Third Time's the Charm

Summary: Story of, the three times that Joan Watson walked out on Jamie Moriarty, and the one time she didn't.

"For a long while now, I've suspected that connection with another person,real connection, simply isn't possible. I'm curious if you disagree, although I suspect you feel as I do in this, as you do in so many other things. So tell me: Is it possible to truly know another person? Is it even a worthwhile pursuit?"

-Moriarty

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"Sherlock is rarely ever wrong, but every once in a while even he gets too caught up in his own thoughts. And I think with you, he made a mistake. You can pretend that you don't need anything other than power, but you aren't above us. You are human, and whether or not you choose to accept it, you need other people. You want someone, especially now that you are, so to speak, unstoppable. All this work to have the freedom to do whatever, whenever, has left you miserably alone. After all, there's no one in your line of work that you could possibly trust, and you've already postured yourself as a permanent rival to the one man you loved. And family? They would merely act as targets in your life." The reminder of the Kayden Fuller mishap bites hard at where it hurts, and Joan feels the lever slide in her favour. "So what now?"

Her gaze lifts and pierce directly into Watson, "Now, I try to persuade you that I am something more than just a criminal mastermind, or a deceiving woman who hurt your closest friend."

Joan was used to surprises, she lived with Sherlock after all. However, an invitation for friendship from Moriarty was definitely on her top-ten list of least expected things. Yet, despite the physiological evidence of shock, her verbal response is immediate and lacking in emotion, "No. Sorry, I'm not interested in befriending you. Goodbye Moriarty."

Watson had expected some sort of threat or discourse at her prompt rejection, or something to hinder her departure. However as she sat stiffly in the rear-seat of a yellow cab, Joan thinks that maybe the whole conversation had merely a figment of her imagination.

. . .

That is, until Wednesday morning, when she receives tickets to a play she had been passively debating to attend. With no letter or any sort of message to decode, Joan decides to make use of the overpriced seat, deducing that little harm could come from it, even worst-case scenario.

She was, of course, proven wrong when a familiar head of blonde locks styled in a fancy bun, occupied the seat beside hers. Though the knowledge that Jamie Moriarty was not above playing dirty should've been obvious -if not redundant, Joan was still slightly miffed.

She had been played, and Moriarty knew it too.

Biting the inside of her cheek, Watson bluntly ignored the blonde's gaze and made care to sit as far away as possible, while still retaining her seat, from her unwelcomed company. Then, Joan fixated her upmost attention to the stage.

Within ten or fifteen minutes of current's opening, Joan forgot that Moriarty was even present, in fact she was enticed completely by the narrative and began to enjoy herself.

Watson even neglected to notice the prying eyes of her company, despite that fact that the gaze was direct and obvious.

Unfortunately intermission was much less captivating, and it left little to no suffix reason not to converse with her instigator, "Why did you invite me here?"

"You seemed to enjoy the first half of the show, why the complaint now?" Moriarty's voice is airily but fools no one as her eyes canter with amusement.

Rolling her eyes in exasperation, "I meant why did you trick me into coming to meet you?"

"Well, you made it painfully clear that originally invitations are unwelcome, and, honestly, would you have come otherwise?"

"I think the answer to that speaks for itself, so I ask again, why am I here? What do you want from me, Moriarty?"

"And I thought I made it blatantly obvious to what it is that I want during our last encounter."

"Nothing's ever 'obvious' with you, so what's the truth? Am I going to find some overgrown man in a suit to hijack me to a prime murder location? Or did you plan for this theatre to be that spot?"

"Oh Watson, maybe you've overstayed your time with Sherlock, surely you are more than a paranoid madwoman."

"I'm not being paranoid, I'm being prepared. Anyways, you still haven't given me the real answer to as why you've brought me here."

A small sigh of relent coaxes from Jamie and her shoulder's sag slightly, "I thought perhaps you would reconsider my offer if you realized the various commonalities we share and enjoy to partake in."

'Are you for real?' reads off Joan's face as she stares at the blonde.

