A Lesson in Trust

It was very much just another typical morning in the Brownstone. Joan was reading through the newspaper sipping on her wheatgrass smoothie for breakfast while Sherlock ate cereal by the spoonfuls absorbed in his own thoughts.

Joan had officially been Sherlock's associate for a few months and, at the moment, she was enjoying the morning's quiet rest. They had just finished a case and she knew that it wouldn't be long before Sherlock became bored, or New York produced another crime that required the brilliant Sherlock Holmes' assistance.

"We need to be able to trust each other implicitly. We should do something to help bond us more cohesively as a single unit. It will make things go more smoothly in the future."

Joan frowned as Sherlock spoke. It appeared as though her quiet rest was over already.

She was also a bit worried: what could Sherlock possibly want to do to help them bond? Jump out of a plane and pull each other's parachute release? Based on some of the experiments she had witnessed him conduct she was fairly certain that whatever he was thinking she would not be eager to do.

"What did you have in mind?" She asked cautiously putting down the paper she had been reading. His words, much like most aspects of Sherlock's life, were carefully constructed to express his exact meanings. As a keen observer of details he was always particular about his own actions and words.

"A trust exercise." He said simply, casually taking another spoonful of cereal into his mouth as if they were discussing a common trifle, like the weather.

"What kind of trust exercise?" Joan probed still guarded. She had given him her full attention trying to find the hidden truths in his words, trying to deduce where this conversation was headed by the details he provided. The only problem was that unlike most people, Sherlock knew exactly how to conceal his thoughts until he wished for them to be known.

Joan knew that Sherlock enjoyed concealing himself; he treated many of their casual conversations as games—when they weren't on a case. If they were on a case he was often frustrated that he sometimes could not make himself more plain. As Joan's mentor he tried to let her come to some conclusions without his help, but he was easily frustrated when it took her or Captain Gregson too long to figure something out.

Sherlock put his spoon down and spoke very clearly.

"I would very much like to give you a tattoo." He said vigilantly watching her reaction.

Joan nearly spit her mouthful of smoothie across the table at him, but she managed to sputter it down. Her eyes went wide and then were conscientiously relaxed to a more a nonchalant stance. Her nostrils flared and then relaxed. Her breathing momentarily paused before resuming a slow and steady flow and she casually tapped her fingers around the length of her half-full glass.

Sherlock knew—just as well as Joan—that she was much easier to read than he was. She had been practicing to conceal her physical responses to things, mostly because she was annoyed that Sherlock was able to read her like an open book, and partially because she was hoping to annoy him by seeming impassive.

Although her concealments happened within seconds of being told of Sherlock's intentions, he was too observant not to have taken in all her physical responses before turning them into emotional inferences of her reaction. His eyes locked on hers as he spoke.

"Watson, do you trust me?"

She knew by now that he didn't ask throwaway questions. Everything was important. This wasn't a trick or a ridiculous training exercise. It was a serious question, because from everything that Sherlock had deduced and filed away in his mind about Joan and their interactions together, he absolutely wasn't sure.

"With my life." She swallowed hard, still holding his gaze.

Although she didn't trust that he would always remember to put the milk back in the fridge, or that he wouldn't surprise her with some kind of attack training, or that he would remember to put the toilet seat down in the bathroom that they shared, she trusted him when it counted—for all of the things that mattered. And her life certainly mattered. Being a consulting detective came with no small amount of danger, and Sherlock had proven on several occasions that he would do what he could to help protect Joan, to keep her alive. Her problem wasn't in trusting Sherlock.

"I don't trust myself." She said quietly regulating her voice so as not to show how vulnerable that admission made her feel.

"Please explain."

Sherlock was patient. His stare was calculating. He was always observing, making notes, deducing. He had long suspected that Watson, the surgeon turned sober companion turned associate detective, lacked the appropriate confidence in herself she deserved. He could see true sparks of genius in her, but one thing that was holding her back from being truly great was her doubt.

"Tattoos are meant to be permanent. I don't trust myself to choose something that I will want for my whole life. I wouldn't know what to get or where to get it. During med school so many of my colleagues got tattoos as a celebration for finishing their residencies. They got stethoscopes, the caduceus, and things like that. I just… couldn't."

Sherlock scoffed.

