The taxi ride back to the brownstone was one filled with nothing but silence, which was punctuated only by the sound of nearby cars driving through the lightly drizzling rain. Joan was sitting up straight, her hands clasped in her lap, as she gazed out of the window for the entirety of the journey. The bright amber lamps which lined the street shone their light into the car as she found herself completely lost in her own muddled thoughts. The night had certainly been one of mystery and confusion, and she felt completely at a loss as to how to process the events or deal with her present situation: namely, Sherlock's coldness. He had not spoken a word to her since leaving the event, with the only contact they had being a polite nod to her when she thanked him for holding the taxi door open for her. She knew that the evening had led to them both finding themselves, even just for a few moments, completely without restriction. They had eroded all the boundaries between them, the boundaries which always exist between friends or associates, and for just a few moments, they had become something more. As Joan pondered this, she isolated the inaccuracy of her thought. It had been more than a few moments. In fact, the more she thought about it, she realised that the romantic element of their relationship had been present for the entire evening. She just hadn't quite realised it.

As this thought crossed her mind, she cast a cautious glance towards Sherlock, who was sitting in a manner similar to her, but was facing forwards, his bright eyes wide and unblinking. Joan turned instantly back from him, facing out of the window once more, as she tried to think of what to do next. She was hurt by Sherlock's coldness, his aloof attitude and dismissive treatment of her. But she understood it. It was how he acted, how he dealt with events which he felt unable to process. It took her a very short while to realise that his cool and surly attitude was not directed at her, but at himself. He was as equally confused as she was, and probably frustrated with himself for allowing himself to become so completely engaged in a side to their relationship which was unquestionably romantic, if only for a there was something else to their relationship that night, something which Joan had been thinking about constantly. The connection. It was not just romantic in manner, or attitude, or emotions, but in physicality too. When they had been dancing, she felt an uncontrollable draw towards him, and found herself utterly incapable of controlling herself. She ran through the dance in her mind as she considered her thoughts, remembering every move, every touch, and every emotion. She found herself feeling breathless and slightly warm as she reminisced, as she realised just how far they had allowed themselves to depart from the conventions of their typical relationship. Before she could ponder this any further, the taxi came to an abrupt stop outside the brownstone, and she found herself feeling nervous and incredibly apprehensive.

Joan slowly undid her seatbelt and, as the sound of the un-clicking entered the otherwise silent taxi, a sound from her left drew her attention instantly to the door to her side. Sherlock had, without her knowledge, got out of the taxi and was holding the door open for her. She was struck by the coolness of the air, which refreshed her slightly, soothing her flustered cheeks. However, unlike the last time he held the door open for her, Sherlock was not standing in front of her with a kind expression and an outstretched hand. Instead, he was standing to the side, holding the door open with one hand, as his entire body was turned from her and facing the brownstone. Joan sighed quietly, before easing herself from the vehicle and walking on to the pavement, as Sherlock quickly closed the taxi door and ascended the stone steps. By the time Joan reached the top, Sherlock was already inside, hanging up his coat and scarf before making his way towards the kitchen. Joan waited in the foyer for a few moments, considering what to do next. She knew that he was finding the events of the evening difficult to process, and that he was battling the same confusion as she was. She believed that he was probably chastising himself severely for allowing himself to reveal that side of himself to her, and to engage her in a dance which had become much more heated and physically charged than either of them could have anticipated. She knew that, in moments like this, he needed solitude and quiet in order to process his thoughts and deal with the confusion. His coldness to her before they left the building had been a self-preservation method, acting as a way to protect both himself and her. At this moment, Joan believed that this method was primarily to protect himself from the fact that he had allowed himself to engage in an activity which he did not feel comfortably with, or that he regretted. She could not be more wrong.

