Deductions of the Heart

[meatball42]

Title: Deducations of the Heart
Fandom: Elementary
Rating: G
Characters/pairings: Sherlock/Joan
Warnings (including spoilers): None
Wordcount: 2,303 words
Author's note: Written for heroinebigbang. The tasteful and fitting banner you see before you was made by the insightful and obliging patriciatepes.
Summary: Joan has a decision to make, one that will affect the course of her career and her life. She asks Sherlock to weigh in, with mixed results.






~ ~ * ~ ~

Joan approaches the subject in the afternoon, after Sherlock has brewed his daily non-caffeinated tea. It’s a relaxing chamomile blend today, which, she suspects, is an intentional ploy to get her to spill the contents of the letter she received earlier in the week, which has been on her mind ever since. He must have noticed she was stressed and chosen their tea as a nudge to share.

Joan hasn’t gotten annoyed by manipulations like this for a long time. It’s familiar, now; it’s how they communicate.

“So what have you figured out already?” she asks, seemingly apropos of nothing, after she sits beside him on the couch.

Sherlock looks up from a textbook. “Something you’re concerned about telling me, but not an emergency; you’ve had the letter in your possession for four days. It’s not family: you haven’t made an unusual number of phone calls nor have you been drinking tea with me, as you do whenever that subject arises. Instead, you have been brewing unreasonably strong coffee, of which you can only ever drink half a mug, and dressing more professionally.” He wrinkles his brow. “I must conclude that the subject is personal, worrying, and concerns your previous career in medicine. I trust it is not related to your license, or you would have taken action by now, instead of spending a large amount of your time thinking.”

It’s less than she’d hoped. Joan fidgets slightly in her seat, wishing that this conversation were already in the past. “You’re right, it is about my career in medicine.” She hesitates. “I’ve received a job offer from Dr. Paterno at the University of California in San Francisco. The research they’re doing there is closely related to my doctoral thesis, and they want me to participate in a sequence of studies. It’s an incredible opportunity.”

Sherlock watches her, not replying for several seconds. “And yet, you are unsure whether you ought to accept.”

Joan nods. “I miss medicine. I’ve wanted to be a doctor since I was a little girl, and I was happy being a surgeon. But I also truly enjoy being a detective.”

Sherlock frowns with a particular turn of the lip to which Joan has learned to pay attention. “You were concerned that I would pressure you one way or the other?” he inquires. The hurt is mild, though; he’s just positing, so she doesn’t feel the need to reassure him.

“No… I wanted to figure out how I felt. But I don’t know what I want.”

The silence isn’t uncomfortable; it never is with them. She and Sherlock spend so much time thinking together that silence is regrouping, is working, is just as valuable as the communication that happens in between. However, this silence could mean the end of that, and for that reason it feels strangely hollow to Joan. Without a case between them, it resonates.

She looks at Sherlock. “What do you think I should do?”

He has been staring out the window, and he blinks before turning his gaze to the carpet and shrugging carefully. “I think you should do whatever will fulfill you, Watson. If a career in medicine is what you need to feel complete in life, then I will support you in that goal.” He pauses for a long moment, then gets up. “Would you like some tea to assist in your cogitation?”

Joan sighs. “Yes, please.”

It’s a long afternoon of paperwork, mindless television, and cooking dinner in silence while Joan continues to think over her options. Now that the situation is aired out, she doesn’t feel the need to maintain any sort of pretense, and Sherlock respects her preoccupation by engaging only in light conversation over dinner, and by disappearing immediately after. Joan feels a mild concern over what project he has tucked into the spare room on the second floor, but she lets it go.

She hasn’t yet found peace at midnight, lying in her bed with the lamp on, still trying to tease apart her feelings. This job offer is everything she’s ever wanted: a tenure-track position at an extremely prestigious medical center, an opportunity to help people on a larger scale than a working surgeon. It even offers her things she didn’t realize she wanted until recently: the challenge of wrestling with a question, of finding every angle of a problem and manipulating it until it releases answers. It’s the same as being a detective, but actually using the medical knowledge that has started to stagnate in her memory.

Next to such an opportunity, what does New York offer?

A gentle knock on her door draws Joan from her contemplation. “I’m decent,” she calls, and Sherlock pokes his head inside.

With a rare hesitancy, he walks around the bed to sit in the chair beside it. His hands are clasped in front of him, the fingers entwined. If he were working on a case, Joan knows, they’d be flat, and if he were about to dazzle her with some deduction they‘d be curled, ready to fly. Instead, he sits and waits for her permission to speak, unusually submissive.

She almost doesn’t want to know why he’s here. His eyes are darker than they should be. He shouldn’t be so still. “What is it?”

As though freed, his gaze falls to the side, and then he straightens. “I have been thinking rather intently since you informed me of Dr. Paterno’s job offer,” Sherlock tells her. He sounds clipped and formal, like he does when he’s angry, and her heart rate spike before she notices the blush on his cheeks. He’s… shy?

“I have come to realize that your efficiency, your dedication, and your perspective have made me a better detective. Since you became my sober companion, and even more so since you agreed to become my apprentice, my clarity has improved, my efforts have shown more comprehensive results… my life, in fact, has become smoother and more comfortable. I have realized not only that my work would suffer greatly if you were to leave, but that I would suffer greatly as well.”

Joan needs a minute to absorb that. No, she needs a few hours to absorb that, but what matters right now is… “You want me to say no to the job?”

Sherlock nods firmly. “I want you to decline. However, I understand that my desires are secondary to yours in a decision such as this, and that this position would fulfill many of your own wishes. I told you how I felt because I know that you would like to hear it, even if you do chose to move on.”

