Watson was brought into the office and confronted with all the evidence. The look on Gregson and Bell's faces was one of embarrassment and pain. Joan was a friend. Sherlock sat back vacant and numb. Joan was confused and denied vehemently all that she was accused of. More than anything she was wounded that Sherlock did not speak up for her. In the end, Watson looked Holmes square in the eyes and asked, "You know me better than anyone, do you really believe I am capable of this? Of hurting you in this way."

Sherlock stared back blankly at her, speaking without emotion in his voice, "Is it possible to truly know another person?"

Watson looked at Holmes' face, the words he used registered and she brought herself under control as Sherlock continued, "The phone we recovered, your phone, carried the faintest whiff of Dolce & Gabbana Light Blue. Your preferred scent Joan."

Holmes, in three sentences, communicated to Watson what she needed to know. He let her know Moriarty was the source of all this with the quote from her letter. Sherlock knew Watson had stopped wearing Light Blue and started using her autumnal scent over a week ago. He had even uncharacteristically remarked how, as an Englishman, he found her new fragrance, Earl Grey and Cucumber by Jo Malone, rather intoxicating. Joan had been wearing it ever since. The game of hidden meanings also let her know they were being watched. She shot him a quick glance, shook her head and uncharacteristically did not challenge his statements. An internally relieved Sherlock registered her understanding of his message.

She became aware that Gregson was talking to her. "... Holmes isn't pressing charges and we are dropping the investigation... " Watson played her part. "I can not believe that the three of you, of all people, believe this. I wouldn't ever ..." and she teared up and dropped her head to her hands. She wondered if Bell and Gregson were aware of what was going on as she lifted her head and wiped away tears.

Watson crying, even if it was play acting, was too much for Sherlock to bear. He stood up abruptly, "I would prefer you vacate the brownstone as soon as you reasonably can." He turned and exited the office.

Watson walked out of the police station unsure what her next move should be. She assumed she was being watched. She found a corner of the city where she could sit away from prying eyes and think.

Sherlock, upon returning to the brownstone, through discreet observation, discovered their home was bugged. One of the NYPD officers that helped sweep the house the night before must have belonged to Moriarty, surreptitiously planting surveillance devices rather than removing them.

He kept himself busy after that with packing some of Watson's things in a valise, reading, scratching out notes and agitatedly pacing while he waited for the other shoe to drop. The doorbell being leaned upon made him jump and irritated him even further. He brusquely opened the door to find a messenger with a delivery for him. Holmes signed for and accepted the package, and immediately slammed the door shut on the tip-expecting courier.

The package had no address but he knew who it was from. In it he found a small hand-painted replica of The Cure of Folly, by Hieronymus Bosch, with a hand written note from Moriarty. "A gift for you Sherlock. Consider this an early birthday present. Perhaps we can stand in front of the original work and discuss. Hoping to see you soon. Jamie M."

He admired the replica. Evil as she may be, the woman did exquisite work. His birthday was within days, November 15; with Watson out of the way, she was staking her claim to him. Sherlock propped the painting up against a computer monitor and pulled out a clean sheet of paper onto which he furtively scribbled.

The front door opening tore his attention away from his work. Watson stood in the foyer. They stared at one another. Sherlock flashed his eyes at her quickly to stop her betraying their game. He spoke first "I've packed some of your clothes and things. They are there by the stairs. You can make arrangements for the rest later." She stood immobile. Watson knew his ire was false but still it hurt.

"And here," Sherlock grabbed an open book from the table, "a parting gift for you, a copy of John Donne's poetry. Let me bookmark this particular poem for your enjoyment on the deceitful nature of your gender." He grabbed the piece of paper he had been writing on folded it and set it in the book. Sherlock thrust it in her hand, hoping she understood.

Joan took the book and leaned into Holmes, gave him a small peck on the cheek. Playing his part well, he stood immobile. "Good-bye," she said as she grabbed the suitcase and left.

Watson arranged to meet Bell for lunch in mid-town in the noisiest bistro she could find. The page of information Holmes had given her was neatly folded and sitting in the palm of her hand. When Bell joined her at the table, she gently placed a hand on his chest and leaned in for a hello kiss. Bell was startled but quickly realized what Joan had done. "Reverse pickpocketing" another skill to add to the Watson resume.

Watson and Holmes had not been allowed to communicate in any manner for the past three days. Sherlock kept himself busy by running through old case files, pestering Bell and preparing for his pseudo-trip to Spain. He assumed his actions were under constant watch. Moriarty was nothing if not thorough. Sherlock found himself surprised by the feeling of loss he was experiencing. He knew Watson would be back soon but the need to see her now, talk to her now became overwhelming by the second night. Sherlock spent the night in her room, sitting in his chair, staring at an empty bed.

Watson took up residence at the Bentley. She might as well enjoy her solitary confinement. Her withdrawal from Sherlock was equally intense. She missed his snarky comments, his challenges to her intellect, the excitement of working together through their findings. She wanted to talk to him, to see his face contort in concentration. Watson told herself, enjoy the silence, she'd see him soon enough but she couldn't. She found herself that second night staring out her window at the lights of Brooklyn.

The NY Dept. of Corrections received Holmes' information about Moriarty's planned escape. Her letter had invited Sherlock to meet her in Madrid, at the Prado, in front of the Bosch, on his birthday. Her plan to escape the grey of Newgate had to be activated within the next few days. Extra security was set in place but she was given room to move so that when her scheme was set in motion not only was she stopped but her men and women, guards and inmates, who were working for her were also apprehended.

When the Captain gave Sherlock the all clear message his first call was to Watson. She picked up the phone before the first ring and they spent a good hour verbally pummeling each other with information, personal and professional. They arranged for him to come by her hotel, go out to a celebratory dinner and then head home. His second call was to arrange for a thorough electronic cleansing of the brownstone. Every hidden piece of audio and video equipment was removed, except for his, of course.

Sherlock dressed in his best dark suit, black shirt and indigo tie knocked on Watson's hotel door. He was fidgeting with his pockets and putting on his best nonchalant look for Watson, when the door opened and Mrs. Watson greeted him. "Sherlock! How nice to see you. Come in." His face momentarily registered confusion and disappointment but he summoned up his best manners and cordially greeted Joan's mom.

"Joan will be right out. Don't you look nice. She said you two are going out to dinner. I just came by to see how she was ..." Mrs. Watson kept talking and he just smiled and nodded wondering what was taking his partner so long.

Joan came out of the bathroom and Sherlock stopped breathing. She wore a deep blue satin dress that caught every nuance of her movement as she walked. All Watson could see when she walked into the room were his eyes, large and warm and taking her in. She moved towards him. He had shaved and put on his best tie for her, the tie she had given him.

Mary Watson snapped them out of their trance. "Don't you two make quite the pair!" They both looked at her and the awkwardness set in. They took a small step away from each other and looked away. Mrs. Watson, realizing her third wheel status, said her good byes and wished them a pleasant evening.

They stood in silence, eyes locked. They had only been apart for a few days but it had felt an eternity. All the things he had wanted to talk to her about fell away.

She spoke first, "How about we stay here and order room service?"

Sherlock answered, "Your mum's not coming back, is she?"

Watson shook her head no.

He set his mouth in a thin line and nodded yes. Sherlock extended his hand out towards her. In a blur of dark blue satin and the scent of Earl Grey perfume, they descended on the pillowy softness of the bed.

Sometimes talking isn't necessary.