Sherlock and Joan cleared Mycroft of the charges against him and left him late last night with MI6 to be debriefed. They arrived home late and exhausted. Few words were exchanged between them and she soon went off to bed.

Morning came too quickly for Joan. She stretched, opened her eyes and focused on the pillow beside her. A letter. Joan reached for and opened the envelope, startled to find a small bag of what she knew to be heroin along side the handwritten letter from Sherlock. She sat up suddenly, a heaviness forming in the pit of her stomach.

She started reading:

Watson,

You no doubt have identified the contents of the small package I include with this missive. Do not worry. I took it in a moment of weakness. It is the only one I took and I am turning it over to you to demonstrate that my resolve and my sobriety are strong. I am not in any more danger of relapse than I have been since I started this process.

I write to let you know that I have left the brownstone and will be gone for an indeterminate period of time. You, of course, are welcome to stay as long as you wish. I still consider it your home, even if you do not. All I ask is that, should you find a new residence, you take Clyde with you. If that is not within your abilities, please ask Ms. Hudson to take care of him. She is quite fond of the small reptile, as he is, I assume, of her. I have made arrangements with a fellow apiarist to care for my bees so you shan't be burdened with that chore. I trust this man implicitly and he will call you to make arrangements so as not to intrude on your privacy should you remain at the brownstone.

As stated, I don't know how long I shall be away but will inform you prior to my return so you will have time to vacate the premises should that be your desire. I have informed Captain Gregson I will no longer be available to consult but that should you wish to continue, you would contact him. I have faith in your abilities to fly solo, as it were. Since I will have no income, I will only be able to take care of your monetary needs for the next two weeks or so. I have left you a small stipend to cover your expenses. I know this may be a financial hardship on you and I apologize, but as stated, the brownstone is at your disposal and I know you can pick up work quite easily.

On a personal note, after talking to Mycroft last night, I have come to realize that Moriarty was quite right, we can never truly know anyone. You may consider yourself relieved of the burden of my care. I will forever hold you in the highest esteem. I wish you all the best. Take care of yourself.

Sherlock Holmes

P.S. Please do not contact me unless it is a matter of extreme urgency as it may endanger both our lives.
S.
-

A cold pain gripped her. Joan was at a complete loss. The letter felt impersonal, even for Sherlock, as if he were dismissing an employee. What had Mycroft said to him?

She heard the front door open and shut. Joan bolted out of bed, ran downstairs and out the door in time to catch a glimpse of him as he opened the taxi door.

"Sherlock!" She yelled after him. He had a small valise in one hand that he threw in the back seat. Sherlock turned and looked at her, raised his hand up in farewell and got in the taxi. He didn't look back. She watched the taxi disappear up the tree-lined street.

Joan ran inside and got her phone. She called his number. The phone rang and rang but he never picked up and the call never went to voice mail. He was gone.

Joan felt like she was drowning. She needed to explain things to him. This couldn't end this way. She dialed Mycroft's number.

As soon as he picked up, she yelled at him, "Where is he going? Where is Sherlock going? What did you say to him?"

"I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to say, Joan." The patronizing smugness of his tone sickened her.

She calmed the rage building inside her, "If anything happens to him ..." she took a breath.

"Joan, you are no longer responsible for him. I thought that might be a relief..." His voice mocked her.

Watson lost it, "I want you, you vile piece of excrement, to stay as far away from me and from Sherlock as humanly possible or I will pummel ...!"

He cut her off before she could finish. "You're even beginning to sound like Sherlock. I did you a favor." Mycroft hung up not giving her a chance to answer.

Grief washed over her in waves. She went to his chair, curled herself into it and let the tears flow.