For the fourth time in three days Joan Watson found herself staring into the dark of her closet, a heavy sigh escaping her lips. She had forgotten herself, forgotten her surroundings. She glared sideways at her new vacuum cleaner, wondering absurdly if it was mocking her.

She had turned left after descending the stairs, walked through what she knew to be their makeshift study, past the sturdy wooden table and wall of neatly organized locks. Another left and she was at the door that led downstairs, the door that would bring her to the kitchen, to the soft warm light coming from their back garden and the smell of tea percolating in the antique kettle.

But it was only in her mind.

She wasn't in the brownstone. She was in London - 221A Baker Street.

Joan slammed the closet door shut. She hated that vacuum.

It had been months since she'd follower her partner and best friend across the Atlantic. She'd left everything and everyone behind to recreate the working environment they'd shared in New York. She had planned to live, once again, side by side, but he'd suggested she take over 221A. It was a gift to her, she knew - a measure of independence in a codependent relationship - but she hadn't wanted it.

Sherlock Holmes could read everyone, his heightened senses taking in every small detail: the curve of someone's lips, the smell of another's hands, the gait of any man, the laugh of any woman - it all told him something incredibly meaningful about them. He deduced their every secret and splashed it before them without mercy.

That first day, standing before his wall of television screens, the contents of her purse scattered at his feet, Joan had been raw and vulnerable. Yes, she had seen a lot - been through a lot - but she had never known a man like Sherlock.

Seven years later, she was often the one person he couldn't read. The contradiction often struck her, especially when he did something like suggest she live in 221A.

She hadn't moved across the world for him to end up one house over, but Sherlock couldn't see that. He thought he was helping, and Joan refused to steal back the foundation of goodwill he believed he was building.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked, finding her still standing before her main floor closet, so hopelessly lost in thought that she hadn't heard him come in.

Joan shook her head, raven hair loosely brushing back and forth over the middle of her back.

"Well, if you're done examining the inner workings of your closet perhaps we can reconvene our discussion."

"Our discussion?"

"About Oren's letter," Sherlock reminded her, but Joan hadn't needed one. She knew her brother's news was the cause of her distress, her confusion. His letter had made her long for the brownstone, for New York, for home.

"You still haven't told me what it said," Sherlock continued, finding his place in her large sitting room.

Joan had purposefully decorated it to match their old living quarters, at least in spirit. Gone was the tattered Oriental rug and the metal grating for lock hanging. But she had bought herself a large table and two chairs, one for each side. She'd also forgone the urge to cover her walls in art. They were saved for the pictures and maps and documents their cases always accumulated.

She had packed up Sherlock's books shortly after he fled New York. They were relatively easy to ship, and now littered the bookshelves in 221B. Each time she was there, Joan would smile seeing The Measure of Madness and The Psychology of Memory stacked among his own writings. It was measure of normalcy, as was his single stick and phrenology bust. Angus sat prominently on the fireplace mantle, just as he had in their old home.

Unfortunately, Sherlock's police scanner, collection of locks, and chest of cold case files couldn't make the journey. There was so much Joan felt she'd had to leave behind. The guilt ate at her when she'd first arrived, but over time she grew to love their new surroundings - that was until Oren's letter. Now, more than ever, she regretted leaving Clyde with Ms. Hudson. But the three month quarantine stay he would have had to endure in order to enter London would have destroyed her.

"Where have you gone?" Sherlock asked.

Again, she was drifting in and out of the present. One moment she was there, taking a seat across from him, the next she was thinking of the brownstone. She blinked hard, hoping she could roll the fantasy of their old life to the back of her mind.

"You have seemed," he paused, perhaps choosing his words carefully for her benefit, "off these last few days. And the only correlating event is the arrival of Oren's letter. You know I have always respected your privacy-"

At that Joan raised an eyebrow skeptically. Memory reminded her of every time he had barged into her room to wake her and then pick out her clothes, or his repeated attempts to insert himself into her relationship with Mycroft Holmes.

