A/N: Hello all, second Elementary fic with this one. I had so much fun with the first one, I just had to go there again. I have this giant thing for dialogue and snarky, grumpy Englishmen… so, here we are.

Now, I originally promised you a sequel to 'The Bad Day' and started writing that, but got sucked into another scenario that I couldn't resist jotting down. I just love the thought of these two bickering and Holmes' basic ineptness at human interactions. That's endlessly amusing to me. Plus, I've just realized how funny Elementary is. Yes, this is another fandom I'm writing for where I've only watched a handful of episodes, so I'm kind of guessing at some of the finer details of the relationship, and the history, but I just love Holme's random rudeness and quirkiness. That's uber sexy to me. Lol

So, of course, I just had to give him free reign to be a bit of a dick in this story, but hopefully an entertaining one. Once again I tried for a one shot, but it's going to be a two shot, because Holmes is a chatty buggar. Also, it's international Fanfic Writer Appreciation Day today, which is awesome and I've received some lovely notes from people, which just makes me want to pay it forward.

Hope you have as much fun with this as I did writing it…

THE ARGUMENT

A woman has the last word in any argument.

Anything a man says after that is the beginning of a new argument.

~Anonymous~

(For reasons which are most likely self-evident)

CHAPTER ONE

Sherlock sat at his kitchen table, dividing his attention between looking at the case file strewn out in front of him, Captain Gregson talking to him about that case, and the doorway to the kitchen. Under the table his left leg jiggled in a little dance of irritation, while a finger tapped on the table. Otherwise his outward expression was set in its usual stoic countenance.

"Am I boring you?" asked Gregson flatly, after catching him looking at his watch and then the door once again.

Sherlock didn't look up from the paperwork he was studying. "No more than usual," he said dismissively.

"Walked into that one, I guess," said Gregson in resignation. "You seem distracted."

"I'm not," said Sherlock tersely.

There was a pause. "Where's Joan?"

"Out for a walk."

"I've been here for over an hour. How long ago did she go out?"

Sherlock consulted his watch, even though he didn't need to, because he knew exactly how long it had been. "Four hours, thirty-eight minutes, eighteen seconds."

"That's some walk."

"Not really," said Sherlock coolly. "There are many nomadic tribes like the Australian Aborigines who walk for days without stop. In fact, the Apache Indians are well documented as to have routinely walked forty miles a day."

"So, what, Joan's run off and joined a group of wandering Apache Indians? Is that what I'm hearing?"

Sherlock flicked a peeved look his way. "Of course she hasn't. Don't be ridiculous."

"But she is out walking for nearly five hours now. You know it's getting dark outside." Gregson was studying him intently. "Are you worried about her?"

"I am confident in Watson's ability to ambulate safely around the streets of New York," he said off-handedly.

"She's probably in Poughkeepsie right now, if she walked in a straight line."

That earned him another less than impressed look. "Yes, very droll, Captain." Sherlock went back to reading the case file in front of him.

Gregson sat back in his chair. "Okay, what did you do?"

"I have no idea what you're referring to," he said shortly.

"A woman goes on a five hour walk, then you've done something," said Gregson confidently. He cocked his head at Sherlock. "So, what was it? What did you do? I mean, it's got to be pretty bad. That woman's got the patience of a saint when it comes to you."

"And what about the patience I extend her?" said Sherlock with real ire. "Why do no sainthoods abound for me with what I have to put up with her incessant idiosyncrasies?"

"You mean the fact Joan is an intelligent, articulate woman who cares very deeply about people? Or is it the fact she's kind and giving and endlessly patient? Are those the horrors you have to live with every day?"

"Living with someone overflowing with the milk of human kindness can be somewhat grating, you know," he said defensively.

"As opposed to living with a narcissistic, self-involved, self-destructive recovering addict, which is obviously every woman's fantasy," said Gregson straight-faced.

"The term self-involved is deemed redundant when referring to narcissism," sniffed Sherlock.

