Title: Five deductions that Sherlock Holmes messed up and one time he didn't even attempt to make one

Character/Pairing: Joan Watson & Sherlock Holmes, Joan Watson/OC
Genre: Gen, platonic relationship, five things
Rating: PG
Spoilers/Warnings: Written mostly pre-pilot
Wordcount: 4039
Dedication: For minionier
Author's Notes: The majority of this fic was written when there was nothing more than a few trailers and featurettes. As such, a few of the details, such as the duration of Joan's term as companion, have been Jossed. I've altered some parts to fit better with the information I have after watching five episodes, however some parts are definitely out of show canon, especially for later episodes I haven't seen yet. However I feel the characterisation is still oddly on point.
Unbeta-ed, not American-checked and I've probably messed up some terminology here and there. Corrections are welcome.

"You have a husband, you're married," Holmes says as they walk to the subway.

The statement startles her, but after three hours knowing the man Joan has almost become used to his random deductions.

"How–"

"Your jewellery."

He holds up his hand to stop her from asking another question before barrelling on in that calm English manner of his, "Nice pieces, which are a little bit pricey, so they must be gifts. Worn regularly but kept clean, so you're still with him and the relationship is still going strong. Design is different, so purchased some time apart – you've been together years. Since before your license was revoked actually," her stomach dropped, as it had done so every time he brought up her medical license, "since he didn't get you any rings. Fair enough, you were going to be taking them off four times a day and even two of the plainest bands aren't the easiest to clean for surgery," he finishes and the look he gives her is smug as he waits for her to confirm his reasoning.

They've reached the subway entrance now, and Joan half turns to relish watching his expression drop as she replies, "I don't have a husband."

"Mary? Really? Your middle name is Mary?"

Joan ignores the incredulous questions from Holmes over her shoulder and continues to fill out her lease agreement and legal documents for Baker Street.

"Are you sure it isn't something like Ma Lin? Wait," she feels him leave her shoulder to pace the pokey room they're in, "I knew a James Chan in London, no middle name, just James. Met his sister too, she didn't have one either."

There's a creak of the floor board as he returns to her shoulder and Joan fights the urge to jab an elbow into his stomach to shut him up.

"Knee hway shaw jhung when ma?"

She signs her name viciously, the pen grating against the paper and table in protest after Holmes asks her the question. (It is a question, there's that 'ma' tacked onto the end of the sentence and she's heard enough variations to get the meaning behind it.)

"My grandfather was a Christian missionary, my family's been in America for five generations and the only Chinese I know is off a take away menu. Now if you're finished making assumptions about me this paperwork needs to be handed in." Her chair screeches as Joan stands up and exits the small room, leaving Holmes behind.
He can find her later after she's spoken to Hudson, her new custodian.

"Who's Harry Watson?"

They're walking from the police station, the air is pleasantly balmy for a fall evening and Joan is optimistic – about this investigation business, about moving into a new place, about Holmes himself.
Until Holmes asks his quiet question and panic shoots through her, shattering her mood.

"How do you know that name?" she says, narrowing her eyes at the man she was only just beginning to think was decent.

Holmes shrugs.

"Your emergency contact details. I was looking over your shoulder again." He waggles his fingers in the space between them, as if his height gives him privilege over her right to privacy.

"Army? That's nice, though not the most convenient if I need to call someone to get us out of trouble." Holmes grimaces at the idea.

Joan finds herself giving him a stern look again – the one that makes her feel like she was baby-sitting instead of preventing someone from harming themselves further.
"That's private information. Which, as your sober companion, I do not have to disclose to you unless I choose to," she replies, "And I choose not to."

The light is rapidly fading and the sea breeze is coming off the river, which is why Joan cinches her coat tighter. Or at least that's what she tells herself.

"But surely it's better to anticipate such circumstances rather than react to them," Holmes responds, looking terribly proud of his logic.

"No, Holmes," she says firmly.

