So because of popular demand, I've been forced to write this:) Kind of a companion piece to my earlier one-shot An old married couple, but can be read as an independent one shot:)

This is dedicated to koreanBBQ for drawing a fanart for An Old Married Couple! Thanks!

"Love, [n.] A temporary insanity curable by marriage." ~~Ambrose Pierce, The Devil's Dictionary

Sherlock Holmes had a problem.

Actually, he had several problems, but this one just wouldn't go away.

This problem actually had a name.

Hurricane Joan.

Joan Watson had barged into his life five months ago on the behest of his father, as a sober companion. As if he, the esteemed Sherlock Holmes, would need a companion.

She had ripped through his home, tore him apart, and forced him to rebuild his life from the embers of his previous one.

They lived together, ate together, shared the same bathroom, their toothbrushes side by side, her toiletries hidden someplace that even he didn't know about. It was as domestic as it could get.

In reality, he knew that there was no real problem, but to him, it was a huge problem.

See, as of late, Mr. Holmes here had been feeling some very odd things. Every time he looked at her, something happened to him. Neurons were firing when they weren't supposed to, triggering an involuntary response. His palms started to sweat, his heart started racing faster, he had to force himself to concentrate whenever she was in the room.

He had only had this type of reaction when he had been on the drugs.

So that led to the inevitable question: Was Joan Watson his new drug?

It was a preposterous notion. People could not be addicted to other people. Sure, there were sex addicts, but between the two of them, there was no sex, no odd touching...nothing. Plus sex addicts were addicted to sex, not the person they were doing the horizontal tango with.

But...

Between them, it was just Sherlock and Joan, Joan and Sherlock, Holmes and Watson.

Of course, his analytical mind had given him several possibilities as to why suddenly, he was feeling this way. He hadn't copulated with anyone for quite some time, so perhaps his restless mind was traveling towards the only constant female presence in his life.

But that would mean that he was attracted to Joan Watson, in the most primitive and carnal way. It would mean that he wanted her.

And that was simply ridiculous.

Okay fine. She was attractive, very attractive, beautiful even. And intelligent. And sarcastic. And witty. And patient. And - fine. He was a little attracted to her. So sue him.

If he was honest, she was probably the only one who would put up with his odd eating and sleeping habits, the only one who wouldn't complain when he redecorated the bathroom with pictures of crime scenes, the only one who wouldn't leave when he played the violin at odd hours of the night.

Unfortunately, Mr. Holmes wasn't too honest, at least not with himself.

At this current moment, Sherlock was in front of the myriad of T.V's he had, keeping his mind sharp with his mental exercises. It was a good way to enhance his skills, and clear his mind at the same time.

Alas, poor Mr. Holmes' mind was not in the right place at the moment. He could barely think coherently, let alone memorize anything. Whenever he did try, Joan popped up. And it wasn't like he was thinking of her in any overtly sexual manor, there were no odd fantasies that usually accompanied attraction. All it was was...her.

And it was taking the mickey out of him.

Plus, he was frustrated, and sleep deprived, and agitated, and snappish, and rude, and arrogant. So basically, he was the same as usual, but completely fixated on Joan.

"Argh!" Sherlock sat down on the loan chair in the room and placed his head in both hands. Calloused fingers raked through already disheveled hair.

He saw Angus sitting on a shelf, watching him, mocking him. That just fanned the fire within him even further. An inanimate object was mocking him, the Sherlock Holmes?

Bollocks.

The man stared at the clock. Five thirty. Excellent. Joan wouldn't be home till six at least. She was out somewhere doing something with someone. Probably a man.

A sharp pang of pain resonated in his chest. His eyes darted down to the area. Interesting. No pain in his arm, his heart rate hadn't elevated. So he wasn't having a heart attack. So then why...

No! Sherlock jumped up in sheer terror. He absolutely, one hundred and fifty percent, could not be jealous of this unnamed person.

Double bollocks.

"That's enough." He berated himself angrily. "I can't let this go on. I must research how to get Joan out of my head."

A rather nasty smile lit his face. Sherlock Holmes was a man on a mission. And no one could stop him.

