Joan munched on a cookie as she set up the living room for dinner. She'd decided that their first meal in the apartment shouldn't be at a stuffy table, but on the floor with a thick, red scarf over the light and candles set on all available surfaces. She threw down the cushions from the chairs in a circle and a large serving tray armed with bowls, small plates, glasses and a large tea pot filled, for the moment, with milk in the center. Joan flicked on the stereo and popped in a CD of classical music because Sherlock hated everything else and couldn't focus with the television turned on.

The doorbell rang, inspiring Sherlock to call out, "Joan, the door is making noise." He stayed firmly in his room, intent on not making an appearance until the intruder was gone. Sherlock didn't like most people; they annoyed him with tedious conversation about the weather or took Joan's attention from what he was trying to show her. This distaste led to many nights holed up in his own little world reading or surfing the net for interesting experiments.

Joan sighed and yelled back, "I'm perfectly aware of that. It wouldn't kill you to contribute and answer the bell every once in a while, you know." She got up anyway, knowing that he wouldn't be convinced to do much else at the moment. Sherlock was like that, stubborn and very much in his shell when it came to people other than her. "Thank you for coming so quickly," Joan said as she handed the delivery man his money and quickly shut the door.

Sherlock poked his head out of his room and smiled. "The food came." He quickly made his way to the makeshift eating area and plopped himself down on a cushion that allowed him to see the window and all the doorways in the room. Joan smiled knowingly and fell into the place at his left, just the way he liked.

"Eat, you stubborn thing. I finally get to make sure you have a steady diet now that you're under my roof." Joan set down the bag filled with food and grabbed the nearest bowl. Sherlock would skip meals for days, quite by accident, when he was focused on an experiment and Joan had always hated not being able to remind him.

"We'll see," Sherlock murmured, his voice rolling deeply in his chest as he piled food into his dish. An eggroll hung absently out of the side of his mouth as he focused on shoveling mixing the ingredients in his bowl together. For all his intelligence, he was still a teenage boy and had to eat. Though he did pick the strangest flavors.

The dinner was mainly silent as the companions ate for almost no other reason than the fact that Sherlock didn't like to be interrupted while he did anything. The music welled pleasantly in the background the whole while, with Sherlock sometimes swaying along with the music if it was a favorite of his.

Joan liked to watch her friend's face while he did things and took advantage of his inattention. She liked to study human behavior, which was the very reason she had decided to go into medicine, and Sherlock was a prime example of deviating from the norm. He'd been diagnosed as a high functioning sociopath when he was ten but hadn't let it hinder anything he did. In fact, he'd used it to his advantage, a skill he was manipulated quite well by this time. Joan looked away from his thin face and smiled with her cheeks full of noodles and vegetables.

Later Sherlock and Joan sat on the floor and leaned against any available surface with stomachs overfull of Chinese food and the teapot of milk that had washed it down, regretting their decision not to leave leftover for the next day. Sherlock kept his eyes closed so he could better concentrate on anything other than his pained stomach but Joan was fidgeting within ten minutes.

She snuggled up next to him, forcing herself under his arm and asked, "Watch a movie with me, Sherlock?" She looked up at him, her eyes wide and pleading until Sherlock acknowledged her. As soon as he looked down, his head snapped back up and his eyes slammed closed.

"Not the eyes, Joan," he groaned, fighting the urge to take the arm that was already around her and pull her closer. "The eyes have always worked on me. It's not fair for you to use them."

Joan snorted and sat up, barely noticing that the movement caused Sherlock's arm to fall lover on her waist. "You can't call the eyes unfair when you use your deduction thing on me all the time! And you have your own version of the pout, mister." Sherlock looked at her steadily, his eyes searching her face. Joan fought a blush that threatened to appear because of the intensity of his gaze and her sudden realization as to where his hand was.

"We'll watch a movie, Joan," Sherlock promised quietly but made no move to get up. He kept his eyes locked on Joan's face, searching for the emotion that had been there just moments before, struggling to pull it out from the mystery that she still provided, even after all these years.

