Oren called a week before Easter, excitedly telling Joan about his plans for dinner that Sunday. His quickly turned to theirs, when he mentioned that both of their parents would be there without their careers interfering for once.

"You can get the day off, right?" he asked, and Joan could clearly see his puppy-dog eyes as if they were in the same room. "Even Sherlock can't be working a case on a holiday."

"You'd be surprised," Joan said dryly, but patiently listened to her brother. She felt guilty about not spending more time with him, and partially blamed her latest career choice for it.

Sherlock had become increasingly relentless in teaching her the "ways of deduction".

"You must never waver in your observations Watson," he told her. He held up his foil in one hand, the other hand handcuffed to a belt loop on the back of his jeans. He was barefoot, and wore a grey Black Sabbath shirt. He was poised in a standard fencing stance, smacking the sides of the practice dummy in front of him. "Especially when you're faced with the annoying adversary called a distraction."

Joan was watching him, her arms folded across her chest as she leaned against the doorjamb. She raised a skeptic eyebrow, causing Sherlock's eye of sight to drift in her direction.

"You seem perplexed by my methods," he said, setting the foil down on the ground.

"Are you going to be okay if I left you by yourself next Sunday?" Joan asked, cutting straight to the point. Sherlock stared straight ahead, staring at a fixed point on the wall as Joan continued. "Oren invited me to dinner, and he managed to convince our parents to take the day off." She shrugged casually, watching for his reaction.

Sherlock stayed perfectly still, and Joan wildly wondered if she'd triggered something, a bad memory or an unpleasant recollection perhaps.

"If you're asking for my permission to be relieved of my presence for that day," he began slowly, "you do not need it. You're perfectly capable to go about your personal business when we aren't training or working a case."

"Good," Joan said, "Because I wasn't asking, I was informing you. I missed Easter dinner last year because of work—"

"You're feeding me a justification for your decision," Sherlock said, turning his head to face Joan. "One usually does so when they feel obligated to gain another's permission or to excuse their actions."

Joan rolled her eyes. "Apparently I was worried about you over nothing," she said coolly, "since you're still perfectly capable of being irritable."

"I'm pleased that my behavioural patterns have proven your hypothesis," Sherlock said, reaching down to pick up his foil. He walked over to the table, his left hand still awkwardly handcuffed behind him.

Joan sighed heavily, wondering if she should help him with the cuffs. A second later she decided against it; he was always telling her to get out of the situations that she herself created instead of pleading for aid.

He'll be fine, she thought as her friend shimmied with the handcuff, his body twisting around in a frantic jerk of his hips.

Sunday morning came, and once again Sherlock felt the need to barge in and wake her up before her alarm could do the job for him. Joan pulled the covers over her head when she saw the clock: 5:41AM.

"Go back to bed," she groaned wearily, and Sherlock responded by sitting on the opposite side of the bed. Joan poked her head out from beneath the sheets, and saw him watching her carefully.

"I'll get a lock for my door," warned Joan, but she was too tired to put bite into it. It was unnerving how she'd gotten (however begrudgingly) used to these bedside visits, and internally scolded herself for not realizing the pattern of them. She could always expect some of them to fall on certain dates of the calendar, while the others were sporadic, yet complemented the days that they were working a case.

"It'd be a fruitless endeavour," Sherlock replied, "I've acquainted myself with practically every locksmith in the city and have sampled their wares. A simple deadbolt would be child's play."

Joan glared at him. "If you try that without my permission, you'll learn just how many black belts I've earned."

Sherlock went wide-eyed at the thought, looking genuinely alarmed, and Joan mentally grinned at the thought that she'd spooked him with that imagery.

"So if I somehow gained that improbable permission—"

"What did you want to discuss," Joan interrupted, eyeing Sherlock suspiciously, "that couldn't wait another three hours?"

"An apology."

"Hm?"

Sherlock stared straight on ahead, his eyes fixed on a certain spot on the wall. "For being irritable."

Joan groaned, and propped herself on her elbows. "Waking me up sort of adds to that instead of diminishing it."

"Yes, indeed." Sherlock nodded slowly, stood up, and left, closing the door behind him.

Joan left around noon, catching a cab in order to make the two o'clock dinner. Oren had a huge smile on his face, hugging his sister tightly before leading her inside his grand apartment.

There wasn't much to elaborate on the actual dinner; it was as normal and pleasant as it ever going to be. Their mother prodded Joan about her new career, and Joan politely gave her the bare minimum of details.

When Joan returned home, she nearly stepped on Clyde, who was covered in colorful Easter egg stickers.

She picked him up, looking down at where he was, and noticed a cluttered, clumsy line of little chocolate eggs leading into the kitchen. Joan raised an eyebrow, and held onto Clyde as she transgressed further into the apartment.

"Sherlock?" she called out as she stepped into the kitchen. Her eyes widened at the sight of it: chocolate eggs wrapped in those colored foils were scattered thickly across the ground, lining the counter space, invading the empty mugs in the sink. Joan looked around, and saw another line leading into the living room. She tiptoed around the eggs, careful not to step on them. In the living room she found Sherlock, eyeing an empty bag of M&M's, looking mournful at the lack of contents.

"I realized that yes, I'm not the most creative at hiding things," he said. "But if I were to become more diverse in that train of thought for this particular day, they would remain unseen for a vast amount of time, due to how expansive and eluding the place can be."

Joan opened her mouth, but ended up closing it again. Instead of speaking, she walked over to the other chair, and sat down, placing Clyde on her lap. Sherlock gave her a quick glance, steepling his fingers together while awaiting her reaction.

"This is very sweet of you."

The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched a fraction. "The pun is lost upon me, Watson."