"Well of course you couldn't. Those prats were merely branding themselves by their profession which would be just as obvious by the uniforms that they wear. They were broadcasting to the world one goal met that they determined the rest of their lives around. Tattoos are not meant to be about showing the obvious or the external; they're about making what is inherently internal visible on the external."

It was the most profound explanation of tattoos Joan had ever heard. She listened and watched completely captivated by him. It was in these moments that she felt herself falling for him. He spoke with such passion and intensity that it was impossible for her to tear her eyes away from him.

"Tattoos take something personal, intimate and make it public." He continued. "There are subtleties, of course—hidden symbols or meanings—but essentially, it's about sharing who you really are and hoping that there is someone out there who can properly deduce the meaning of the ink on your skin."

Joan was silently staring at Sherlock. With this new insight she wanted to examine his tattoos. She had never really paid much attention to them with so many other stimuli distracting her, but now she felt the challenge of deduction calling for her to study his skin and, as Sherlock said, see who he really was. Unfortunately, the outfit he was wearing covered the marked areas of his skin that she wished to see.

"If you'll agree, I have an idea for your tattoo and where to put it."

Joan was still watching him silently. She could see that he was excited. His eyes were twinkling and his whole body was nearly bouncing with energy.

"What is it?" She asked skeptically. Tattoos seemed so final, permanent. The reason she hadn't gotten one before now was that Joan was rather fickle in her interests, and nothing stood out that she felt she could be happy with forever stamped into her skin.

"A moment ago you said you trust me with your life. Do you trust me with any other aspects of your existence, or just in helping to keep it going?" He replied shrewdly.

He was erratic. He was manipulative. He was frustrating as hell. But he was also brilliant, like a savant for details and the connections that could be made from them. Joan took a deep breath taking a moment to make sure she meant it and then said, "I may not always like what you do or how you do it, but I can't think of a reason not to trust you, completely."

"Wonderful! This way, Watson!" He grinned and leapt up from the table and out of the kitchen in a flash.

Joan sighed as she looked at Sherlock's empty space at the table, his cereal half eaten, and the carton of milk still out on the counter behind where he was just seconds ago.

. . .

By the time Joan found him he was already setting up.

The long table that usually held all of his papers and clues from whatever case they were working on was cleared and pulled toward the center of the room. He had a smaller end table adjacent to it that had some napkins, latex gloves, gauze, tiny plastic cups, what Joan assumed to be the bottles of ink, and the … tattoo gun. Everything had been put together so quickly that she had a feeling he had been planning this for a while and anticipated that she would say yes. And she was yet again annoyed by how well Sherlock was able to read her and how she let him manipulate her.

She had seen him tattooing his own arm a few months ago in this same room, and although after some thought it didn't seem all that unusual, it still didn't seem quite right. Joan had witnessed firsthand several patients when she worked at the hospital who had contracted infections from getting tattooed at the park, in an alley, in their home…

Sherlock threw a sheet over the long table and gave Joan a brief smile as he turned to pull a chair close by to sit in while he worked. She stood in the doorway unsure while he continued moving things here and there.

"Come Watson, lie down." He gestured toward the table taking a seat in the chair next to it.

He frowned slightly when she didn't move.

"Trust, Watson. This is about trust. Do you trust that I know how to use this?" He asked holding up the tattoo gun.

She had seen him in action with it. She took a small step forward.

"Do you trust that I have sanitized the area to prevent infections?"

He didn't get an infection after his self-administered tattoo and although he was a bit of a slob in the kitchen he was meticulous with his hygiene routine. Another step forward.

"Do you trust my attention to detail?"

No one could deny his attention to detail. She took two more steps toward him.

"Do you trust that I will not let harm befall you?"

She sighed in defeat and closed the distance between them, the promise of his words caressing her in way that made her angry at herself. She climbed up and lay on the table staring at the ceiling.

"Now flip over." Sherlock commanded and she glared at him to which he gave an impish grin.

She grumbled and turned over dropping her forehead to the table dramatically. She felt something tug on her cardigan and she immediately turned resting on her left elbow so she could glare at Sherlock.

"What are you doing?!"

"Removing your cardigan. Unless you'd prefer the tattoo on the back of your neck, all of your skin is covered up." He replied simply. His eyes still twinkling.

She scowled and sat up, throwing off her cardigan and tossing it to the floor to show her annoyance. Of all the times she imagined Sherlock trying to take off her clothes it never once was because he was going to give her a tattoo.

