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There were many aspects to being a Consulting Detective that Sherlock failed to mention when he convinced Joan to work with him. The side-long suspicious looks from the lower-level police officers, for example. Or the fact that they received none of the benefits extended to official detectives. Chief among these, however, was that being a consultant did not mean that you got out of having to do paperwork.
“Can you remember what time it was when you interviewed the husband?” Marcus Bell flicked his pen absently but didn’t look up from the arrest report in front of him.
“Which interview?” Joan glanced up at him. Outside, she could hear a police siren whine to life and slowly fade as the car took off down the street.
“The first one.”
“It was twenty past two,” she said after a moment’s thought. “I remember because he kicked us out under the pretence of having a meeting. At the time I remember thinking that was weird. Who schedules meetings at twenty-past? He was clearly trying to get rid of us.”
“And it was right after you and Holmes left that he tried to move the, uh –“ Marcus scrunched up his nose in distaste “ – the head?”
“Just about,” Joan nodded, returning to the chunky station computer she was working on. “He knew we were onto his cabin upstate, so he needed to move… her.” Grimacing, Joan swigged the dregs of her coffee. She tipped the styrofoam cup into the trash under her desk. Fatigue still pinched between her eyes, but she shook it off and returned to the interview transcript she was reviewing.
Marcus nodded and noted something down on the report. “You guys sure do manage to find all the cases with the freaks in them, huh?” He finally looked up and met her eyes over the top of the stack of file folders dividing them. Joan shrugged, suddenly self-conscious under his gaze.
“Occupational hazard, I guess. Sherlock does enjoy getting himself into trouble. He has a talent for sniffing out the weirdest cases available.”
“Speaking of trouble, where is Holmes tonight?” Marcus continued flicking his pen through his fingers with impressive dexterity. It was surprisingly distracting.
“Your guess is as good as mine,” Joan replied, tearing her eyes from Marcus’ deft hands. “Right after solving a case, Sherlock can be kind of unpredictable. Sometimes I’ll find him watching five Pixar movies at once, sometimes he’ll practice breaking into the Brownstone and I’ll catch him climbing in through my bathroom window. Once he just slept for thirty-six straight hours. I’m sure there’s a pattern, but I haven’t managed to crack it yet. One thing you can guarantee? He won’t be doing paperwork.”
“How you manage to live with the man, I’ll never know.”
“Nerves of steel and the patience of a saint,” Joan replied, grinning at him.
When Marcus smiled, his whole face lit up. It made him look younger, more at peace, and it loosened a knot in Joan’s heart. She worried about him – with his thousand-mile stare and hunched shoulders. Joan watched him sometimes, just quietly, while he mulled over a problem, or made a cup of coffee, or spoke to his colleagues. He was a protector, through and through. An idealist, amidst everything. He was a head-down, hard-work-cracks-cases kind of detective. All diligence and intellect and determination. He had none of Sherlock’s flair for the dramatic, none of his unbridled enthusiasm. Marcus looked before leaping. He couldn’t read people’s history in their clothes, but he never forgot a victim’s name. And he carried the weight of those victims with him. He was, in many ways, the polar opposite of Sherlock. Sherlock, who would break plates just for the satisfaction of doing something; Sherlock, who could manipulate someone as soon as protect them. If Sherlock was a tempest, Marcus was a port in the storm.
As they worked, the remaining spring light faded from outside the precinct window. Gregson closed up his office and wished them both a quiet goodnight before leaving. It wasn’t until Joan noticed the night janitor arrive that she realized how late it must be.
“What time is it?” Marcus asked her, taking the words from her mouth.
Raising his arms above his head, Marcus arched his back and pushed against the plastic of the chair, straightening the kinks in his back. The metal legs of his desk chair squeaked violently against the linoleum floor. The sleeves of his light blue shirt had been rolled up hours ago. The top button of his shirt was undone, and his silk tie – though still knotted – had been considerably loosed from around his neck. It was a good look on him, Joan decided, as she admired the toned muscles of his forearms.
“It’s just past ten,” Joan replied, checking her phone with a flick of her thumb. When had it gotten so late?
Marcus let out a soft curse and rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “Alright, that’s enough for today, don’t you think? Do you want to finish going through this tomorrow? There’s only so many pictures of decapitated people I can take in one evening.”
