Joan lay asleep on top of Sherlock for thirty minutes before he too felt comfortable enough to join her in their slumber. Before allowing himself to fall asleep, he arced his left leg slightly and drew her closer to his chest, ensuring that she would not fall off the edge. She murmured satisfactorily in her sleep at this action, shifting her head slightly and nuzzling against his cheek. Sherlock closed his eyes at this contact, inhaling deeply and trying to control himself. Joan's right arm was draped across his chest, with her hand resting upon his shoulder. Her right leg was resting over the bottom of his left one, which he had used to draw her close to him. Sherlock remained perfectly still for a few moments, to make absolutely sure that his attempts to provide her with physical comfort and stability had not roused her, before allowing his body to relax. Sherlock rested his right hand protectively on Joan's lower back, her long, dark hair brushing his fingertips. As he gazed down upon her sleeping figure, he noticed how perfectly calm and peaceful she appeared. Her current state was completely different to how frightened and traumatised she had appeared just an hour before. Despite her best attempts at concealing her fear, Sherlock recognised the pain in her eyes, and the terror in her features which she was trying to bury.

At the memory of her previous state, he found himself once more recalling the words of Captain Gregson, who had cautioned him about any potential developments in the relationship between himself and Joan. Sherlock looked down upon her once more, fixing his glare upon her serene expression. Was she as fragile as the Captain had portrayed? And would a shift in the dynamic of their relationship place her in more danger? He did not know. But he was determined to analyse the evidence and come to a firm conclusion before acting further. He would not risk the physical or emotional well-being of Joan Watson. He cared about her far too much. Sherlock found himself overwhelmed by these thoughts and, in an attempt to escape them temporarily, closed his eyes. He had intended on thinking the events over, considering the Captain's words, alongside Joan's actions. He would hold her steady and feel the warmth and comfort of her peaceful form as he considered how best to deal with their current confusion. Instead, he found himself both physically and emotionally drained, yet as comforted by her presence as he always was. Instead of contemplating the nature of their relationship, Sherlock fell asleep within moments, comforted by the sound of her light and gentle breathing.

It was several hours before either of them woke. Neither of them had realised just how exhausted they had been, and how much their bodies and minds had craved a temporarily rest from the pain of their current reality. As the dawn broke, the thin yellow light of the morning sun shone through the living room windows, dancing upon the features of the sleeping Joan Watson. Despite having been in a deep sleep, the moment the light entered the room, Joan's eyes snapped open, and she shifted her head slightly towards the window. Joan was unaware of her surrounding for a few moments, and felt dazed as she slowly came into consciousness. She felt herself laying upon something warm and comforting, something very familiar. But it was not her mattress. She could also feel her left arm pressed against what felt like a piece of furniture, and her right leg was draped across something, and hanging off the edge of whatever it was she was lying on. As soon as she opened her eyes, she used her right hand to push herself up to face the window; but instead of finding her hand resting on the familiar material of her duck-feather pillows, she felt something else. Something equally as comforting and even more familiar. Sherlock.

She inhaled sharply as she felt his shoulder beneath her hand, and drew her fingertips across his chest, as if to test if it truly was him, and not some dream-like version of him. As her fingers ran across him, she could feel his heart beating, and the rhythmic rising of his chest, which assured her that he was in a deep sleep. She sighed in relief at the knowledge that he was still asleep, and that he probably would be for some time. As Joan took in her surroundings and realised where she was, she remembered the night before with incredible vividness. She recalled Sherlock bandaging her arm, and she vaguely remembered leaning into him. All she remembered afterwards was how comforted and how calm she felt, and how she had experienced familiar feelings of weightlessness and ease. Joan remained perfectly still and silent for a few moments, her head resting in the crook of Sherlock's neck, as she stared absent-mindedly towards the unlit fireplace. The room was not completely dark, but it was certainly dim, with a few small lamps across the room combining efforts with the dawn sun to provide some light to the room. She moved her hand slowly and cautiously from its new position near her neck, running her fingertips across his chest once more and back towards his shoulder, where her hand rested in its now familiar position. Joan closed her eyes at this motion, finding herself reminded of the dance they had shared just over a week ago, when their bodies had been this close, their breathing this in sync, and their hearts beating together. She exhaled slowly, drawing her right leg slowly over his left, to prevent herself from falling to the ground. She was slow and cautious in her movements, desperately hoping not to wake him. As she moved her leg back onto the couch, resting her knee against his, their calves pressed against each other, she felt the first signs of movement from him. She tensed slightly, and her heart began to beat faster, as she looking down at the sleeping figure of her companion.