Joan was frustrated with herself. She had feelings for Sherlock that constantly bordered on romantic. She reveled in his touches and gentlemanlike behaviors—however brief they may be—like when he would help her into or out of her coat, when he would hold open doors for her, when he would lend her his gloves because she had forgotten her own…

He watched in amusement as she lay back down.

She shivered once when his fingers lightly collected her hair and moved it over her left shoulder and again when he slipped the thin straps of her camisole and bra off her right shoulder. The upper right half of her back was bare. As his fingers danced across her skin she couldn't help the shivers of pleasure that her body produced. Then she gasped slightly when he rubbed an alcohol pad across her back to sterilize the area.

Her hands were clammy. She was still nervous.

"I'm going to draw a sketch with a pen first, to guide me, before I use the gun." He paused before adding, "People experience different levels of… discomfort. Should you wish me to stop—"

"I think I can handle it." She interrupted hoping that he would see her annoyance and not notice the way her body reacted every time he touched her.

Sherlock rarely explained things step by step, usually because he was able to skip to step 8 while everyone else was still working on step 2, but Joan's appreciation for him walking her through the process was overshadowed by her annoyance for being manipulated into getting a tattoo. The relationship that Joan and Sherlock had was nearly entirely built upon their trust of one another. Therefore, she couldn't say that she trusted him but then refuse him the tattoo. He had made an equivocation between the two, rationalized that with one the other should just as easily take place. Joan was curious and impatient; she wanted to be on step 8 with Sherlock, not stuck in the ignorance of step 2.

"Yes, I know that you can." Sherlock replied patting her arm in an almost admiring manner. In their time together investigating Joan had had her fair share of discomfort, but always handled it well. Sherlock, though he never said it in exact words, was quite proud of her, impressed by her skill and determination.

Joan lay perfectly still, her body tense, her breaths were shallow. She was still so unsure of herself. It was a mild adrenaline rush of the unknown, like riding a rollercoaster in complete darkness.

Sherlock leaned forward to whisper words of comfort in her ear, "trust me, Watson." His voice seemed deeper, somehow more reassuring. Joan could feel his warm breath on her neck. She took deeper breaths but her body was still tense. His voice continued in a steady stream of reassurance.

"The key to any case is in the details, the subtleties that set it apart from all the other cases. This case—the case of Joan Watson—has been ongoing. People, as a group, are quite easy to predict. They can be viewed and measured in scientific terms. An individual person, however, is quite complex, varied, and unpredictable. In the six months that we have lived and worked together I have observed a nearly incalculable amount of details specifically regarding you. I know that this case is far from being closed because an individual constantly changes, but I feel that I've collected an adequate amount of data to create a tattoo that you will be able to reflect upon with satisfaction."

He could feel her body slowly relaxing as he spoke, giving power over to him through the trust of his skills in observation and reasoning. Giving herself to him. He grinned briefly over his victory.

Then, wanting to test her deduction skills, and also to tease her a little, he asked, "Are you familiar with what the Chinese refer to as mǔ dān?"

He smirked in satisfaction as she tensed up again, groaning, "please tell me that you are not planning to mark me with some Chinese Hanzi. I think it's pretty obvious that I'm Chinese."

"No Watson, words, even when they are in another language, are far too obvious a symbol for our purpose. I'm surprised, however, that mǔ dān doesn't at least sound vaguely familiar to you."

"Should it?" She asked hearing the slight reprimand in his voice.

"Yes, it should. It is in one of the books I gave you last week to extend your knowledge base and help you with deduction."

He had given her seven books last week. They were about various ecosystems, plant life, environmental anomalies, historical uses of particular plants, and one was a cookbook—which Joan scoffed at and immediately put at the bottom of the pile. She was many things for Sherlock: roommate, associate, conscience, but personal chef? No.

"Does mǔ dān have something to do with what you will be tattooing on me?" She could feel the pen, and Sherlock's gloved hand, feather light, caressing her shoulder as he sketched his idea. She could tell by his touch that the tattoo would take up roughly 4 square inches on her right shoulder blade and wondered what she would find there when it was completed.

. . .

"In an hour or two we'll remove the bandage, clean it, and you'll be able to see it then." Sherlock said delicately rubbing some cream on her irritated skin before taping gauze over it.

"An hour or two! Why can't I see it now?" She sat up on the table trying to look over her shoulder even though the tattoo was covered.