Joan started to reply, but her response morphed abruptly into a hastily stifled yawn. “Sure,” she said eventually, as Marcus chuckled. Joan stumbled stiffly out of her chair. Her legs had gone numb from sitting for so long; she shook them out purposefully to get the blood flow back. It wasn’t that Joan had any objection to paperwork – she’d had more than enough practice with it as a surgeon – but she drew the line at all-night-paperwork-fests.
“Can I buy you dinner?” Marcus asked, offering her coat from off the back of her chair.
“You can join me for dinner,” Joan countered with a smile, “but it’s my turn to treat. You paid last time, Marcus.” She shrugged into her cream trench coat and turned back around to face him, flipping her hair out from the collar of the coat. Marcus’ eyes were dancing when they met hers.
“I can’t argue with what’s fair, I guess. But if you’re going to treat, it means you have to pick where we eat.”
“I can accept those terms.” Joan couldn’t help the way her stomach somersaulted in a not-at-all-unpleasant way.
This wasn’t their first Dinner together. Technically, they’d been having dinner together for as long as they’d been working together. Countless cases had been cracked over Chinese takeaway and pizza deliveries with the team while they poured over the finer points of a stubborn case. But those dinners were different. These were Dinners with a capital ‘D’. These Dinners involved waiters and dimly-lit restaurants and a bottle of wine. And these Dinners – Joan couldn’t come to call them ‘dates’ – were a much more recent development. This, Joan realized as they left the precinct together, would be their fourth Dinner. Rain was falling in a steady torrent as they stepped through the glass front doors of the police station. Marcus held the door for her and lifted his umbrella invitingly, encouraging her to join him under it. She took up the offer gratefully. With each step they took, Joan became increasingly aware of the length of Marcus’ arm, so close to hers that she could feel the soft brush of his coat sleeve. Ever the gentleman, he kept the umbrella angled into the wind in front of her, protecting her from the majority of the spray. They walked for a few minutes in a comfortable silence. Despite Joan’s hyper-awareness of her left arm, and every place where it brushed against him, she could never feel uncomfortable in Marcus’ presence. He had a quiet, calm stoicism that she found relaxing to be around – especially after a long day of Sherlock and his demanding company. She loved Sherlock, of course she did, but the man was a tornado. He whipped the world around him into a frenzy; he was a force of nature, and Joan loved working with him. But he was exhausting. With Marcus, she could speak softly and walk quietly, and not feel like she had to shout to be heard over the tumult. With Marcus, she could breathe and not feel like all the oxygen in the room was being consumed by her companion.
“So where are we going?” he asked, jerking her from her thoughts.
There was a restaurant on the other side of The Village that had been a favourite of Joan’s for years when she’d been a surgeon. She was tempted to recommend it now, as they headed north up 2nd Ave. She thought Marcus would like its rustic, reminds-you-of-mom’s-home-cooking menu. But the rain forced her hand – it was too far to walk in such bad weather. Joan settled instead for a hole in the wall Italian restaurant that was only a block away. We can go there next time, she found herself thinking. Somewhere along the way she must have decided that there was going to be a next time.
“How’s your hand?” Joan asked him, twirling some spaghetti in circles around her fork.
“Oh, it’s fine,” Marcus dismissed with a small tip of his wine glass, “I honestly just wish everyone would stop asking me about it.”
“Sorry. But I’m always going to want to check in. I can’t help that I worry about you.” Joan paused, a blush creeping across the back of her neck. She wondered if that sounded too forward.
“It’s okay,” Marcus said, sparing her a grin. “I like that you worry about me.” Joan wasn’t sure how to respond to that, so she took that opportunity to chew thoughtfully on her pasta. “What about you?” Marcus asked, clearly keen to change the subject. “What have you been up to?”
“You mean other than solving that case about the headless woman?”
Marcus let out a short laugh. “Yes, other than that. I mean, you must have some spare time eventually. What do you get up to?”
“Not much. Sherlock has decided to start experimenting with making his own cheese. I haven’t tried any of it yet, but he assures me it’s going to be ‘quite palatable.’ Those are his words. So you never know, it might even be good. I’ll bring some into the station once I’ve confirmed that it’s not going to poison anyone.”
A look of bemused confusion crossed Marcus’ face. He took a sip of wine. “Joan, have you ever noticed that whenever I ask about you, you tell me about Sherlock?”
“I don’t – not – not always…” Even as she said it Joan knew it wasn’t true. Sherlock defined and consumed her life. Most of the time she didn’t mind – sometimes she didn’t even notice. Lately, though, it had begun to worry her. “…yes.”
