Title: Red Door

Author: Annaliesegrace

Summary: Post-ep for Paint it Black.

AN: Enjoy readers and leave a review if you do, it does inspire the next one.

For forensiphile. Ask and ye shall receive.

I look inside myself and see my heart is black

I see my red door I must have it painted black

Maybe then I'll fade away and not have to face the facts

It's not easy facin' up, when your whole world is black

No more will my green sea go turn a deeper blue

I could not foresee this thing happening to you

If I look hard enough into the settin' sun

My love will laugh with me before the mornin' comes

I see a red door and I want it painted black

No colors anymore I want them to turn black

I see the girls walk by dressed in their summer clothes

I have to turn my head until my darkness goes

Paint it Black, The Rolling Stones

The drive to the Brownstone was done in stony silence. They'd had no way of contacting Sherlock since he'd seen fit to toss his phone to the ground and destroy it. Mycroft had managed to get ahold of Bell who'd told them the consulting detective had been heading home as of 30 minutes earlier.

Watson had spoken to Bell, who had been obviously relieved she'd been released– even if he hadn't known of her kidnapping until that night, or how she had been released. Though she expected the detective would be able to piece together some of it given it was Mycroft who had called.

She'd promised to explain it all the next day at the station. After many assurances of her well being, Bell had reluctantly hung up, promising to inform the captain of the events.

"Joan-" Mycroft started as she handed back his new cell phone.

"Not now," she said harshly. "I…just…not now."

It wasn't ten minutes later and they were pulling up to the Brownstone and a wave of relief Watson didn't expect rolled over her. Home. She was finally home.

Mycroft walked her up the stairs and as she debated what she would do if Sherlock wasn't home (since her keys had been lost in the attack), the large wooden door swung open to reveal her partner.

"Watson," he breathed out just barely loud enough to be heard. The one word held relief, thankfulness and frustration all at once.

She didn't speak, instead stepping past Sherlock into the brownstone without so much as a goodbye to Mycroft. Watson paused in the entryway, listening to the brothers' conversation.

"Not that I am ungrateful for her return, but how did you of all people manage this?" Sherlock's tone was derisive and downright nasty – not one Watson had heard from him before.

"I have my ways Sherlock. I am sure Joan will fill in the blanks." He took a step away from the door. "Do be sure she is all right."

"I shall do a better job than yourself," Sherlock scoffed and backed into the brownstone, closing the door firmly and locking it.

Then he turned to face her and Watson watched as his eyes moved down and then back up her body, assessing, deducing as he always did.

So Watson did the same. His typical ram-rod straight posture was especially stiff, his arms pressed against his sides, hands clenched tight to the point of the skin turning red. His expression revealed anger, frustration, and at the same time…great relief. But there was something she was missing, something…off. Again she looked him over, easily placing most of his physical reactions into already known Sherlock "buckets". But again the hands. While he often opened and closed them while thinking, he never held them closed so tightly for so long.

Then she knew. He was suppressing a physical urge. There was something his body wanted to do that his mind was rebelling against.

Looking back at his face, she knew.

He wanted to touch her.

But that was not something they did. That was not something he did. And yet, it was clearly written in his body language and expression.

Sherlock Holmes wanted to hug her.

So she smiled gently, took three steps to close the gap between them and pressed herself to him, arms wrapping very loosely around his shoulders.

Instantly he stiffened at the touch but quickly relaxed, never actually hugging her back but certainly leaning into her body just slightly. Enough that she knew the contact was welcome, if not reciprocated.

When she stepped back his hands were loose at his sides, fingers twitching as they always did to a pattern known only to Sherlock. His expression had also released some of the anger, replaced instead with concern.

"Perhaps you would like to take a bath, and then rest a bit?" he suggested.

"I'm sure you'd like some answers," she replied. The debrief with MI6 had been blissfully short – she really hadn't known much they didn't – but expected the one with Sherlock would be much longer.

He seemed to consider that. "I certainly would but right now your comfort is of more concern to me. We can discuss in the morning."