She had already sat through an hour of waiting while he pierced her skin over and over and over again with ink and she was no closer to figuring out what he had chosen. The pain was tolerable, but even so she distracted her mind by trying to picture what he was creating.

"It's still inflamed. In an hour you will have a slightly more aesthetically pleasing image to look at." Sherlock reasoned taking off the latex gloves and tossing them in the trash bin. He always seemed to be bouncing with energy, but Joan noticed that he seemed more reserved, like he was waiting for something he didn't already know the answer to.

"What am I supposed to do until then, count the seconds?"

"You could catch up on your reading. Obviously you haven't finished." Sherlock replied tending to the other items he had used to put the room back in order.

"What if I just go upstairs and rip this gauze off to look at it?" She asked a bit contemptuously thinking she had bested him.

"The whole point of this exercise is for us to trust each other. You have trusted me to give you a tattoo, and I trust that you will not look at it until I am there with you." He was staring at her with a hint of a smirk on his lips and a twinkle in his eye.

"Damn." Joan thought as she huffed quietly and went up to her room.

. . .

She glared at the mirror over her dresser when she entered her room; it was so tempting to just take a peek, but she knew that Sherlock would somehow know if she had looked at it without him. Instead she sank to the floor near a stack of books by her bed and began searching. She had no intention of actually reading one of the books; she was on the hunt for one thing: mǔ dān.

She assumed that her tattoo must have something to do with botany or nature since that was what all of the books were centered around, but there were too many possibilities. She flipped to the index of the book on top of the pile and searched for mǔ dān. Twenty minutes later she had found nothing even remotely useful in the books about ecosystems or environmental anomalies.

She continued looking and finally found mǔ dān in the index for the book about historical uses for plants. There were roughly 8 sets of pages that had mention of it.

The first entry she found was entirely in Chinese. Although she was proud of her culture, Joan's knowledge of the Chinese language was limited to colloquial spoken phrases.

The second entry she looked up was a bit more helpful:

Over 262 compounds have been obtained so far from the plants of Paeoniaceae. These include monoterpenoid glucosides, flavonoids, tannins, stilbenoids, triterpenoids and steroids, paeonols, and phenols.
Biological activities include antioxidant, antitumor, antipathogenic, immune-system-modulation activities, cardiovascular-system-protective activities and central-nervous-system activities.

The herb known as Paeonia, in particular the root of P. lactiflora (Bai Shao, Radix Paeoniae Lactiflorae), has been used frequently in traditional medicines of Korea, China and Japan. Research suggests that constituents in P. lactiflora – paeoniflorin and paeonol – can modulate Immunoglobulin-E-induced scratching behaviors and mast cell degranulation.*

She was able to make sense of the entry from her medical background, but the only useful information she obtained regarding her tattoo was that it was a plant used as traditional medicine.

The next entry she found told her everything she needed to know:

牡丹 / Mǔdān, or peony in English, is the 'queen of flowers' and the flower of spring. It is a flower best known for its medicinal uses as well as its beauty.

In Japan, the peony or "botan" was used as foreign medicine, specifically to help treat convulsions. While the peony takes several years to re-establish itself when moved, it blooms annually for decades once it has done so. The peony became a masculine motif, associated with a devil-may-care attitude and disregard for consequence.

In art and literature the peony blossom symbolizes fame and wealth. Red peonies are the most desired and valued, while white peonies symbolize young, witty, beautiful girls.*

At the bottom of this entry there was something scratched in with a pencil. Joan recognized the scrawl and immediately read what was written:

"I am glad to have your trust, Watson, you have mine unequivocally."

That brilliant, manipulative man had done it again. She let a smile cross her face, tempered with a tiny tug of annoyance. He had given her these books last week, which meant that he had been planning on broaching the subject of trust and tattoos at least since then. And he had, as usual, correctly interpreted what Joan would do.

Sherlock knew her better than anyone else had. He seemed to know her better than even her past lovers had. She in turn, began to crave his attention and his approval so much that it created a steady ache in her chest. This "trust exercise" only further proved to Joan how completely wrapped around his finger she had become. In a matter of minutes he had convinced her to get a tattoo and she had been okay with it. True, it had taken a little coaxing on his part, but she could think of very few things that Sherlock could ask of her that she would resolutely say no to.