She knew Sherlock had caught her lack of conviction and corrected himself, "More recently. I have more recently been respecting your privacy, but I feel you should tell me what has caused so much distress, lest we lose another day on the Edwards case."

They hadn't lost a day on the Edwards case due to her wandering thoughts, that much she was sure of. But she also didn't want to argue with him so early in the morning. Instead, Joan got up from her table and walked to the front door and the sleek, white side table she tossed her keys on every day. It was also the spot she kept her mail, usually flyers and take out menus as not many knew her new address. After reading Oren's letter, she had placed it in the drawer there. She had thought about throwing it out. She had thought about replying - calling even. But the drawer was out of sight… sadly, it was not out of mind.

After fetching the letter, Joan returned to her chair across from Sherlock, but when she passed it to him he shook his head from side to side. He didn't want to read it, she knew. He had wanted her to confide in him.

"Oren and his wife are having a baby," Joan finally told him.

Sherlock paused for a moment and Joan watched as he went through each possible reply. This form of communication after news was something he'd begun after his brush with death. There were certain things they said to one another that deserved reflection before response - especially for him, a man who had a habit of saying whatever he thought the moment he thought it, believing it to be right and true and worthy of being heard. With Joan he made a special effort to weigh the pros and cons of his off-the-cuff remarks before speaking.

"Congratulations," he finally said. His voice turned up at the end, as if he was asking a question.

"Of course, congratulations," Joan replied, sensing his uncertainty. "It's good. It's wonderful."

"And yet you've been... sad."

Joan sighed. "It just threw me a bit, that's all. Nothing serious."

"I've found you staring at your closet twice this week, Watson. Or daydreaming during our client calls. Yesterday, you bought the wrong brand of adhesive tape. I worry when I return to my flat the collage dedicated to the Edwards case will be on the floor."

"And?"

"And something's wrong. You received Oren's letter nearly two weeks ago, and waited over five days before opening it."

"We've been busy," she reminded him.

"Not that busy, Watson," he leaned forward in his chair, his arms stretched on the table before him. For a moment, Joan wondered if he was going to reach out and take her hand. She instinctively pulled it away, tucking it into the sleeve of her black blouse.

But when she looked up, his eyes were doing what she'd feared his hands would. They were enveloping her in softness and warmth and care.

"Fine," she relented. "Knowing Oren's having a child made me think about how I will never have one of my own. Yes, you caught me; I've been sad. And that sadness has made me long for home, our old home. But it's all fleeting. Give me a day or two and I'll be fine."

Sherlock cocked his head to the right side, his eyes scanning her for information she hadn't spoken, scanning her for the truth. She hated that look, she hated feeling watched.

"We've spoken before about our respective lack of romantic prospects - mine chosen, yours…"

"Chosen," Joan finished. She wanted to assure him they were the same, they had both chosen work over romantic love.

Sherlock nodded in agreement. "But I wasn't aware you'd given up on the dream of having a child."

"I haven't given up the dream, I've just accepted reality. And the reality is I'm here now," Joan stretched her arms out, her pale hands poking out from the sleeves of her blouse once again, as she highlighted the space of her new home.

"I fail to understand how our journey across the Atlantic should halt your search for a child."

Exacerbated, Joan stood, the chair scraping loudly against the hardwood beneath it. She hadn't wanted to have this conversation. She hadn't wanted to explain.

"We both know you're not that obtuse, Sherlock. If anything, I assumed you already suspected what was happening."

"I assume nothing, Watson. Yes, I noticed you weren't actively pursuing adoption avenues, but it was coupled with a renewed optimism for our investigative work. I believed you were, dare I say, content and therefore…"

"No longer interested in having a child?"

Sherlock didn't reply.

"I like London, I really do. And I have been happy. But I haven't forgotten what drove us here."

"Drove me here."

"We're partners. How many times do I have to remind you of that? Where you go, I go."

Joan walked from the table and made her way to the plush, light blue chair by her front window. She often sat there reading books - or pretending to read books while spying out on the street, taking in the sights and sounds of her new neighbourhood.

