Once he realised that she was serious about it, and that it didn't herald any diminishment of their working relationship or friendship, Sherlock accepted Joan moving into her own apartment with good grace.
Well, good grace for Sherlock, that is.
He didn't point out the foolishness of paying New York City rents on the nights when, mid-case, it was just easier to collapse on whatever flat surface in the brownstone looked most comfortable.
He didn't have a key to her apartment. Not because Joan didn't want him there, but because not having a key didn't seem to stop him from getting inside; and just for once Joan liked to be the one setting Sherlock unexpected traps and challenges.
And ever since the time he had padlocked all her kitchen cupboards closed (to see how her lock-picking was coming along, he said) he had been good about not breaking in unless it was an actual emergency.
It was one of the things Joan liked best about Sherlock: you might have to speak slowly and make sure he was paying attention to get him to understand what your boundaries were, but once he understood he respected them faithfully.
Of course, an emergency was kind of an elastic term; and "I was worried you'd been kidnapped" has been a less facetious answer ever since that time Joan was actually kidnapped.
Mostly, their new living arrangement has been good for their partnership. If nothing else, Joan's apartment is low on unanticipated roosters.
Sherlock might have been a little hurt to discover that Ms. Hudson had a key when he didn't; it wasn't always easy to tell with Sherlock.
"The difference is that Ms. Hudson cleans, and you," Joan gestured emphatically at Sherlock, "padlock all my cupboards shut and leave monographs on ancient Greece in my living room."
"Oh," interrupted Ms. Hudson, who'd been dusting Sherlock's bookcases. "I left those; I thought that if you didn't find them interesting then they might help you sleep."
"Oh, uh, thank you. That's thoughtful. I'll take a look at them."
That had been three days ago and now Joan is handcuffed to Ms. Hudson, back to back, with a leg of Sherlock's kitchen table digging into both their spines.
It probably has nothing to do with the key thing, probably.
Joan and Sherlock were consulting on a series of home invasions, and this is how the victims had been restrained.
After Sherlock had Joan and Ms. Hudson positioned exactly like the last victims he frowned at them, then frowned more intently, then stood bolt upright and said, "Wrong lock-pick."
A few seconds later they heard the front door slam.
"I'm sorry," said Joan, after a few moments of squirming confirmed that there was no way to pick the lock from this angle. "Sherlock and I shouldn't involve you in our investigations."
"That's quite all right," said Ms. Hudson. "This isn't the first time this has happened; when I was consulting with Sherlock in London it was quite a regular occurrence."
"I thought you were an expert in ancient Greece?"
"Yes, you would be surprised how many cases involving Oxbridge dons also involve elaborate restraints."
Joan thought about her last two years with Sherlock, and said, "Yeah, I really don't think I would be."
"I--" Ms. Watson began. "It's not my place to say, but I think you did the right thing in moving out."
"Do you?"
"I think it does us all good to know that we can manage on our own, even while we're grateful that we don't have to."
They lapsed into a comfortable silence.
Joan hardly needed a cleaner, and she was rarely at home on Ms. Hudson's afternoons, but when she was she found Ms. Hudson a restful presence. Maybe it was because Ms. Hudson had been defined by her relationships in the past, just as much as Joan had always been defined by her career, and Ms. Hudson had managed to change her life...
The door slammed. Heralding the arrival of the distinctly less restful person of Sherlock Holmes.
"Watson! Good, you're still here."
"Where else would I be?" Joan asked drily, jangling her handcuffs.
"I thought so; there's no way to pick the lock from that angle. Unless you are being less diligent in your lessons than I've come to expect, Watson?"
Joan ignored his implication, because she'd begun to follow his reasoning. "The last pair of victims were already free when the police arrived."
Sherlock produced something from his pocket. "The correct lock-pick. I forgot I'd lent it to Alfredo."
He unlocked their wrists, and offered Ms. Hudson his arm to aid her to her feet. Joan had to smile; for all that Sherlock claimed not to understand the social niceties, at times he seemed to have swallowed a book on British etiquette.
Joan was already halfway up when Sherlock turned back to her and gently took her elbow until she was on her feet.
"Well, Watson, I'd say you and I have some purported victims to interview."
Ms. Hudson said, "I'll leave you something warm in the oven; and Joan, I'll stop by to clean your apartment tomorrow afternoon."
As Joan and Sherlock headed out the front door he said, "Ms. Hudson takes good care of us, don't you think?"
