He froze to death in an alley curled up next to a dumpster. Joan had made a habit of writing her name and number on his clothes like you would for a child being sent off to camp. It'd been over two years since she had given her dad the Mets cap. He was still wearing it when they found him.
Sherlock went with her to the morgue. He stood with her much as she had stood with him when Irene reappeared; the only difference being Joan did not breakdown.
No service was held. Her father was, as he described himself when lucid, a devout atheist. Her mom and stepdad, she and Sherlock and Oren stood in the quiet cold as his body was lowered into the ground. Joan's mom held her hand triggering childhood memories of visits to institutions to see her dad. She would cling to her mom's hand in fear until she saw her father smile at her. The smallest of winces crossed Joan's face at the memory. Sherlock caught sight of it and she gave him a small thin lipped smile to show him she was fine.
The rest of that day was appropriately grey and hazy. Sherlock started a fire to provide her with a bit of warmth and light, then left her in peace for the afternoon. Joan lay wrapped in her red cardigan on the sofa, blanket at her feet, blankly staring at the book before her.
The quiet was shattered by the sound of the ottoman being dragged across the floor towards her and a tray being put down upon it.
"Soup," he declared, "you need to eat something. Sit up."
Too drained to argue, she sat up. "What kind?" she asked as she took off her glasses and looked at the bowl.
"Turtle," he said with a raise of his eyebrows and a tilt of his head.
She slightly shook her head, and gave him a lopsided smile, "Smartass." Joan stared at the soup.
"Come on Watson," Sherlock plunked himself next to her scooting the ottoman closer. "You've not eaten properly in days. Either you pick up that spoon and start eating or I shall be forced to feed you much like Nanny Watkins fed me."
Joan rolled her eyes and took a spoonful. Split pea. Her go-to comfort food. Three spoonfuls later, she put down the bowl and sat back.
"Yes. That certainly will provide you with plenty of nourishment," he said sarcastically.
She turned to look at him and one huge tear escaped from the corner of her eye. Quickly followed by a muffled sob and a small torrent of tears. Sherlock sat stunned next to her for a second. He had never seen her cry. Joan's face contorted, eyes squeezed shut as she tried to hold it all back in. She raised her hands to cover her face as the sobs wrenched themselves out of her chest.
Sherlock quickly fished in his pocket for the clean hankie he always carried, thinking, god bless, Nanny Watkins, as he did. He placed it into Joan's hands, wrapped an arm around her and let her cry into his lapel until there was no sound left but the occasional hiccuped gasp for air. Joan wiped her face and pulled away from him a bit.
"Okay?" he asked as he bent forward to look at her. Her face was red and splotched, her eyes still holding tears. She nodded yes rather unconvincingly.
"Alright then," he gave the top of her head a small awkward peck, and stood up. "I am going to go reheat this soup, Watson, and you are going to consume the entirety of it, understood?"
She looked up at him, relieved that it was him in front of whom she had finally broken down. "Yes, sir," she said mockingly.
"Good." Sherlock picked up the tray and headed downstairs.
She picked up her dad's cap from where it lay beside her, put it on and pulled herself up from the sofa. Joan wiped her face once more with the white handkerchief and followed him down to the kitchen.