Till The Light Goes Out (On Me)
by imp

Till The Light Goes Out (On Me)

imp

Summary

Joan's not used to making impulsive decisions, and now she's making one after another.

Notes

None

Chapter One

She goes out more after lying to him about his father keeping her on. He’ll figure it out sooner or later, if he hasn’t already; she doesn’t really think she can keep something like that from him. But for now, it’s satisfying to sit at a cafe for awhile, or go to therapy, then to go back to their apartment and jump back into investigative work.

“You’re developing a routine,” her therapist says. “That’s good.”

“I wouldn’t call it a routine,” Joan says.

“Interesting,” her therapist says. “It seems direct enough, though. How are you managing the financial aspect of it?”

“Sherlock pays for a lot of things,” Joan says. “And I have enough of a nest egg for now.”

“You’ll need to tell him eventually.”

Joan laughs. “Sure, but he’ll figure it out first.”

She’s not ignorant of how fond she sounds, and she knows Emily notes it down. But that’s what therapy is for, so Joan doesn’t let it bother her too much.

When she gets back to their apartment two weeks after the business with M, it’s to find that Sherlock’s Moriarty board has finally broken its bounds and is extending across both walls. There’s even a bit of it on the ceiling. She studies it for a few minutes; she’s getting better at reading Sherlock’s massive webs of information. It’s like a second language.

“Ah, Watson. Back from your sojourn abroad, I see.”

“I was gone for an hour,” Joan says. “I don’t know how you - what is that?”

“What is what?”

“That animal on your shoulder, Sherlock. What is it?”

“This is a marmoset,” Sherlock says. “And, incidentally, the only witness in our new case. Follow me, please.”

They spend the next week tracking down someone who’s apparently so concerned with the illegal exotic pet business that they’re willing to kill over it. Joan mostly ignores the fact that Sherlock isn’t making jabs at her for being his companion, until they’ve collared the killer and are relaxing with Italian takeout.

Sherlock says, as casually as he says anything, “When were you going to tell me that my father chose not to extend your services?”

The wording is so similar that she doesn’t even think before saying, “I’ve told you before to stay out of my email -“

“I simply think my informed consent ought to be gotten, Watson. Really, I thought better of you than to cohabit with someone under false pretense -“

“I was going to tell you, I just -“

“And your mistrust in me is, frankly, insulting at this stage in our -“

“Wanted to stay.”

Sherlock shuts his jaw with an audible click. He leans in a little, until they’re uncomfortably close; Joan’s reminded, alarmingly strongly, of that first day with him. She’s expecting him to say pretty much anything in the world except what he says next. “I didn’t read your email.”

“Don’t lie to me, please.” Calm and level. Good job, she tells herself.

“I didn’t need to,” he says. “I know my father, and I know you. You lied to me. Everything - your posture, your tone. You asked, and he said no. And now you’re staying anyway. Because you like it? Because you’re worried? There’s a fascinating array of possibilities, really.”

Joan hasn’t established a policy of honesty with clients for nothing. Sherlock might no longer be a client - or, the subject she’s taking care of, anyway - but she’s not going to abandon that policy by the wayside. “I’m staying because I like this. Your work. It’s interesting to me. I told you that, and I’d appreciate if you’d stop making me repeat it.”

“Maybe I wish to confirm your sentiments remain - stable.” Sherlock, she’s shocked to see, breaks his gaze away first; he looks over her shoulder, licking his lips. “I can’t really recommend it. You’re not even being paid, which means you will have to find some manner of gainful employment. And there is the problem of Moriarty, who I’m afraid to say is proving somewhat slipperier than anticipated.”

“Is that a thank you?”

He isn’t flippant. He looks back at her and says, very seriously, “Yes.”

She’s not really prone to impulsive action. Or at least, that’s what she tells herself, even if the last few weeks give the lie to that. But still, she’s much less impulsive than Sherlock, which means that when she leans forward and cups the back of his head, she’s calling herself an idiot even before their lips touch.

