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holmesticeTitle: One Is Not the Safest Number
Recipient:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
monkiainen
Author:venusinthenight
Characters/Pairings: Joan Watson, Mary Watson
Rating: Teen
Warnings: mention of a hate crime, mentions of canonical kidnapping
Summary: Joan receives a question from her mother.
Mostly set shortly after the end of season two of Elementary, with some minor canon divergence. Minor spoilers for the first three episodes of the third season.
Additional Comments: I hope you like this story, monkiainen! Happy Holmestice. :)
Additional thanks goes out to my beta reader.
Joan is seated at her breakfast bar, eating an English muffin, laptop open, cellphone close at hand, reading an email from her mother.
Her new apartment is oblivious to the skeletons she has carried with her from her old residence, ignorant to the presence of roosters, phrenology busts, multiple televisions, a huge library of books on a variety of subjects…
Everything she had left behind, really.
And the person she had let go.
A person who had no respect for her privacy, her life apart from him, and who had left her behind to deal with her post-kidnapping trauma on her own because she had not trusted him enough to tell him she was not okay, and because she wanted to move out but he couldn’t -- didn’t? wouldn’t? -- understand that just because she wanted -- no, needed -- to have her own apartment again did not mean their partnership had to be severed.
Much less severed with a five-sentence note.
Joan alternates between wondering what Sherlock is up to and not giving a damn. She had considered him a friend as well as a colleague, but all of that went up in smoke when he went to work with MI-6. It is a miracle it didn’t go up in smoke long before that.
None of her friends have been around, or have been in contact with her, for various stretches of time. Hope and Ken had moved upstate, with their three children, while Joan had been in London. She had not been in touch with either Carrie or Ty in almost two years; in regards to Carrie, it’s just as well, Joan believes. For a change, Emily has been too swamped with her work to interfere in Joan’s personal life (for which Joan has been secretly grateful). As for Jen, she is another friend who has slipped from under Joan’s personal radar.
Joan wonders if she has been a rubbish friend to them. However, there is a nagging voice in her head that suggests it is better they don’t know about this, only because they’ll just stage yet another intervention and try to convince her to give up detective work and go back to doing something sensible like renewing her medical license and starting a private practice, or doing some other job with a forty-hour work week like they have that is, to her, unfulfilling and boring. Medicine had been exciting for her, once, but it isn’t anymore. It hasn’t been since Gerald Castoro’s death on her watch.
Death.
Suddenly, Joan sees, in her mind’s eye, her kidnapper shoot and murder his colleague, whom he had mentioned was also his cousin, as he lay on the table in agony. She jolts in her chair, the sound of gunfire ricocheting from one side of her brain to the other. Two people who had come into her life had died needlessly. Two people she could have, should have, been able to save, even if the latter had possibly been an accomplice in her kidnapping.
Then she is reminded of how Sherlock had just stood there, face to face with her in the brownstone, shortly after she had been rescued by Mycroft and the other MI-6 agents. Only a shocked look, no words exchanged. She had not been ready to share, then. He had offered her no comfort of any kind. Just as well, Joan thinks, because even now she cannot think of anything Sherlock could have offered her that would have helped her in that particular moment.
Joan’s focus returns to her laptop screen, her mother’s words about what has been happening with her ringing completely hollow and empty. But then three words, toward the end of the message, pop out and scream at Joan, begging for attention.
Are you okay?
Her eyes widen, surprised her mother is asking her this question. Of course most mothers ask their children -- even their adult ones -- if they’re okay, if they need anything, when they’re calling or writing to them. Intellectually, Joan knows this. It’s just that Joan did not expect her mother to ask that question this time, even though her mother has probably asked her if she was okay thousands of times throughout her life. The thing is, Joan doesn’t know how to answer that question right now. She stares at it again, like she’s back in medical school studying for an exam, bleary-eyed at two in the morning after hours upon hours of reading and revising. Only this time, the revising is a mental one, and the sun is out, albeit hiding behind the fluffy clouds.
Joan takes a bite of her muffin, continuing to stare at the message, formulating multiple responses in her head. Some of them are more lengthy than others. Then her phone rings. Joan is grateful for the distraction.
“Hello?” she answers.
It’s Marcus. There’s a supposed suicide at a house in Brooklyn that he thinks looks staged, and he wants another set of eyes to make sure.
