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Holmes mostly called her his Diotima when he was drunk—the nickname was a surer sign than any slur in his speech or hitch in his step that he'd reached the bottom of a bottle of fine single malt. Joan was sure that if pressed, he'd claim it was because intoxication inevitably reminded him of his years at Cambridge, slouching his way through the Classics with an insouciance that never failed to gladden and gall his tutors in equal measure.
Joan thought it was more due to the fact that he could be a pretentious shithead when he wanted to be.
Like right now, judging by the rows of tiny, empty bottles lined up by the wingback chair that, by long custom, could be inhabited by Holmes alone. Joan put down her bag, kicked off her shoes, rolled her eyes towards heaven before padding into the kitchen. The fridge revealed nothing but some pizza mouldering inside a takeout box; she prodded at it carefully, but she thought it was beyond even her tolerance, cast-iron stomach of a surgeon or no. She dropped the pizza box in the trash and went in search of some ramen instead, calling over her shoulder, "I thought Gregson told you no more stealing alcohol from crime scene minibars."
"Is love then evil and foul, o Diotima?" Holmes yelled back.
"Aww Christ," Joan muttered to herself. If he was quoting Aristotle, that was one thing, but Plato always boded. She put a pot of water on to heat for the ramen before walking out to the living room and surveying Holmes with a practiced eye. The unshaven line of his jaw was nothing new, nor was the ratty plaid scarf knotted around his neck even though it was 70 outside, but his mouth was set in that way it got when he was upset and trying not to show it. Joan remembered, suddenly, that it was Thursday. Gregson was normally free on Thursdays. "What did you do now?"
Holmes scowled. "I did nothing."
"It's amazing that you've known me this long and think prevarication still works with me."
His brow furrowed even further. "I'm not... but I didn't even... he's the one who's being unreasonable!"
Joan couldn't help the snort that escaped her. "Toby has the patience of a saint," she said, counting up the number of bottles—seventeen—before heading into her bedroom. It wasn't like she could afford to turn down overtime pay right now, but after hours in the morgue she always felt chilled and had the suspicion that she reeked of disinfectant. Her most comfortable pair of sweats, she decided, then food, then the hottest shower she could stand. "Which is how it's been six months and he hasn't dumped your sorry ass."
"His reasons for not dumping me are entirely unrelated to his virtues!" Holmes called after her.
Joan dug one of her old Johns Hopkins tees out of the pile on the floor. It passed the sniff test, so she tugged it on and then let her hair down out of its bun, rubbing at her tender scalp. "If this is you trying to logically prove that your unsurpassed genius extends out to giving head, then I'm not going to go along with it."
There was a suspicious silence from the living room.
Joan poked her head around the door. Holmes was slouched even more thoroughly into his chair and was glaring at the TV. "Oh my god, really? You're not out with him because you were having an argument about your fellatio skills?"
"You are supposed to be my best friend!" Holmes said, transferring his glare to her. "You're supposed to be providing me with advice right now, and, and sympathy and—"
Joan cut him off with a wave of her hand, marching back into the kitchen and dumping the ramen into the now-boiling water. "First, you need to stop getting your ideas about how friendship works from combining Sex and the City reruns with classical literature, because far be it from me to tell someone to be more socially normative, but really? Second, asking the lesbian to score anyone's skills in sucking cock is just—"
Holmes stood up abruptly, knocking over dozens of bottles, both full and empty, sending them rolling underneath the sofa and the bookcases. "Ha. I've got it. I've—yes, that's it, exactly."
Joan went back into the living room. "Figured out a way to apologize to Toby?"
"What? No, no, of course not—I mean, yes, I mean, that too, but mostly the Fisher case. The solution was in the salt cellar all along." He stooped and pressed a sloppy kiss to her forehead. "Diotima of Mantineia! A woman wise in this and in many other kinds of knowledge. I'm going out, Joan; I may be some time. But first, a shower. Won't be a moment!" He vanished in the direction of the bathroom.
"Don't take all the"—the door slammed behind him—"hot water," Joan finished with a sigh. "Asshole!" she yelled at the bathroom door, hearing the sound of water pounding against the tile; steam was already drifting out from underneath the door. "Diotima never had to put up with this shit!" Showering in the morning it was, then... although, Joan thought, grinning and eyeing the tiny bottles of booze still clustered around the wingback chair, maybe, just maybe, there was a way she could cut her losses. All was fair in love and liquor.