The next morning, Sherlock woke early and breathed a sigh of relief. It had just been another nightmare; Joan was still here and okay. He reluctantly slid from beneath the blankets and over her, careful not to wake her and groggily shuffled back to his room. They'd woken together before, but with the new feelings that were cropping up and becoming stronger he felt it was better to keep a distance. Sherlock was so busy trying to navigate the still unfamiliar layout and work out a plan that he failed to notice Sebastian standing at the bedroom door just opposite of Joan's.
Sebastian stood there, his mouth hanging open and his right hand still holding his gas station coffee, though much more loosely than he had before. Had he just seen that? Sherlock coming out of Joan's room, in his pajamas with his hair disheveled and the obvious signs of spending that night there. It couldn't be possible. For the short time he'd known the bastard, Sherlock had displayed interest only in mocking people and science. He'd already overstepped his bounds with his observations and lack of filter which made it safe to say that Sebastian disliked the man strongly. It didn't stop him from being amazed at the sight that was still burned in his vision.
A little over an hour later, Joan wandered out of her room, her clothes loose and fitting for a Sunday. She wore an oversized, knitted sweater and yoga pants with bare feet and her long, dark blonde hair up in a ponytail. Her cheeks were rosy and bunched up with the welcoming smile she brought out. "Seb, you're home!" She wandered over to the couch and plopped down next to him. "You look funny. What's going on? Get drunk and get with a girl who turned out to be less pretty than you thought?"
Seb snorted and shook his head. "Sherlock wandering out of your room in his pajamas and looking like he'd just woken up. Didn't think he had it in him." Sebastian didn't look at Joan but kept trained his eyes on the floor. He kept his hands clasped together as he leaned forward to change his position and get a little more comfortable.
Joan cocked her head to the side and said, "Had what in him? He sleeps with me sometimes when he has nightmares." Joan pursed her lips at Sebastian's skeptical look and huffed angrily, "Sherlock suffers from chronic night terrors and has since he was nine. When he could, he would sneak over to my house and crawl into bed with me, if he couldn't he would call me." Joan paused and placed a hand on her friend's shoulder. "Sebastian, you don't know much about him, do you?"
"He doesn't really invite conversation when he locks himself in his room all day, does he?" Truth be told, Sebastian knew all he needed about Sherlock. He was a high functioning sociopath who showed a disturbing lack of empathy and emotion and liked to alienate people with sharp comments and generally avoiding them. He knew about people like his new roommate and knew not to let them too close. Sebastian sat for a few moments, thinking about the situation. He liked Joan, she was nice and smart but she wasn't putting herself in a good position. "I won't always be home, you know. To be here in case…" he whispered, trailing off and still refusing to look at her.
"Yeah, I know. What's your point?" Her eyes narrowed and she leaned back, an ill feeling in the pit of her stomach. She knew what he was implying and didn't like it one bit. "Because you think Sherlock is dangerous. He's one of the least dangerous people I know, condition or no condition. He'd only hurt someone if they threatened someone close to him." Joan picked her words carefully when referring to Sherlock's emotions, just as she always had. A sociopath, high functioning or not, had a limited capacity for sentiment and Joan knew there was no way to know for sure what her oldest friend actually felt. "Sherlock is different than who you're read about. He's got a balance, someone he can ask if he's unsure about a social construct." Joan's voice lowered but her belief in her next words were absolute, "Sherlock would never hurt me. Never. In fact, he would hurt anyone who tried to hurt me and has. His capacity to love is unknown, but I'm his anchor and people tend to hold onto those. I won't say he's cured because he's not, but you should have seen him before. You can't convince me that he's faking how he cares for me." She got up from the couch and stomped angrily out the door, needing to think and forgetting her shoes.
Sherlock listened from his room, even pausing his plant experiment to hear Joan's defense of him. She was right, of course, about his condition but she underestimated his feelings for her. Without Joan, he would drown again in his mind, he would sink to what he had been before she'd come along.
His youth until the age of seven had been difficult. His mother was too busy with her projects to care for him and his brother used him like a toy. At five, he'd stopped talking and only ate when forced or he felt it was necessary to his health. It wasn't often. He'd isolated himself in a dark room, books his only companion as he'd learned to read at the remarkably young age of two and the occasional testing of a theory on a stuffed toy or something along those lines. His mind was filled with dark things and he retreated into his shell deeper and deeper, the doctors unable to figure out what was wrong other than the speculation that he could be a sociopath, though even that was uncertain. Then Joan came along. She was the bright spot, the light that drove away the shadows. He remembered the day he met her perfectly.
He was in his usual position on the floor, fiddling with an action figure and trying to find out what made it work, when she burst through the doorway, a gap toothed smile wide on her face. He'd assumed she was a boy at first, with her short hair, but he amended his observation when she turned on the lights and began chattering away.
"Hi, my name is Joan Watson and your mom said you stay up here. She said you don't talk either, is that true?" She'd plopped down right in front of him and cocked her head to the side like a dog, waiting only a moment before she continued, "You're my age, right? I'm seven and your mom said you were too and grown- ups don't lie so it must be true. You have a funny room. My room has toys and colors— or it did before we moved— and yours has book and the curtains are closed." She stood to open them and promptly came back to his side. "You're nice. I like your hair. It's all curly. It's okay that you don't talk because my mom says that I talk enough for the whole world. Do you have a brother? I saw another boy downstairs. I have one too."
Needless to say, his first impression was that Joan was loud and talked very fast. But she treated him like a normal kid, not someone to be avoided like the kids his mother tried to get him to associate with. That first day, Joan sat with him and babbled until her mom spirited her away. Sherlock had never felt so alone in his silence, never noticed that something was missing in his little existence before. He'd stood and gone downstairs to join his family for a meal when he was called, shocking his mother completely. He still didn't talk until a week later.
Joan became his only friend, defending him when the other kids at school bullied him and becoming the constant stimulation he needed. She was interesting, not matter how long she stayed with him, and exciting. But, most importantly, she treated him like he was normal, even when he told he about what the doctor's had said. She was his constant, the one he could tell everything to without being afraid of her reaction because she would always smile and hold his hand, no matter what.
Sherlock loved that about her, loved that she was so caring and understanding. It fit that she was going to be a doctor. He sprayed his plants with their various mixtures and sat on his bed. Joan was invaluable and had proved her loyalty time and time again. He found comfort in her arm and her voice when the nightmares had taken over and still did. He would be lost without his Watson.
Joan didn't come back until later, announcing to the empty common room that she'd already eaten and went into her room. She was happy she had her own little bathroom connected to her room for times like this, when her emotions were so frazzled. She could shower and get ready to sleep without worrying about talking to anyone or making a situation awkward and she did just that, falling asleep without any apprehension for her first college class the next day.
