Depend on Me Chapter 3: Who Am I?

The cases ended up being rather dull. Or at least that's what Sherlock had said. He seemed to have a sort of ranking system for cases (not finding it fitting to leave the flat for anything but a six) and the one they just went on was a mild five. Joan, on the other hand, didn't seem to think that at all. It was a brilliant spiraling tale of how a man was found dead with a stab wound, no weapon and soaking wet even though there hadn't been any bad weather, or rain.

Sherlock solved it quickly, taking only a few drawn out moments to collect the data needed for his deductions. After he figured it out, he explained to everyone else, very dramatically might she add, how the murderer used an icicle to kill the man, insinuating that he had to keep it cold and couldn't have been keeping it too far away from where the murder had been, and soon enough found his lodgings/hide-out. (Joan also found out that Sherlock hated to word 'hide-out').

There was a lot of groaning in the cab on the way home about how the case was so simple and he needed something more involved. Joan didn't find it simple at all, far from it even. She found his deductions to be all the more interesting on an actual crime scene then the stories and blog post that she was informed about in the hospital. No matter how queer or odd Sherlock came off as, she now fully understood her attraction to him. He drew her in with a magnetic force that only he could muster up somehow. Joan was never a follower before; no, in fact she was always Captain. His gift and talents amazed her, but didn't excuse his poor behavior, which she scolded him for occasionally.

The pair made it to the flat, Joan taking a seat in what she ad been told was her chair, flipping through a medical journal. That was something she remembered, the practice. Medical school and everything before that was a constant in her life. Her days in the army were coming back, along with those nightmares and the awful things that had happened and she had done.

She was quickly reminded of why she joined the army; because her father had, and the fact that she couldn't move back in with her mum. He was her best friend before his he had passed, and was also a veteran. Joan had figured he would be proud of her. The night she remembered about him, she had cried herself to sleep. There was the distant sound of a violin in the background. When she woke up from nightmares about things she hardly remembered, but were still awful images, she had a feeling the music was Sherlock's way of calming her down. When she looked around the flat the memory of a violin would come to her. Not Sherlock, but his sound.

"I called Harry." She said, not looking up from her medical journal. She had called him this morning and her brother was...Not who she remembered. But the Harry she had known and had grown close to was one before the war. This wasn't the Harry who would take hits from their mum for her, at least not anymore.

Sherlock's long legs were stretched out in front of him as he slouched lazily in his chair across from her. He was idly plucking at his violin, the sound a novice to the world, or at least the building, but she didn't mind too much. His steel grey irises shot over to her. He seemed concerned, even if the only thing that had done was move his eyes. Joan admired Sherlock's grace. Even when he was bustling about a dead body he looked like a magnificent ballet dancer; or an elegant, posh flick of the eyes.

"Why are you telling me this?" He asked in his smooth, deep voice, turning his attention back to the strings of his instrument. Joan huffed a sigh, shaking her head. She had trouble figuring out what was right to tell him and what she should hold back. He was open about his brother with her, so should she be with hers? So many rules and checks and balances and...And her relationship with Sherlock Holmes was like an acrobatic act, flying around and trying to grip at something, sometimes slipping on the bar. She supposed before she was at a loss for her memories she had a tight grip on the bar. Now she just constantly felt like she was fumbling, about to fall into oblivion. It was a terrible feeling, but also an exciting one, which also frightened her.

Joan bit her bottom lip, the small blonde shaking her head. "I suppose I'm not going to anymore then." Joan bit back. Since when was she snippy with him? The D.I. had told her she was the best at standing up to Sherlock or jumping right into a mess with him. Up until now she had just jumped in. Never held back, or told him what she felt.

"Thank you." Sherlock retorted with a small smile, never once looking up from his violin. "I can already tell from the slightly disappointed look on your face you've discovered his alcoholism and most likely his divorce from his husband, Clark." Sherlock replied, adjusting one of the strings and plucking it again. So he wasn't just being useless in his mind (which she never suspected, but at least it wasn't murder). He was tuning the damn thing, mind and violin. Joan frowned for a moment before pushing herself up from her chair and walking irately towards the kitchen.

That was it, something, some bubble of anger within her popped. Joan couldn't take it. She couldn't take living with someone who knew more about her life then she did. Then again, everyone knew more about her then she did. Joan had been wanting to say that Sherlock was hiding his feelings for her, but that would be a long shot. Sherlock didn't have a lot of feelings. No, actually he had two: Murder and Sulk. And even then, they weren't very expressive. She knew he was holding back from her, he had to be. A single person couldn't be that shut off, even for a sociopath.