"And an annoying know-it-all, forgot that one."

Sherlock inclined his head, unbothered by the judgement. "Your summation of my character is not an inaccurate one, Captain, but seeing as Watson was in full knowledge and understanding of my short-comings when agreeing to continue living here, it is wholly unfair of her to hold those things against me now."

"What is she holding against you exactly?"

Sherlock's lips tightened. "I do not know," he admitted begrudgingly.

"You don't know why you two are fighting?" asked Gregson in disbelief.

"Watson didn't see fit to impart such information upon me, so, no, the source of her ire remains a mystery to me." A mystery Sherlock had been racking his brains to work out in the last four and a half hours, but nothing was coming to him.

"Oh come on, don't give me that, you must have an idea of what she's upset about? I imagine Joan puts up with a lot from you. You must be able to think of something out of the ordinary obnoxious that you've done."

"And yet, I can't," he huffed. "And if anyone is being obnoxious at this moment, it's Watson."

"Okay, when did it start? When did you first realize that there was a problem?"

"This morning, when her conversation with me was monosyllabic in nature. I just assumed she'd slept poorly." Sherlock pursed his lips. "Although the matter may have started earlier. Last night she was untypically lackluster in her responses to me, and she retired early. I assumed tiredness was the reason."

"Maybe she's not mad at you," said Gregson wryly. "Listening to you talk, maybe she's just gotten a bad dose of sleeping sickness?"

"The tsetse fly is not endemic to New York," dismissed Sherlock. He looked suddenly thoughtful. "But maybe there is another type of malaise which is putting her in such dour spirits?" That was an inappropriately reassuring thought to Sherlock, as he really didn't want to be the cause of Joan's unhappiness if it could be at all avoided.

"Stop wishing Joan dying of something, and just face the fact the bug she has up her ass is most likely going to be you."

Sherlock raised both of his eyebrows at the other man. "That was untypically uncouth of you, Captain."

"Yeah, well, I've been trapped inside a small room with you for over an hour. The couthness is the first thing which is going to go."

Sherlock wasn't offended by that observation. It wasn't exactly the first time he'd heard it, after all. Besides, as he was struggling to understand the nature of the misstep between himself Joan, the man might yet prove useful to him. "Captain, if I may beg a moment of insight from your good self. You have been married for a long time, and during that time, you have shown yourself to be woefully inadequate as a partner to your wife, as evidenced by your recent estrangement-"

Gregson's eyes narrowed. "You remember I carry a gun, right?"

Sherlock continued on as though the other man hadn't spoken. "But you have not yet divorced, which leads me to believe that you and your wife still believe there lies enough between you both to cobble together some semblance of a life whereby you could continue to endure each other's presence in a life of cohabitation-"

"I could just haul off and shot you right now, and all I'd have to do is make sure the judge and jury trying me for it actually knew you, and then I'd just walk free," offered up Gregson, almost conversationally.

"I'm trying to pay you a compliment, Captain," said Sherlock, a little miffed at the other man's rudeness.

"Did you try and pay Joan a compliment? Maybe that's why her shoes were suddenly made for walking."

"Watson's shoes are never made for walking," he said moodily. "They're ridiculously high-heeled and provide no kind of arch support whatsoever." Sherlock moved his shoulders a little. "Although, in the interest of fairness, her running shoes are infinitely practical and suited for their purpose."

"I'm sure that's a huge source of relief for her to know you approve of her running shoes," said Gregson sarcastically.

Sherlock looked him up and down. "I am uncertain as to where this attitude is coming from when I am attempting to ask you for help. It is quite churlish of you, Captain."

"You just called me a failure as a husband," he exclaimed.

"Yes, but in amongst that failure you show an admirable relentlessness and unwillingness to allow the crushing reality of your situation to impede upon the most likely unattainable goal of returned intimacy between yourself and Cheryl."

"I am literally seconds away from punching you in the throat right now."

