, we don't know each other very well at all, Sherlock."

It's a strange moment between the three of them, wounded and a little bit breathless though they still are.  "He followed me," Moriarty adds almost offhandedly, and it takes a moment for Joan to realize that she's talking to Marcus.  "He found me in Manhattan, close to Times Square, 36th and Sixth... I think." She lets out a quiet breath of air and then adds.  "He shot my driver."

There's no question from Marcus about if Nicolosi survived, there's just the blanket acceptance that he didn't.  Joan wonders if he'd had a family, or if he'd been alone in the world save Moriarty.  Both fates seem equally tragic, and the slow, sick feeling that settles itself into her stomach blossoms across her cheeks and pricks at the corners of Joan's eyes.  No one she knows will shed tears for this man unless she does it.  And she hangs her head, fingers curling around Sherlock's t-shirt and tries not to let it show.

"Then why come here at all?"  Marcus asks and Joan's stomach twists again into something even more uncomfortable, a knot that feels like it could be anxiety at how Moriarty will respond.

Through slightly blurry eyes Joan can see the stillness in Moriarty, the cessation of all possible movement as she sits back on her heels and turns to look up at Marcus.  It's a deadly sort of stillness, like a snake coiled to strike.  All Joan can think of is their conversation at the wine bar, of how Moriarty had asked her to explain how to look past herself and her superior intellect to connect with 'everyday people.'

"He threatened Watson," Moriarty doesn't look at Marcus when she speaks, her eyes trained on his shoes.  Her fingers are clenched into a fist around the bag of ice pressed to her side and she's obviously in a great deal more pain than she's letting on.  There's no new blood on her t-shirt, which Joan takes as something of a blessing.  "And I couldn't have that, Detective Bell."

Marcus, bless him, doesn't react at all besides nodding once.  "So I take it you came over here to make sure she was okay?"  He pauses, makes a note, and then says.  "You should get that looked at."

"You needn't concern yourself with my health, Detective Bell.  Interpol should be calling you within the next hour or so to collect on Mr. Fisher.  I do believe that they've been looking for a way into his operation for quite some time."

Sherlock pushes himself into a sitting position, ice clutched to his forehead.  "You planned this," he accuses her, his eyes narrowed.  "You’ve been planning this for months."

"Perhaps," Moriarty says, an almost fond smile playing at her lips.  "I did tell you he needed a lesson in discretion."

It's only later, when the police have left and they've given statements that Joan finally gets a chance to peel the bandages from Moriarty's side, her fingers almost shaking as she reaches for the peroxide and cotton swabs, dabbing at the wound as Sherlock stands on the periphery, his arms crossed over his chest and a superman bandaid applied to his forehead.  He's scowling deeply as Moriarty winces, her fingers tangling into the back of Joan's shirt.

It is just a graze, just below her ribs on the left side. It'll scar, Joan knows just touching it, but it's not deep enough to need stitches.  She reapplies the bandages and adds another superman bandaid to the cut on Moriarty's knuckle.

"I don't understand," Sherlock says at length, as Moriarty pulls on the shirt that Joan's loaned her.  It fits her a bit better than the oversized tee that's currently in a pile on the floor with the old, bloodstained bandages.  "You did all this to what, embarrass Fisher?"  He looks at Moriarty with narrowed eyes.  "That seems rather... mild."

Moriarty glances over towards Joan and then shrugs, wincing a little as she makes the gesture.  "Did you expect me to kill him?" she asks.

Sherlock and Joan share a long look.  Joan thinks she understands why he'd ask, but he's missed some of the things she's seen.  "I expect the absolute worst out of you," Sherlock says, and his jaw is set in a resolute line of clenched teeth and barely concealed anger.

"It wasn't want I wanted," Moriarty answers, as though that's the only explanation that's needed.  She's proud and vain and Joan knows Sherlock's just like her in so many ways.

And as Joan bends to pick up the ruined shirt and bandages, she catches Moriarty's eyes on her, hopeful and maybe just a little bit nervous.  The realization hits Joan like a gut punch to the stomach and she twists her fingers in still warm fabric and messy bandage, grateful to still be wearing the gloves from the first aid kit.  Moriarty wants her approval for what she's done, she's looking for it in Joan's every action now.

A vindicated smile flits across Joan's lips, and she nods just once, and walks out of the living room, intent on throwing away the bloodstained shirt and bandages.

It's all the approval she's willing to give, but the way that Moriarty's face lights up like she's finally gotten it right is enough to make Joan's breath catch in her throat and Sherlock tilt his head to one side, not quite following the exchange.

And maybe that's for the best; girls have to have some secrets, after all.