Not even his own heart.

"Sherlock!" Joan entered the house, surprised to find it completely dark at only six fifteen. Usually, the T.V. would be blaring and her flatmate would be sprouting random facts at her.

"Sherlock" She removed her fancy french hat and scanned the room where Sherlock went to if he needed to clear his mind. Odd. He wasn't there. Nor was he in his bedroom, or her room, or the bathroom, or any room for that matter.

She sighed. This wasn't particularly out of the ordinary behavior, and she wasn't worried that he wouldn't stay clean, but it was comforting to see his face when she came home, just to know that he was really there.

Granted, Sherlock Holmes wasn't the comforting type, but he had been there for her when she needed it the most, and for that, she was eternally grateful. He wasn't out of the house. If it was one thing she knew about him, it was that if he didn't want to be found, he wouldn't be.

Joan sighed again. Her eyes caught the coffee maker in the kitchen.

Well, the man would reveal himself when he wanted to. No reason to lose her head.

Coffee seemed pretty good right now.

Sherlock watched Joan carefully from the shadows. There was a reason why all the lights were out. He could move around, not make a sound, and observe the object of his affec...wrath. Wrath. Not affection. It was sad that he had to tell himself that.

The way she moved reminded him of a dancer. Her movements flowed gracefully, she was lithe and on her toes constantly. She never slouched, her back was always straight yet not completely rigid.

He swallowed, not used to the strange emotions coursing down his system. While Joan was gone, he had packed much research as to why he was feeling the way he was in only half an hour. The answers he had come up with were less than favorable. Every one of them pointed to the fact that he cared for Joan...not in the way a friend cares for a friend, but deeper.

It implied that he...that he...ARGH! He didn't even want to think about what it implied. And if Holmes didn't want to think, there was nothing anyone could do.

Of course, he had researched (using the wonderful invention of Google) ways to stop this feeling, but unless he died, part of his brain was cut out, or he met another woman capable of redirecting his affection, it would seem as though He would be fixated on Ms. Watson.

But, there was one way to possibly get rid of this feeling, one way that would make Joan less desirable.

When he had first read this, it had seemed utterly stupid. Now though, it actually looked like the only option he had. And though Sherlock Holmes was completely against this idea, if it meant that he could think clearly, then he would do it.

Marriage usually took the spark out of everyone's love life right?

Joan Watson would have to become Joan Holmes.

Effective tomorrow.

"Watson!" Sherlock cried excitedly, "We have a case!"

Joan walked out of the bathroom with an extremely disgruntled look on her face. Her hair was sticking up in odd directions and her clothing was rumpled. In his mind, she looked absolutely adorable.

No! Stop it Holmes. DO NOT THINK THOSE THOUGHTS. His plan would go into active as soon as they got to the crime scene. It had to alleviate these...feelings, unwanted feelings at that.

"Give me twenty minutes." She grumbled, closing the door in his face, not liking the look on it.

"I've given you twenty-five!" Sherlock grinned and rubbed his palms together. If this didn't work, then nothing would.

Gregson and Bell met them by Brighton Beach. It was a murder, probably done by the Russian mob, or made to look like that. Whatever it was, Sherlock was called in to the scene.

"Detective Lindman," Gregson waved Sherlock and Joan over. "These two are consultants with me. Guys, this is the head detective on the scene." He was a tall man, probably in his mid forties with graying temples and eyes that were roving all over Joan much to her and Sherlock's ire. He felt the familiar pang in his chest again which was accompanied by a lot of annoyance. Now was the perfect time to enact his plan.

Sherlock sneaked a glance at Joan who nodded politely at the detective who grinned back a bit too openly. "Sherlock Holmes." He extended his hand out to the older man who shook it enthusiastically.

"And I'm..." Joan was cut off by Holmes himself.

"Joan Holmes. My wife."

His declaration was met with looks that ranged from incredulous (Gregson and Bell), to disappointed (Lindman), to a look that clearly read I don't know what the hell you're thinking, but you better explain this now or I'll murder you with a rusty knife (Joan).