Joan slowly made her way across the hall and towards the kitchen, shrugging the wrap from her shoulders, until it fell down her back, coiling itself around her arms. She slowly walked through the living area, pausing in the entrance to the kitchen, as she observed Sherlock in silence for a few moments. Sherlock had removed his dinner jacket and placed it over a chair at the table, and was currently rummaging through a cupboard, looking for his favourite cereal. The kettle was boiling on the stove, its bubbling and hissing only adding to Joan's uneasiness. She knew that he would want to be alone, and that he was perhaps angry with her for her role in the events of that evening, but she did not feel able to leave him alone. Not when he was like this. She needed to be sure that he was alright, and she wanted to assure him that, should he wish to, she would be ready to discuss the issue with him fully. She swallowed hard, and pulled her wrap slightly to her, as she prepared to speak.

"Sherlock" she called gently, causing his arm to pause in the air, before lowering itself instantly and continuing to search the cupboard. He did not turn around as she spoke. "Sherlock, could we-"

"Goodnight, Watson" he spoke instantly, his tone one of painful formality. He spoke in the same manner as a manager who was bidding goodbye to a new employee, whose first day had been less than satisfactory.

Joan nodded briefly to herself, and was surprised at the overwhelming feeling of sadness which had begun to consume her. She watched him for a moment, before breathing in sharply and attempting to respond in a manner which would appear confident and unaffected. She failed. "Goodnight" she mumbled in response, before slowly walking from the kitchen and making her way up the stairs. Sherlock paused for a moment, lowering his arms and bracing himself against the kitchen worktop. He tilted his head back and listened to the sound of her high heels clicking as she rushed up the stairs, and closed her door gently behind her. Sherlock exhaled quickly, lowering his head as he made a fist with one hand, and struck the side of the work surface in frustration. He raised his aching hand to his face, running it through his hair as he turned around, preparing himself to walk up the stairs, to follow her, to talk. But he found himself unable to do so, and instead chose to remain in the kitchen for the majority of the night, his hands clasped around the stone-cold tea and uneaten cereal, as he attempted to process the events from the night before.

As soon as Joan entered her room, she closed the door gently behind her, and allowed her silver wrap to fall from her arms. She was surprised at how overcome with tiredness she currently felt, which she instantly put down to the emotionally draining evening which she had just experienced. She closed her eyes and leaned against the back of the door, raising her head towards the ceiling as she attempted to compose herself. Despite her fear and concerns, she knew that there was nothing more that could be done that night. Attempting to talk to Sherlock would simply complicate the matter further, and be extremely counter-productive. As she considered this, she remembered his last words to her, the cold 'good-night' he bade her just moments before. She had been hurt by his coolness, and saddened by his rebuff. But in the time it had taken her to ascend the stairs, she realised that it was just his way of coping, of trying to understand. Her method would be to discuss it, openly and in depth, listening intently to him as he spoke. His way was quite different. He needed to isolate himself, remove himself from everything else, and process the information fully and independently before discussing it with anyone else. She considered how painful his method must be for him, and how lonely and frightening it undoubtedly made him feel. She closed her eyes for a moment, leaning against the door once more, before opening her eyes and walking tiredly across the room. She suddenly felt very warm again, and very constricted, which was not helped by the sharp stinging pain which had returned to her hand. Joan walked across the room and sat on her bed, removing her shoes and jewellery, before standing and depositing the latter back into its ornately decorated box. She stood in front of the mirror for several moments, staring at her own reflection, before being instantly awoken by the cool air which was flooding the room from the open window opposite her. She turned from the window back to the mirror, and began to slowly remove the clips and accessories from her hair, allowing her dark locks to fall gently down her back. She then turned from the mirror and faced the bed, picking up an oversized navy blue shirt from beneath the covers, and laying it out. She reached to her side and undid the dress, allowing it to fall from her body and to the floor, landing in a crumpled heap. She did not look down at the dress, but marvelled in how cool and unrestricted she currently felt. She sighed in satisfaction before reaching for the dark blue shirt and pulling it tiredly over her head, before crawling over her bed and getting under the covers, wrapping herself in the comforting blankets, as she allowed herself a temporary break from her troubled thoughts, and allowing herself to finally rest.

