the thing about emotions...
joanlock; oneshot

"What is—what was that?"

"Sex," he says, "Release. Euphoria. It's something I thought you well-versed in. And, judging by the prowess you exhibited last night, it seems my inference was quite spot-on."

Joan stares at him for a long moment before getting to her feet angrily, jerking the soft and silken sheet up with her as she wraps it protectively around her body. It serves as a thin shield between her and Sherlock's all-knowing gaze. She turns her body away from him as her lips pull downward into a scowl, hurt and disappointment wafting off her in waves. Her long black locks spill over her shoulders in consequence, reflecting the morning light as if to taunt him.

"You're mad," he observes, tilting his head slightly to the right as he taps his knee with the tips of his fingers in a careful, thoughtful rhythm. "Why are you mad?" he questions, eyes trailing over Joan's body, quick and clever. "Oh," he exhales. "It wasn't just sex to you, was it? It was emotional." He pauses, eyes wide and lips pressed thin. "I must infer an apology then Watson, for I misjudged your emotional state. I thought I made it quite clear sex is not about intimacy for me, though I see now I did not proceed with the caution I should have."

"Stop," Joan interrupts tiredly, "just—stop." She swallows visibly before turning by her heel and sauntering purposefully from the room.

Sherlock flexes his fingers absently and reaches from one of the duct-taped-together boxes housing his old files. He thumbs through them swiftly, thoughts quick and mind whirling. His head is buzzing, so much information, so little time; hurry, hurry, hurry, it whispers at him, begging for his attention. He lapses only once, eyes trailing to the doorway in which Joan had made her exit. He dismisses the guilt immediately. Joan is a grown woman, she will get over the matter quickly and efficiently. After all, they have cases to solve, places to be. So no, he doesn't feel guilty.

He doesn't.

Except… except there is something constricting in his chest, like a coil wound too tight. It presses down, like a weight and makes him feel odd; wrong, like someone took him apart and put him back together again incorrectly.

It is most disconcerting.

Sherlock blinks. "Joan," he calls, voice loud and grating. He waits a tick. "Watson," he calls again, louder this time.

She walks back in not a moment later, fully dressed with her trademark unimpressed frown in place. "Yes?" she prods, arms crossed as her thin mask of indifference slots into place seamlessly.

"I require nourishment," he hums, hopping to his feet. "I thought you might assist me."

Joan sighs. "Grab your coat," is all she says before she's out the door.

He follows after her, quick footed and content.