“So… how are you?” Marcus leaned towards her, his features lit by the candle in the table-centre.
“I’m okay.” Marcus didn’t react at all, just looked at her with his usual patient gaze. “Really,” Joan insisted, “I’m fine.”
“Okay.” Marcus nodded. “That’s good. So what are you up to?”
Joan let out a short laugh, trying to think of something that wasn’t about work or Sherlock. “I think I need a hobby,” she said at last.
“That sounds great. What would you choose?”
“I have no idea,” Joan admitted, sipping her wine. “I’ve never really thought about it. My whole life I’ve chosen careers that take up so much focus. First as a surgeon and now, what Sherlock and I do. I’ve never thought I had time for one.”
“But Sherlock seems to have lots. Didn’t you say he named a new species of bee last year?”
Joan grinned at the memory. “He did, yeah. I guess…” she took another sip of her wine, buying herself a bit of time. “I’d like to start writing again.”
Marcus beamed at her. “Oh yeah? I didn’t know you like to write.”
“I guess. Maybe. I don’t know. I used to write sometimes – just short stories, nothing ambitious – back when I was younger. But then life happened, medical school, residency. I stopped making the time. I’d like to start, though. Making time, at least. If nothing else, Sherlock does make compelling subject matter.”
Marcus choked on a sip of wine, fighting a laugh. “You’re writing about Holmes? Does he know about this?”
“No! Absolutely not! Besides, it’s not…” Joan felt herself blushing and self-consciously tucked her hair behind her ear. “I’d tell him if it ever became important.”
“Hey, don’t worry, I get it. A line of work like ours, I think it’s important to do something else. Doesn’t really matter what, but if you spend your whole life surrounded by dead bodies, it’s going to start doing something to you, you know?”
“Yeah,” Joan agreed, nodding. “Yes, I think I do know. So what’s yours?”
“My…?”
“Your hobby. What do you do in your spare time?”
“Oh…” Marcus smiled at her wryly.
Joan’s interest piqued sharply. “What is it?” she asked, suddenly excited.
“You can’t laugh,” he said sternly, eyeing her over the rim of his wine glass, as though he were trying to hide behind it.
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Joan assured him.
“It’s embarrassing…”
“Marcus!” Joan couldn’t help the smile that broke out over her features. “This is me! I’m not going to laugh at you.” She reached forward and placed a hand on his arm. She had meant the gesture to be comforting, but warmth burst through her at the contact. Marcus’ eyes fell to her hand, and Joan thought he must have felt the same thing.
“I play the saxophone,” he said without preamble.
The noise that burst from Joan was entirely involuntary, and sounded far too much like a giggle. Marcus narrowed his eyes at her.
“I swear I’m not laughing,” Joan assured him hurriedly, schooling her expression. “I’m just surprised, that’s all. I… wow…”
A sudden image, completely unbidden, filled her mind. Marcus, his sleeves rolled up once more, putting his talented fingers to work on the keys of a saxophone. Desire burned through Joan with such unexpected force that she had to pull her hand off Marcus’ arm just to remain focused.
“I would love to hear you play sometime.” Wasn’t that the truth.
Marcus grinned. “Maybe someday,” was all he would concede to.
It was well past midnight when they finally left the restaurant. This being New York, the streets were far from empty. Couples passed in and out of streetlamps; homeless men were huddled under shop awnings; and cars still populated the streets. Drivers honked their horns sporadically – more, it seemed, out of habit than anything else. Still, the streets were about as quiet as New York ever got. The rain had let up while they’d had dinner, so Marcus twirled his umbrella in his hand instead as they walked down the quiet street. They both needed to find cabs, so they wandered back to the more populated 2nd Ave. For the entire duration of the walk, Joan wondered whether there was a way to prolong the evening somehow. She needed to say something. Despite her admittedly complex relationship with Sherlock, Joan liked to have well-defined boundaries and sure footing in her relationships. That she’d allowed these dinners to go on for so long was startlingly out of character for her. What was she so afraid of? That Marcus didn’t have feelings for her, or that he did? She knew, almost before finishing the thought, which one it was. But something about Dinner Number Four had felt different. It was as though they stood together at the very edge of a precipice – there was no road left: either turn back or jump.
By the time they reached 2nd Ave, Joan had still said nothing.