Despite the events of that evening, Joan slept soundly that evening, and was undisturbed by dreams of concerns. Instead, her body allowed her to rest peacefully for the night, which she later attributed to the fact that it must have known that she would require all of her strength later on.

"Watson" came a familiar voice, causing her to turn her head to the side slightly and pull her blankets closer to her. The voice was clear and close by, but she found herself unable to open her eyes to acknowledge it, preferring to encase herself in the safety of her blankets. "Watson" it repeated, more firmly than before, but still in a manner that she found to be refreshingly gentle. "Watson, are you awake?"

Joan's eyes snapped open, and she turned towards the sound of the voice, leaning on her right side. As she did so, she saw the figure of her companion standing just a foot away from her, his arms resting by his sides, and his fingers tapping nervously on his thigh. She rose her eyes to meet his stare, which he evaded instantly, turning from her face to the window.

"Captain Gregson has called, he requires our assistance on a new case" he stated simply, in a low and solemn tone. She watched him with interest, pushing herself up slowly from the bed, and turning towards him to speak. Before she could utter a word, Sherlock continued to talk. "I will be waiting for you downstairs. Please, take your time." His last words were spoken with gentleness and sincerity and were, Joan presumed, his attempt at an apology. She felt slightly relieved by this, sighing contently as she made her way across her room and readied herself for the day ahead.

Ten minutes later, Joan descended the stairs, and found Sherlock waiting patiently in the foyer for her. As she reached the bottom step he walked towards the coat rack, picking up her black coat, and handing it to her. Joan was slightly taken aback by this action. Normally he would hold the coat open for her, helping her to put it on. But not today. She swallowed quickly, taking the coat from him gratefully, and slipping it on as she followed him from the brownstone and to a waiting taxi. Once again, Sherlock held the door open for her in a painfully formal and duty-related manner, before walking across the back of the car and getting into the seat next to her. Despite the oddness of his behaviour, Joan acknowledged that he appeared to be handling the events of the night before, and was still processing them, as well as his own thoughts. She decided to be patient, to wait until he was ready to broach the subject. The first minute or so of the taxi journey was filled with the same eerie silence they had both experienced the night before, but this was changed by the sound of Sherlock's voice.

"We are heading to J and F Dynamics, Watson, a corporate investment firm on the upper-East side. The police received a 911 call from a janitor earlier this morning. He reported to finding the body of Melissa van Vale, CEO, in her office. She appears to have been stabbed to death." He paused for a moment, and Joan nodded in understanding. He cast a brief glance towards her, before turning his head to face forwards once more, and continuing to speak. "Captain Gregson and Detective Bell are already at the scene, and have requested our assistance."

"Do we know when she was killed?" Joan asked cautiously, watching Sherlock carefully for a response.

Sherlock's head moved slightly to the side, facing her for a moment, their eyes meeting. They stared at each other for a few moments, neither of them moving or blinking, before Sherlock broke the gaze and continued to stare forwards once more. "The 911 call was made at 8.47am, just under an hour ago, and Miss van Vale was last seen at 10pm last night by her temporary PA, who had stayed on to prepare some notes for a meeting Miss van Vale was due to have this morning at 9am. So, our victim died at some point between 10pm last night and 8.47am this morning."

"Could the janitor have done it?" Joan asked immediately, watching as Sherlock's lips twitched slightly, as if trying to prevent himself from smiling.

"The janitor was taken to a local hospital after having collapsed shortly after making the call. It appears that he is an elderly gentleman of a nervous disposition, and with a pre-existing heart condition" Sherlock spoke in a low yet gentle tone. "He seems to be an unlikely candidate for such a crime."

"Unlikely, but not impossible" Joan returned, turning her head from him and facing forwards too. Sherlock glanced furtively to the side, watching her with a mixture of caution and satisfaction, before nodding in agreement. Neither of them spoke another word during the next ten minutes of the journey, until the cab pulled over at their destination.