"I'll tell you about my lazy git of a brother Mycroft if you'll tell me about yours."

"Bargaining is an emotional withdrawal symptom, so stop that now," and she is giving him the full force of that look she gave disorderly nurses who challenged her authority now, "But just for the record: I don't have a brother, I'm an only child."

Holmes actually falters for a step and there's a flicker of heat in her chest for the third time since meeting him, the smug heat that she has stumped him and proven his assumptions wrong. She shouldn't be so proud of that misstep – a sober companion should be supportive, positive, and balancing – but it feels like a point to her in this unsaid game between them of who can be the most resourceful.

"But–" he dashes half a step to keep pace with her, "you share the same last name and—"

Joan laughs at him, loud and interrupting, before huddling even deeper into her coat.

"Harry's none of your business and not my sibling."
Night has fallen properly now and the pleasant mood of before has entirely disappeared. For the seventh time that day Joan ignores Holmes for the next ten minutes as they walk back to Baker Street.

It's a rainy Friday and Joan has better things to do than sit in Holmes' apartment and write her assessment to his father, but being a sober companion, especially to Holmes, is a 24/7 job and there are no off days. Not even today.

She is just typing "cf. Abreu's forensic notes and Det. Insp. Gregson's report for further details concerning Sherlock's contribution to the investigation" when Holmes speaks up from the couch where he's sprawled out.

"Why did you sign up for this sober companion gig anyway?" he asks, glancing over one of his bizarre magazine subscriptions. "It's not as if there aren't other options where you could put those hands to use. You're kind of over qualified frankly, even if dearest father is footing your fee," he rolls his eyes at the last bit before turning a page.

"Aside from the whole retribution thing. Which is cool, but," Holmes puts down his magazine to look at her, eyebrows raised in scepticism, "there are other ways to do that too."

Joan stops typing, automatically saving her document as she does so, and looks at him.

"There's really not that many options. At least in New York city."

"There's what? A twelve month period between the date of your license lapsing and when you can reapply, so I can understand doing it for the first year," Holmes gestures with his magazine, looking pointedly at her, "but I met you fourteen months after that incident. Surely you have doubts about your decision–" there's a quirk to his lips Joan recognizes from Holmes' regular arguments with Gregson.

"Despite what you've watched on TV Holmes, medical law isn't like that over here," she says, interrupting him before he applies his shaky knowledge of American law to the situation.

"It's not about going back to medicine anyway it's–" Joan shakes her head, not wanting to discuss this with him, but he's already pulled himself up into a sitting position on the sofa, keen eyes already compiling her body language and taking in how she's holding herself.

"It's," Joan starts, not wanting to explain this to Holmes, but needing to give him something so he won't wring the whole thing out of her, "this is redemption.

"I- I knew someone else who had to go through rehab — not drugs, alcohol. They- they mean a lot to me, so when I told them about losing my license, they suggested I should volunteer. Help work out my guilt, help someone the way I couldn't help them." Joan's heart is rising in her chest and she's fighting to keep her voice even, to keep tears from her eyes.

Holmes raises one of those eyebrows at her, and Joan knows he's taken note of how her voice is wavering at the beginning of her sentences and how her breathing is shallow.

"So this," and Joan closes her eyes so Holmes won't see the tears threatening to spill, "–being this is what I need to do." She takes a deep breath and opens her eyes to look straight at Holmes.
"It's enough."

There's a long stretch of silence, rain still falling outside, as Joan keeps her gaze levelled at Holmes while his darts around, quietly categorising the way her chest falls and how her hand is laid against her laptop. Joan's phone chirps at her, breaking the silence, four notes reminding her that she can't stay and argue with him.

"I need to pick up someone from the airport, sorry." She flashes a half-smiles at him as she hurriedly shuts down her laptop and isn't apologetic at all as she taps quickly out the door and down the stairs.