All of his research last night had explained that married couples tended to distance themselves from each other. His parents as well as Joan's were a prime example. So he had decided, that if he and Joan were married, even if it was false, then he too would distance himself from her emotionally. It was kind of like the Placebo Effect.

But...

No.

No.

No!

Why was this happening? Instead of feeling incredibly light and free of the burden of his feelings for Joan, he felt incredibly light and free because he had just called Joan his wife.

Sherlock ground his teeth together and gently tugged Joan by the arm to go and observe the crime scene leaving behind three confused people.

"Newly weds?" The detective asked.

Gregson and Bell exchanged glances.

"More like an old married couple. You should hear the way they fight..." Bell smirked, eagerly waiting until this case was over so he could tease Sherlock about this little incident. The tables would be turned very soon...

Predictably, Joan didn't talk to him the entire day until they got home.

"What the hell was that?" She asked without preamble, her eyes boring into his. She looked...hot. With her hands on her hips, rage in her eyes, and tense posture, it looked as though she was going to attack him. And the thought of Joan on top of him...well that was very appealing.

"That man was looking at you in an unsavory way, so I did what I thought was right!" Sherlock defended, vowing to never reveal the true nature as to why he had called her his wife.

"You called my your wife. Wife! In front of Gregson and Bell!"

"They'll understand." He said shortly.

"I'm sure." She growled at him. Joan huffed and crossed her arms over her chest. She was surprised that he had stepped in when that man had looked at her, but to call her his wife...that was too extreme. But...

Her eyes trailed over his slouched form, taking in the muscles she knew he had under the unflattering sweater he was wearing to the ruffled mop that he called hair. He wasn't unattractive, it was quite the contrary of course. He was what people would call...ruggedly handsome.

And when he had called her his wife, a tingly sensation had run through her, warming her from head to toe. Sure, she thought he was good looking, but it couldn't be anything more...could it?

Five months ago, she thought that she would leave this place within the allotted six weeks. But then she had been encapsulated by the work that her client did, and she found that she couldn't stay away from this job. Her mother had noted the same thing. She was invigorated by this, it was felt better than medicine.

She couldn't leave after those six weeks. She had stayed, and he had let her. He wasn't her client anymore. They were partners.

End of story.

Right?

Wrong.

It was so much more than that.

The second time he had called her his wife was during a charity event for the Mayor.

Sherlock had forgone his scruffy look and actually dressed nicely for this occasion, and with Joan on his arm, they looked like the perfect couple.

"Mr. Holmes." The Mayor walked up to them. "How nice to finally meet you. Captain Gregson has told me so much about you and your companion here." He kissed Joan's hand like a gentleman.

Sherlock tightened the grip he had around her waist, pulling her closer. She managed to conceal the surprise with a smile.

"Yes, this is my wife, Joan." He said a tad snappishly. The mayor looked genuinely surprised.

"Wife eh? Lucky man you are."

Joan laughed nervously, suddenly conscious that many other ears, such as Gregson and Bell were listening in.

"Indeed I remind myself everyday on how lucky I am that she came into my life." There was something very raw in the words that Holmes had just said, something honest. Joan glanced at him suspiciously, wondering what he was doing. He danced his fingers up and down her side, suppressing a triumphant look at the shivers he could feel she was repressing.

Gregson sidled up to the couple, a mischievous look on his face. "A toast then, to Sherlock finding Joan."

Those in the vicinity raised their glaces to the pretend couple who looked back at the crowd rather sheepishly.

"What do you think is going on between them?" Bell asked Gregson as he poured his captain a cup of stale coffee. The two of them had made a habit out of observing the now bickering Joan and Sherlock whenever they weren't looking.

"I have no idea." Gregson frowned at the crude taste of his drink. He set his mug down and crossed his arms, his eyes darting back and forth between Joan and Sherlock like a tennis rally. The corner of his lips twitched upwards. Though he wasn't completely sure as to why those two were arguing, he had some inkling into the situation. Judging by Sherlock's defensive posture, and the I will fu**ing kill you expression on Joan's face, he could only deduce that the younger man had done something to piss off the lovely Ms. Watson...or was it Mrs. Holmes?