Quickly, before she even realized what he was doing, Marcus reached forward and pecked her on the cheek. “Goodnight, Joan.” He was stepping away from her, moving towards the curb to hail a cab. That was it. The evening was over, and Joan had missed her chance.
“Thanks for dinner,” Marcus was saying, as though nothing was strange. His eyes were already scanning the street for an available taxi. “I guess I’ll see you tomorr-“
“Marcus,” Joan cut in firmly, her mind made up, “what are we doing here?”
There could be no question to what she was referring. Her tone brooked no misunderstanding. Marcus, his arm half-raised to flag a taxi, looked back at her in surprise. His expression might have been comical if Joan hadn’t been so distracted by the sharp, uncomfortable thudding of her own heart.
Marcus’ arm drops out of the air. A taxi whizzed past them, honking as it sped down the street. A moment passed while Marcus did nothing but study Joan in silence. He took a half-step towards her, paused, then took two full strides. He ended up almost flush against her. Joan could feel her breath leave her in a whoosh of surprise and excitement. He was so close that she could pick out dark freckles on his cheeks. So close that all she would need to do was angle herself a little. Just a small lean and his lips would be on hers. Joan thought absently that he was a very convenient height for kissing. Before she had a chance to test this hypothesis, Marcus had pulled away again. He remained within easy reaching distance, but his expression was closed off. Joan could have screamed in frustration. What gives?
“Marcus.” There was no turning back now. She’d opened this door and she was damn well going to walk through it. “I value you as a colleague and a good friend, but… the truth is I want to be with you. And unless I am significantly overestimating my skills as a detective, I think you feel the same way. So, if it’s okay with you, I’d like to see where this might go. But if you’d rather not –“
“I would.” Marcus cut in. His smile tugged gently at the corners of his lips. There was a nervous, darting quality in his posture that Joan had rarely seen before in him. He was picking at the plastic of his umbrella handle, as though he couldn’t quite decide what to do with his hands.
“You would…” Joan repeated slowly, trying to make sure she wasn’t misinterpreting him.
“I would like that.” Marcus shifted his weight from one foot to the other, but didn’t move otherwise.
“So what’s the problem?” Joan asked, resisting the urge to cross her arms over her chest.
“I don’t want to get between anything. I mean, what you and Holmes have…”
Of course this was about Sherlock Holmes. Joan let out a huff halfway between a sigh and a laugh. She threw her arms up in frustration. “Now who’s making everything about Sherlock?” she teased, only half-kidding. “Marcus, you must know there is nothing going on between Sherlock and me.”
“I do. Of course I know that,” Marcus said quickly, “But you are… intimate. In your own way.”
“Sure, yes. He’s my partner, my friend.”
“Your roommate.”
“That too.”
“It wouldn’t be… complicated?”
Marcus took a cautious step towards her. Then another.
“Maybe a little. Sherlock is Sherlock, after all, but he likes you. And – much more importantly – I like you. So Sherlock can just get over himself.”
This comment produced a shy, utterly charming smile out of Marcus. “Well, okay then.”
Joan’s patience was at an end. As Marcus finally moved in to kiss her, she closed the distance in a rush, bringing her lips to his.
Joan awoke to the shifting of the mattress under her. Sunlight was streaming through the thin curtains of her bedroom, but her alarm hadn’t yet gone off, so it must have still been quite early. She rolled over to face Marcus. He was already wearing his black boxers, and was in the process of pulling his undershirt on over his head. Back facing her, Joan had a moment to appreciate the flex of muscle before his back was covered by the cotton fabric.
“What time is it?” Joan asked, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.
“About six-thirty.” Marcus’ voice was soft in the early morning. “You can go back to sleep if you want, or I thought I might make some coffee?”
“Coffee,” Joan parroted back to him. Her half-asleep mind latched onto the word like a lifeline.
“Okay,” Marcus smiled, reaching down to smooth her hair with one hand. “Back in a minute.” He leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to her lips. Joan had a moment to think: yes, this. I like this. Then he was gone, closing her door softly behind him.
Joan must have drifted back to sleep, because the next thing she was aware of was crashing noises coming from downstairs. Breaking glass had a very recognizable sound, and Joan had heard it often enough while living with Sherlock to be able to recognize it immediately. She shot up in bed, straining to hear what was going on downstairs.
“What the fuck?” Joan heard Marcus shouting. “Holmes! Why is there a goat in your living room?!”
Joan fell back on her pillows with a heavy sigh. Well, the honeymoon period had been nice while it lasted.