"You left me for almost three hours to pick up some posh engineer from Saudi Arabia?" is the first thing that comes out of Holmes' mouth as Joan opens the door, Harry two steps behind her and curious to see the infamous Holmes that she's complained to her about.

There is an awkward pause as Harry steps into view as well.

"I wasn't expecting him to get everything completely wrong. I thought," she turns to where Joan is setting her bag and keys on the table, continuing as if everything is normal, "he was good at guessing things about people."

Harry is looking bemusedly in Holmes' direction when Joan has finished digging in her bag. His mouth is hanging open a little bit, his deduction about who she was picking up obviously contrasting horribly with the woman standing in front of him.

"He doesn't guess, he deduces," Joan explains, walking over beside her.

"Sherlock Holmes, as I gather you've been told. I'm Joan's–" Holmes leans over to shake Harry's hand.

"She knows what I do," Joan interrupts, taking her hand and twining their fingers together. "I told her." She holds up their joined hands, plain gold band visible on one hand, "She's my wife."

"Oh," says Holmes and visibly deflates before briefly perking up again, hopeful. "Do either of you want a drink?"

"I'd love a drink, but I'm not allowed one," Harry says sharply, and Joan hugs their still linked arms against her side while Holmes backpedals.

"Sorry, I meant do you want a tea or coffee. British," he gestures briefly at himself, still looking eagerly polite. Joan can tell he's nearly vibrating with curiosity about her and decides that it's probably time to have this conversation with him. She gives Harry's hand a squeeze before letting it go.

"I'll come in and make ours. You always forget to use half-and-half," she herds him towards the kitchen, sending an apologetic glance back at Harry.

"I don't understand why you put cream in your coffee," Holmes protests as they walk into the kitchen and Joan starts bringing out the coffee stuff.

Neither of them say a word as the coffee is made, Holmes helpfully darting about getting the sugar and teaspoons out, taking down the cups and choosing the one with a faded print of Gaudi for Harry. Joan takes it out to her, not surprised to find her on her laptop and chatting away on Facebook, and sets it down quietly beside her before returning to the kitchen.

They end up standing there, her and Holmes, in silence for a few minutes as Joan begins to sip at her coffee.

"So Harry isn't your cousin or the husband you divorced from?"

Joan shakes her head at his question, ponytail swishing, "No. What made you think that?"

Holmes stares at her for a moment, completely flummoxed as if he'd been told the Sun orbited the Earth and not the other way around.

"But you said you weren't married –that you didn't have a husband– and you have the same last name, so I initially thought brother, but then I reconsidered those two conversations and you were equally vehement in your denials both time so I thought–"

"You said you tried not to make deductions without knowing all the variables," Joan says, interrupting Holmes' rambling, turning to look at him. "You looked me up on Google and I'd neatly filled out all my social networking site profiles with inconsequential details and not with the crucial information. You assumed you knew all the important data from that, so you never asked the right questions," she concludes, coffee cup warm under her hands and Holmes is looking at her now and not distractedly at the kitchen clock.

"Yeah," he says, sounding reflective, "yeah, I did say that."

There's a note of brokenness to his voice, like he's only just realised he's a human who only has his wings tattooed on and not an angel. He's wearing an expression similar to the one he wore on their first night, the time he said he would make an investigator out of her.

"It's not your fault you got it wrong. We've had to defend and hide ourselves for years – it's not an easy habit to break, especially when all the laws are barely a year old." She lays a hand on his shoulder for a moment, coffee mug set down on the bench.

"Government regulation is an inefficient system to quantify the reality of relationships anyway," Holmes says offhandedly, mouth smiling for a moment before breaking eye contact and removing Joan's hand from his shoulder by turning to pick up her abandoned cup.

Joan is half expecting him to collapse into a sulk at having one of his deductions so thoroughly squashed, but instead he's acting almost normal – rinsing out the cups into the sink and putting away the sugar. The only odd thing about his withdrawn behaviour is how it had set in during the last ten minutes, rather than because of a case.
So she decides to just watch as he tidies things away and peers around the doorway to observe him when he goes to ask if Harry's done with her coffee and if he can take her cup.

