Sherlock walked through the front door, his body and spirit spent. He dropped his gym bag down by coatrack and was immediately greeted by Watson. He summoned all the energy he had left to put up a normal front for her.

"There you are. I texted you a couple of times and got no answer." She tried to keep her tone from betraying her concern.

"Sorry. Must have dropped my phone in the bag and never checked it." She knew this was a convenient lie but she wasn't going to challenge it.

"I wanted to see what you wanted for dinner." She looked him over evaluating his physical and mental condition.

"Not really hungry," he realized she was scrutinizing him and purposefully put a bounce to his step and comically scrunched his face as he walked past her.

"Well you're going to have to eat 'cause I ordered for you. The new pub down the street delivers so you're either having shepherd's pie or chicken curry. The food got here a few minutes before you, so it's good and hot." She had cleared off a work table and was opening containers and sorting out utensils as she talked.

He watched her, aware of what she was doing. Comfort food. Tonight he wouldn't argue. It was pleasant to come home to someone who cared about his well being. She turned to find him staring at her, their eyes engaged as she handed him his plate.

"Thank you Watson," he said with a small nod.

Understanding the breadth of the unspoken gratitude expressed behind the verbal, her eyes softened as she acknowledged him. She turned toward the table to prepare her plate while Holmes moved to sit on the couch. She was worried about him. This week had been emotionally difficult for him. The information he had shared about his childhood abuse had left her unsettled and upset but with a better understanding of the persona he presented to the outside world. The tough cynical crust protected the inner being who had been and was still being brutally bullied. Watson cursed Moriarty's name under her breath and headed to sit with Sherlock.

Shoes off, he sat cross legged on the couch. Watson sat next to him, giving him enough room so he felt comfortable.

Between mouthfuls of her curry, Watson turned to him and said, "Mmm, I didn't tell you. I had a nice chat with Mistress Felicity, while you were busy at the crime scene earlier this week."

Sherlock stopped, fork halfway to his mouth, "Mmmm, really?" He wasn't sure what to make of this revelation.

"Mm hmm. I learned a few things." she looked at him out of the corner of her eye.

Watson was always surprising. He had thought her puritanical when it came to the lifestyle that Mistress F lived, but apparently not. That is what he liked about Watson, always willing to learn. Sherlock just hoped what she learned was not about him. "Care to share?" he said innocently.

"Perhaps... Some day... Depends on how well you behave yourself..." She gave him a raised eyebrow glance. He broke into a smile. She was happy to see him begin to settle into a lighter mood.

"If I give you a spoonful of my curry, can I try your shepherd's pie?" She held up a big gloppy spoon of curry in his direction.

He stared at the spoon trying to evaluate the meaning of the offering.

"Come on, yes or no, it's beginning to drip." She said impatiently.

Staring straight into her eyes he leaned forward, mouth wide open and took in the spoon and all its contents in one movement leaving it clean and Watson slightly breathless. He took the spoon from her hand, scooped it into his meal and placed the heaping mound of food in front of her mouth. She stared into his eyes, a slight smile twinkling in them, as she took in the spoonful whole much like he had done. They sat, spoon between them, mesmerized for a second.

Sherlock broke the trance, plunged the utensil still in his hand into her curry and took another taste. "Mmm...That is good," he taunted her, his mouth full of her dinner.

"Hey! That's mine," she took her spoon back and retaliated by consuming a glob of his potatoes and peas. Silverware was brandished and a joyous mock battle over their dinners began.

Finally, Watson laughed and called out, "Truce! Truce!" She was sitting back against the sofa cushions protecting her meal as he kneeled on the sofa beside her, fork at the ready. "How about we trade off?"

Holmes considered the proposal and backed down, "Deal" he said as they cautiously exchanged plates, "but you started it," he said in his best six year old tone.

"Did not." She muttered.

He enjoyed these moments with Watson. For all her adultness, she could be as much of a child as he was and he felt privileged that she shared this side of herself with him. They continued eating in amicable silence punctuated by the occasional exchange of "did" "did not."

His meal finished, Sherlock got up and stoked the fire. Warm light flared around him as he sat on the ottoman, staring into the flames, lost in thought.