Honestly! It had been three weeks since Holmes had first called her that. And he had done it four more times after the Mayor's ball. Now, Gregson was no psychologist, but he was pretty damn sure that when people start believing that lies are the truth, then they want that lie to be the truth...plus...they are mentally unstable.

Bell would have said something, but shut his mouth as Joan made her way over to them. Both him and his superior tried to engage themselves in something else to make them look nondescript, but by the way that she was looking at them, they realized that she knew they had been watching her and Sherlock.

Speaking of the Brit, he was angrily muttering to himself, running a hand through his disheveled hair, raking another one down his stubbled cheek. Bell caught him giving Joan a glance that was filled with both longing and anger before stomping out of the precinct.

Joan flinched as the door slammed shut. All was silent for a few minutes before she sighed and busied herself with the coffee machine. Bell and the Captain exchanged puzzled looks before turning their attention to the frustrated woman in between them.

"He's an ass." Joan spoke suddenly, her voice filled with venom

"We know."

"No..." Joan clutched her mug closer to her. "He's...even more of an ass these days. And...and I have no idea why."

Gregson laid a sympathetic hand on Joan's shoulder. "No one knows what that man thinks. I think he likes it that way."

"Pompous bastard." Bell muttered, but a small smile was on his face.

Joan snorted in a very unladylike fashion. "If you think he's bad here, try living with him." The smile fell off of her face. "Maybe that's the problem. Maybe I should move out. I mean, it's not like I'm his sober companion anymore. There is no reason as to why we should be seeing each other."

"Oh, so you're not husband and wife?" Bell asked sarcastically, chuckling at Joan's sardonic look.

"Come to think of it, he's been acting strangely ever since he started doing that whole husband and wife thing." Joan tapped her chin thoughtfully and looked at both of her friends. "Do you two know why he started that in the first place?"

Both men shrugged. "Maybe he wanted to annoy you. But that still wouldn't explain why he kept on doing it." Bell grinned at her salaciously. "Or maybe, he likes you. And he really, really is trying to tell you that he wants to marry you!" He winked at her.

Loathe though she was to admit it, what Bell said might actually make sense. It would be very Sherlock of him to simply demand that she marry him by dropping these hints. Forget dating, that man was moving straight to till death do us part.

"I'll just talk to him." Joan said. "It's close to six anyway. We'll go home, have dinner, and then I'll ask him."

Of course, with Sherlock, things were never that easy. And judging by the doubtful looks on her two friends' faces, they thought so too.

"See you tomorrow!"

God. Unfortunately, for tomorrow to come, today had to end.

Sherlock was unnaturally quiet in the car. There was no annoying pencil tapping, or knee jerking, or trying to guess which song would come next on the radio station. He just stared stonily out of the window until they reached home.

Joan had barely parked the car when Sherlock was already opening the door and vanishing inside the house. She crossed the threshold with trepidation, wondering if her companion's foul mood was going to come to blows.

She wasn't wrong.

"YOU!" He roared venomously, throwing his hands in the air. Joan simply stood where she was, not at all frightened by the anger in the man. This wasn't the first time he had gone bipolar on her.

"Me."

Sherlock detested her casual approach to him at this moment. He just wanted to make her feel...feel what? What did he want to make her feel. Ah, that's right. He wanted Joan to know how utterly frustrated he was with this entire cosmos at the moment.

His finger shook dangerously as he pointed at her.

Slowly, like a jungle cat on a prowl, he stalked closer to her. Joan could feel the pent up frustration in him as he moved closer and closer. However, there was not an ounce of fear in her. Instead, she was amused.

Because no matter how much Sherlock might have felt he was like a dangerous predator, Joan knew that he was just a fluffy kitten inside, waiting to be stroked and spoiled.

"Yes?" She asked with a smile which turned into a smirk as he shook even more at her perceived nonchalance.

The withering glare that Sherlock pinned her with lessened the smile on her face as her expression morphed into one of concern. "Sherlock..."

"NO!" He bellowed, wringing his hands at her. After a heartbeat of silence, his breathing turned ragged and he looked her in the eyes. "No." His voice was quieter, a bit softer as he repeated the word again.

