A/N: Hey everyone! Sorry it's been awhile since my last post, school is taking over my life again :( but I'm back! This story might be a little darker than my usual ones, but I hope you guys like it nonetheless! Please let me know what you think :) Thanks for reading!

The brownstone had been quiet for a few hours now. Joan sat on her bed answering emails and text messages, both for work and from family and friends. It had been awhile since she'd last talked to her mom, so she'd spent awhile texting back and forth. Her mom had wanted to call, but Joan had begged off, saying she was too exhausted from their latest case.

They'd been working on one case all week. They'd had an early morning and a late night each day with almost no downtime in the last six days. Joan suspected Sherlock had been intentionally keeping them busy. Or, at least, intentionally keeping himself busy. He did this every year. He was always more anxious than usual the week leading up to his anniversary. Joan suspected it was both an effort to keep himself from thinking about it and her from asking about it. So far, it had worked. They hadn't discussed it. Joan had resisted bringing it up or asking him about it, despite her desire to make sure he was okay. She knew he'd talk to her if he needed to.

When Joan's mom ended their conversation with a good night message, she realized how late it had gotten. The sun had completely set outside her window and the city lights were starting to glow. She was surprised she hadn't fallen asleep yet. Involuntarily, she yawned.

Joan shook her head to wake herself up a bit, remembering that she had promised to come back downstairs and check on Sherlock before she went to sleep. He had assured her it wasn't necessary, but she assured him she would do it anyway. He had simply shrugged, avoiding eye contact with her. He knew better than to argue about things like that by now.

It had been awhile since she had heard any noise from downstairs, so Joan assumed Sherlock had fallen asleep, but she got up to go check on him anyway. Stretching and stifling another yawn, she headed to the stairs.

When she got to the top of the stairs, she heard a faint noise that gave her pause. It was some sort of mechanical humming coming from downstairs, but she wasn't sure what. She listened for awhile to see if she could tell whether Sherlock had fallen asleep, but she didn't hear anything besides the humming, so she padded down the stairs as quietly as she could on the old, creaky wood.

Pausing at the bottom of the stairs, Joan smiled to herself. She knew that sound. It was the sound of Sherlock's tattoo gun coming from the living room. As quietly as possible, she made her way toward the living room door.

When she approached the living room, she saw that Sherlock was sitting in a chair with his back to her. From his hunched over position, it was obvious that she had been right in identifying the sound. He was giving himself another tattoo. Although she had seen him do it before, Joan shivered at the thought. She could never do that to herself.

Joan stood there for a moment, watching him work. It seemed he hadn't noticed she was there. Smiling to herself, she tried to deduce what his new tattoo would be.

She noticed that he was wearing loose-fitting shorts, and from the way his back was hunched, it looked like he was putting the tattoo on his upper leg. Joan frowned. Although Sherlock was no prude when it came to walking around with no shirt on, he almost exclusively wore long pants, so all the tattoos she knew about were on his upper body. She had assumed he didn't have any on his legs. Her eyes darted to his lower legs which were visible under the chair. They were free from markings. So far it looked as though she was right in assuming his tattoos had yet to venture below his waste. Whatever this new tattoo was, it seemed to be a first.

Lost in contemplation, Joan shifted her weight to lean against the wall. To her dismay, the floorboard under her creaked. She grimaced.

The buzzing ceased as Sherlock turned around. "Watson," he said, attempting to hide his surprise. "It's late, I thought you had fallen asleep."

Joan shook her head in attempt to act casual. "I told you I'd come check on you, remember?"

Sherlock nodded, avoiding her stare. Joan watched him for a few more seconds. He studiously looked away. Her curiosity getting the better of her, Joan walked into the room and pulled up a chair. She sat so she was facing him, but far enough away that she wasn't invading his space. She attempted to see what design he had put on his leg, but he had scrupulously covered it up with a rag. Joan stifled a sigh.

They sat in silence for a bit, Joan studying Sherlock as he studied the floor. The look on his face was contemplative and sad. Joan knew what day it was. She knew how he always felt on this day each year. She sought in earnest for something comforting to say, but before she came up with anything suitable, Sherlock asked, "how long were you standing there?"

Joan shrugged. "Only a few seconds." Attempting to bring a little levity to the situation, Joan smiled and added, "you would have noticed me if it had been any longer."

Sherlock just made a "hmmm" sound without looking at her or returning her smile. Joan's own smile faded.