His pleasing and fastidious behaviour is very like the way Holmes acts after a case, but Joan is distracted from that train of thought as Harry trails in behind Holmes from the other room, obviously having abandoned her excited chatting, "J, we going out for dinner or do I have to go by myself to see if that burger place that does gorgeous bacon hamburgers is still open? I'm hungry."

"I'm coming." Joan pushes herself away from the counter and tilting her head towards Holmes, asking Harry silently if she minds if he's invited. She shrugs, brown curls tumbling over her shoulder with the movement.

Joan turns to Holmes, who's currently rinsing out Harry's cup, and raises her eyebrow.

"Do you want to come? Harry isn't exaggerating about their burgers."

"No, no, I'm fine. Still have a few piles of reading material I need to work my way through. I'll be fine for a couple of hours. Don't stay out too late!" Holmes calls out after her as she exits the kitchen to get her bag again.

Harry's at the door already, but Joan pauses at the entry to the hallway to watch him sit down in a chair, pull out another of his magazines and try to settle back. It clicks then, Harry's arrival and Holmes' pleasantness and almost nervous energy, all coalescing into a thought.

"I'll bring you back a veggie burger. You haven't eaten since this morning," she offers and gets a grunt in response. But she sees the way he settles a bit more comfortably into the armchair and, jogging to catch up with Harry, is relieved at that.

Harry's back on duty again, this time stationed on the base at Fort Hamilton, close enough that she comes home to Joan most nights.
It's been a month since she came back from overseas duty and just under three months since Joan met Holmes with two weeks of overlap between the two where there were almost three times as many dangerous encounters because Harry decided to come along with them. Holmes had decided that an unarmed army DCO was enough back-up to corner the more dangerous criminals they chased after.

She and Holmes are in the cafe where Joan met Harry for a late lunch. Holmes predictably crashed it fifteen minutes in, walking in hunched over and pulling up a chair opposite them before stealing some of the fries they were sharing alongside their panini before chattering about another body being washed up in Basel.

She is checking her phone as Harry and Holmes compare stories of their overseas experiences when an email pings through, and Harry's telling her Bangkok story which she's heard a hundred times, so Joan taps the notification to read it.

It's from the rehab centre Holmes had stayed at. They've looked at all of the notes and observations she's made, at the transcript of the last appointment Holmes attended. He's been declared to have fully rehabilitated into regular life, that while he is required to undergo quarterly voluntary drug tests for the next two years, from the 18th he is no longer required to be in the company of a sober companion.

She re-reads the email three times before Harry nudges her ankle with her foot, story apparently finished.

"J? You okay?" Her brows are drawn together in concern and Joan just shakes her head, handing over her phone for Harry to read, Holmes looking on in bewildered curiosity as a smile steals its way across her face after a couple of seconds before she passes the phone over to him. It's fascinating as always to see him react; how expressions shift over his face and the way his mental processes are almost visible as he links together information.

Joan can tell the exact moment he reads the line "the patient Sherlock Holmes has been deemed to have fully rehabilitated," his jaw dropping momentarily before his mouth worms into a smug expression, a flicker of sadness between the two. She's gotten good at reading Holmes' emotions.

"Well that's news. Good news I think," he says, turning to Harry, "because as lovely as your Joan is, there are only so many hours per day I can stand her presence." They are both quick to rebuke him for that sentence, Harry leaning over to smack him in the arm and Joan scolding him before reclaiming her phone. He hands it over, obliging, lips curling up into a grin.

"Which is just as well Holmes," Harry says, "because there's only so much she can take of you. And speaking of hours," she stands up and grabs her bag, "I have to head back now. J, have fun with your last few days as sober companion." Joan leans in for a kiss and out of the corner of her eye can see Holmes studiously picking at Harry's leftovers rather than them. They part, and say goodbye again while Harry gives Holmes a fond waggle of her fingers before heading out the door.