Sherlock and Joan made their way through the building and towards the top-floor, where they were escorted by several familiar police officers to the office of the late Melissa van Vale. The room they entered was large and round, and reminded Joan somewhat of the ballroom from the night before. Sherlock evidently had the same thought, as he tapped his fingers nervously on his thigh and paced the room in an agitated manner. Joan watched him closely for a moment, before taking a few cautious steps towards him, and placing her hand reassuringly on his back.

"Sherlock, I-" she began gently, only to be cut off mid-sentence by the man in question, who turned quickly away from her, as if her touch had physically pained him. Joan's eyes widened with concern and sadness, as she slowly retracted her hand from the air, and allowed it to fall by her side. Gregson and Bell, who had been approaching the pair as this occurred, shared a perplexed look, before standing to address the consulting detectives.

"Holmes, Watson, thanks for coming" Gregson began in a curious manner, as he cast concerned glances from Sherlock to Joan, who was standing a respectable distance away from her partner. "The body's through here, in the inner office." Sherlock nodded quickly, following Gregson through to the office. Detective Bell turned to watch him for a moment, before tilting his head back and focusing his attention on Joan.

"Is everything okay?" he asked, in a tone as equally confused and concerned as the one used by Gregson just moments ago.

"Yeah, it's fine" Joan mumbled, offering him a small smile, as she followed Gregson and Sherlock into the room.

"Clearly" muttered Bell under his breath, following them inside."

The office was large and round, and decorated in an ultra-modern manner. There was a large desk towards the back of the room, which was facing away from the beautiful views from the windows behind it. To the left and right were bookcases filled with texts and framed photographs, which gave the room a feeling of warmth and familiarity. At the far right was an expensively upholstered white sofa and matching armchairs, with a dark wooden coffee table. There was a large table and chairs at the far right of the room, clearly used for small meetings in Miss van Vale's office. The beauty of the room, and the interesting nature of the décor, was completely overshadowed by the startling sight of the body of its occupant, which was lying lifeless upon the ground. Miss van Vale, an attractive and well-dressed woman in her late thirties, lay sprawled across the floor, her dark hair partially concealing her pale face. She was lying on her back, with one arm by her head and the other around her stomach, where several rips in the fabric of her bespoke blouse revealed her injuries, which were betrayed by the blood which had pooled around her.

Joan took a couple of cautious steps towards the body, crouching slightly, as Sherlock stood slightly behind her, surveying the room.

"From the dark shade of the blood, I'd say that Miss van Vale has been dead for at least six to eight hours. Possibly slightly longer." Stated Joan, placing one hand on her knee and pushing herself up from the ground. "She has three stab wounds to the abdomen, and several lacerations to her right hand. They appear to be defensive wounds, she fought back." Joan paused, glancing down at the expression on the woman's face. She was staring up at the ceiling with dark, wild eyes. Joan turned away from her for a moment, walking around her body and examining her from the other side of the room. "She has a small contusion to her temple, suggesting she was struck at least once."

"Not necessarily" spoke Sherlock coolly from the corner. "She could have fallen and struck her head on this large oak desk of hers."

"Possibly." Joan conceded, nodding towards him. He returned her nod, before glancing past her and towards the bookshelves, examining their contents. "Do you know anything else about her?" she asked, turning to Gregson as she spoke.

"Miss Melissa van Vale, thirty-six, CEO of the firm. She's the daughter of the owner a similar company in LA, but a successful business woman in her own right. She was appointed CEO just six months ago, and has been overseeing some business negotiations with companies in other states, which has meant that she has been in her office until the early hours." He finished, closing his notebook and placing his hands in his pockets. Before he could continue, Sherlock began to speak.