After a few more seconds, Joan couldn't take it any longer. She asked quietly, "can I see it?" Sherlock looked up at her sharply. Joan knew he knew what she meant, but nonetheless she nodded toward where he had sat the tattoo gun on the desk.

Sherlock stared at her for a long moment, his impassive face revealing nothing. Joan struggled to keep his gaze without looking away or squirming. Slowly, his blank features turned heavy as he looked away from her and back down to the leg he had been adorning. He removed the rag quickly, saying nothing and still looking down.

Joan squinted at the marks on his leg. The tattoo was just a few black rectangles, no words or pictures. The bars were a lot longer than they were wide, they almost looked like…

"Tallies," Joan said quietly. Sherlock didn't react. Joan quickly counted them up. She looked back up to his face, watching his profile for any hint that she was right. Her voice was a whisper when she added, "one for each year you've been clean."

It wasn't a question, but Sherlock nodded slowly anyway, still looking away. "Indeed," he whispered back. He sighed heavily before looking back at Joan. "You know, Watson," he said, a little louder but a little lighter than before, "it's not often that I regret helping you hone your deductive skills. But I do find it rather disconcerting when you use those skills on me."

Joan managed a small smile. "Now you know how everyone else feels around you," she joked. She was relieved when Sherlock managed a small smile in return.

Joan's eyes wandered back down to the marks on his thigh. She could feel his eyes on her, no doubt watching her for a reaction the same way she had just watched him. After a few seconds, she asked, "Is the whole thing new, or do you add to that each year?"

Sherlock replied, "I add to it."

Joan looked back up at him. They stared at each other for a silent moment, each assessing each other before Joan asked, "when did you start it?"

Sherlock sighed heavily again. He loathed talking about himself, especially about his past. He momentarily chastised himself for not making sure she was asleep before getting started.

When he realized she was waiting for a response, he muttered, "I started it on the evening of my first anniversary. As you know, I was putting an unrelated tattoo on my arm that night. I was…" He paused, searching for the right words before continuing, "attempting to distract myself. Focusing on applying the tattoo on my arm was a sufficient distraction from the thoughts I would rather have not confronted at the time. However, when I was finished with my arm, I found the unwanted thoughts returning. It seemed as if I needed something else, something more. So," he gestured to his leg, "I added the first tally. It seemed appropriate." His words spent, Sherlock fell silent.

Joan nodded. "Just wondering. I never knew you even had it."

Sherlock resisted letting out another sigh. "Well," he said gravely, "I prefer not to display it. It isn't my most proud mark. But it is a good physical reminder of what I have to lose."

Joan shook her head. "No, it isn't," she said quietly. Sherlock's eyes snapped up to meet hers, a questioning look crossing his face. He was about to protest when Joan cut him off. "It's not a reminder of what you have to lose. It's a reminder of what you've accomplished, of how far you've come."

Sherlock looked at her skeptically. "And of what I have to lose should I fail once again," he protested stubbornly.

Joan sighed, shaking her head a bit. "You know, you never let yourself be proud of all that you've accomplished." Sherlock merely shrugged, so she continued. "You've turned your whole life around since then. You've turned my whole life around. You could have given up at any time and gone back to your old ways, but you didn't. You've stuck to it and made it all these years. And besides, you've helped a lot of people, both others in the program and through your detective work. You should be proud of all of that, Sherlock."

Sherlock's eyes left hers, dropping down again. He shifted, distinctly uncomfortable. "It is much easier for you to see the good in things like this, Watson," he murmured. "It's not as easy for me to see it that way."

Joan smiled a bit sadly. "I know," she whispered. Slowly, she reached out and traced the lines of the tattoo on his leg with her index finger. Sherlock's eyes were fixed on her hand as it moved up and down the black lines across his skin. When she finished tracing the latest one, she looked back up at him and added, "that's why you have me."

Sherlock swallowed heavily as he looked back up at her once again. His voice was thick when he said, "Chances are, I wouldn't have any of those marks if I didn't have you."

Joan smiled and blushed. "You don't give yourself enough credit Sherlock," she said quietly.

Sherlock smiled a bit too. "Neither do you, Watson," he responded in all seriousness. "I think you underestimate your own role in my continued sobriety."

Joan looked down and took one of his hand lightly in both of hers. She squeezed it a bit and said, "Well, you do have me, so here's to many more anniversaries."

"Yes," Sherlock responded, still watching her face intently. "Many more indeed."