There was no one quite like Joan Watson—severe and stern in the pull of her brows when she disagreed; tempestuous and tense in her shoulders when she crossed her arms over her chest; ferocious and filled with fury when faced with injustices—who could bring down the mask of indifference Jamie wore like a second face.

Instead Jamie chose to pretend that it didn’t bother her, that the way Joan looked in a crisp white shirt, thin red tie, and tailored grey slacks hadn’t impressed itself into her mind and became a memory she returned to often; that the glittery black dress and strappy heels Joan once wore to a gala wasn’t an image that suffused heat across her pale skin whenever she thought about it.

So playful teasing became the marker of all their interactions, because there was no other way for Jamie to deal with a woman who had a burrowed her way under her skin, one who had an unwitting play on her heart from the moment she realised she had underestimated Joan Watson.