Sherlock remained asleep, and his face bore the same look of peace and contentment which had graced Joan's features just a few minutes before. Instead of waking, Sherlock simply moved his left leg, pressing it tighter across her. It was a reflex action, she believed. Something which he was probably not even aware of doing. He's stopping me from falling, she thought, a small smile playing on her lips. Her eyes softened at this thought, as she continued to watch him sleep. It felt as though she were intruding somehow. She so very rarely saw him asleep. It was something which she found to be incredibly interesting, from both a personal and medical perspective. Sherlock's body was completely still, and his eyes were firmly closed, and yet, there was still a remarkable appearance of intelligence and capability which graced his countenance. Even when he was unconscious, Sherlock's genius and the very essence of his being shone through him. Joan's warm eyes watched him for several minutes, as her features adopted the appearance of complete contentment.

She didn't know how long she watched him as he rested, but after what she believed to be a short period of time, her smile faltered. The corners of her mouth fell, and her eyes adopted a glassy, weary expression. I can't do this she thought to herself, as she felt his heart beating against her own. We can't do this. Slowly, and very reluctantly, Joan drew her hand from Sherlock's shoulder, and pushed herself from the back of the sofa and across his body. She was slow and cautious in her movements, disentangling their legs and draping her left leg willingly over the edge of the sofa, until she could feel the hard floor beneath her heels. She allowed herself a final furtive glance at the sleeping face of her partner, whose breathing had altered slightly as she had began to move over him, and the hand which had been wrapped across her back fell heavily to his side. He made a low and gentle humming sound at this motion, causing Joan to pause for a moment, one of her legs resting on the ground, the other by his left side, their bodies pressed together. Her breathing increased slightly, and she closed her eyes to fight back the familiar feelings and sensations which were sweeping over her body. She pursed her lips together, before removing herself from Sherlock's body in one smooth and deliberate movement. Joan pressed her hands on each side of the couch to balance herself as she slowly withdrew her body from his, and found herself standing by his side, looking over him once more as he slept.

It was only at this point in time that she realised how cold it was. Or, at least, how cold she felt. She was only wearing her thin blouse, having discarded her jacket at some point in the night. She scanned the room briefly, locating the article within moments. It was lying on the floor next to her red jumper and a small pile of blankets which were often either folded in a neat pile, or sprawled across the couch. Joan shifted slightly in her position, the cool morning air refreshing her slightly, as she found herself coming around slowly. She wrapped her arms across her chest in an attempt to warm herself, hugging herself tightly in a vain attempt to replicate the comfort which she had just reluctantly torn herself away from. As she watched his sleeping figure for a few moments, she found herself wondering if he was feeling cold too. Without any thinking or degree of premeditation, Joan found herself walking towards the stack of blankets near the window, and selecting the thick blue one which Sherlock often favoured. She shook it in the air, opening it completely, before slowly approaching the sleeping figure on the couch. As Joan leant down and draped the blanket across him, tucking it in against the side of the couch to prevent it from falling from him, she found herself staring in awe at how peaceful he appeared, and how serene his expression was. If only he could experience such peace and tranquillity always, she mused, as she stood up straight once more and took a few steps away from him. Her eyes softened at the sight before her, but she found herself fighting the confusing feelings which had entered her mind.

Despite now being wide awake and very conscious, she was desperately fighting the urge to pull the blanket aside, resume her position on top of him, and cover them both in the blue material, shielding them from the people and the scenes and the experiences they were currently facing. Joan turned her head to the right, and stared at the kitchen as she battled these thoughts. She ran her fingers through her hair, before allowing her hand to rest on her cheek, where she could feel the imprint of the material of his shirt etched into her features. She chewed nervously on her bottom lip as her fingers fell from her cheek, and she wrapped her arms around her once more. Joan allowed herself one final look at Sherlock, whose body had not altered its position ever since she regretfully left him. Joan felt her chest tighten at the sight before her, her heart racing, and her breathing becoming deeper and more erratic. She knew that she couldn't do this, she couldn't think like this. It was all so confusing, so different. So dangerous. A run she thought, the angel on her shoulder whispering into her ear. With that, Joan walked quickly from the room, not daring to look back, as she ascended the stairs briskly, heading to her room to change into her running clothes. As her bedroom door closed behind her, Sherlock's eyes opened immediately, their bright and wide shape almost completely overshadowed by the size of his fully-dilated pupils. His eyes closed as she sighed deeply, rising his right hand, before drawing it to his left shoulder, and placing it on the spot which Joan's hand once occupied. He opened his eyes once more and stared at the ceiling, his mind racing.

