Chapter Text
Joan Watson didn’t, of course, particularly enjoy being called a bitch, but she preferred it to ‘whore’. Likely because the first was so often a response to her highly satisfying right hook after being called the second. Those had spaced out more over time, coming more often in school, and she tried not to resort to physical violence quite so often now. Her problems could, so often, be solved by a suitably withering look or a quick word with the offender’s superiors.
Sometimes these needed to be combined, like now. She’d asked to speak to Lestrade about one of Anderson’s comments (the little shit could call her Sherlock’s whore all he liked, of course, but he couldn’t do it long and keep his job). Greg had the temerity to say “Come on, Joan, Sherlock’s implied the same of Sally on any number of occasions.”
That had gotten raised eyebrows and a long stare.
“Right, right, you’re right, it’s still not okay, you’re right.”
Joan waited.
Lestrade sighed. “And you are not responsible for what Sherlock says when you’ve never been anything but professional. I’ll talk to him.”
Joan had snorted. “I want it official, not a matey ‘don’t be such a jerk’ over drinks. A member of your force called one of your consultants a whore in front of six officers; not acceptable.”
Greg spread his hands. “I do that and you’ll have an enemy for life.”
“Because we’re already such good pals that he calls me pet names.” Joan crossed her arms. “You can’t let the men on your team treat women they work with like this, Greg.”
Greg wiped his hand over his face. “You’re right, but you know Sherlock makes it harder. How about this: I ream Anderson out unofficially this time, and if it doesn’t help, then I’ll make it official and I’ll have more documented to back it up.”
Joan nodded. “Acceptable.”
“He’ll know you complained.”
Joan rolled her eyes. Greg was a good guy and good at his job, but he put up with too much shit from too many people for the sake of not stirring anything up. It made him the best candidate for Sherlock to bully into letting him into crime scenes, but he needed to grow a damn spine. “I think I can handle it.”
Greg sighed. “I’ll call him in.”
***
You had to be firm when you were a ‘ball-breaking bitch’ who liked to flirt—in a guy, it was jovial but tough at heart, which made you likeable and dependable, but if you were a girl you had to demand respect and follow through on any threats. It was hard, but it was easier than getting treated like shit by people you worked with, or worse, people you loved.
While Joan wasn’t against violence in certain circumstances (she’d have decked Anderson if they hadn’t been on the job), she didn’t believe in it, for any reason, when it was someone you cared about. This meant sometimes she just had to turn around and walk away.
That rule included Sherlock Holmes, even when he was being a colossal prick. She was still kicking herself for losing her temper during the Irene Adler fiasco, even if he HAD hit her first (and she had had strong words about that, too; namely “don’t” and “or else” and “I will leave”).
She probably gave him too much slack because she wasn’t completely certain which rules he ignored and which rules he honestly didn’t understand, slack she would never have cut for anyone else. If Sean had hit her (even if he hadn’t been her boss at the clinic), she would have left immediately, and called the police if the circumstances called for it. Sherlock, she gave a warning. He’d gone white, and then tried to bluster about how she was hardly fragile and it wasn’t the same if it was for a case, and she’d repeated herself and gone upstairs. In the morning she’d sat down and explained her rule, and told him he was only allowed to hit her if she specifically gave him permission: if they were sparring or if he really, really needed to for his police work, for example. He was only allowed to hurt her without checking first if they were in immediate danger and there was no other way with a similar likelihood of getting them out of the situation.
Joan hadn’t threatened to leave over the head in the fridge, or when Sherlock had poisoned the milk and hadn’t told her; Sherlock agreed to all terms immediately.
***
Anderson had been more obstructive than usual at the next few scenes after she talked to Greg, but whenever he’d come close to crossing the line with Joan, the look was all she’d needed and he’d retreated. He’d muttered angrily when she turned her back, but he didn’t say it to her face and she didn’t notice him saying it to anyone else, so she let it go.
Greg, feeling guilty perhaps, had complimented her work and held his tongue when Sherlock was a berk. Joan privately thought Sherlock could do with a few ultimatums on his behavior at the yard, too, but they were adults and could figure it out on their own. She shouldered him when he crossed the line and as long as she wasn’t obvious about it, Sherlock allowed himself to be reigned in. To a point. He still called them a pack of morons every other sentence, but there were no more comments about extramarital affairs unless he was antagonized.
