A/N: I know I have to post the remaining episode based fics, but I couldn't wait to post this one. As always, thank you so much for reading and reviewing, reading how much you like this makes my day.

Don't forget to review!

Spoilers: Last episode 1x20 "Dead man's switch"

Fran

Joan walked downstairs at the strange sound coming from the living room. Sherlock was sitting behind his desk, arm extended before him, tattoo machine on his hand. He smirked when he noticed her puzzled expression.

"Close your mouth, Watson or you'll catch a fly," he told her as she stood next to him.

"I didn't know you had one of those machines."

"Only needle these arms see anymore," he told her, eyes fixed on his handiwork. "I keep it for the occasional touch up."

"Well, wouldn't it be easier if someone else did it, like an actual tattoo artist?"

"I am an actual tattoo artist. I did lot of this myself."

"How did you…?"

"Ambidextrous."

"Of course you are," she spoke. She watched him as he moved the machine skillfully up and down his already inked arm and he lift his head to look at her.

"Can I interest you in some ink of your own?" He asked her, and she smirked. "Somewhere around your hips, maybe? Or your lower back…some place sexy."

She approached him, a little bit closer so her face was inches away from his, giving him a small soft peck on his lips. "You wish."

"Yes, I do actually."
.

.

.

"So?" Joan spoke the minute he walks into the parlor.

"Captain Gregson sees the wisdom in keeping Milverton's death a secret. For now," he responded, taking a folder from the big pile next to her, reading casually a random page.

"How are you doing?" She asked him and he lifted his eyes from the pages, eyeing her in silence. "Don't look at me like that, you saw someone get murder tonight."

"I'm fine. No need to worry."

"Are you sure?" She asked again, he sighed heavily. "Because you know if you want to talk, I'm here."

"I told you I'm fine, Watson," he responded. She frowned, not quite convinced with his answer. "I promise I'm fine, and if I don't feel like it, I will reach out to you."

"All right," she answered, her eyes no longer in him but on the papers before her.

.

.

.

"Lots of evidence that Duke Landers is even scummier than we thought," Joan spoke, walking downstairs with a heavy box on her hands and Sherlock following her with his eyes, playing with a few chips on his hands as she spoke, "but nothing helpful on Milverton's accomplice. How are you doing with the, um…?"

She stopped midsentence, dropping the box and taking long slow steps towards Sherlock, noticing how he played with the chips in his hands.

"Are those sobriety chips?"

"I ordered a set online yesterday. Wanted to see what all the fuss was about," he responded calmly. "Colors are a bit garish, no?"

She scanned the desk, noticing a cup full of the same chips, she eyed him, exchanging glances between the half full cup and him.

"Have you been playing quarters with these?"

"I didn't drink anything, if that's what you're wondering," he responded flatly. "I just wanted to see them bounce."

"I don't believe you," she answered.

"Kiss me, or smell my breath," he suggested as she took a sit in front of him. "I would prefer the first one if you don't mind."

"I'm not talking about the drinking. I'm talking about what you said yesterday about me not weighing in on your sobriety."

"What?"

"Listen, if you want to talk about your feelings, you know I'm here," she told him "I don't need to repeat myself over this, but sometimes I feel like I have to. You're shutting me down again."

"I am not…" he breathed, sighing heavily. "Can we focus on solving this case first and then talking about whatever you think I'm feeling?"

"Fine, as you wish," she lay back on his chair, shrugging. There was no point in forcing the words out of him, he would talk, eventually. She was used to waiting.

.

.

.

"I believe I uncovered the identity of Henry Eight," Sherlock spoke. Joan lifted her head from her bed, frowning when she saw him sitting on the chair, fully dressed, cup of tea in hand.
"What are you doing there? What time did you get up?" She asked him, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand.

"About an hour ago, didn't want to wake you up. You look lovely while you sleep, by the way. If I hadn't already said that," he responded, she smiled warmly. "Anyways, as I was saying, it all starts with the corpulent Abraham Zelner. It was an assumed identity assumed used for the expressed purpose of an obesity discrimination lawsuit. So it got me thinking, what if he had done this before?"

"You think he sued other airlines?" She asked him, sitting up on their bed.

"Yes, each one with a lucrative steam of income," he took a page from the pile on the floor, walked towards her and handed it. She read it in silence while he spoke about it, giving her all the information he had processed in a little while.

"Do you think this is his real name?" She asked him, after reading the paper in her hand. He took two quick steps towards her, lying on her bed next to her as she read, folder in his hand.

"Abrahan Zelner may not have a DMV record," he told her, taking the paper from her hand, replacing it with the files on his. "But Stuart Bloom most certainly does. He lives in Staten Island"

"We're going to pay him a visit, then?" She asked, resting her head on the wall behind her, closing her eyes briefly.

"Of course we are, my dear," he told her, dropping a light kiss on her naked shoulder. "Go take a shower, coffee will be ready when you get down."