Joan cleared her throat and stood, pushing up from her knees and walked over to the television. "What movie do you want?" She opened the little cupboard that held the T.V. up and motioned for Sherlock to take a look. "I know there are a lot of these you haven't seen because they're the bane of your existence so don't try and lie to me." Joan watched as Sherlock looked at the DVDs, not touching but looking intently.

"This one," he said as he pulled out a movie titled, "Isla Utopía". Looked over the cover and nodded, approving of his choice and handed the case to Joan. Sherlock didn't know how to work the player on the T.V. mainly because he never used it. All of his business was on his laptop or in a book and caused her to sigh.

"You sure you can handle this?" Joan teased as she waited for the previews to finish. "It's a scary movie you know. Wouldn't want any sudden movement to startle you." Joan meant it to be teasing but there was worry behind her words. Sherlock wasn't used to movies or shows because of how rarely he watched them and she didn't want to trigger his nightmares.

Sherlock sat splayed out on the couch and pressed his lips together, a habit he'd picked up from his mother. "Your version of 'scary' differs from mine. I understand the mechanics of the studios. I mostly wanted to look for errors when I chose this." And because he knew thrillers were Joan's favorite and for Joan, he was willing to risk a few terrors.

Joan groaned and pressed play, thinking about where they could buy a replacement for the remote that had been lost. "Just point them out in your head, please? I like this movie." She flopped down between Sherlock's legs and snuggled up against his chest. "I want to stay disillusioned."

He adjusted so he would be more comfortable with Joan so close but kept his arms on the back of the couch and on his leg, not wanting to do anything that upset his only friend. "Any reason you chose that spot?" he asked, one arching brow raised to put forth an air of nonchalance. Joan was not to see his feelings in case she did not return them. That was how it'd been since they were thirteen and it was how things would stay until she returned them. If she ever returned them.

Joan laughed and brought his arms around her torso and pressed back further before answering with, "This is how you watch scary movies. All snuggled in with your friends or significant other. They're movies to bring you closer." She leaned her head against his chest and continued, "Now, hush. It's starting."

The movie played on for almost three hours, but Joan fell asleep an hour in. Sherlock had not moved in that time, afraid of waking her. He liked how she could never stay awake when something was on, whether it was music or some sort of show even on a car ride. His favorite part was that she usually fell asleep on him.

He supposed some people might say that she was torturing the poor man, doing the things she did and not realizing his affection towards her, but he made sure it was that way. He was afraid of losing his friend over something as trivial as a relationship if his feelings weren't returned and had been for all those years. Joan was content to sit with him, eat with him, live with him and sleep next to him on occasion and that was enough for Sherlock Holmes.

At the end of the movie, he picked her up very slowly and carried her to her room, slipping off her socks because he knew she couldn't stand being in bed with them on, and tucking her in quietly. He turned off the television and DVD player to the best of his abilities and retired to his own bed to do some quick equations before bed. Theorems never ceased to slow his brain long enough for sleep.

At what must have been very early the next morning, Joan was woken by a light rustling at her bedside. Without opening her eyes, she asked with a groggy voice, "Sherlock." A small grunt was her only reply and she opened the covers at her back. "Get in. I told you about the nightmares."

Sherlock stayed silent as he had the other times he'd slept in her bed, but curled up close to her and swung a long arm over her side. He buried his face into her hair, instantly comforted by the regular strawberry scent. Joan acted as his security blanket; she was the one thing that guaranteed a good night's sleep. The therapist had said it was because she was a familiar part of his life that didn't consist of his family; Sherlock agreed with her theory. No matter how bad either of their family lives got— Joan's strict upbringing and the formality that plagued each of their households— one had always been the comfort factor to the other.

Joan let out a little puff of breath and leaned back into the embrace, enjoying the warmth he gave off. Soon, both Holmes and Watson were fast asleep again.