Sherlock makes a noise and kisses back, apparently not surprised, or at least not needing as much time to deal with it as Joan would in his place. She expects him to manhandle her, but he doesn’t; he relaxes and lets her pull him in against her, and suddenly she’s remembering that first day, and Sherlock’s penchant for - Jesus, she can’t think about that right now.

Her head is spinning when she pulls back. “Sherlock.”

“Miss Watson,” he says.

“This is stupid,” she says.

“I will admit it lacks the finesse of a well-thought-out plan.”

“I…” She raises a hand, pressing her palm against her forehead. “Okay. This is fine, this is great. We can just -

He catches her wrist in one hand and guides her hand back down again, so that she’s looking at him without obstruction. He says, “We could consider charging a fee. Your addition to my one-man team lends it an air of legitimacy, I think.”

“A fee.”

“Yes.”

“I just kissed you, and you want to talk about a fee.”

“It seems topical. After that I thought we could go to your room.”

She can’t possibly be considering this, she thinks as she says, “What’s wrong with yours?”

“I’ll consider it flattering that you’re flustered enough to even ask that question.”

It’s a good point. “Okay,” she says. She glances at the tins of spaghetti on the floor, then back at Sherlock. “Okay,” she says again. “A fee.”

They talk it over for awhile. Sherlock wants an exorbitant amount of money, and when he starts insisting on it, she plays dirty and reminds him that he's independently wealthy and doesn't really have any gauge for how normal people live. He glares at her, but takes the point, and Joan settles on $25 per investigative hour. It feels a little exorbitant, but it's nowhere near what she's making as a companion or what she made as a surgeon. And she won't have regular work, at first.

"I still think it's absurd," Sherlock says sulkily.

"Do you want to continue what we discussed first or not?"

She sounds peevish and knows it, but Sherlock's mouth falls open and he looks like an idiot for a second. He recovers admirably quickly, though, saying, "If you're referring to the matter of carnal relations, Watson, then I don't know what else there is to talk about."

"I didn't mean talking."

He blinks, then blinks again. "Yes," he says. "Let's get to it, shall we?"

He leads the way to Joan’s room. Joan follows, letting herself feel and acknowledge her trepidation the way she’s worked on in therapy. She has no guarantee this will go well, and several reasons to suspect it won’t; but really, there’s no point in worrying this much. Either it will end well, or it won’t.

Or it won’t end. But Joan doesn’t think that’s really very likely.

When she gets to her room, it’s to find Sherlock standing in it, hands at his sides. He looks at her with a studied look, and for a second she thinks this is going to be almost tender. Then he says, “I do have handcuffs, if that’s your preference.”

That turns her on more than it doesn’t, but she does have some idea of what to do for a first time, and that’s not it. “Thank you, but no,” she says. When he looks disappointed, she adds, “Not right now, anyway. Maybe later.”

“They’re diverting, I assure you. Much more diverting than my simply moving above you, grunting like a pig.”

“You realize we’re about to sleep together, right? What about that image is supposed to be appealing?”

“None of it.” Sherlock smiles, one of his self-satisfied ones, and takes his shirt off. “Shall we begin, then?”

It would figure that this would be the weirdest sexual encounter Joan’s ever had, and they haven’t even taken their clothes off yet. “I guess we shall,” she says, and moves towards him.

He doesn’t ask any questions or say anything. He lets her kiss him, and he doesn’t even try to take her shirt off. He really wasn’t kidding about not wanting to be on top, she thinks, and pulls back, unbuttoning her shirt.

She strips down to just her underwear, no bra; he looks at her like she’s a case, at first, and she surprises herself by wanting more of that. She tugs his pants down, then says, “Get on the bed.”

He’s quick to obey. The way he props his head up on his hands and looks incredibly self-satisfied only ruins it a little. She hesitates for a second, with a sudden awareness of how crazy she is; but then she straddles him and kisses him again.