Watson saw the shell once again slowly begin to form around her companion. She had ministered to the wounds of others long before she became a doctor. She was a caregiver by nature not just by training. Her friend was in pain, she needed to help.

"Sherlock, do you want to talk about it?"

He turned toward Watson, knowing he needed to share this with her but not knowing where to begin.

She continued, "I know this week was difficult for you, churning things that you'd prefer lie dormant." Watson waited for a response.

Sherlock spoke softly, "Do you think it's possible to truly know someone?"

Watson thought, "I don't know. It seems most of us don't even know ourselves or what we are capable of. But I do know we have to try. Where would we be if I had walked away from the half-naked, crazy recovering addict who professed his love for me at first sight." She smiled at the memory of their first meeting.

He needed to share this with her, get her input and her support but he knew her well enough to fear it would upset her even more than it had him. He knew her as well as she knew him. There was no artifice between them. He stood up, walked back to the sofa and reached into his pants pocket. Sherlock pulled out the slightly crumpled envelope, folded in half, sporting Newgate as the sole return address. Without a word, he handed it to Watson and sat down next to her.

Her body tensed. She sat up and slightly turned away from him as she pulled the letter from its sheath. Watson hardened and a cold chill went through her as she read the woman's unctuous poisoned words.

She turned back to him, "When did you get this?"

Sherlock was sitting forward, elbows resting on his knees, with the look of a defeated schoolboy. "A few weeks ago, shortly after we were hacked."

A hundred questions marched through her head, "Why didn't you tell me? Have you answered her?" He shook his head, she continued, "Are you going to answer her?"

He looked at her empty-eyed, no response came forth.

Watson tamped down the anger and the hatred she felt for Moriarty, "You do see what she's doing, Sherlock? She is attempting to cut you from the herd, isolate you again, preying on what she perceives your weakness is. She's coming back for seconds. "

He gave her a long hard stare. "I'm afraid she's trying to do much worse," he said, the melancholy in his voice painful for her to hear. "I'm afraid she's coming after you." Watson stared at him, trying to understand. He continued softly, "You, ... you are my weakness. By hurting you she knows she would tear the heart out of me."

Tears welled up in both their eyes. She leaned her shoulder into him and he instinctively placed a protective arm around her. "I received that letter on a day ... " he stopped, took a breath, "... on the day you went out with your Internet dweeb. I was uhm, ... not happy ... at the prospect of losing ... you, your companionship." He took his arm from around her shoulders bringing it forward on to his knee. Watson placed her hand on his as he continued. "I wondered what it was you needed to find ... away from me. I know, I'm conceited, self absorbed, insensitive ..." A tear gleamed and threatened to drop down Watson's cheek; she squeezed his hand.

"And then, this, this letter arrived. I came to realize this was no coincidence. There are no coincidences where Moriarty is involved."

"But how would she know any of this? Are we under surveillance?" she whispered.

"I'm not sure but your communications with that ... that ... man were electronic, and we had just been hacked. She had an extensive operation at her disposal prior to incarceration. For all we know he could be one of her minions." He fell silent. His hand encircled hers. They sat and stared at the fire.

Watson sorted her thoughts as best she could and pulled herself together. The last few minutes had set her world on its ear. Not all of it was unpleasant but it was a lot to process. Finally, she spoke, "Whether she's coming after me or you makes no difference. She's bent on destroying both of us but really she can't. Not as long as we stand together. We need to be completely honest with each other so that no hole is left between us where she can slither in."

"Do you think I should answer her? he asked.

Watson's response was immediate, "No. Let her stew in her own vile juices until she drowns in them."

Sherlock smiled at her, "You are vicious."

"Someone told me recently I should fight without mercy." She looked up into his face. Sherlock sat back into the sofa cushions as did Watson, shoulders touching, hands still held. Physical closeness was a new venture. Tonight it felt right to both of them.

"We'll need a plan of action. I've been sweeping the brownstone regularly for bugs ..." Sherlock was back in his element plotting their next move and Watson was there at his side providing input and advice.

As she listened, Joan wriggled up a bit against Sherlock and tucked her feet underneath her. Watson could almost see Moriarty writhing in her cell.