Joan stared at him in silence; that was about the last thing she expected from him. But nodded gratefully and turned toward the stairs, stopping when she glanced into the living room. The table was on its side by the wall, papers strewn across the floor. There were some other smaller items that had clearly been tossed from their usual locations.

It looked like someone'd had a fit of rage; it wasn't difficult to figure out the who and why. And for not the first time, affection for her partner well in her chest. For all his blustering and off-putting personality she knew there was a small part of him that cared for people. Perhaps an extremely limited number of people, herself included, but still.

So she ignored the mess and moved again toward the stairs, pleased when he didn't attempt to follow.

After a long bath that contained much scrubbing of her skin, Joan slipped on a pair of shorts and long sleeved cotton shirt, easing herself into her bed and falling asleep instantly.

It was her on the table now. Bleeding internally, bleeding slowly from…a gunshot wound? She wasn't sure but God it hurt – agonizing really. The men were all around her again.

Fear, there was fear.

"Help me," she cried out but the men simply looked at her.

"Please," she said again, quietly. She could feel the life draining out of her. "I need a hospital."

A gun was pointed at her head.

"No," she whispered.

And the gun went off.

Joan sat up sharply in bed, sucking in a deep breath, her heart hammering in her chest, a thin layer of sweat on her skin. Taking several deep breaths she stood, heading for the bathroom.

Opening her door, she let out a small scream.

"Watson," Sherlock stated simply. "I did not mean to startle you."

Crossing her arms she stared at him, leaning against the wall opposite her door. "You're sitting on the landing in the middle of the night." Then she noticed the pot in front of him on the floor. "With…tea?"

He glanced down then back up at her. "Astute as always, Watson. Would you care for some?"

She closed her eyes and shook her head slightly, only Sherlock, before crossing the small space and sitting next to him, leaning back against the wall as he was.

With his typical deftness, Sherlock poured her tea and handed over the cup, which she took gratefully.

For several moments they sat quietly, drinking. It did help ease her mind somewhat.

"How-" she started.

"For several minutes before waking you were tossing and turning, classic sign of a nightmare. So I made tea." Simple as that.

She blinked several times before looking at him. "You've been sitting here all night?"

"No. I have been in the media room; it has been too long since I exercised my multi-tasking abilities by watching simultaneous television programs. The quality of programming this time of night, however, is dreadful so I am not sure how effective it was."

"And you decided to practice this tonight."

"Yes." He frowned deeply. "Admittedly it was also a way to remain close in the event you needed anything."

"Well, thank you."

"Always, Watson."

Again silence settled over them. Watson was surprised by his restraint in asking about what had happened.

"I talked to Bell, promised I would come in tomorrow and give a statement," she prodded.

He nodded but remained silent, not asking questions, not pressing her for answers. Again, a surprise.

"Your brother is part of MI6."

Surprised settled on his face and remained there as she told him everything that had happened since she'd disappeared, including when X had shot and killed his cousin to prevent him from going to the hospital.

"You dreamt of the man getting shot then." It was a statement.

"No…not, exactly."

He eyed her. "It was you being shot then."

"How can you possibly know that?"

His eyes softened. "It is who you are, Watson. In that situation, knowing that for the moment you are safe…or as safe as one can be while being held hostage, your focus would have been on the injured man. As a former doctor, seeing a patient killed in front of you in cold blood would have most certainly triggered certain…memories. I imagine there will be many more nights like this." He paused and looked at the teapot between them. "And I will be there with tea, if you'd like."

She smiled. "I would."

"Now, finish your tea and then back to bed with you. I'm sure tomorrow will be a trying day once the NSA catches up."

Watson choked on the tea she had been swallowing. "The NSA?"

"Oh, yes. It appears I have a story to tell as well."

"It appears," she muttered into the cup and finished the now mostly cool liquid, setting it back on the tray.

"Goodnight Sherlock," she said and impulsively squeezed his forearm. "And thank you."

Sherlock kept his head down but replied, "You are very welcome, Watson. Goodnight."

Silently she stood and went back into her room, the trip to the bathroom forgotten. Sleep came easily and she remained dream free the remainder of the night, secure that if she woke, he would be there. With the tea.

FIN