"I have no idea why that would be, as I am paying you a compliment."

"No, Holmes, the natural response of a person when they get a compliment is to say thank you. My first instinct to your version of a compliment is to work out where I can stash the body after shooting you in the face." Gregson leant over the table. "I know you have issues with social cues, so, here's a heads up – don't make people want to shoot you in the face when you are trying to ask a favor of them."

"I'm not telling you anything you're not already perfectly cognizant of with regards to your wife," said Sherlock in irritation.

"Just because someone's perfectly cognizant of something, doesn't mean they want to hear it talked about like we're discussing the weather," said Gregson sharply.

Sherlock inclined his head. "My apologies if I've offended, Captain. That was not my intention."

"I know, which frankly, is the most horrifying part of this conversation."

"So, you have no insight to offer in regards to this situation with Watson?"

"Not really, I just know I'm on her side, whatever it is."

Sherlock made an offended face. "What if she is accusing me unjustly?"

Gregson shrugged. "I find that hard to believe, and even if she was, I'm sure there are a lot of things that Joan should have been pissed off about when it comes to you, but she let it slide. You owe her this."

"So, what, I am to take any form of punishment, warranted or not, as a form of penance for who I am as a person?" asked Sherlock indignantly.

"Pretty much."

Sherlock glared at him. "Watson is being childish and petty and I won't be forced to kowtow to her whims in my own house."

"Then I guess you're screwed," said Gregson calmly. "A relationship is give and take. You have to be able to take crap, as well as give it."

Sherlock squinted at him. "I thought you were going in an entirely different direction with that give and take rhetoric, Captain."

"Sure, people like to talk about it the other way round, you have to be able to give in a relationship, but trust me, Holmes, you got to be able to take it to, because sometimes stuff happens between two people and there is no easy right or wrong, or even if there is, sometimes you've just got to be the bigger person." Gregson held his gaze steadily. "Joan is human. Sometimes human beings get pissed off. We need to have those feelings, whether they're justified or not, because either way, it feels real to us. No matter which way this goes down, who is right or wrong, just try and man up and be gracious about it. You want my advice, that's it. Don't be a dick, Sherlock. Joan is the best thing that has ever or will ever happen to you. She's stayed in your life when frankly no one else would have bothered."

"So, accept culpability of a crime I have no knowledge of," said Sherlock skeptically. "That seems overly deceitful."

"It'd be better if you knew what it was you'd done," agreed Gregson. "You should really try and figure that out."

"I am attempting to do that," said Holmes in frustration. "But I am drawing a blank."

"Have you asked Joan what's wrong?"

"I pointed out she was coming up on her periods, and that might be the reason for her ill-humor."

Gregson grimaced. "Why aren't you dead already?" he asked in genuine confusion. "I mean, your super power is pissing people off. How is it that one of them just hasn't up and killed you in your sleep already?"

"I'm a light sleeper."

"You should retain that ability… or work on being less of an insensitive jerk."

Sherlock inclined his head, acknowledging the advice. "I think we both know the more realistic goal for me lies within the continued light sleeping ability."

"Well, obviously. The other thing was just a moment of unfounded optimism in regards to you. Don't worry, it's passed now."

"Thank heavens."

Gregson pointed a finger towards the case files. "You right to do this, what with how things are between you and Joan right now?"

"Of course," said Sherlock dismissively. "I am sure Watson will have come to her senses after a bracing walk, and all of this will be behind us now." At least that was what he was hoping.

There was the sound of the front door being opened and footsteps in the foyer.

"Guess you're about to find out." Gregson stood up. "I'll give you two a moment."

Sherlock stood up as well, following the other man out of the kitchen.

Joan was in the process of taking off her coat. She smiled up at Gregson. "Hello, Captain."

Gregson smiled back. "Joan. Enjoy your walk?"

Her gaze flicked to Sherlock and then back to him. "I enjoyed the peace and quiet… and lack of intrusion."