"She knew her attacker" he spoke simply, turning from the bookcase and towards the expectant Captain Gregson. "The door to the outer office locks automatically after being shut, and can only be opened from this side. The PA left at ten, meaning that Miss van Vale opened the door to the killer. Now, considering the time of night, it is unlikely she would permit someone who she was not familiar with. Therefore-"

"Could it have been the PA?" Joan asked, looking towards Sherlock, who turned to face her briefly.

"No." He stated simply, his curious eyes darting across the room. "Miss van Vale's PA was picked up by her boyfriend after work and taken to a nearby bar where her favourite band were playing. Multiple witnesses can attest to this, her alibi has already been confirmed."

"How did you-"

"I told him this morning" Gregson spoke, sending the tension in the room. "It was one of the first questions he asked me." Joan nodded in understanding, glancing back towards Sherlock, who was continuing to stare at the bookcase.

"We should head back to the precinct" continued Gregson, walking out of the office. "I'm having my guys go over CCTV footage from this building and surrounding locations, including traffic cams. We're also appealing for witnesses. The PA is coming in for an interview in just over an hour, and I'd like you guys to sit in."

"Of course" stated Sherlock cordially, before walking past Joan and towards Captain Gregson, following him and Bell from the building. Joan sighed to herself, tilting her head back slightly and closing her eyes, before breathing in slowly and following them from the building. Sherlock was evidently not dealing with this as well as she had hoped he would, and she was deeply concerned about him. He clearly was not ready to discuss the subject, but he could not continue acting in this way. Not simply because of the case, but because of him. She could tell how much he was struggling with the events of the previous night, and knew that he was continuing to process them. As she followed Sherlock and the others into Gregson's waiting car, she considered how, perhaps, the fact that they were working on a case would actually be good for Sherlock. She hoped so, at least.

Gregson, Bell, Sherlock and Joan arrived at the precinct minutes later, and busied themselves with putting up crime scene photos onto the boards around the room they were using, and delving into the official and personal files relating to the victim. Sherlock and Bell were discussing something by one of the boards, with Sherlock speaking in an animated fashion and he indicated several of the photos, gesturing emphatically. Despite seeming to be slightly confused, Bell was nodding in agreement, pointing to one photo and saying something, causing Sherlock to nod approvingly. Joan watched the scene with interest, and felt slightly relieved. He was clearly immersing himself in his work, interacting pleasantly with Detective Bell, and discussing ideas openly. These are good signs, she thought. As she rose from her spot at the table, Captain Gregson entered the room, holding his phone in his right hand, a look of triumph on his face.

"Captain, what is it?" Joan asked, her voice attracting Sherlock's attention. He watched her as she walked slowly towards Gregson, his eyes resting on her face. He was glad that she was sounding less saddened and dejected than she had done the previous evening, and was relieved that she was throwing herself into her work. As he watched her intently, he felt the familiar pangs of guilt overwhelm him. Not simply for his actions the night before, but for his actions and treatment of her since. He had not wished to appear cold, but he was finding it difficult to deal with the events of the previous night. He also did not wish to overwhelm her, make her feel as though he were pursuing her for his own gratification. He cared about her too much to allow her to be made to feel like that. She was worth far more. As he considered this thought, her eyes rose to meet him, and he looked away instantly, his cheeks flushing with guilt.

Joan could not see his cheeks, just the back of his head, as he turned instantly from her. She felt saddened by this unnecessary action, and wondered how much longer he would be acting in such a manner. Her thoughts were interrupted by Captain Gregson, who was responding to her question.

"I just got off the phone with the PA who left at 10pm last night" he began, looking from Joan to Bell and then to Sherlock. "Lindsey Reynolds. She called to let me know that, due to traffic, she won't be here for her interview in thirty minutes, but about an hour. Anyway" he continued, placing the phone in his pocket and glancing towards Joan as he continued to speak. "She and I got talking on the phone, and she mentioned that her boss, Miss van Vale, had been having an affair with Justin Rogers, a married CEO who works at a rival company." Gregson looked satisfied with this, and Joan could understand why.