She sighed and ran her fingers over the words he wrote to her. She only hoped that her lingering glances and physical responses weren't as obvious to Sherlock as they had been to her.

. . .

There was a soft knock and Joan looked up to see Sherlock standing in the doorway to her room. She flushed slightly and tucked her hair behind her ear for something to do. She briefly wondered how long he had been standing there.

"Are you ready to see a piece of the real you?" He asked, his lips twitching slightly.

Joan studied his posture and movements, doing her best to deduce him much like he always deduced her. His shoulders weren't squared how they usually were when he was being insufferably confident, and one of his hands was fisted into his trouser pocket. He was anxious, unsure. He was hanging back, deciding what to do based on Joan and her reactions.

In a way the reveal of the tattoo was also a reveal of Sherlock himself. Had he properly deduced Watson? Would she approve of his choice? It was obvious that she had found the entry: the books were scattered across the floor except for the one in her lap which her hand was still pointing to where he had written a few words—her prize for following the clues and finding the answer. And she didn't seem upset at that knowledge.

She slowly set the book open and face-down on her bed before standing up. She positioned herself so that she could clearly see the gauze covering her skin in the mirror; then she looked at Sherlock for him to remove the covering.

He pulled his hand out of his pocket and closed the distance between them. She could feel his rough fingers trace the outline of the tape and then slid down her arm to her hand.

"It needs to be rinsed first." He said quietly keeping her hand in his while he led her out of her room and into the bathroom that they shared.

Joan felt a light squeeze on her hand before Sherlock released it.

She was standing perpendicular to the mirror above the sink and Sherlock was standing directly behind her. His fingers traced around the gauze again, but this time he peeled up the tape and removed it.

He ran the hot water tap and moistened a washcloth under the stream before turning it off again. Then he, very gingerly, wiped at the transformed skin that Joan still couldn't see. His free hand held her shoulder as she fidgeted trying to catch a glimpse.

"Just a little more patience." Sherlock said setting the washcloth down and applying some more cream to her skin.

Joan shivered, once again reacting to the sensations his touch gave her.

The hand that was on her shoulder turned her frame slightly so that she could now look at the mirror and see what was etched into her skin. She knew that it was mǔ dān, a peony blossom, but she only now was able to see what it looked like.

"It's beautiful." She said moving slightly this way and that so that she could better see the pink and white petals that now decorated her shoulder blade.

"Tattoos are meant to show what is internal on the external, Watson."

"Are you saying that my insides look like flowers, because I was a surgeon, Sherlock, I know what insides look like." She replied teasingly, turning around to face him.

"Beauty is entwined in every aspect of you." There was no teasing tone to his voice. His eyes bore into her and she felt herself flush again. Her stomach tightened uncomfortably and she looked down to avoid the intensity of his gaze. She had been foolishly hoping for something like this to happen between her and Sherlock, but he often said things in ways that others wouldn't. Perhaps she was misunderstanding his meaning.

She felt his hand gently lift her chin upwards, encouraging her to look at him again.

"Stop me if my deductions have been wrong." Sherlock whispered, slowly bringing his face in closer to Joan's. She could see that she had caused this sudden vulnerability in him. He was not completely sure that she wouldn't reject him. She took one last look in his eyes before closing her own.

It only took a moment for his warm lips to press softly against hers. She could feel his energy bouncing even in his lips. Her hand brushed against the stubble from his chin as she reached up to bring him in closer.

She had wrapped her other arm around his back as his arms encircled her. When she deepened the kiss Sherlock's arms pulled her flush against him and she could feel the heat of his skin through his clothes.

Her fingers twisted in the fabric of his shirt and his hand rubbed across the exposed skin on her back.

She winced and he immediately stopped.

He tried to pull back but she kept her arm tight on his back. In the fervor of his exploration Sherlock's rough fingers had brushed against the still tender flesh of where Joan's tattoo was. She kissed his jaw and his neck while he realized what had happened.

He hugged her closer—being more careful about the placement of his hands—and nuzzled against her smooth black hair breathing deeply.

Joan wasn't sure how this would affect their already complicated relationship, but for the moment she was content to simply be trapped in his arms breathing in his scent, able to reach up and kiss him whenever the urge to taste his lips became too great to resist.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

*AN: For anyone curious, I got most of my information about Peonies from wiki/Paeonia_(plant)#Symbolism_and_uses and a little bit from