Sherlock scowled at her silent dig. In what way was he intrusive? If anything it was the other way round. It was Joan who'd intruded upon his life, unsettled all of his habits, forcing him to make new ones. Arguably healthier ones, but that was hardly the point. "It was getting late." Sherlock didn't like how that sounded like he'd been keeping track of the time. He hastily jabbed a finger at Gregson. "The Captain was getting worried."

"The Captain needn't have bothered," said Joan in such a way that told him she knew full well it wasn't the Captain who'd been worrying.

"Yes, well, the man has a tendency to be boorish in regards to not listening to reason," said Sherlock coolly.

"Okay," sighed Gregson, "the urge to kill is rising again. I think that's my cue to leave."

"I know the feeling," said Joan flatly.

"Just what is it that I've done which has you in such a foul mood, Watson?" he demanded to know.

"You don't know?" asked Joan in disbelief. "Is that what you're expecting me to believe?"

"Yes, because it happens to be the truth."

Joan's eyes went wide. "You can't be serious right now. You know exactly what you've done. Don't act dumb with me."

"Are we really sure it's an act?" offered up Gregson straight-faced. "Because I've got to be honest, I've had my doubts for a long time now."

Sherlock threw him a dark look. "Yes, thank you for your input, Captain. As edifying as always." He suddenly snapped his fingers at Joan, as a thought came to him. "I have it! You are upset about me telling that stockbroker you were gay, and would not be interested in going out to dinner with him."

"Joan's eyes went wide. "You did what?" she gasped.

"That interminably dull little fellow, with the glasses," said Sherlock easily. "We met him on the Marlow case. He rang last week while you were out, but as I already knew you would grow bored of him after no more than two dates, I made your excuses, so as not to waste everyone's time."

Gregson looked at Joan. "Just so you know, I have a gun you can borrow. Completely untraceable. No questions asked."

Joan nodded her head at Gregson. "Good to know." She then glared at Sherlock. "Don't fast forward my life!" she snapped. "Who I see and how bored I get is none of your business!"

"I was just trying to truncate what was going to be a waste of your time, Watson. You have vast resources which can be deployed in far more fruitful ways.

"I'll deploy my vast resources in any way I please," she threw back at him. "That's none of your business."

"I see the error of my ways, and will undertake to not interfere in your love life in the future, no matter how misguided your decisions might be." Sherlock smiled brightly at her. "And now I have apologized for my transgression, may we please resume our cohabitation norm, Watson? I'm finding your continued peevishness to be rather trying."

"Wow, look at that, his apologies are worse than his compliments." Gregson shook his head. "Would not have thought that was possible."

Joan glared up at him. "That wasn't an apology, and that isn't what I am upset about."

"Oh," said Sherlock, a little crestfallen. He looked at her intently. "Are you sure the stockbroker thing wasn't it, Watson? Because that was very high handed of me—" Sherlock looked at the disapproving expression on Gregson's face. "Apparently." Another thought occurred to him. "It's the credit card I took out in your name to garner contraband for the Morrison case. You've just found out and now you're miffed at me."

Joan looked confused. "What credit card? What contraband?"

"Oh, ah, never mind, it's not important," said Sherlock swiftly.

"You know," said Gregson dryly, "I don't get to say this very often in my line of work, but seriously, Holmes, you need to stop confessing to random things. There is no plea bargain in the world which is going to be able to dig you out of this hole at the rate you're going."

Sherlock gave the other man a wilting look. "Whilst I'm obviously thrilled my hole is of any interest to you, Captain, weren't you leaving? I'm sure there must be pressing crime scenes which require you to stand over and look puzzled until more competent people come along to point out the obvious to you."

"Mmhm," said Gregson, unimpressed at Sherlock's put down. He looked at Joan with real sympathy and then mouthed the word 'untraceable' at her. Gregson then nodded at both of them. "I'll see whichever one of you survives this throw down tomorrow." He collected his coat from the coat rack. "And just for the record, my money is on Joan. What she lacks in upper body strength, I think she's going to make up with the inevitable rising blood lust caused by being in your presence, Holmes."