"So you think that she threatened to expose the affair for some reason? Which caused him to kill her?" She asked in a low tone, considering the possibility of this theory.

"It's possible" began Sherlock, his focus entirely on Captain Gregson. "Romantic trysts of this nature can often lead to obsession or irrationality." As soon as he spoke, he realised the implications of his words. His breath caught in this throat and he felt his palms become clammy, and he was certain that Joan was staring at him. He had not meant to imply that she was obsessed or irrational, in fact, he held her to be quite the opposite of both of these negative traits. Nor did he consider the unsavoury affair between a married man and his mistress to be in the same league as the levels of closeness and emotional intimacy they shared the night before. But as soon as he spoke, he regretted his words. Not the words per se, but how he believed Joan would interpret them. And she did.

"I'm gonna get some coffee" Joan announced, turning back towards the table and removing her wallet from her bag. "Would anyone like some?" She walked quickly past Gregson towards the door, resting her hand upon the handle and opening it wide, leaving the room before anyone had a chance to answer.

"Watson-" Sherlock spoke in a low and regretful tone, one which was so low that he was certain she had missed it. He closed his eyes for a moment, rubbing them with his hands, before turning back towards the board. "Do you have any further details on Mr Rogers?"

Joan walked quickly through the precinct and swung open the doors, sighing in relief as cool, fresh air greeted her on the street. She stood at the top of the stone steps and exhaled deeply, before clutching her wallet closely to her side, and crossing the street to her usual coffee shop. She found herself calmed by the familiar scent of freshly brewed coffee, and sighed in relief to find that the shop was almost empty. She was glad to have arrived after the early-morning coffee rush. As she queued up and ran a hand through her hair, she found herself feeling slightly calmer than she had done before, as if soothed by the scent of the coffee beans. From the time it took for her to walk to the shop from the precinct, her mind had been completely devoted to recalling the exact words Sherlock had used in that room. She understood that he was upset and confused, but she felt that she did not deserve that. She sighed in frustration, before feeling herself once more becoming calm. Perhaps he had not meant those words, or at least, if he had, maybe they were not directed at her. It was possible, and she knew it. But as she ran over the words in her mind, she found it more and more difficult to distance herself and her actions the previous night from the unsavoury woman he was describing. Was she obsessing? Was she becoming irrational? She was pondering this question as the barrista took her order and handed her her coffee, and was so consumed by the thought, that she walked straight into an incoming patron, spilling the coffee down her shirt.

"Oh, wow, God, I am so, so sorry-" came the voice of the mysterious man.

Joan sighed, smiling embarrassedly as she looked up at him, preparing herself to speak. "No, really, it was my-" she stopped. The man was tall, handsome, and had a beautiful and arresting pair of dark eyes, which were staring at her with concern. "Fault" she continued, barely above a whisper.

"No, Miss, really-" he continued nervously, taking the empty cup from her hand and passing her some napkins. "I wasn't watching where I was going, I... will you allow me to buy you another cup?" he asked flirtatiously, flashing her a bright, dazzling smile. Joan smiled back at him, using the napkins to remove some of the coffee from her blouse, and pulling the soaked material away from her skin.

"Thanks but I... I'm actually working right now" she stated, meeting his gaze once more. "And I'm not really dressed for morning coffee-"

"- you're dressed in it" the man interrupted, smiling at her sheepishly. She returned his smile and laughed politely, before attempting to move past him and towards the door. The coffee was very hot and her skin was burning, so she wished to return to the precinct immediately to change. "But really, miss, I-"

"Joan" she said, turning back to face him.

"I'm Jake" he replied, nodding at her politely. "Well, Joan, would you allow me to take you to coffee another time, perhaps? To make up for my clumsiness?"

"That's not necessary, really" she began warmly, offering him a small, reassuring smile. "It was an accident, and it's fine, so I-"

"Well, regardless of whose fault it was" he continued, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a pen. "I'd love to be able to have coffee with you sometime."