Joan throws herself into the investigation. The victim is a white transgender woman in her mid twenties who had documented her transition on social media and on a personal blog, who had been shot in the head by another white cisgender woman of around the same age. The crucial clues came from additional fingerprints on the gun that had been left in the victim’s right hand (although she was left-handed), as well as some shed, bright red (dyed) hairs that did not match the victim’s ash blonde tresses. The murderer, also a social media fixture within New York, had been part of an upstart cult who espoused the belief that it was their God-given duty to rid the world of anyone who had refused to conform to the gender they were assigned at birth, among other transphobic and cissexist ideas. She had thought this murder-staged-as-a-suicide would get her cult leader’s attention. When the murderer is finally arrested a week after the murder victim’s body is found, she yells something about gender purity and God, as well as saying how much she loves her leader and the hope that he would save her.
The evening of the arrest, Joan returns to her apartment and opens her laptop again. Her mother’s email from the week before is still there, in Joan’s inbox, along with some junk email and a note from True Match saying how much they “miss” her and want her to renew her subscription, which has long lapsed (Joan deletes it first thing). She re-opens the one from her mother and sees the same three words pierce their way into her again: Are you okay?
Joan clicks on the reply button. First, she apologizes for not responding sooner, because of the recent case she just wrapped up. She pauses for a moment, then types: I’m okay, thanks for asking.
A moment later, she deletes that line of text and begins recalling the details of the last several months, beginning with her meeting Mycroft and covering everything including her kidnapping and watching someone else die in front of her, followed by her decision to move out and Sherlock going to work for MI-6. It’s a long email, but Joan knows that her mother would twig that she was not completely okay if she had left in her more succinct, and untrue, response.
With a sigh, Joan finishes her response and hits the “Send” button. She goes into her bedroom to change into her pajamas and go to bed when her phone rings. Joan rushes into the kitchen to see who’s calling. On the call display: Mary Watson.
“Mom?” Joan answers.
“I’m coming over.” Mary is firm but loving.
“Oh, Mom, you don’t --”
“Joan. You can’t deal with this alone; you know that. I’m coming over.” Before Joan can offer another excuse, Mary adds, “I insist.”
In what, to Joan, seems simultaneously like an eternity and no time at all, she buzzes in her mother. When Mary enters Joan’s apartment, Joan still looks stunned that her mother made the effort.
“You didn’t have to do this just for me,” Joan remarks with a mixture of exasperation and surprise.
“Yes, I did. I’m your mother,” Mary says. “Like I said, you can’t deal with this alone. If you won’t share with me any more than you have already, find a good psychologist or psychiatrist.”
“I had one. Dr. Reed. She moved away.”
“At least go to a meeting. I don’t have to tell you there are support groups out there for trauma survivors.”
“I know. I just…” Joan lets out a bitter sigh and leans forward in front of the breakfast bar. “I’m not sure if I want to share everything with anyone else just yet.”
“Does anyone you still work with know?”
“No, and please don’t call them and tell them.” Joan’s voice is firm and on edge.
“Why haven’t you told them?” Mary is still pressing with as much concern as a mother can have for her grown daughter while trying not to overstep her boundaries. “Don’t they deserve to know, too?”
“I told you why.” Joan is still exasperated, but her voice is much quieter, almost a stage whisper. “I’m not ready.” After a beat, she adds, “I don’t want a bunch of people worrying about me and treating me with kidgloves. I mean, this hasn’t affected my work, my ability to be a good detective, so --”
“Oh, Joan. Just as headstrong and determined as ever.” Mary sighs and adds, “I don’t like that you’ve been suffering and haven’t asked for help, haven’t told anyone other than me. What can I do? What do you need?”
Joan ponders a moment. She doesn’t want to anger her mother, and she should have known that her mother wouldn’t take the news lightly, but she didn’t ask for her mother’s interference, either. “I need you to let me recover in my own way, in my own time,” Joan finally answers, her words measured. “Please don’t talk to anyone about this. The fewer people I have in my life trying to be prescriptive, the better.”
A reluctant Mary nods. “Okay.”
* * *
Months pass. All of a sudden, Joan finds herself seated at a support group meeting for trauma survivors. Initially she had come with Kitty to support her, but as she listens to the other women share their stories, Joan realizes that she needs this for herself. Aside from Kitty, the other women don’t know who she is, don’t know about what she does, or about her past as a surgeon and sober companion. No one is judging anyone or telling anyone what they “need” to do. All the women are simply there for each other, to listen, to offer comfort, to affirm each other, to give each other hope.
The group leader shifts her attention to Joan. “I see you’re new to the group tonight. Please, introduce yourself.”
Joan takes a deep breath. “My name is Joan, and I survived a kidnapping.”