As they were leaving the most recent murder, Greg flirted: very carefully, but definitely flirting. She’d grinned and tilted her head, hand on her hip, and told him she liked his smile as well.
***
“I don’t understand your rules.”
Joan didn’t look up from her newspaper. “Mine, individually, or mine, member of the unwashed idiot masses?”
“Both. But in this case individually.”
Joan looked up then, and set her tea down. “I try to be clear with you.”
Sherlock scowled. “And, like now, are extremely patronizing about it.”
She shrugged, leaning back in her chair, and grinned. “I see how being specific and clear can come across that way, and I apologize for hurting you.”
Sherlock looked like he’d swallowed a lemon. “Your therapist taught you that phrase.”
“She did.” Joan didn’t even try to keep a straight face. She’d known he would pull a similar look the second her shrink had suggested it.
“Don’t use it again.”
“Alright.” Joan clasped her hands and set her elbows on her knees, ready for a very long, very patronizing no-really-only-food-goes-in-the-refrigerator discussion. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, crossed his arms, and looked away. She rolled her eyes. This was looking like it would require extra patience.
“Your rules are inconsistent.”
“Oh?”
“Anderson has referenced your attractiveness in the past. You told him unequivocally that he could not speak to you that way. Lestrade did it today and you responded positively.” Sherlock steepled his fingers and frowned. “Both believed themselves to be complimentary, both did it with the intent of convincing you to go to bed with them at a later date. Further, you’ve mentioned frustration at men with authority attempting to sleep with women they have authority over. Lestrade, belonging to the police and controlling access to crime scenes and evidence, should fall into this category as well.”
Joan considered. “I complain about women in authority hitting on people, too, and there were several social cues you’ve probably missed. And Greg hasn’t said anything about wanting to sleep with me.” Sherlock gave her one of her own looks; the mimicry was so exact she laughed. “May have missed the cues, then, not probably. And you might be right about Greg.”
Sherlock remained silent. Joan sighed.
“Working with people and the authority they have over me makes things complicated. I’ll accept things from strangers at a bar I wouldn’t accept from someone on the force, or my boss.”
“Whom you have also dated.”
“Yes, and look how poorly that turned out. But I see your point.” Explaining the rules to Sherlock required detail, examples. She felt like a sexual harassment seminar, but it couldn’t be helped, especially since her exceptions were personal instead of something she could just give him a pamphlet on. “The difference is that Greg and Sean honestly like me. They believe I’m capable and act like it. They respect me and make sure I know it. Anderson hates me and wants to use his dick to get one over on you.” Sherlock opened his mouth and Joan raised her hand. “Then there are all the little things that let them know I was okay with it. The—“
“—smiles, especially after Lestrade looks just too long at you, laughing too loudly, yes, I know.” Sherlock stood. “It’s still inconsistent.”
Joan shrugged and picked up her tea. “It is, a bit. I’d like to point out that Anderson led with ‘that jumper would look better on my bedroom floor,’ though.”
Sherlock shook his head and ran a hand through his hair. “If I were to, in a professional setting—“
Joan set the tea back on the table. “It’s really better not to assume you’re an exception. You can cross lines pretty quick if it turns out you were wrong.” She paused. “Wait, what? Are you… Is there someone at the yard you want to chat up?”
“I don’t want to discuss it.”
“It’s a bad idea to sleep with our clients, if that’s who it is.”
“I’m hardly as promiscuous as you seem to think; you’re far more likely to have sex with…” He paused. “That was crossing a line, yes?”
Joan sipped her tea again and turned back to her newspaper. “Yes, but since you’re my best friend and I realize that you are comparing our past behaviors and not making a judgment about my character, I’m not offended. Probably shouldn’t say something like that to Sally, though.”
Sherlock made a thoughtful noise in the back of his throat and went back to work on what looked to Joan like an attempt to ruin their sugar bowl and table, but Sherlock adamantly felt was necessary to their work and entirely safe. She opened a window just in case.
***
“Lestrade has complimented you professionally seven times, and personally twelve, in just the last fifteen minutes.” Sherlock muttered, lifting a dead finger and twisting the ring from it. They were at another crime scene, and it had been about a month since Greg had dressed down Anderson.
Joan grinned. “I know.”
Sherlock glanced up through his lashes at her, then back down. “He definitely wants to sleep with you.”