Sherlock grunted at him. "Very amusing, Captain. Please ensure you close the door securely on your way out."

"Happily and with a great sense of relief that I get to leave." He gave one last encouraging smile at Joan, and then was heading out the door.

Sherlock didn't really notice. All of his attention was on Joan. "Alright, we agree it's not the stockbroker incident, because apparently you were unaware of it."

"I just can't believe you don't know what I'm upset about, Sherlock," said Joan tersely. "I mean, I know this is you we're talking about, but still, even you can't be this obtuse."

"And yet, here we are." Sherlock let his frustration show on his face. "I think it's wildly unfair of you to take issue with me over a slight I remain completely in the dark about."

"You're the world's greatest detective," she snapped. "At least that's what you tell everyone who asks, and a lot of people who don't. You can look at a person and know their second aunt had a pet chinchilla with a lazy eye named Gary, or that they've got an allergy to nuts because they're wearing a brown hat and speak in a Norwegian accent, and yet you expect me to believe you don't know what you've done?"

"In those instances I had clues to work with," said Sherlock in irritation. "You ask me to hypothesis on a matter in a vacuum, with no supporting data. How am I meant to ascertain my supposed transgression under those conditions?"

"How about the fact you were there, in that vacuum, while doing the transgressing?" she asked, voice rising. "That it was you doing the thing I'm upset about! How's that for a big fat old clue?"

"So, I did something," reasoned Sherlock slowly, eyes narrowing as he tried to read her expression.

"Unbelievable!"

"Or didn't do something?" offered up Sherlock uncertainly, still grappling for some kind of foothold in this argument so he could know what it was they were actually fighting about.

Joan glared at him, then turned on her heel and started to march up the stairs.

"Or did something, but not the right way?" he shouted up after her. "Or, I did it the right way, but it wasn't the right thing?"

"Stop talking!" she ordered him as she continued to storm up the stairs. "You're only making this worse."

Sherlock bounded up after her, taking the stairs three at a time. "Or, I did the right thing, thinking it was the right thing at the time, but hindsight has rendered it in actuality as the wrong thing." He was hot on Joan's heels as she disappeared into her room, slamming the door practically in his face. "Am I getting warm?" he called out to her through the door.

"If you don't know what you've done, then there is seriously no hope for you," she bit out.

Sherlock scratched at his cheek, wrinkling his nose. He needed to regroup, and perhaps take up Gregson's advice. He paused for what he hoped would seem like a reflective moment to Joan before launching into his best facsimile of a sincere apology. "I'm sorry, Watson, of course I know what I did wrong, and it was puerile of me to toy with you over the matter. Forgive my warped sense of humor, and my act of betrayal. I think we both know what I did was unforgivable, but I throw myself upon your bounteous mercies to do so anyways."

"You still don't know what you did, do you?"

"Of course I do," said Sherlock with as much indignation he could muster, which was a surprising amount, given he was lying through his teeth.

"Then what are you apologizing for exactly?"

"I don't think what I did bears repeating, but suffice to say that I am obviously deeply repentant of my transgression against you, Watson. It will never happen again. I promise you."

"What won't happen again?"

"Me betraying your trust?" he offered up with a tinge of uncertainty.

"And how exactly did you do that?"

"In an unguarded moment of misdirected concern?" Sherlock suggested hopefully.

"Over?"

Sherlock gave a grunt of annoyance at her relentless persistence to pin him down. "Over the thing I did which I'm hugely contrite about now."

"You mean the thing you don't what it is?" she threw back at him.

"Alright, yes," he snapped right back. "That thing."

"Insulting, pointless apology not accepted!"

"I knew Gregson was an idiot," muttered Sherlock under his breath. The bigger person indeed. What a useless piece of advice. Now Joan sounded madder than ever. "This is ridiculous, Watson! I demand you tell me the nature of this umbrage you are currently taking with me."