Sherlock followed her. As she sat in the chair, she pulled her feet up under her slender form. She wondered if Sherlock could sense her defensive posturing.

Of course he can, she thought.

Sherlock pulled the ottoman from its home against the chair, and sat down. Joan knew he was preparing to be serious once he formed his own hands into tight fists. The action was something he did to prevent the wild gesticulation his hands tended to perform on their own. Joan often thought his observations were like music, his hands that of a conductor moving in tandem with each new idea.

"Try as I may, Watson, I will never be able to properly explain how… content your coming here has made me. I have always believed myself to be better with you: a better investigator, perhaps a better man. But as time unfolded, I told myself there were benefits for you as well. Not only my teachings, but conceivably a confidence in your own abilities you'd lost with your medical career."

Joan didn't interject to dissuade him of the thought. He was right. She was more confident when she was solving crimes. There had been power in the scalpel she wielded as a surgeon, a power sorely lacking during her time as a sober companion. She wasn't possessed of great ego, but that power made her feel useful, desired even.

"You once told me that the only thing we know for certain in that people change. At the time, I silently disagreed. Much deduction is often borne of recognizing patterns that exist because people do not change. But together I was aware how right you were. We were both changing for, what I believed, was the better. To think now that those changes have precluded you from pursuing motherhood saddens me."

"Moving here is only part of the issue," she told him. "I'm not a citizen, so there are legal hurdles. But even if I could jump them, a quick Google search would let any adoption agency know I'm the prime suspect in a murder."

She said it.

The murder of Michael Rowan had gone largely unspoken since she'd arrived in London. Yes, there were grateful exaltations from Joan, who was still blown away daily by Sherlock's selflessness. And, yes, there were days she verbally berated him for giving up his chance to work in New York, the place he had told her he felt the most settled, the most himself.

But Sherlock had assured her it was the only option, that falling on his sword for her was something he had to do.

"It's a murder the FBI has as confession for, a confession from someone who isn't you," he reminded her.

"Well, I'm sure when I put your name down as my business partner and emergency contact no one will bat an eye," Joan cracked sarcastically.

He shifted on the ottoman, his shoulders curling uncomfortably. "Are you saying I'm the reason you can't adopt a child?"

She frowned. In fact, her whole body frowned, as she let her feet fall back to the floor. She hunched towards him and reached for those clenched fists, but stopped short, her hands just hovering in the air over his lap. "You're not the reason. I promise you."

Looking down at her hands inquisitively, Joan knew he wasn't convinced.

"Watson, you mustn't let our recent string of failures stop you from having what you want. I've stood in the way of your happiness before… and I have regretted it. But I vowed to support your urge to adopt a child from the moment you told me of your desire. I haven't changed my mind."

"Well, I've contacted three lawyers here and two back in New York. I've reached out to adoption agencies here, in Asia and Africa," Joan told him as she moved back to the comfort of the chair.

Sherlock watched as she slowly recoiled from him, tucking herself into the warmth and safety of blue fabric. "Trust me when I tell you it's just not going to happen for me."

"I can't believe I'm going to suggest this, but I could call my father."

For the first time since he arrived, Joan smiled - laughed a little even. "I have no doubt your father could steal me a baby… but that's not going to lessen our image as criminals on the run."

"One criminal, one," he told her again. "And only in the eyes of the insipid FBI agents who insisted on your guilt."

Joan nodded in agreement.

"There must be something else we can do," he said, almost to himself, as if he was formulating a plan she couldn't see.

"This is why I didn't want to tell you about Oren's letter, about… well, all of this."

"Because I would try to help?" Sherlock asked incredulously.

"Because you would make me one of your cases," she replied. "I don't need fixing, Sherlock. It's just something that's happening. In fact, it's already happened. And there's nothing to be done."

She gave Sherlock a stern look, trying to push her own resolve onto him, but she knew that was useless. He would agree for her sake, and then go back to 221B and make personal inquiries into how she could procure a child. Private adoption wasn't out of the question, she knew, and soon he would come to that conclusion as well. It would lead to nights of them eating Thai takeout and searching the web for young girls interested in finding new parents for their soon-to-be-born babies. It would make him involved, more involved than she was sure he had initially promised to be, and she didn't want that for him.

