A few hours after her father's funeral, Joan sits alone on her bed with the covers wrapped around her, like a little kid woken from a bad dream. She isn't cold, but she needs the covers nonetheless. Perhaps they provide some sort of barrier or protection from the feelings she doesn't want to confront.
She wants to cry, but she can't. She tries to make sense of her emotions, to pin down what she's feeling so she can move past it. The problem is, she doesn't know how she feels. She isn't really sad, but she feels like she should be. She's angry, but she doesn't know why. She's tired, and her conflicting emotions are wearing her out more, but she can't rest. She can't define what she feels, and that just makes her feel lost. But above all, she just feels alone.
Sherlock stands at their kitchen table. He's completely unsure of what to do, so he tries to distract himself by cleaning up some things around the kitchen. He washes some dishes, moves some cups from one cupboard to the other, and even tries to think about a book he had been reading on evolutionary psychology.
It's all in vain. Try as he might to distract himself, all Sherlock can think about is the look on Joan's face when she came home earlier. He had first seen her through the window as she walked up to the door. She had looked completely composed, like she was working to school her emotions and keep her face straight. But when she walked in the door, before she knew Sherlock had seen her, she closed the door, leaned back on it, and closed her eyes. Sherlock had observed her in that moment. She looked exhausted, uneasy, and above all…. Alone.
But that was meant to be a private moment. Joan had not known he was watching, so Sherlock tried to forget he noticed. As soon as he had made a noise, Joan opened her eyes and composed herself again, before retreating to her room. She hadn't come back down. Sherlock suspected that Joan didn't want him to know how she was feeling tonight, so he tried his best to forget.
But he can't. For some reason that he can't explain to himself (perhaps because he doesn't want to), his mind keeps returning to that look on her face…. And to how much he wanted to change it. To help her. To comfort her. To…. To what? The problem is, Sherlock doesn't have an answer to that. He doesn't know what he wants. He doesn't know what he should do. All he knows is that he can't stop thinking about it, can't stop thinking about her, and he can't seem to ignore a feeling drawing him toward the room where she sits all by herself, with no one to distract her or comfort her.
Before he has a chance to realize what he's doing, Sherlock starts toward Joan's room. He stops momentarily, trying to rationalize what he is doing. What would he even say if he went to her? He knows there isn't anything he can say that will change her situation, and he isn't particularly good at being consoling. If anything, he'd likely just make it worse. He knows this, but for some reason he feels drawn to her room nonetheless. He can't explain why he feels the need to go to her, not even to himself. But just this once, he decides to act on his feelings without the need for a reason.
Too quickly, Sherlock finds himself at Joan's door. It's not closed all the way, so he can tell that the lights are still on inside. He takes a deep breath and knocks on the door quietly. Joan doesn't answer at first, but he can hear her breathing catch for a moment when she realizes he's there, so he knows she's not asleep.
"Watson?" He says, barely louder than a whisper.
Behind the door, Joan clears her throat and tries to keep her voice even when she answers, "Yes?"
Sherlock tries to decide what to say next. He suddenly wishes he had brought some tea or something, so he would have a reason to be knocking on her door. He should have thought this through. All he can think to say is, "May I come in?"
That actually gets Joan to laugh a bit. "Since when do you ask?"
Sherlock figures that's permission enough, so he pushes the door open. When he sees her, the ghost of a smile remains on her face, but he can tell the smile is superficial. As he stands in the doorway silently, her face turns quizzical, and he realizes needs to come up with an explanation for his presence. Uncharacteristically, he decides on the truth without much deliberation. "I… just thought you might like some company tonight."
Joan doesn't say anything. Her smile slowly fades, and she averts her gaze from his. She doesn't even know how she feels at the moment, but she knows she doesn't have the energy to be the subject of Sherlock's deductions. She considers just telling him to leave, telling him she's fine, that she doesn't want to be interrogated tonight, but she hesitates. The truth is, she really could use some company, but she can't quite bring herself to admit that to him.
Sherlock waits for Joan to say something, but when she doesn't, he walks over and sits on the side of her bed. He turns his head to look at her, but she stays huddled against the headboard and continues staring at the opposite wall, avoiding his gaze. He takes the time to study her. She still looks exhausted, perhaps more so than before. But now, she's not hiding it. She's not schooling her features to look composed. She's just staring ahead into nothing, like she's lost. Sherlock is overcome with a desire to help her, to comfort her, to just be her friend… But he's not good at this. He doesn't know what to say. He doesn't know what she wants him to say. When it becomes evident that Joan isn't going to start the conversation, Sherlock quietly says, "it's normal to be upset over the death of a family member." He has a feeling that's not quite the right thing to say at a time like this, but it's the best he could do.
