Sherlock gazed out the window at the street, watching passers-by as they made their way home in the late afternoon dusk. Their long shadows mixed with each other, making strangers appear like friends, friends like family, mere companions like lovers. Joan would be one of those residents coming home soon, he calculated. It still took him by surprise, the degree to which he looked forward to her return whenever she left the brownstone. She had been spending more and more time away from the brownstone, and away from investigative work. The hospital where she formerly worked had increasingly been seeking out her expertise in particularly difficult medical cases. There had been a time when Joan's absence was what he wanted most. The precise moment when that changed, Sherlock could not say. Were he more poetic, images of birds or flowers or sunrises would come to mind to help him explain it. Were he less honest, he would rationalize this emotional transformation by explaining the increased efficiency and productivity that Joan's presence created. As it was, all he could manage was a whispered, impatient, "Where is she?" After watching the street for a few more minutes, Sherlock took another sip of tea, wrinkling his nose at the cool liquid.
"Keep watch, Clyde," he directed the turtle, as he walked toward the kitchen, half focused on Joan's homecoming, half focused on Joan herself.
Waiting for the water to boil, Sherlock reflected that the progression of their relationship seemed almost imperceptible, identical both in its gradualness and in its speed. Her endless ramblings about recovery, as persistent as a gnat buzzing around his ear, developed into welcome encouragement. (Although, he admitted, her words and tone hadn't changed, merely his recognition of his need for them.) From sober companion – initially intrusive, then essential – to investigative associate. "She is my personal valet" became "I thrive in New York not because of who I am, but because of who I know." For him: first "Watson." Now "Joan." For her: always "Sherlock."
The possibility of there being even more advancement, a next step in their relationship, Sherlock thought, pouring more hot water into his cup, was not without its appeal. From Joan being his associate to -. To what? Lover? Girlfriend? Friend with Benefits? While obviously fraught with complications, it was not out of the realm of possibility for him. For her as well, Sherlock knew. Or at least, so he hoped. He would never insult Joan by considering her to be an open book, but as a man of details, discerning Joan's responses to him was almost as easy as interpreting a suspect's facial tics and verbal inflections during an interrogation. The flush on her face when he accidentally bumped into her in the hallway. The slight trembling of her hand after it lightly brushed his, after he's given her a cup of tea. The glint in her eye when she's trying not to encourage his irascible behavior, but failing. All of those, he had faith, were proof of her personal feelings for him.
His own reactions to her were equally as physically evident, to him, if more unconventional. Training her in self-defense. Leaning over her shoulder as he guided her through the finer points of handwriting analysis. And the best part of his day – sitting in a chair at the end of her bed, daring himself to watch her sleep for one more minute before reluctantly waking her from her slumber. These are performed under the guise of professionalism. At least that is what he always hoped she thought. Only he knows that they are the only ways that he can show that he cares for her, wants to protect her, needs to always be around her. Loves her.
He believed that he had been hiding his feelings for her fairly well. Until the near-kiss a week ago.