Joan opened her mouth to speak, but found herself unable to form the words. She was still recovering from the events of the last night and this morning, and her skin really was beginning to feel sore. She appreciated the stranger's kindness and consideration, but it was not necessary.

"Look, I-" she began.

"Okay, well, could we exchange numbers? I'll call you sometime and, if you're not interested, that's fine." He said, smiling politely.

Joan returned his polite smile, and nodded. She appreciated his kindness, and he seemed to be a nice, kind person. It would be nice to spend some time with a person she was unfamiliar with, and perhaps distract her from the issues which were currently concerning her. She nodded once more, more confidently this time, before accepting his pen and quickly writing her number down upon an unsoiled napkin, and handing it to him with care.

"Look, I've really got to-"

"Work? Yeah, of course. No problem, thank you." He stated, holding the napkin to his face and smiling at her once more, as she said goodbye to him and walked towards the door, smiling slightly as she crossed the street and headed back to the precinct. The chance encounter with a kind stranger had reassured her, and provided her with a degree of confidence and contentment which had eluded her in the past twelve hours. She was grateful for his kindness, and for the effect it had on her. Whilst she was not sure that she viewed him as a potential romantic partner, she thought that they could perhaps be friends.

Joan walked through the precinct and back into the room, passing Sherlock and Captain Gregson, who stopped speaking the moment he saw her. Her white blouse was saturated in a dark liquid, and she was making a beeline for her bag, pulling out a spare shirt as he and Sherlock watched her with interest. Before Gregson could speak, Sherlock turned to face her, taking a few steps in her direction as she turned around, holding the shirt in front of her.

"Watson, are you alright?" he asked, genuine concern clear in her voice. Joan was surprised by this, and lifted her gaze to meet his, nodding quickly as she did so.

"Yeah, fine" she returned immediately, walking past him. "Just an accident in the coffee shop, it's nothing." Sherlock watched as she slowly made her way to the bathroom, and continued to stare at the door for a few moments as he processed his thoughts. She seemed to be okay, and not clearly offended or hurt by his actions. At least, he hoped that this was the case. As he considered his thoughts, his attention was drawn to the opening of the bathroom door, as Joan emerged from it and began to walk back towards the room. Sherlock decided that he could not wait, he needed to talk to her, to explain. Not the night before, perhaps, he was not sure that either of them were ready for that. But he needed to make sure that she realised that his most recent gaffe was not some intentional slur against her. He walked from the office and towards Joan, whose attention was not on him, but on something else. She paused mid-step, reached her hand into her pocket, and slowly drew out her phone, staring with confusion at the unfamiliar ID. She turned back to face the bathroom, placing on hand on her hip as Sherlock continued to walk towards her.

"Joan Watson" she answered, holding the phone to her ear.

"Hey, Joan. It's Jake." Came the familiar voice. "Now's later, right?" Joan laughed politely, tilting her head back slightly as she did so. Sherlock stood nervously behind her for a moment, just a couple of steps away, and was staring nervously across the precinct, waiting politely for her to finish her phone call. She spoke with the person on the other end for a few moments, her voice sounding happy and conversational. From her tone and her demeanour, Sherlock knew that she was talking to man. For some reason, which he could not explain, this made his chest ache slightly, and his heart feel heavy.

"Tonight? Um-" Joan paused, thinking over everything that was going on at the moment. The case demanded her attention, as did the incident with Sherlock. But she found herself wondering whether, perhaps, an evening away from both of those things would benefit them more than her placing her complete and undivided attention upon them. She nodded in satisfaction, before replying to Jake's request. "I'd love to, Jake, thanks. Yeah, see you at eight."

Joan hung up the phone, and her arm fell to her side. Sherlock stood there for a moment, feeling confused and slightly saddened, before turning on the spot and walking back towards the room. By the time Joan turned around, he was already back by the board, examining the photographs and reviewing other evidence, as if he had never left at all.