He is nearly expressionless, just open and honest. It cuts her straight to the bone. “You’re right, I’m glad you told me. Thank you.”

He nods again. “Well. I shall leave you to your sleep.” Just as quietly as he entered, Sherlock withdraws from the room, pausing just for a moment before closing the door. “Sweet dreams, Watson.”

Joan stares at her ceiling for long minutes, processing this new body of data. Obviously, there is no possibility of sleeping anytime soon.

He’s staring deeply into a mug of tea an hour later when she steps into the kitchen, so deeply she wonders if he wishes it were something else. He’s drinking chamomile again. She doesn’t think it’s a ploy this time.

“Sherlock?”

He jumps in surprise, and his unguarded gaze is revealing. He quickly stands up. “Watson! Have you decided, then?”

“I need to know. What you said earlier, about how my being here improved the quality of your work… was that all?” Joan asks.

Sherlock’s tense expression softens. “Of course not.” He steps toward her. “You’re a good friend, Watson. One of the best friends I’ve ever had, actually.”

Joan crosses her arms, warm satisfaction mixed with the unease in her chest. “Then why didn’t you say that?”

“You are making a decision about a job. I thought it prudent to discuss only the effects your leaving would have on that aspect of your life.”

“My leaving doesn’t just affect my job, Sherlock.” It’s been awhile since she had to explain something like this to him, and maybe that means something, too. “I live with you. It’s understandable that moving to California would be a big change for the both of us.”

Sherlock looks frustrated. Eventually, he sighs and pulls out a chair at the kitchen table. Joan sits beside him. “Very well…” He mumbles, looking everywhere but at her. “Joan. When my father first hired you, I was… greatly in need of assistance. If you had not insisted on being with me all hours of the day, I imagine it quite likely that I would have reverted quickly to my self-medication with drugs. I was afraid of the world and its temptations, although I would not admit it, and I was similarly afraid of myself-- of my rapidly approaching failure. You forced me to face these fears, you allowed me to face them, I should say. I could never express my gratitude for this.”

She’s about to interrupt, to tell him that she never needed his thanks, that it was a job, or that it was her honor, but the vulnerable look on his face stops her. When he continues, it’s in a quieter tone than Joan has ever heard from him.

“Since then… the happiness you have brought to my life is something I have rarely felt so completely. You are intelligent, firm, engaging. I find your education in detecting quite entertaining and fulfilling. I find you quite…” Finally, he looks at her, and the deductions Joan makes from the look in his eyes leave her speechless. “I believe I misled you, earlier. When I consider the effects of your leaving, I would not merely suffer. In fact, I can not conceive of how I would live in that universe beyond the barest skeleton. You have become such a part of my work, my home, my life… But I would be willing to find out, if you would truly be happier in California.”

Joan has never heard a confession of love laid out in such rational terms, or with such blatant honesty. After several long, silent moments, she speaks the most honest response she can imagine. “I’ve never met anyone like you,” she says in a near whisper, and smiles.

He smiles back.

“So you want me to stay on as your apprentice,” Joan suggests.

“It would make me happy.”

“Is that all you want?” she asks. “Because you seem to want more than just that.”

“I have learned that I cannot allow myself to glut on the temptations that surround me,” Sherlock says wryly, into the darkness around them. “I am content with being your teacher.”

Joan leans forward, immediately attracting his gaze, and rests her hand on his wrist that still hold the mug of tea. “You don’t have to just be content.”

She can tell from his expression that he’s understood everything she didn’t say, and that’s when she knows that this is right.

Sherlock is more cautious. “Are you sure? You would be in even more danger than you are now.”

Joan tightens her hand. “I haven’t let that stop me this far.”

“I… am not the ideal partner.”

Joan grins; like she didn’t know that. “My ideal isn’t typical.” She wonders how they are both still as calm as if they were discussing the weather. A talk like this with any of her previous boyfriends would have been insanely awkward. But as they’ve just acknowledged, they’re not a typical pair.

Still, Sherlock frowns with worry. “I don’t want to ruin the relationship we have.”

It’s like a puzzle. Joan smiles, because she knows the way to the solution, and she knows where it leads. “I don’t think this would ruin anything. I trust you.”

“So you do,” he says curiously, studying her face as though it would impart answers.

It’s nice to be ahead of him for once. That, and the fact that she’s happy with the major life choice she just made, more secure in her future than the last week of weighing options has made her. Now that Joan knows she is to stay in New York, and to move in a new direction with Sherlock, it’s hard to imagine anything different.

“Do you trust me?” she asks.

A pair of wrinkles appears between Sherlock’s eyes. “Of course,” he answers, tone leading into a question.

She doesn’t let him continue. “Then trust me.” She takes their mugs of tea and moves them away from the edges of the table, then leans toward Sherlock. With a hand on his jaw, Joan guides their faces together. She hears a hitch in Sherlock’s breath an instant before their lips meet.

For all the hesitance of these first moments, the sensory hyper-awareness and lack of coordination that are the hallmarks of first kisses, Joan feels none of the uncertainty that usually marks such occasions. Instead, she finds it difficult not to smile into Sherlock’s tentative kiss, not to part her lips at the quiet, accidental hum he makes, not to press closer: they have time. His hand covers hers on his cheek, squeezes it. They edge closer together in their seats.

Eventually, Joan leans back, licking her lips. Sherlock does as well; what started out as a seduction has become something mutual. “I-- this was not my intention when I came to you this evening,” he says, breathy but serious, cheeks a deeper red than when he confessed his feelings.

Joan smiles at him. Their hands are clasped together on the table, beside their tea mugs. “I know. But it’s a pretty good outcome.”

A most sincere, joyful expression breaks over Sherlock’s face. “I must concur, Watson. A pretty good outcome indeed.”