"You were… not wrong," she doesn't say 'right' because that would imply something she's not willing to give (at least, not yet), "About my social needs. And since I have, as you so bluntly pointed out, a very limited pool in which I can fulfill this need with, I figured you may provide some insight."

Watson is rendered speechless, after all that almost sounded like a compliment.

Luckily the lights dimmed once more and the play resumes, giving Joan an excuse to not reply at all.

The only dread was watching and waiting for the play to come to its inevitably end.

While the second half was amazing, if not better than the first, her focus had been completely derailed, and though she enjoyed the parts she could recall, she wouldn't be able to give a complete review even if she tried.

When the lights return to their original brightness, Watson had figured it was time for her own finale. Yet surprisingly, nothing but an empty seat resided to her right, leaving her to assume that Moriarty had left somewhere during part two. Though it was relief that settled her heart rate, it was something else entirely that made her stomach revert to it's parasympathetic functions.

. . .

It wasn't until two months later that she heard from the infamous criminal again. Like the previous envelope, this one held no identification either, but the obvious scent of vanilla lavender perfume was enough to tip her off.

This time, a reservation card greeted her. Predictably, the reservation was to a restaurant she had been recommended but had yet the time to try. Though Joan did pause to wonder of just what kind of P.I Moriarty might have employed to help plan these discreet outings, she eventually let it go and entered the time and date for the reservation onto her phone. She didn't have the leisure time to ponder an over-eccentric murderer and her motives, not since Sherlock had been adamant in progressing with her self-defense training as well as acquiring new cases for her.

In fact, if it wasn't for Sherlock's tendency to sort their mail and personally place hers on her desk, she might've missed the invite all together. Joan, beyond exhausted, only could think of sleep, and perhaps that's what makes her even fathom the consideration to attend dinner with a notorious criminal.

. . .

Joan had decided to go to dinner, she was on a mission, she was going to put an end to all this -whatever this happened to be. Or at least, that was the plan going in.

What Watson hadn't anticipated was for a man to be waiting for her.

Turned out that the man wasn't just a random stranger, instead, he was a thirty-one-year-old millionaire and the CEO of a world-renowned charity foundation. He had also toured to Africa and various parts of the Middle East to build sustainable schools for under-educated children. Essentially, the man was a personified checklist of everything she respected and found attractive.

And once her confusion had melted away, she had found herself easily captivated.

However, there was no second-date or plans for one either. Instead, she thanked him for the dinner and left once the bill was split -a demand Watson had pushed for.

Oddly enough, Watson's mental checklist for the perfect husband became discarded and forgotten by the time she returned home.

And on her pillow rested a single cue card, with the words 'Absence makes the heart grow fonder,' and for a moment Joan paused.

While Moriarty's absence had garnered her attention for the better half of the dinner's first hour, she would argue that it had more to do with trying to place a connection between her and the mystery man than affection or fondness for the woman.

Yet as she lied in bed at night, partially awake, blonde locks of hair and heart-shaped faces did seep into her thoughts just as sleep took her completely.

. . .

The third invitation doesn't disappoint as Moriarty greets her at the entrance of a high-class art gallery gala.

"Miss Stickland?" Joan asks once she's close enough.

Moriarty doesn't even blink at the odd greeting, instead she grins and replies, "Close, Sextus Propertius."

Joan hmms in acceptance before asking her next question, "So, how do you know the CEO of the Make-A-Wish foundation?"

"The more interesting question, Watson, is why did you turn down a second date with New York's third wealthiest bachelor?"

With her lips hidden behind a flute-glass, Joan carefully returns fire, "And why would that be more interesting?"

Grinning, Jamie replies, in a voice slightly more husky than her usual tone, "Because that would imply that you are either interested in someone else or you've become a nun. And seeing as you are currently sipping on a red, tenuta dell'Ornellaia, '08, I would safely say it's not the latter."

"And what relevancy do you have in my dating life?" Joan asks, a question that has been lingering since she had first learned of the correspondence letters between Sherlock and her and its contents.

Dark blue marbles peered straight into Joan's eyes as she stated softly, "Every kind."