Recipient:
monkiainenAuthor:
venusinthenightCharacters/Pairings: Joan Watson, Mary Watson
Rating: Teen
Warnings: mention of a hate crime, mentions of canonical kidnapping
Summary: Joan receives a question from her mother.
Mostly set shortly after the end of season two of Elementary, with some minor canon divergence. Minor spoilers for the first three episodes of the third season.
Additional Comments: I hope you like this story, monkiainen! Happy Holmestice. :)
Additional thanks goes out to my beta reader.
Joan is seated at her breakfast bar, eating an English muffin, laptop open, cellphone close at hand, reading an email from her mother.
Her new apartment is oblivious to the skeletons she has carried with her from her old residence, ignorant to the presence of roosters, phrenology busts, multiple televisions, a huge library of books on a variety of subjects…
Everything she had left behind, really.
And the person she had let go.
A person who had no respect for her privacy, her life apart from him, and who had left her behind to deal with her post-kidnapping trauma on her own because she had not trusted him enough to tell him she was not okay, and because she wanted to move out but he couldn’t -- didn’t? wouldn’t? -- understand that just because she wanted -- no, needed -- to have her own apartment again did not mean their partnership had to be severed.
Much less severed with a five-sentence note.
Joan alternates between wondering what Sherlock is up to and not giving a damn. She had considered him a friend as well as a colleague, but all of that went up in smoke when he went to work with MI-6. It is a miracle it didn’t go up in smoke long before that.
None of her friends have been around, or have been in contact with her, for various stretches of time. Hope and Ken had moved upstate, with their three children, while Joan had been in London. She had not been in touch with either Carrie or Ty in almost two years; in regards to Carrie, it’s just as well, Joan believes. For a change, Emily has been too swamped with her work to interfere in Joan’s personal life (for which Joan has been secretly grateful). As for Jen, she is another friend who has slipped from under Joan’s personal radar.
Joan wonders if she has been a rubbish friend to them. However, there is a nagging voice in her head that suggests it is better they don’t know about this, only because they’ll just stage yet another intervention and try to convince her to give up detective work and go back to doing something sensible like renewing her medical license and starting a private practice, or doing some other job with a forty-hour work week like they have that is, to her, unfulfilling and boring. Medicine had been exciting for her, once, but it isn’t anymore. It hasn’t been since Gerald Castoro’s death on her watch.
Death.
Suddenly, Joan sees, in her mind’s eye, her kidnapper shoot and murder his colleague, whom he had mentioned was also his cousin, as he lay on the table in agony. She jolts in her chair, the sound of gunfire ricocheting from one side of her brain to the other. Two people who had come into her life had died needlessly. Two people she could have, should have, been able to save, even if the latter had possibly been an accomplice in her kidnapping.
Then she is reminded of how Sherlock had just stood there, face to face with her in the brownstone, shortly after she had been rescued by Mycroft and the other MI-6 agents. Only a shocked look, no words exchanged. She had not been ready to share, then. He had offered her no comfort of any kind. Just as well, Joan thinks, because even now she cannot think of anything Sherlock could have offered her that would have helped her in that particular moment.
Joan’s focus returns to her laptop screen, her mother’s words about what has been happening with her ringing completely hollow and empty. But then three words, toward the end of the message, pop out and scream at Joan, begging for attention.
Are you okay?
Her eyes widen, surprised her mother is asking her this question. Of course most mothers ask their children -- even their adult ones -- if they’re okay, if they need anything, when they’re calling or writing to them. Intellectually, Joan knows this. It’s just that Joan did not expect her mother to ask that question this time, even though her mother has probably asked her if she was okay thousands of times throughout her life. The thing is, Joan doesn’t know how to answer that question right now. She stares at it again, like she’s back in medical school studying for an exam, bleary-eyed at two in the morning after hours upon hours of reading and revising. Only this time, the revising is a mental one, and the sun is out, albeit hiding behind the fluffy clouds.
Joan takes a bite of her muffin, continuing to stare at the message, formulating multiple responses in her head. Some of them are more lengthy than others. Then her phone rings. Joan is grateful for the distraction.
“Hello?” she answers.
It’s Marcus. There’s a supposed suicide at a house in Brooklyn that he thinks looks staged, and he wants another set of eyes to make sure.