"It's not my job to tell you how to be a human being!"

Sherlock flapped his arms around, even though she couldn't see it on the other side of the door. "Of course it is! One could argue that is your primary directive in regards to me."

"I've got a directive for you, Sherlock Holmes – drop dead!"

"All I need is a hint. Something to get the grey cells lubricated and ready to fire."

"Who are you, Hercule Poirot all of a sudden?"

Sherlock blanched. "Ugh, story book detectives – is there anything more ham-fisted and unoriginal?" He searched around in his memory for what he could possibly have done to have gotten her this mad at him. "Is it about always having to make the coffee?" No response. "Is it the toilet seat issue? I told you I'd replace it when I don't need it for my experiments." More stony silence. "The broken window? The setting your bed alight? That conversation with your mother?" Sherlock stepped back quickly as Joan abruptly opened the door.

"What conversation with my mother?" she demanded to know.

"Uh… nothing, that never happened," he said hastily.

"What did you do?" asked Joan fiercely.

"Nothing," he spluttered, "it was a perfectly amicable conversation." Sherlock hesitated. "Also, in an unrelated note, you're expected home for Thanksgiving… you're in charge of the pies. I'm not sure if that is only the sweet ones, or if the edict references the savory aspect of the pie spectrum as well. You may need to seek clarification on that point."

Joan glowered up at him, before slamming the door in his face again.

"It was a mutual invitation," he informed her. "I'm expected as well." Sherlock tilted his head. "Although I'm not certain if I should be bearing pastries as well. That too was left unclear."

"You don't seem to know anything these days, do you?" Joan noted sarcastically.

"I know it is ridiculous to be conducting this conversation through three inches of wood," said Sherlock hotly. "Open the door so we can have a proper conversation."

"You just want to be able to see my face while you make wild stabs in the dark, to work out if you're getting warm."

"And what would be so unforgivable about that?"

"You should just know!"

"Well, clearly I don't!" Sherlock's brow furrowed. "The tennis ball thing?"

"No."

"The bottle water incident?"

"No."

"The shower snafu?"

"Sherlock," said Joan in agitation.

He wasn't giving up in his pursuit to work out his latest transgression, the one which had broken Joan's patience with him. It had to be something. "Bees… bicycles… bells… bicycle bells… butter… buttered bread…"

"Stop yelling out nouns which begin with the letter B," she hissed.

"What are your feelings on the letter C?" he offered up quickly. "Clyde… carpet… cowbells…"

"You're making this so much worse," ground out Joan.

"How can it be worse? You won't even be in the same room with me."

"That's for your own safety," she bit out. "You should be grateful."

"Watson—"

"Go away, Sherlock, I don't want to talk to you right now. I'm too mad and trying to process."

"You know, they say a troubled shared is a troubled halved," he suggested. "If you just told me—"

"Back. Away. From. The. Door."

Sherlock's eyes widened at the amount of menace Joan had managed to get into those five words. "Very well. If you insist on being ridiculously overly dramatic about a matter which I'm sure is of little consequence, I'll leave you to your wallowing." He stomped on the ground loudly, and then with decreasing force, miming walking away. Sherlock stood there, still in front of Joan's door, hoping she'd venture out, now that he was 'gone'. He needed to be having this argument face to face. He struggled with social cues at the best of times. A face to face confrontation was his only hope. Unfortunately, as the minutes ticked by, Joan didn't emerge. Sherlock made a face. Looked like he was on his own with this one. He sat down on the floor, back against Joan's door and applied all of his not inconsiderable brain power towards working out just what it was they were arguing about…

A/N: So, next chapter, we find out about Sherlock's transgression. Anyone got any guesses as to what it might be? Here's a hint, the next chapter contains the words 'quivering anal sphincters'. There you go, can't give a much bigger hint then that, now can I?