Title: Asshole

Pairing/s: Joan/Sherlock, a little Joan/Bell if you squint?

Disclaimer: fuck joancroft omg

Summary: "Get dressed, asshole."

She's pretty sure it's unintentional. Mostly unintentional. And sure, maybe she sometimes has a hard time reconciling the sex-maniac who has a 'coitus in progress' sign perpetually hung outside his door with the man who couldn't care less about his roommate's breasts, but she's still fairly confident that Sherlock Holmes is not on a heroic quest to see her naked. Not on purpose, anyway.

It's just. He doesn't get the concept of a door. Or the fact that when you hear the shower running in the bathroom, it usually means someone is showering. Sherlock seems to have this strange need to involve her the moment he finds something that even remotely piques his interest, and as a result he completely forgets even the vague idea of "SHERLOCK I AM CHANGING GET OUT OF HERE."

The first time it happens is about two weeks after she moves in. She's surprisingly up before eight AM and is just climbing into her pants for the day. She is not wearing a shirt. Or a bra, for that matter. She's just reaching for her top when there is a loud crashing outside her door and a "WATSON I THINK I'VE SOLVED IT WE HAVE TO GO—" before the door slams open and Sherlock bursts through it, his hair mussed and his eyes wide from lack of sleep.

Joan shrieks and dives behind her bed. "Sherlock!" she cries.

She can practically hear him frowning. "Watson, we do not have time for your quaint sense of modesty, there is a killer on the loose! Here—" he tosses her what is probably the most ugly cardigan she's ever seen, "—clothe yourself! We must make haste!"

Joan glowers from behind the bed and pulls the comforter down over her back. That was a close one, she thinks, but she's pretty sure he didn't see anything he wasn't supposed to. All the same, Sherlock is fairly vibrating behind her and she realizes unless she does something it's not gonna even occur to him to leave, so she kicks him hard in the shin and hisses, "Out," through gritted teeth.

His bewildered (and slightly pained) face almost makes up for the entire situation.

Joan burns the cardigan in the fireplace later that night.

The second time, Joan realizes this may become a problem. She's on a date, which she carefully made sure ended up at his place, with a head between her legs. She's very pointedly turned her phone off and did not let Sherlock know where she was going. All she said was that she was going to a friend's for the night.

After about a month of rooming with Sherlock Holmes, she realizes after the fact that she practically gave him an encyclopedia of information to work with.

"WATSON GET THAT BUMBLING IDIOT OUT FROM BETWEEN YOUR THIGHS WE HAVE A NEW CASE!"

Said 'bumbling idiot' doesn't speak to her again for a week. Sherlock manages to ruin that 'conversation', too, though Joan still isn't quite clear on how he managed to get the goat involved.

It's the third time that Joan decides she needs to make a plan of action. The goal: keep Sherlock Holmes from seeing her naked above the waist. (Below too, but that's less of a priority since the bastard son of a bitch has already seen that, somehow.) The means: she wavers between keep clothed at all times because Sherlock Holmes is a sneaky asshole and buy a lock for the door. The former becomes a more likely solution the first time he picks her lock at seven AM just to inform her he hasn't come up with a solution yet, but he's mastered making an origami penis, and it seems something she may share some interest in?

Joan's first solution is also ruined a little later that day when Sherlock drops an old heart in front of her and the blood splatters all up her shirt. She tries to convince Bell it's Kool Aid; he sends her home with a beautiful new blouse he picked out himself and a new trick to wash out blood stains, because, "I'm pretty sure this is going to be a more frequent problem than you realize, Joan," and, "Holmes is an asshole."

(The fourth time they're shaking and Joan is clothed in nothing but a shock blanket and Sherlock's hands are on her shoulders, on her wrists, on her waist, and there's a faint, "Watson, Watson, Watson," being whispered in her ears and she doesn't realize where it's coming from until she sees the terrified look on his face, and realizes that Sherlock the sex-maniac doesn't care about her breasts because when he's with her, he's Sherlock the best friend, Sherlock the man who loves her most in the world, and no matter how many times he bursts in on her at inopportune times nothing is going to change that.)

The fifth time is probably not so much of an issue, seeing as they're both naked and there's zip ties around their wrists and Sherlock is very pointedly not looking at her.

"I told you we weren't carrying any weapons," he mutters to their kidnappers.

They say, "Mr. Holmes, are you aware that your assistant's body alone could be a weapon of mass destruction?" which Joan inwardly translates as 'daaaamn' and apparently Sherlock does, too, because in the next instant his hands are free and he's pummeling the living shit out of the guy. That's the day Joan realizes that while whatever sense of modesty she has left may be a thing of the past, her virtue, at least, is in very good hands.

The sixth time is with Mycroft.

Stupid fucking Mycroft.

Sherlock, bursting in, "you're being framed," Joan's hands flying for the comforter because for all the times Sherlock's burst in on her she's never felt quite so naked before, exposed, like her secrets are in every crevice on her face and there's shame in her cheeks. She stops to wonder, impassively, why the hell she should be ashamed of anything. But she does, and when Sherlock leaves to let her get dressed (he's never done that before, she doesn't know why it hurts her), she doesn't look at Mycroft, not once.

She doesn't tell Sherlock why she did it.

(She doesn't like to admit it to herself, that she whored her way into discovering every secret the man had.)

When she presents all she's learned to Sherlock, he says nothing, and they don't make eye-contact again for days after. When they finally do, he kisses her hard and she decides she never wants to hide herself from him again.

"I've never seen you like this," he says.

Joan finds she can't speak past the ache in her throat.

"Like what?" she manages finally. (He's back he's back he's back oh God he was dead but he's alive THREE FUCKING YEARS, SHERLOCK.)

"Like this," he murmurs, explaining nothing, but he thumbs away the tears sliding down her cheeks. She swallows hard, tries not to lean into the touch but she knows she does anyway. "You always keep yourself so together, so restrained. I've never seen you—"

She kisses him, like summer rain.

He kisses her back, like a winter storm.

And Joan Watson realized Sherlock sees everyone naked, sees every thought on their face, but he only sees her if she lets him, and no matter how many times they've made love, no matter how many times he's burst in on her, no matter how many cases or hospitals or waking up in the morning side by side this is the first time he's ever seen her truly, wholly naked.

She says, "I love you," and quietly resolves to murder him in his sleep later.

But first, it's time for her goal to end.

(In the morning, she bursts into her own room where Sherlock is still sleeping and tosses him the most hideous sweater she can find.

"Get dressed, asshole," she says. "We have a case to crack.")

fin