Feeling overwhelmingly parched suddenly, Joan tipped her glass and drained it of its contents.

"That was a three hundred dollar wine you just guzzled. Are you alright?" The allure is still ever so present in Jamie's eyes, but flakes of amusement swims in them as well as she regards Joan with a sculpture's stare.

"Good, I would hate to get drunk off of cheap wine, nasty hangovers and all," Joan replies airily, her eyes averted to a painting. "This is a nice piece."

"I'm glad you think so, I painted it."

This time Joan's eyes lift to make eye contact, "What are you doing with me?"

"I believe they call this courting," Jamie calmly answers, smiling still, but with an edge of nervousness.

Joan's eyes harden while her voice sounds tired, "But why? Why me?"

"What can I say, you fascinate me Watson."

"Is that all? Are you studying me? Is this just another ploy for you to win some sort of 'game'?"

"Please, I'm not so spiteful."

"But you still are spiteful."

"Yes, to an extent, I suppose I can be. But that is clearly not the case here; surely you must know that." When Joan's lack of trust persists, she sighs and off-handedly comments, "I've never taken you for a narcissist."

"What exactly do you take me for, Moriarty?"

"Right now? A beautifully dressed, brilliant woman, who happens to be romantically unattached."

Joan pauses with mute frustration, "I know you and Sherlock thinks I'm some special case or something of the sort, but you two are the exceptional ones, I'm normal. And maybe normal is a strange novelty for people like you, but it's pretty common. Trust me."

"You deduce people and their feelings without having to go through the long hoops and process that Sherlock has to. You have a gift."

"No, what I have is called empathy and understanding. There's no deducing involved, this isn't some pop-science parlour trick."

"Either Sherlock has failed to express his fullest impression of you, or you are entirely too modest. Though, I must say, it is rather refreshing to see someone excel so brilliantly and be so completely oblivious about it at the same time."

"You asked Sherlock whether connections are possible, like relationships are some sort of make-belief fairytale. Maybe it's those misconceptions that make you place me on a pedestal, but whatever it is. It needs to stop."

Looks of admiration are wiped clean and furrowed brows linger, "Are you saying you wish to disengage from our social activities?"

"Yes. No, I mean I want you to stop all of it. Everything. As I've said before, I can't be your friend Jamie Moriarty."

"You can't or you won't?" The words escape her lips before she can bring herself to composure. Feeling flustered is a sensation she had only ever experienced in her early years as an adolescent, so it isn't too surprisingly that she finds herself out of control. Something Jamie hates more than all else.

Taken aback by the flash of genuine disappointment, Joan halts abruptly. After a beat, she states, "Both. Goodbye Jamie."

Joan Watson doesn't know whether to be disappointed or relieved by the lack of pursuit. Once again, Jamie Moriarty had let her walk out on her; without a single protest.

. . .

It's for the best, Joan thinks as she sits in the back of a yellow taxi.

Joan repeats it once more to herself before going to bed.

Joan reminds herself of it a month later when she finds herself without a pressing case and an evening full of idle time.

"Watson, do you miss your rendezvous with Moriarty?" Sherlock, never one to hide behind the bushes, asks while staring into an old case file

The question stills her hand in mid-motion. Thumbing her place on the trunk case file, Joan turns to face Sherlock, "And why would you think that?"

"You're sulking Watson, and this makes it what? The fifth month without some sort of advance from her?"

Joan immediately corrects inside her head: five months and three weeks, plus two days. Her reflexive recollection makes her freeze for a second. Since when had she started to count days or track the time for Moriarty and her obsessive invitations? More importantly, why did she feel a rush of yearning? Returning back to her case, Joan lied, "No. I'm just stuck on this case."

Sherlock plays along with her, for once, and offers to help. Joan declines and announces that she's going to bed and will return to it at a later time. She doesn't miss the pitying gaze from Sherlock as she climbs up the stairs.

Great, her anti-social partner pitied her for her lack of a social life. Perhaps, she really had hit rock bottom.

. . .

It's purely coincidence* the third time they meet face-to-face again. And it takes very fiber of self-control for Joan to keep the meter long distance between them.