Joan licked her lips out of habit and moved towards the cupboard to get the kettle, slamming it down on the counter just a little too hard, making her self jump. She could hear rustling from the sitting room and had a feeling Sherlock was coming to help her. With what she had no idea.

"Joan, " Called a deep, rumbling voice that could only belong to him. She kept her back turned, a tiny glare pointed at the tile on the wall of their kitchen, trying not to relish in the sound of his baritone vocals.

"Don't!" She snapped at him, spinning around on the spot and pointing a delicate (but not so delicate) finger at him. "Don't you dare try to console me, or tell me how to feel or what to do. This is my bloody life and you know more about it then I do!" She shouted at him, feeling ignorant in his presence in more then one way, not wavering where she stood, even if she knew he towered above her by at least a foot.

Sherlock just stood there, his back a bit more rigid and a single eyebrow arched up. He had learned to accept the abusive words and brush them off in the past, not caring either way, even from someone close. They were all just carbon footprints in the end.

"I was getting the cups. I've put them too high." Sherlock said, reaching over the blonde who's pointed look was still on him, but her finger finally pointed away from him, setting the cups down on the counter next to the empty kettle. Obviously the cups thing was a lie. He wanted to comfort her in some form or manner, but didn't know how. It was obvious outburst of anger would happen, but he didn't realize it would feel like this when directed towards him. When people shouted he could block them out. With Joan it wasn't so easy.

"Liar." The shorter muttered, her gaze moving from him and towards the kettle, filling it in the sink and then turning it on. He stood there, unmoving as she dashed about, making tea, not meeting his eyes again.

"Joan, I'm not lying. I got you the cups, didn't I? And I also want to say…" What was it he truly wanted to say? His mind was travelling in five million different directions and he was finding it a bit difficult to keep objective on this one thing, this singular person who mattered so much to him. He needed to help his small flat mate any way he could, but obviously she wasn't taking any help anytime soon.

Sherlock could hear the massive sigh that Joan let out, sending a shiver down his spine, and it was a little dramatic, even by his standards. "Say it then. Tell me I'm screwed up and look at me as if it's my fault that I can't remember a damn thing." She spit out at him, banging a mug down on the counter, sending shards of ceramic outwards in a miniature explosion of controlled rage. She let out a hiss of pain and he automatically knew she had cut herself, or embedded a piece of ceramic into her hand.

Sherlock didn't say that he knew her loss of memory, amnesia, heartache was hard. Of course it was hard. There were no words to explain how he would feel if all the information stored in his head suddenly went away. He fully blamed himself for Joan's case, but held too much pride to ever say that out loud. "You're being dramatic." He commented, stalking over towards the bathroom, retrieving the first-aid kit and then walking back toward Joan.

It took several minutes to clean up her hand and by the time they had finished a through talk about the safety of one's own person in the house and how much she used to get onto him for it, she had a bandage on her hand and a more soft look on her face.

"I'm sorry I raised my voice." Joan muttered, her china-blue eyes not exactly meeting his, but coming so close he still felt his heart beat quicken a little. Sherlock raised a brow and gave her his customary shrug.

Joan kept staring at him for a moment, leaning foreword in anticipation of words that might leave his lips, as if him giving her an answer to things she asked was normal. "I mean it." She continued, making him scramble for words now.

"I know." Wrong. He should not be saying that, but harsh and disconnected came so easily. It was only Joan he wanted to work on, becoming more genuine with her, despite his brother's wishes.

Her eyebrows knit together and suddenly the small blonde turned from him, moving to go up the stairs to her room, which she had been spending more time in now. "Wait." Sherlock heard himself say before his brain told him to do so.

"I, uh, apologize." He began, realizing a ball was beginning to roll and he had no idea how to stop it, and he didn't like not knowing things. "For all of this. There are many things I don't know how to do. And being a best friend or whatnot for you is one of those things. You mean more to me then any other human being has. I don't do sentiment well, but I'm trying. Hopefully I'll start to do it a little harder." He admitted, grey eyes locked on the back her head, almost admiring the braid she had it in.

Without a word she made a move as if she was going to look back at him, say something, anything, but instead walked the rest of the way up the stairs.