Joan throws herself into the investigation. The victim is a white transgender woman in her mid twenties who had documented her transition on social media and on a personal blog, who had been shot in the head by another white cisgender woman of around the same age. The crucial clues came from additional fingerprints on the gun that had been left in the victim’s right hand (although she was left-handed), as well as some shed, bright red (dyed) hairs that did not match the victim’s ash blonde tresses. The murderer, also a social media fixture within New York, had been part of an upstart cult who espoused the belief that it was their God-given duty to rid the world of anyone who had refused to conform to the gender they were assigned at birth, among other transphobic and cissexist ideas. She had thought this murder-staged-as-a-suicide would get her cult leader’s attention. When the murderer is finally arrested a week after the murder victim’s body is found, she yells something about gender purity and God, as well as saying how much she loves her leader and the hope that he would save her.
The evening of the arrest, Joan returns to her apartment and opens her laptop again. Her mother’s email from the week before is still there, in Joan’s inbox, along with some junk email and a note from True Match saying how much they “miss” her and want her to renew her subscription, which has long lapsed (Joan deletes it first thing). She re-opens the one from her mother and sees the same three words pierce their way into her again: Are you okay?
Joan clicks on the reply button. First, she apologizes for not responding sooner, because of the recent case she just wrapped up. She pauses for a moment, then types: I’m okay, thanks for asking.
A moment later, she deletes that line of text and begins recalling the details of the last several months, beginning with her meeting Mycroft and covering everything including her kidnapping and watching someone else die in front of her, followed by her decision to move out and Sherlock going to work for MI-6. It’s a long email, but Joan knows that her mother would twig that she was not completely okay if she had left in her more succinct, and untrue, response.
With a sigh, Joan finishes her response and hits the “Send” button. She goes into her bedroom to change into her pajamas and go to bed when her phone rings. Joan rushes into the kitchen to see who’s calling. On the call display: Mary Watson.
“Mom?” Joan answers.
“I’m coming over.” Mary is firm but loving.
“Oh, Mom, you don’t --”
“Joan. You can’t deal with this alone; you know that. I’m coming over.” Before Joan can offer another excuse, Mary adds, “I insist.”
In what, to Joan, seems simultaneously like an eternity and no time at all, she buzzes in her mother. When Mary enters Joan’s apartment, Joan still looks stunned that her mother made the effort.
“You didn’t have to do this just for me,” Joan remarks with a mixture of exasperation and surprise.
“Yes, I did. I’m your mother,” Mary says. “Like I said, you can’t deal with this alone. If you won’t share with me any more than you have already, find a good psychologist or psychiatrist.”
“I had one. Dr. Reed. She moved away.”
“At least go to a meeting. I don’t have to tell you there are support groups out there for trauma survivors.”
“I know. I just…” Joan lets out a bitter sigh and leans forward in front of the breakfast bar. “I’m not sure if I want to share everything with anyone else just yet.”
“Does anyone you still work with know?”
“No, and please don’t call them and tell them.” Joan’s voice is firm and on edge.
“Why haven’t you told them?” Mary is still pressing with as much concern as a mother can have for her grown daughter while trying not to overstep her boundaries. “Don’t they deserve to know, too?”
“I told you why.” Joan is still exasperated, but her voice is much quieter, almost a stage whisper. “I’m not ready.” After a beat, she adds, “I don’t want a bunch of people worrying about me and treating me with kidgloves. I mean, this hasn’t affected my work, my ability to be a good detective, so --”
“Oh, Joan. Just as headstrong and determined as ever.” Mary sighs and adds, “I don’t like that you’ve been suffering and haven’t asked for help, haven’t told anyone other than me. What can I do? What do you need?”
Joan ponders a moment. She doesn’t want to anger her mother, and she should have known that her mother wouldn’t take the news lightly, but she didn’t ask for her mother’s interference, either. “I need you to let me recover in my own way, in my own time,” Joan finally answers, her words measured. “Please don’t talk to anyone about this. The fewer people I have in my life trying to be prescriptive, the better.”
A reluctant Mary nods. “Okay.”
* * *
Months pass. All of a sudden, Joan finds herself seated at a support group meeting for trauma survivors. Initially she had come with Kitty to support her, but as she listens to the other women share their stories, Joan realizes that she needs this for herself. Aside from Kitty, the other women don’t know who she is, don’t know about what she does, or about her past as a surgeon and sober companion. No one is judging anyone or telling anyone what they “need” to do. All the women are simply there for each other, to listen, to offer comfort, to affirm each other, to give each other hope.
The group leader shifts her attention to Joan. “I see you’re new to the group tonight. Please, introduce yourself.”
Joan takes a deep breath. “My name is Joan, and I survived a kidnapping.”
