Chapter Text
It was New York’s hottest July in recorded history. The hottest day on record was July 9th, 1936, with one hundred and six degrees Fahrenheit. While they had not yet topped 103 it had been the longest string of three digit days and despite the unending optimism of the weather channel there was no foreseeable end to the heat wave.
Joan Watson was pretty sure if it had ever gotten like this during the colonial days, before air conditioning and ice cream, they’d have given up on this whole New World thing and given Iceland another try. She supposed at this point they’d invested too much into the city and should just muddle through.
Muddling through had been the theme of her summer so far, she thought, walking back to the brownstone with her groceries one balmy evening. After the roller coaster that had been Irene - Moriarty, she corrected herself, though privately she just thought of the woman as “The Bitch,” - she thought muddling was probably a reasonable place to be.
She headed up the steps of the brownstone, her thin, cotton sundress damp from perspiration and two ten minute walks in the humidity. Sherlock was right where she’d left him, shirtless in an easy chair, watching his bank of TV’s, a swamp cooler blowing across him. They’d purchased window air conditioners at the beginning of the heat wave but they’d proven too much for the house’s wiring. One remained in her bedroom and Sherlock seemed content with his fan and bag of ice.
“I’m back,” she called, taking her purchases straight to the kitchen.
“I hope you didn’t heavily purchase perishables,” he replied. “They’ve announced rolling power cuts to lessen the energy load.”
She groaned, looking at her bag of produce and deli meat. “Sandwiches and fruit salad for dinner it is,” she muttered to herself, busying herself unloading the groceries.
If she was being entirely honest with herself Sherlock hadn’t even hit muddling. They’d caught two cases since Moriarty’s arrest and neither had been particularly challenging. “Well within the scope of your ever growing deductive skills,” he’d told her. She had taken the lead on both, with Sherlock pitching in on some file reading and brainstorming but not really. . . engaging. She hadn’t seen the passion he usually had, the fire, the thrill of the deduction. He had been numb, for lack of a better word. And since the thermometer had blown up there had been no cases so she didn’t have even that to try to draw him out. After going through tough love, maternal coaxing, zen platitudes and even quoting incorrect trivia just to get him to correct her she gave up. Eventually she just decided to act like everything was normal and hope he’d find his way out of it on his own. She didn’t think he was near a relapse, or suicide, or even proper clinical depression. She had no diagnosis for him and therefore couldn’t begin to cure him.
She poured herself a glass of ice water, then a second for him and brought them out to the TV room. He had always been full of energy and emotion, never able to sit still. It was hard to see him sitting there like a lump, not even fidgeting. Though she hardly felt like moving in this weather, either.
She handed him the water glass and received a vaguely grateful grunt in return. She stood next to the chair, watching the TVs a minute, before the cacophony grew to much for her and she retreated to a more peaceful room.
***
The first black out hit just before she was about to go to bed. Still, it was a shock to be plunged into darkness halfway up the steps. The silence was sudden and disconcerting as well, with Sherlock’s wall of TVs suddenly muted. She heard his quiet tread on the floor boards. “The city seems to be conspiring to send me to bed,” he commented dryly from somewhere to her right.
“You could always do something by candlelight,” she suggested, peering up the stairs, frozen until her eyes adjusted.
“I would think you’d be concerned about me falling asleep and setting the house a flame.”
“Good point. Go to bed.” She could make out shapes now and took a hesitant step up. “Going to be unpleasant without my air conditioner,” she added, but there was no response. She hoped he’d actually get some sleep and crept the rest of the way to her room blindly.
***
Joan awoke the next morning to three rapid knocks at her door and then the crash of said door being slammed open. She went up on an elbow, blinking groggily and realized two things. One, she was in only a thin camisole and panties, the sheets in a sweaty tangle on her legs. And two, Sherlock was at the foot of her bed, talking animatedly about something. She was so dumbfounded by the second thing it took her half a minute to be embarrassed at the first.
“Sherlock.” She made a grab for the tangled sheets, giving a futile tug to cover herself with one.
“Oh, there’s no time for girlish modesty, Watson!” he proclaimed, turning to her closet to find her clothes. “I assure you, you possess nothing that I have not seen countless times before.”
She stared at his back as he tossed a bra, sleeveless blouse and skirt onto her bed. She couldn’t recall exactly when he’d started this, choosing outfits for her as part of his rude awakening routine. At first she’d been tempted not to wear it, to take the time to choose her own clothes, simply on principle. But she wasn’t that petty and besides, he did a decent job of selecting things, even learning her preference for layers in cooler weather. What really baffled her was his ability to select a stylish, coordinated outfit for her in seconds and yet he’d left the house in orange pants on more then one occasion.
She pulled the bra under the sheet, tenting it so she could tug the cami down and put the undergarment on. He kept his back to her, staring into the depths of her closet. “Where are we going?” she asked, voice still sleep rough.
“We’re expected at a crime scene. Gregson called me not five minutes ago with the case.”
He was all but humming with energy, the opposite of the man she’d been living with these last few months. She tugged the camisole back up and slipped the blouse on before shifting to wiggle into the skirt. “You all but ignored the last two cases. What’s different about this one? You can turn around,” she added, standing to make sure her clothes were straight.
He whirled, eyes sweeping her from head to toe as if admiring his handy work. “The last two cases were dull. Nothing to sink my teeth into. This one, however, has potential. I may be wrong, but this one could be very interesting.”
She picked up her hair brush and started brushing her hair out rapidly. “Why?”
He rocked on his heels before heading for the door. “The victim, Watson, is a medium. A fortune teller. And she was killed with her own crystal ball!”
The last words were called back from the hall as he strode away, leaving her to finish her morning routine. Joan found herself gaping at the empty doorway before feeling the faintest shimmer of hope that maybe, just maybe, Sherlock was back.