Sherlock suddenly stood, pressing the ottoman back with his left foot. Joan was used to his erratic movements, and didn't follow suit.

"The Edwards case," he proclaimed. "A distraction, yes."

"Yes," Joan told him.

"Your place or mine?"

Joan looked around her new home and longed once again for the old one. She decided she needed to see Angus. "Yours."

"I need food," he said. "Let me get us breakfast. Meet in 20 minutes."

Joan didn't reply, but she wouldn't miss it.

Sherlock marched to the front door. He paused for a moment, his back to Joan. She wondered if he was preparing to apologize. He did that too often, she thought. But Joan knew that had she really killed Michael that night in the brownstone, if she had done it in self-defence there would be no complications now. Some nights she dreamt of that life: they still lived together in New York, they still loved and worked with Captain Gregson, they still called Detective Bell family. But the dream included something new: a baby. There in the study she imagined a playpen, her child laughing and cooing as she and her partner solved case after case.

Sherlock has nothing to say sorry for, she thought. The fault is mine.

But he didn't say anything. He left. And when Joan was sure he was halfway down the block, on his way to the coffee shop she loved, the tears began to flow. The stream was fast and hot, and it overwhelmed her. She hadn't realized she was holding in that much grief, but she always tempered her moods around Sherlock. With him gone there was nothing forcing her to be strong or stoic. With him gone she was safe to be weak and broken.

But almost as soon as the tears came she pulled them back in, willing herself to stop. Bringing the palms of her hands to her cheeks, she patted her soft, pale skin and pressed the salty water into her own pores. After a minute or two of steady, forceful breathing Joan knew it was over. Her outburst was done.

Sighing, she stood. He bare feet padded across the hardwood back to the main table, and Oren's letter. She walked back to her front door, to the side table, and placed the letter gently in its place.

A knock startled her just as the drawer closed. Joan righted herself, inhaling deep, before peering through the peephole of her door.

There was no one there.

She wondered if it had been Sherlock hurriedly knocking to let her know he was back, but that didn't seem like something he would do. Then again, crying didn't seem like something she would do and yet looking down at her blouse she could make out the tiny splotches of darker black fabric made by her tears.

Joan opened the unlocked door and peered outside, craning her head from side to side. There was no one on her stoop, but when she looked down she spied a box wrapped in brown paper. Joan tentatively picked up the package and brought it inside.

Back at the table, she gently peeled the paper from the package. She wondered if it could be a trap, perhaps even a bomb, but then chuckled to herself. It seemed silly, even in their dangerous line of work, to think someone could be targeting them. Not in London.

But as the paper folded back, Joan could see the scrawled writing on the box: Sherlock.

Why would a package for Sherlock be at my door? she thought, just as a hand wrapped around her waist, another over her mouth.

It was, sadly, a familiar feeling. One that forced a visceral and immediate reaction. Joan pressed her body back hard and she and her would-be captor fell into the opposite wall. He let her go, and without looking back Joan ran to the back door of her flat. She could hear the man scrambling to his feet, his boots clacking on the hardwood as he followed. But Joan didn't stop. She ran for the door, her fingers fumbling on the deadbolt.

It's already unlocked, she thought. Why?

She was actually turning it the wrong way. She was taking too much time. He was there, almost on top of her, as she finally pulled the back door open. It crashed against him as she slipped out into the morning sun, running straight into the hard, muscled chest of a second man. He grabbed her, his hands on her upper arms squeezing tight.

At that moment, Joan wished she was the kind of woman who screamed, like the women in movies. But even when she was kidnapped by Le Milieu, even when she was being beaten by Michael, she hadn't screamed. It wasn't in her nature.

But as she heard Sherlock in 221B, in his back kitchen laying out the treats he had just bought her, she opened her mouth to call out to him. Her effort was stifled by a gloved hand. The first man was again behind her, and together the two men dragged her back into her own flat and gently closed the door.