He looked at Joan who looked positively ravishing in the dim lighting. The man didn't even try and stop those thoughts. He couldn't. No matter what he did. That was the reason of his constant snappy behavior around her.

Ever so slowly, he placed a hand on her slender shoulder, savoring the way she shivered as his fingers traced a path to her hand as he interlaced the two appendages together.

Sherlock moved even closer to her, grabbing her other hand and placing it upon his rough cheek. It was his turn to shiver at the contact even though he had plenty of time to prepare for it.

Joan wasn't sure where this was leading, but the look in his eye gave her a pretty good guess. Was he going to do what she thought he was?

"Sher-" Joan was cut off by a pair of lips descending on her own.

Well, that answered her question.

On their own volition, Joan's arms snaked around his neck, pulling the Brit even closer, making him stumble and send them both hurtling to the floor.

For a moment, they just stared at each other before Sherlock snorted.

And then Joan sniggered.

And then Sherlock giggled.

And then both of them were in hysterics, clutching on to each other as they paused to kiss and laugh some more, both of them contemplating what the hell had just happened.

Sherlock stood and held out a hand to Joan, his heart and soul feeling incredibly light. "My lady."

Joan blushed slightly but took his arm nonetheless. "My lord." She curtsied, feeling very British as she did so.

The man smoothed out the sweater he was wearing a glanced at his...his...

friend/servant/valet/partner/doctor/lover (maybe)/wife

with a smile.

"Come now darling. I believe it's time to consummate this rather loveless and sexless marriage." Sherlock waggled his eyebrows at her.

That earned him a swat on the head and a vicious glare.

"For that, darling," Joan's eyes flashed dangerously. "You can sleep on the couch."

Unfortunately for Sherlock, when he had come up with his plan to "marry" Joan, he hadn't anticipated everything that came with marriage...including the "no-sex" clause that was in the fine print.

Seven Months Later

"I don't believe it." Gregson stared at the card in his hand with disbelief.

"Why me?" Bell bemoaned his fate as he too read what was inside of his personalized card.

"Huh?"

Bell stared at his captain and shook the piece of expensive high quality paper in the older man's face. "HE MADE ME BEST MAN! AND DIDN'T ASK ME!"

"Oh." Gregson replied, concealing the smile. Holmes and Bell may pretend to not like each other, but they were pretty close, whether they admitted it or not.

"It's about time though." Bell sighed. "Those two, mostly Sherlock, they were driving me insane."

"You're right kid." The captain clasped a hand on his subordinate's shoulder and motioned to the door where the engaged couple was coming through. They still fought, still bickered like children, still argued over the smallest things. The only difference was, they were probably sleeping together. Oh, and the fact that there was a shiny rock on Joan's ring finger.

"Well, let's go meet our favorite almost married couple." The way Bell said it made it seem more like a death sentence than a happy occasion.

And judging by the furious look on Joan's face at something that the idiot had done, it probably was...

"Ah, Captain Gregson! Detective Bell! Thank you for coming so quickly."

It was Deja-vu all over again. The Detectives had once again been called over to Brighton Beach for yet another murder. Only there was a different detective on scene.

"Sargeant David Maloni! Good to see you again!" The captain shook hands with a man perhaps slightly younger than himself. "What have we got today?"

"Well it seems rather obvious, doesn't it?" Another voice from the back piped in. "From the way the body is positioned, from the way the blood is spattered, the missing finger. Someone's sending a message. A mob hit no doubt."

At Maloni's look, the Gregson hastened to introduce the other man. "Sorry Maloni, this is Sherlock Holmes, our consultant."

"You missed something Sherlock!" A woman's voice added. "Look at the knife wounds on his arms and torso. It's surgical precision. And the way the wounds are created, they're incisions. Whoever did this either had incredible insight as to how medical school teaches it's budding surgeons, or the person who murdered the man was a surgeon himself."

The crease in the Italian detective's brow thickened.

"Sorry Dave. This is-"

"Joan Holmes." Sherlock smoothly cut in, a proud smile on his face. "My wife."

And this time, it was for real.