Joan’s had sex with her fair share of guys, but none of them have touched her like Sherlock starts doing as soon as she kisses him. He’s inquisitive, using his hands to do what his mouth is too busy to. He runs them over her back, down to her hips, up across her stomach so he can cup her breasts. It should feel clinical, that kind of thorough exploration, but instead it just feels good, especially with him getting hard against her.

But she suspects it’s not exactly what he wants, and she knows that what she wants matches up nicely with what he’s already suggested. So she breaks the kiss and says, “Hands against the headboard.”

“Why, Watson, I didn’t take you for a -“

She grips his jaw in one hand, firmly. “Hands against the headboard,” she says again, infusing it with as much authority as she can. “And don’t talk.”

Wordlessly, eyes watching her, he moves his hands up and presses his hands flat against the headboard.

It can’t be a comfortable position, but he doesn’t complain, and for a second all she can think is, “Oh God, this is serious.” But she still has a vice grip on his jaw, and thinking that she might leave bruises is really fucking hot, so she’s probably a little too gone for that. She kisses him instead, loosening her grip and rubbing her fingers over him lightly. He arches his back, legs falling open so she’s between them; his dick is pressed against her stomach now, and he’s completely hard.

She wants to do so much to him that she’s a little reluctant to even make a decision. That’s not fair to him, though, so after a minute she pulls away and says, “We’re going to do more later.”

She can tell he wants to ask what she means, but he doesn’t say anything. She pulls his boxers down, then gets out of her own underwear, licking her palm before wrapping it around his dick. She watches with interest she knows is clinical (guys have hated it before) as his eyelids flutter shut and he bites his lip.

He doesn’t say anything, but he does make a low, needy-sounding noise as she rubs her thumb over the head of his dick. That’s interesting, and she wants him to do it again, so she kisses his neck and then bites it as she speeds her pace up a little.

He keeps making noise, which is cheating enough that she feels like maybe she should call him on it; but she likes the noises too much to make him stop. He finally gets close to coming, though, so she moves her hand to grip the base of his dick tightly and pulls away from his neck.

It’s red and she knows he’s going to have a hickey. She can’t even be embarrassed about acting like a teenager, because she wants to leave marks all over him.

Later, though. She can do that later. Right now, she says, “Condoms,” as a way of reminding herself as much as anything else.

He nods, keeping his eyes on her. She goes and grabs one, rolls it on, and sinks down onto him, running her hands up and down his arms. From this angle she can’t grip his wrists, but she wants to, and thinking about it makes her drop her head and move quickly, using him and knowing for sure that both of them want more, and more from that.

His breathing gets rougher and rougher, and she leans back and moves one hand from his chest to her clit. She wants this hard and fast, so she doesn’t hold back, and as she comes she hears herself say, “Oh God.”

He follows a moment later, groaning, and she shocks herself by pressing down on her clit and coming again. She’s never been one for afterglow, so it makes sense to her that she moves quickly after that, pulling the condom off and throwing it away. But she’s shocked, when she turns around, to see that Sherlock is still lying there with his hands against the headboard.

She’s not used to this, not at all. But he’s in her bed, doing what she says, and she does have an inkling of what to do next.

“You can talk again,” she says. “And move your hands.” She climbs back into bed and kisses him, much more gently this time, hand gentle on the side of his face. “That was good.”

“I knew it would be,” Sherlock says. “Really, this is excellent empirical proof that you ought to listen to me.”

“Like it was only your idea,” she says. The afterglow is definitely gone. She’s glad they can agree on that. She sits up and realizes, “Damn it, we left the food downstairs.”

“Fetch,” he says, waving a lazy hand.

She raises her eyebrows at him.

He actually colors a little as he gets up. She’s pretty sure that tell is why he doesn’t bother putting any clothes on as he leaves.

He’ll be coming back with the best spaghetti she’s been able to find in the city, though, so she’s willing to let it go.