***Disclaimer: The majority of these characters, with the exception of Jane and Emilie, belong to Elementary, created by CBS. As does the series finale plot which this storyline follows, and the reference to the poem which Joan gave to Sherlock in the first series.
After the events of the previous few weeks, the silence which filled the world of Holmes and Watson seemed out of place, unnatural and far from comforting. Following Mycroft's departure, Sherlock and Joan had retreated to the brownstone. After remaining in her room and taking in recent events, as well as considering future ones, Joan calmly and confidently walked downstairs to join Sherlock. The rooms were dark and solemn, lighted only by a freshly lit fire and a couple of lamps which Joan had turned on upon entering the room and finding her friend sitting alone in what had been almost total darkness. Sherlock was reclining in his favourite worn leather armchair by the fire, his arms resting heavily upon the arms of the chair, hands clasped tightly, head bowed. Joan appeared, outwardly at least, to be more relaxed. She was seated on a sofa at the opposite end of the room, one leg resting elegantly upon the other, one arm resting against her stomach. When the silence finally became too oppressive and overbearing, she sighed deeply before turning sharply to Holmes.
"We need to talk about this. All of this." She spoke softly, leaning her head towards him as she spoke. "I know this is difficult for you, but there is a lot we need to address and now, finally, we have the time."
Sherlock appeared to be oblivious to her words, and was staring straight ahead, examining the curtains which adorned the large window, which was filled with darkness. It was only when Joan repeated his name twice that he seemed to emerge from his reverie.
"Time? The time, you... You think we have the time? Watson, it is only just beginning." He spoke quickly, much faster than usual, his face and his mood becoming more animated with each word. "You have been with me, done what I have done, experienced the realm of the consulting detective, for far too long to believe that this is truly over. It isn't." The last sentence came out harsher than he had intended, and he instantly regretted his temporary lack of control.
"Sherlock, we finally have a level of... of equilibrium. We were able to overcome the threat of Le Milieu, and you and your brother finally dealt with the worst case of sibling rivalry since Romulus and Remus. I know this is not over, in a way it never can be, but it is moments like this which we should savour, should celebrate. We can't waste them or underestimate them. We finally have a chance to discuss-" she broke off, the words catching in her throat. Sherlock seemed to spot her hesitance, and directed his gaze more markedly on her. "To talk about what happened. To me, to you, to us. You're right. Something else will come up, something which will demand our attention and draw us away from the issues we need to address. But that time is not now, and this time is the best opportunity for us to talk. And by talking, we can overcome the barriers between us which will, I'm sure you'll agree, ensure that we are best prepared to deal with future personal and professional responsibilities."
Sherlock's eyes drifted wearily to meet her own, before staring at the floor, the window, the curtains, and back to her. "You're right, Watson. Of course you are." He spoke gently, tiredly, and never once removing his gaze from hers. "But not tonight." His final words were low, hushed. He broke their mutual gaze to utter them, before staring once more at the floor, his eyes closed in quiet consideration.
Joan's patience and calmness had suddenly, and without previous warning, completely disintegrated. She could feel her heart beating faster and an uncomfortable, clenching sensation deep within her stomach. She could not bear this any longer. She breathed in deeply, the tears already forming in her eyes. She fought to keep them back, she did not want to cry in front of him, in front of anyone. Certainly not here, and most definitely not now.
"I don't think you understand-" she began in a calm tone.
"Understand?" he interrupted, his voice calm yet filled with sadness. "I understand that I trust you, Watson. That we have a fulfilling albeit complex working relationship which is now apparently coming to its end." He spoke without blinking, his focus remaining on the floor. "I also know that I meant all that I said to you earlier, about my feelings for you, for us."
"No, that's just it, I don't think you do." Joan rose from her seat and stared directly at him, causing him to look up from the floor and raise his gaze to meet hers. Her figure was framed by the dim illumination of one of the lamps which was poised behind her, giving her an almost ethereal glow as she spoke. "I feel the same about what we do as I always have, but-" she paused, struggling not simply to put her thoughts into words, but to put her needs into thoughts. "You don't understand. I'm not sure that you can, or ever will be able to." Her eyes glassed over with tears, and she blinked rapidly to subdue them, praying that Sherlock had not noticed them. "I'm just so tired. So exhausted. Numb. You aren't the only person who has been affected by all this." She breathed in heavily, in a vain attempt to calm her nerves.
Sherlock's gaze returned to the floor momentarily, before he pushed himself up from the armchair and stood to face her, the light from the fire glowing in the mere inches between them. "I'm sorry, Joan" he began, in as humble and sincere a tone as she had ever heard. Somehow, this affected her more than her own words. "I'm sorry." He reached out his hand and stroked her arm as he apologised, in as comforting a manner as he was able. She lifted her hand and placed it on top of his own, before turning her own gaze to the ground. "I know" she mumbled, before looking back up at him. Their eyes met, and their gaze held for what felt like an eternity. She seemed so completely saddened, lost. Sherlock wanted to comfort and care for her in any way he could, and to relieve her of this pain. He ran his hand down her arm once more, and her breath caught in her throat. She felt light, tingly, as though she were floating. "I know" she repeated, never breaking his gaze. Slowly, and very gently, he pulled her towards him, drew her face to his, and kissed her gently on the lips. She closed her eyes, exhaling, and returned the kiss, her hand cupping his cheek. The fire crackled in the background, and the lights continued to burn as Sherlock and Joan moved to the sofa, their kisses becoming more passionate, and more intense. He slowly lowered her until she was lying upon the sofa, where he joined her. After some time, they removed their clothing gently and with great care, before sleeping together for the first time. Joan fell asleep as they shared their final kiss of the night, and Sherlock drew her favourite thick white blanket across them as they slept, peacefully, side by side.