There's a few minutes of silence between them after Harry's departure, Holmes picking at the discarded remains of their lunch and Joan rearranging items on table between nibbling at the fries and sipping her drink.

"You really love her, don't you?" Holmes asks, interrupting the silence and with his mouth half full.

"Yes, of course. I married her," Joan replies, taken aback by the question.

"No, you really love her. It's kind of beautiful." There's a tone of wonder in his voice that makes her a little uncomfortable, so she takes a sip of her soda and places it on the table between them as Holmes continues.

"No really," he says eagerly, gaze distant, "it's far more glorious than any piece of art ever seen, any music I've heard, and so brilliant I can't stand to look when the two of you are together."

Holmes swings his gaze onto her, expression pleading, "Tell me more about her? About how you met and the little things that make you love her?"

"Why can't you just deduce how we got together? Remember, I'm still not obliged to answer any of your questions, " she says, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms.

"Because the last few times I tried making deductions about you or people close to you I turned out to be horrifically wrong, so rather than embarrass myself again, I thought I'd ask."

Joan smiles at his question and the way Holmes' face becomes hyper-mobile when he has to admit he is wrong, like he doesn't want his lips to touch the words coming out of his mouth, and uncrosses her arms to take a sip of her coffee before starting.

So she starts to tell stories about her and Harry, completely eclipsing from her mind that next week she'll be tagging along to investigations with Holmes of her own free will; that there have been two bodies, both connected with a crime ring, found in the Rhine and doesn't Holmes find that fascinating, until Holmes stands up abruptly.

"Harry'll be waiting for you at home."

Joan checks her watch and then the skyline, sun filtering through the gaps between buildings, and it's past five and she has been talking about Harry for over three hours.

"I'm sorry–"

He holds up his hand, "Not an issue, but she is waiting. Or will be, by the time you catch the next train and walk back." Holmes is frozen still for a long moment, hands in pockets.

"It's always nice to hear someone talk about a person they care about. You weren't boring me," his words rush out as if he were apologising to her. "I may not be officially cleared until next week, but I presume you'll be coming over until then?"

Joan nods.

"I thought I'd thank you now for keeping me on the path to sobriety and that I shall stick to it as long as I remember you, which shall be the rest of my life." Holmes sticks his hand out for her to shake and she takes it.

"I'll be coming over next week as well," Joan points out as they finish shaking, smiling a little and amused at how Holmes is treating this, "you can't stop me tagging along that easily."

"Just as long as you aren't too distracted," he says dryly before darting quickly into her personal space to peck her on the cheek.

"Forgive me my English ways, but thank you for being my companion. For continuing to want me as teacher," he adds, switching to peck her other cheek before straightening up and heading out the door, waving back at her as he steps out onto the sidewalk.

Joan works on autopilot for a moment, picking up her bag and thanking the waitress automatically, a torrent of words gushing to the forefront of her mind –impossible, exhilarating, genius, unstoppable– every case she's written up for her reports to Holmes Sr. replaying in her head. It occurs to her that Holmes just may be another person she cares about.

The thought makes her heart stutter, breath caught halfway into her lungs, to consider that this impossible man has wormed his way so far into her life that it's nearly impossible to remember what it was like before meeting him.

But then another pedestrian knocks into her and that emotion subsides, tucking itself up into a package that could be labelled love and slots beside Harry in her heart.

Joan blinks, revelation rooting her to the spot and it feels ridiculous to be wondering on a sidewalk in New York if this is what Holmes feels about her, if it's the reason why he tried so hard to get her to stay even after getting her relationship with Harry so terribly wrong. She wants to laugh and cry, but instead barks out a short laugh before breathing in deeply and turning toward the nearest subway as the sun descends. All that matters is that she knows him and, at last, he knows her.