Joan slowly nods her head, her gaze still far away. "Yeah…. It is. That's the thing though…" She shrugs her shoulders slightly before continuing. "Am I sad?"
Sherlock senses that her question was rhetorical, so he waits. The silence drags on for a bit and he is again at a loss for words. He looks away from her and studies his shoes.
Eventually, Joan continues. "I know I didn't really lose anything today. It's not like we were close." The more she talks, the more her voice waivers. "I'm not that sad. It's more like…"
"Guilt?"
Joan looks at him, her gaze focusing for the first time since he walked in. As soon as their eyes meet, Sherlock regrets saying it. He can see in her eyes that he's right, but for once he wishes he weren't.
She looks angry momentarily, but as soon as the anger appears it fades. Instead, she looks at him expectantly. In her eyes there's a hope that maybe he knows what she's feeling, and maybe he can explain what she couldn't admit to herself. So, against his better judgment, Sherlock continues, "You lost your father today, but you aren't saddened by his passing. You feel guilty because you aren't sad, but you feel like you should be. Perhaps you feel guilty for not finding him sooner, for not spending more time with him, even though you know that's not your fault."
Joan looks down, and Sherlock returns his gaze to the floor. There's silence for a long time. Sherlock begins to wonder whether he should have come up here at all, whether he's just made things worse for her. But what's done is done. Finally, Joan sighs and says, "being sad would be easier to deal with, wouldn't it?"
When Sherlock looks back up, Joan is staring at him. Her emotional turmoil is evident in her eyes, and Sherlock wishes he knew what to say to ease her pain. He reaches over and takes one of her hands in his. "You have no reason to feel guilty Watson," he says in what he hopes is a convincing but sympathetic tone.
For a long time Joan just looks at him, trying to read him like he is no doubt reading her. It should bother her that she's such an open book to him, but she's surprised to find that it doesn't. In fact, hearing him analyze and describe the feelings that Joan couldn't sort through herself is somewhat of a relief. After a while, she can't help but ask, "Why did you come up here tonight?"
He probably should have prepared an answer to that question, but Sherlock just mumbles, "I… thought maybe you could use… a friend." A small smile makes its way to Joan's face, and Sherlock is relieved to see her pain subside a bit. He squeezes her hand and adds, "but I'm afraid I'm not very good at providing comfort."
Finally, Joan smiles a full smile. She wants to tell him how much it means to her that he came to her for no reason other than to comfort her. She wants to tell him that just having him here and knowing he cares is comfort enough, but she can't find the words. All she says is "Thanks." Embarrassed at how easily he detected and defined her emotions earlier, she looks away again.
When her eyes leave his, Sherlock sees her smile fade. Some of the pain starts to creep back into her eyes. He wants to chase it away again, but he can't think of anything else to say. Sherlock is reminded of their moment in the kitchen, when he told her about his diagnosis. In that moment, Joan hadn't known what to say, but she'd known what to do. She'd given him a hug, letting him know she was his friend and she was there for him. At that time, Sherlock hadn't known what to do or how to respond to her friendship, so he hadn't done much of anything. But what he had never told her was how much better he felt then, knowing she would be there and help him through the struggles he was facing. He'd never told her how her gesture had made him feel a little less alone in the world, a little less alone in his pain. Perhaps he hadn't admitted that to himself, until now. But that comfort that she gave him, that simple acknowledgment of pain and reassurance of friendship, he knew that was exactly what she needed now. Though he was much less adept at this than she was, he wanted to reciprocate.
So even though it was new and awkward for him, Sherlock moved up to the top of the bed so he was sitting next to Joan and put his arm around her shoulders. At first she looked up at him in surprise, but Sherlock tried his best to give her a gentile, reassuring smile. Joan squeezed her eyes to prevent a few tears that threatened to escape, hoping Sherlock wouldn't notice. He did. He pulled her closer until she was enveloped in his arms. Joan rested her head on his chest and finally gave in to the emotions that she had been trying to make sense of all evening.
Neither of them said anything, perhaps because neither could figure out what they should say at that moment. Or what they wanted to say. Sherlock found himself wondering why he was drawn to Joan's room tonight, and why he felt such an overwhelming desire to chase away her pain. Joan wondered why he came too, and why the emptiness she felt earlier is suddenly gone now that he's here with her. Perhaps there's more here than friendship, more than either of them is willing to admit. But now is not the time for that. Joan has so many emotions roiling through her tonight that she can't possibly begin to sort through how she feels about this subtle change in their relationship. All she knows is that in his arms, she feels a little less alone.