3:17 a.m. The door to the brownstone opens and Watson drags herself in followed by Holmes. They bypass the coatrack and the lights, going into the adjoining room where Watson takes off her coat and falls back onto the sofa. Holmes drops to his knees and sprawls out on the floor face down.
"Thank god for Ms. Hudson. This floor is immaculate."
"Why are you on the floor?" Joan asks as she attempts to take off her shoes without sitting up.
"I don't have the strength to fight you for the sofa," he maneuvers himself around to take off his jacket, rolls it into a ball and uses it for a pillow.
"For future reference Watson, we are consulting detectives. We do not run after criminals. We think, we deduce, we do not give chase."
"I was only following you."
"It is a wonder you can run at all in those shoes."
"Yes, yes, ... I know ..."
"The worst part is that loon is still out there some..." he drifted off without finishing his sentence. Joan was already asleep.
"Sherlock answer your phone!" Watson was not pleased. He was not moving and somewhere a phone was ringing.
"Not mine," came the muffled response.
Joan groped around and found the ringing coming from her coat pocket. "Hello," she whispers hoarsely.
"Joan? Is Holmes there?" She looks at the phone - it was his phone that had been ringing - how she ended up with it she had no clue.
"Yes, just a second." She rolls off the sofa and goes down over to Holmes and shakes him. "Sherlock, wake up. It's Gregson for you." He opens one eye and sees a dark curtain of hair before the phone is shoved in his face.
"Mmph ... Captain, how can I be of service," he says in a less than enthusiastic manner. Joan considers going back to the sofa but opts for the easier task of laying her head on Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock continues listening to Gregson as his hand tentatively touches her head and with a little more courage caresses her shoulders lightly, smoothing back her hair.
"Alright, we'll be there shortly." He hangs up. He shuts his eyes and says nothing else, letting himself take in the quiet moment between them. Exhaustion has its up sides.
Her head lifts after a bit and she rests her chin on his chest. "Where are we going?"
"Briefing," he says beginning the task of getting off the floor. "They fear that the loon is close to attacking again. His messages are even more erratic. He now seems to know quite a bit about the investigation as well."
Shaking out his woefully wrinkled jacket and putting it on, he asks, "What were you doing with my phone?"
"I don't know. It was in my coat pocket. I don't know where mine went."
They sit through the briefing which reveals nothing new. Holmes and Watson are given every scrap of information the police have unearthed and are left to do what they do best. Joan is still bleary-eyed. "I'm going to get us some coffee, I'll be right back." Holmes grunts his thanks.
An hour or so later his phone rings, "Watson, you found your phone I see. Where are you?" The call is from Watson's phone but he hears only the muffled cry of his name before the phone goes dead.
His thoughts race. He knew it was the loon, how did he get her, get her phone ... he'll dispose of the phone before they can trace it, my god where is she. He had to have been in the station. They pull all the surveillance tapes from the station and the video soon reveals Joan being lured out by the psycho, her phone in his hand. How could she have been so careless! Alone, she walked away alone with this, this killer! At least they now knew exactly who they were looking for - one of the many food delivery workers with access to the station.
Hours have gone by, night has fallen and Holmes is making everyone's life miserable, his included, when a call comes in - they found her, on the Brooklyn side of the East River. The psycho had tried to drop her in the water. He was spotted by a patrol officer and shot as he tried to run.
Dark slicked rocks are lit in pulsating red and blue from the police and emergency vehicles as dark figures hurry about their jobs. Gregson's car pulls up and Holmes bolts out and scanning the scene as he walks. Bell intercepts Sherlock, "Take a breath, Holmes, she's fine. The EMTs checked her out, and she's fine. A few scratches and bruises but otherwise okay."
Holmes keeps walking, eyes searching the darkness for her. He sees her, walking towards him, wet hair, wrapped in a blanket. He doesn't know whether to shake her or hug her or both so he just stands in front of her his eyes wide examining every inch of her to make sure for himself that she is unhurt. Understanding his process, Joan stands, says nothing and lets him take it all in.
Sherlock turns to Gregson, "Captain, may I have a moment with my employee." Gregson and Bell stand back as Holmes takes Joan by the elbow and leads her away into the darkness.
"What the hell were you thinking!" His voice bellows across the rocks as Holmes begins his tirade, the outline of his arms flailing visible in the dim light. Joan's response comes across just as strongly, "You would have done the same thing!" punctuated by the flapping blanket.
Bell looks at Gregson, "Should we do something?"
Gregson says, "Nope. He's doing exactly what I would do if you had made a rookie mistake like that."
Bell smiles, "Really? Would you hug and kiss me like that too?"
Gregson turns and can see the blanket is now around both of them and Holmes head is lost somewhere in Watson's neck.
Gregson smirks at Bell, "Maybe I would. Come on, give them some privacy," as he ushers Bell towards the squad car.
A now more subdued Watson and Holmes walk up to the captain. "Sherlock and I would like to go home now, if we can."
"Everything squared away?" Gregson asks. Sherlock nods, rubs his face and eyes, "Yes. Watson and I will be taking a few days off to ... stay home ... rest," he nods his head, gives Watson a sidelong look "maybe take in a baseball match." Joan tries to hide a smile.
"Sounds like an excellent idea. I'll have one of my guys take you home."