Joan’s grin widened. “I know.”
Sherlock grimaced and went back to work. Apparently dismissed, Joan straightened and moved back, stretching her leg. It didn’t hurt these days, but it was a habit.
Greg had been totally professional on the job the past few weeks, but as soon as she crossed the tape around the scene, they had been going nuts. The flirting tapered off if another officer came by, and started right back up once they’d left.
Greg smiled as she walked over. She ducked under the tape and he asked her to dinner.
She said yes.
The sex was amazing.
***
Sherlock, predictably enough, flipped his shit.
When she came home the following morning (rubbing wrists that were vaguely raw from the handcuffs), Sherlock was in the middle of one of the biggest sulk she had ever encountered and the flat looked like it had been through another drugs bust. She paused in the doorway and looked around, impressed despite herself.
“What’s all this, then?” she managed, hanging up her coat. Sherlock ignored her to screech away on his violin for a few beats before flinging the bow away from him and setting the instrument in its case. Joan wasn’t unsurprised that Mrs. Hudson had been gone when she’d come in.
“You were gone all night, it isn’t safe.” Sherlock bit out. Joan rolled her eyes.
“Yes, and leaving me behind in the slums of London because you’re distracted during a chase isn’t dangerous at all. Luckily, I carry pepper spray, a gun, and have really great lungs.”
Sherlock stalked forward, looming over her, and she stood her ground, calm. He scowled. “You’re wearing his deodorant.”
She nodded. “Yes I am. Going without smells even worse, but I agree, that man needs to find another brand.”
Sherlock huffed and leaned in closer. “You should have come home and showered here, then there wouldn’t have been a problem.”
Joan laughed, her voice going slightly breathy as she remembered. “Not an option.”
“He has a string of failed relationships and a broken marriage,” Sherlock pressed. “He has children.”
Joan shrugged and walked into the kitchen, forcing Sherlock to back off and move out of her way. “I like kids, and everyone has a string of broken relationships. Anyway, I’m not looking to marry him, we went to dinner.”
“Dinner does not take all night.”
“You’re right, it doesn’t. Marathon sex does.” She grinned toothily. “It was fantastic and worth every tantrum you throw. Which, by the way, are completely unnecessary and won’t change my behavior. We’re going out next week, too, and interrupting us with a case won’t work because he will already be at the crime scene if you do.” She rooted through the cupboard and slammed a cup down, almost too hard, then twisted the tap savagely to fill up the kettle.
There was something already in there. She looked.
“…You’ve put leeches in the kettle.”
“It was an experiment that you have now ruined.”
“Was destroying the flat an experiment too? Because it was a clean space when I left that YOU have now ruined.” Joan set the kettle carefully in the sink, exhausted, anger building up as she ruthlessly pushed it back down. “You’re upset because I’m going to be splitting my attention and you can’t run Lestrade off, he already knows you. He knows what you’re like and he won’t get upset when you drag me off for one case too many. You can’t come along on dates and expect to drive him away because he will invite me to leave with him. He’s the one person who will not get angry at me for the shit you pull.”
“He is not acceptable.” Sherlock shouldered her aside and dumped the excess water and a few leeches in the sink, then retreated with it held the kettle against his chest. “Find someone else.”
“WHO ELSE?” Her temper finally snapped, and she was yelling now, throwing her hands up and ready to throw something else, too. “Who will you approve of, Sherlock? You do NOT have authority over me in ANY way, you do not get to decide who I date, and I am going to shag Greg if I want, as often as I want, and you can’t do anything about it!” She stalked out of the kitchen, grabbed her coat, and flung the door open.
Sherlock threw down the kettle. “Where are you going now?”
Joan pulled her arms through the sleeves with a violent yank and thumped down the stairs. “I’m going back to Greg’s and I’m going to ride him straight through the floor, you incessant ass!” She hollered, slamming the door and stalking away. Then she spun on her heel, opened the door again, and bellowed up the stairs, “and you had better have this flat cleaned up by the time I get back, or I am turning straight back around to do it again!” Then she slammed the door shut again, leaned on it, yanked it back open and slammed it a third time for extra measure before angrily hailing a taxi to take her to her brother’s instead.
***
They probably would have talked more about the row if the whole thing with Moriarty hadn’t exploded in their faces. As it was, Sherlock jumped off the roof in front of her before she had a chance to really make up.