Joan appreciated that he didn't add that it was a task that would be easier for Ms. Hudson if they both lived at the same address, even though he clearly wanted to.
no subject
Well, good grace for Sherlock, that is.
He didn't point out the foolishness of paying New York City rents on the nights when, mid-case, it was just easier to collapse on whatever flat surface in the brownstone looked most comfortable.
He didn't have a key to her apartment. Not because Joan didn't want him there, but because not having a key didn't seem to stop him from getting inside; and just for once Joan liked to be the one setting Sherlock unexpected traps and challenges.
And ever since the time he had padlocked all her kitchen cupboards closed (to see how her lock-picking was coming along, he said) he had been good about not breaking in unless it was an actual emergency.
It was one of the things Joan liked best about Sherlock: you might have to speak slowly and make sure he was paying attention to get him to understand what your boundaries were, but once he understood he respected them faithfully.
Of course, an emergency was kind of an elastic term; and "I was worried you'd been kidnapped" has been a less facetious answer ever since that time Joan was actually kidnapped.
Mostly, their new living arrangement has been good for their partnership. If nothing else, Joan's apartment is low on unanticipated roosters.
Sherlock might have been a little hurt to discover that Ms. Hudson had a key when he didn't; it wasn't always easy to tell with Sherlock.
"The difference is that Ms. Hudson cleans, and you," Joan gestured emphatically at Sherlock, "padlock all my cupboards shut and leave monographs on ancient Greece in my living room."
"Oh," interrupted Ms. Hudson, who'd been dusting Sherlock's bookcases. "I left those; I thought that if you didn't find them interesting then they might help you sleep."
"Oh, uh, thank you. That's thoughtful. I'll take a look at them."
That had been three days ago and now Joan is handcuffed to Ms. Hudson, back to back, with a leg of Sherlock's kitchen table digging into both their spines.
It probably has nothing to do with the key thing, probably.
Joan and Sherlock were consulting on a series of home invasions, and this is how the victims had been restrained.
After Sherlock had Joan and Ms. Hudson positioned exactly like the last victims he frowned at them, then frowned more intently, then stood bolt upright and said, "Wrong lock-pick."
A few seconds later they heard the front door slam.
"I'm sorry," said Joan, after a few moments of squirming confirmed that there was no way to pick the lock from this angle. "Sherlock and I shouldn't involve you in our investigations."
"That's quite all right," said Ms. Hudson. "This isn't the first time this has happened; when I was consulting with Sherlock in London it was quite a regular occurrence."
"I thought you were an expert in ancient Greece?"
"Yes, you would be surprised how many cases involving Oxbridge dons also involve elaborate restraints."
Joan thought about her last two years with Sherlock, and said, "Yeah, I really don't think I would be."
"I--" Ms. Watson began. "It's not my place to say, but I think you did the right thing in moving out."
"Do you?"
"I think it does us all good to know that we can manage on our own, even while we're grateful that we don't have to."
They lapsed into a comfortable silence.
Joan hardly needed a cleaner, and she was rarely at home on Ms. Hudson's afternoons, but when she was she found Ms. Hudson a restful presence. Maybe it was because Ms. Hudson had been defined by her relationships in the past, just as much as Joan had always been defined by her career, and Ms. Hudson had managed to change her life...
The door slammed. Heralding the arrival of the distinctly less restful person of Sherlock Holmes.
"Watson! Good, you're still here."
"Where else would I be?" Joan asked drily, jangling her handcuffs.
"I thought so; there's no way to pick the lock from that angle. Unless you are being less diligent in your lessons than I've come to expect, Watson?"
Joan ignored his implication, because she'd begun to follow his reasoning. "The last pair of victims were already free when the police arrived."
Sherlock produced something from his pocket. "The correct lock-pick. I forgot I'd lent it to Alfredo."
He unlocked their wrists, and offered Ms. Hudson his arm to aid her to her feet. Joan had to smile; for all that Sherlock claimed not to understand the social niceties, at times he seemed to have swallowed a book on British etiquette.
Joan was already halfway up when Sherlock turned back to her and gently took her elbow until she was on her feet.
"Well, Watson, I'd say you and I have some purported victims to interview."
Ms. Hudson said, "I'll leave you something warm in the oven; and Joan, I'll stop by to clean your apartment tomorrow afternoon."
As Joan and Sherlock headed out the front door he said, "Ms. Hudson takes good care of us, don't you think?"
Joan appreciated that he didn't add that it was a task that would be easier for Ms. Hudson if they both lived at the same address, even though he clearly wanted to.