"Joan Watson, to what do I owe the pleasure?" Her voice lacks its usual flare; in fact her eyes aren't even focused on her.

And for a moment Joan feels disappointment, "None. I'm only here to pick up a package for Sherlock."

This time Jamie does make eye contact, and the surprise is evident in them. Then, a missed, familiar smirk settles on her lips, "Really? How interesting, that he would send you."

A small rush of warmth flushes through her body, but Joan ignores it and asks, "Why is that interesting?"

"Well, it's quite obvious that I would be here, seeing as he's picking up something of mine. Could it be that he's allowing you to indulge in a pleasure that you, continuously, deny yourself?"

Immediately Joan's conflicted between denial and complete avoidance. In the end she huffs and stretches her hand outwards, "Just give me the package and I can be on my way."

"Who says I want you to leave, Joan? I've always wanted you to stay; unfortunately that still has yet to change. Old habits die hard, I suppose." A look of forlorn subtly captures her features, making Joan reflexively want to ease them.

Instead, Joan wiggled her open hand, urging Jamie to fill it, too afraid to speak in case she might say the wrong words.

With a plastic smile Jamie hands over a small cardboard box, "Right then, please give my best regards to Sherlock. Take care Watson," and for the first time Joan's the one left to watch as Jamie walks away from her.

The feeling of regret washes over her, hitting her with intensity; leaving it to pulsate in her chest. Without thought Watson closes the growing gap between them and grasps, if not a bit too tightly, onto Jamie's forearm. "Don't. Don't go."

Ocean deep eyes capture Joan's, "You never do cease to surprise me, do you Watson?"

Joan cracks a smile and a few strained laughs, "Well, it is what makes you keep coming back, isn't it?"

A pause stalls her response, effectively making the mood undertake a more serious note. Licking her bottom lip, Jamie confessed, "That may have been so in the beginning, but it seems that that alone no longer satisfies me."

Joan's hand falls away limp with rejection. Trying hard to save face by keeping the sharp stab of anguish from showing, she nods. Of course she was too late, of course she was no longer interested in her. It seemed that her very fear of her novelty expiring had manifested itself finally. For once, Joan wished she had been overtly pessimistic rather than right.

While Joan was someone that she had great difficultly disassembling and understanding, she knew the look of rejection well enough, particularly since she'd worn it herself twice no too long away. Knowing that her choice of discourse could change a great deal of everything in each other's life', Jamie hesitates, but not long enough to watch Joan retreat once more from her life. With her hand firmly grasping Watson's, she clarifies, "That is to say, I've found much more appealing characteristics in you. You are more to me than a case study or an opponent to best. In fact, I believe you are the criminal this time as you've stolen my sanity."

The unspoken 'I love you' grates on Joan's fragile nerves, still considering the possibility that the level of affection they hold for each other may be different in nature. "Your sanity? I must've done a sloppy job because that's not what I was aiming for."

Jamie Moriarty wins; she wins every time because she never shows her full hand. It's how she got where she was; it was what allowed her too keep an advantage in every situation.

It's a good thing that she has already lost to Joan Watson once before, because it makes the second surrender all the more easier to swallow. In a whisper of a breath, she admits, "My heart as well. My dear Watson, you have my heart."

This time Joan Watson smiles, and this time she doesn't pull away and fumble an excuse to escape. This time she drops the previously given box and cups, with both hands, Jamie's cheeks and pulls her impossibly closer for a long overdue kiss.

Jamie Moriarty hates losing, it's unnaturally foreign to her, but she finds that losing to Joan Watson has their benefits.

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Author's note: I'm really sorry that I made Moriarty way more open and obvious than she is in canon, this was just part of a snippet that I was complying on my character study of Watson and Moriarty. Four hours later, it was way to long to be part of a snippet so…here it is: my first ever Joan x Moriarty fic. Let me know if I should post more (I promise I don't butcher Jamie's character nearly as much in my other works).

*in case it's not clear, their reunion had very little to do with coincidence. I made Sherlock play cupid, which is super OOC but also, a little amusing.