He jumped out of the bed quickly, she watched him as he walked out, not without throwing a kiss at her, causing her to smile widely in response.

.

.

.

"I'm gonna take another look at it before I go to bed," she told him, while he sat on the couch in front of what she called 'wall of crazy' that was now completely empty. Still he was completely focused on it.

"You were right about the sobriety chips that I ordered," he suddenly spoke. She turned around slowly waiting for him to say something else. "I was trying to…spark a conversation."

She dropped the box she was carrying carefully on the couch, and took a sit on the empty space, and waited for him to say something else. She wasn't going to push him; moments like this were rare in their relationship, in which he was open about his feelings. She had the let things flow naturally.

"I told Alfredo that I could not accept my one year chip," he spoke again, "'cause it would conjure memories of a period of failure in my life. That's not true."

"What do you mean?" She asked.

"I mean I cannot accept my one year chip because its not my anniversary."

"Are you saying you relapsed?" She asked carefully, he nodded slowly.

"It was a while ago, before I met you. Before this started," he responded, "the day I agreed to enter into rehab. I needed to repair myself, the next day I entered Hemdale. The day after that…" He stopped, swallowing hard. She got up from her seat and moved to where he was sitting. In turn, he moved aside when he heard her approaching, allowing her to sit at the edge of the couch.

"I got sick…very uh very sick," he continued, "so I devised a way to leave without being detected. Got what I needed and then came back. That was the last time I took drugs…not the day before."

"Sherlock, I understand why you're upset," she told him, "but we're talking about the difference of one day. It doesn't change what you did in the 364 that followed."

He got up abruptly, startling her, and began pacing in front of her almost desperately. He was upset, perturbed even and almost on the verge of tears.

"I decided to stop using drugs, yes?" He snapped. "I decided, me. And then 24 hours later…" He broke, his eyes turning watery with every word he said.

"It was one day, Sherlock. One," she told him. "It doesn't matter what happened before, it matters what you did later. Look at what you've accomplished. You deserve this."

He lowered his head to the floor, breathing in and out slowly. She knew he was struggling with his emotions because she could understand how hard it was for him to talk about his addiction days, so she approached him, silently telling him it was okay for him to speak, to trust her. He slowly lifted his head, watching her as she stood closer.

She reached out, touched his face with her palm and he leaned in, closing his eyes at her warmth. Moments later he closed the gap between then, his lips making quick contact with her lips in a slow soft kiss. She moved impossibly closer, her arms closing around his neck, his own wrapping around her waist.

He pulled away, resting his forehead against hers, breathing heavily.

"I know we have a case to solve," he murmured, "and a blackmailer to catch but…I need you. I need you now…"

The way he pleaded for her broke her. He was in pain, he was suffering and he needed to forget, to think and feel something else. She was going to help in whatever way she could.

"Okay," she whispered back, caressing his cheek sweetly.

He kissed her, long and passionate, pouring every inch of emotion into it. She moaned against his lips, his hands suddenly lifting her off the ground, his lips never breaking contact with hers. She felt him guide her towards their bedroom, and a moment later he carefully lowered her into the bed, breaking apart momentarily to stare into her eyes.

"I love you," she whispered. He smiled at her confession, once again closing the gap between them.

.

.

.

They wandered around the kitchen, her smiling mischievously once in a while, glancing at a shirtless Sherlock as he to walked around, taking cups and pots out of cabinets. She looked down at herself, his old green shirt smelled like him and if she closed her eyes long enough she could feel the warmth of his body surrounding her.

Joan felt his eyes on her, he stared at her up and down, she exposed and somehow embarrassed despite the thousand times he had already seen her naked.

"What?" She asked him. He walked a few steps towards her, immediately reaching out, with his hands on her hips he pulled her towards him.

"Are you hundred percent certain you don't want a tattoo?" He asked her, and she shook her head quickly.

"No, we already talked about this."

"Why not? It would be fun."

"Fun?"

"Well fun for me, a little bit painful for you."

"Then most definitely not."

"Come on, Watson. Don't be afraid, I promise to be gentle."

"Yeah, that's what everyone says."

He pulled her even closer, her arms immediately wrapping around his shoulders. He kissed the exposed skin just above her shoulder, she moved her head to the side giving his lips more room for his ministrations.

"Just one…" He murmured against the crock on her neck, he heard her moan softly and then sighed. He knew she was about to give in, he just needed to wait a little bit more. "Tiny, little one."

"God…you're insufferable," she spoke, though to him it sounded more like a moan.

He pulled away abruptly, looking at her in wonder. She frowned at the lost of contact.

"Is that a yes?" He asked. She nodded slowly.

"Yes, it's a yes. You win, as always. But if it hurts you'll sleep on the couch for two days."

"That's not fair. You know it will," he protested.

"Okay, so make it hurt less."

"Promise?"

He gave her a small peck on the lips and almost bounced with excitement out of the kitchen. She instantly regretted saying yes.

The end!