Joan dressed quickly, throwing her bloodied clothes carelessly aside in favour of her new running clothes. Despite the pain which was radiated from her shoulder, Joan found the adrenaline which was coursing through her veins to be a powerful and satisfactory numbing agent. Once she was ready to leave, she walked towards her chest of drawers, picking up her phone and headphones, and selecting an appropriate play-list. She put her headphones on and turned up the volume as high as it would go, closing her eyes and sighing contently at the music, as walked confidently across the room and opened her door, creeping down the stairs and heading straight for the front door, which she passed through quickly, and without glancing back. The second she reached the top step of the brownstone, and saw the dim, early morning sky, Joan ran.

Inside the brownstone, Sherlock was lying in the same position he had been in for the past six hours, his body covered by a blue blanket, which had been carefully wrapped around him by Joan Watson. A poor substitute he reflected, as he drew the blanket aside and eased himself from the couch, before crossing the room and standing in the same place where Joan had just so recently stood. However, instead of watching the sleeping figure of his companion, Sherlock was faced with a dim room, an empty couch, and a dishevelled blanket. Sherlock sighed heavily, dropping his head as he did so, before rubbing his eyes fiercely and walking through to the kitchen. He was not fully awake yet, and felt quite unsteady on his feet, which was not helped by the fact that his mind was racing and his heart felt as though it were about to burst through his chest. Sherlock walked straight over to the stove, picking up the kettle and filling it with water, before placing it back on the stove and watching as the water slowly bubbled. His eyes were wide and unblinking as he stared at the kettle, the steam rising and causing his features to flush slightly, as he remained planted on the spot. The feeling of the vapours against his face reminded him of Joan, and how her warm and steady breath brushed delicately across his face as she had slept. He closed his eye at the recollection of this memory, and found himself faced with a barrage of similar memories from the hours before. The smell of Watson's perfume, the feeling of her silky hair between his fingers, the warmth and strength of her body beneath his hands. No he thought, cautioning himself against such thoughts. This will not do. Sherlock braced himself on the counter, his knuckles whitening with the intensity of his grasped, as he tried to force himself not to focus on the memories from the night before. But he could not help himself.

Even as he was now standing, and alone, he was certain that he could recall all the details of her body, from when it had been pressed against his own. Her curves, her muscles, her figure, he remembered it all. It's comfort, it's strength, it's security. Dismissing the memory felt, to him, almost as if he were dismissing how the contact which they had just shared was being banished from his own reality, and from hers. Although he knew that, objectively, to banish such memories would be the most efficient and secure way of attempting to prevent their feelings from clouding their judgement, this was not an objective situation. He could not think objectively, or rationally, or intellectually. The closest he came to this was calculating the angles between their respective limbs, or considering the shape which their bodies formed as they lay on top of each other. He considered her heart rate, her breathing patterns, the amount of times she shifted slightly before falling into a deep sleep. But he felt completely unable to think of anything else about the situation in a rational or constructive manner. Instead, he found himself immersed in familiar feelings of warmth, comfort and adoration. Like on the night when he and Joan had returned home from the ball, Sherlock stared at the kettle in front of him, trying vainly to think the recent events through, as the water in front of him went cold.

Joan ran for almost a mile without stopping, her senses heightened by the loudness of the music and the adrenaline which was driving her on. She felt more awake and more alive than she had in weeks, and was pushing herself as hard as she could to continue. This was her escape. Sherlock had his books, his memory exercises, his chat rooms, Clyde. She had her running. In an attempt to push aside all conflicting thoughts and confusing memories, she ran. Not from him, not from his adoration. But from the pain, torment and confusion which she knew that their actions could cause. Never had such a strong threat to their partnership been posed. As she permitted herself to consider her current situation for just a moment, she thought about the nature of their relationship, and of the different types of love. She knew that there was nothing which could compromise a solid friendship, a successful partnership, as much as romantic feelings; especially those which had already been indulged. Partly, at least. She closed her eyes briefly at this thought, her resolve almost faltering, as she pushed herself harder, running faster through the park. Her breathing was hard and ragged, and she felt herself tremble, due to a combination of her rigorous work-out and the subject which was currently plaguing her. Despite the fact that their partnership had always been unique, and almost beyond human description, there had always been certain invisible boundaries, which helped to provide it with a certain level of clarity. Although their relationship involved such levels of trust and openness which was often reserved for romantic partners, it had been, until quite recently, devoid of romance. Although there were times in which Joan had found herself considering him in a different way, or over-analysing a certain situation or event, she was always quick to dispel the potential of such a development in their relationship. Oddly enough, the fact that their partnership was platonic seemed to be its only consistent and certain feature. But after the past few months, and the events involving Mycroft, her kidnapping and his deceit, as well as the fall-out which she and Sherlock had experienced, those boundaries had become more complex, more fragile, and more fluid.

As she considered this further, Joan's attention was drawn from her thoughts and to her body. She had a stitch on her left side, which struck her with such intensity that she stopped running, and turned to the rails beside her, pressing her hands upon them as she rested. She pulled her headphones off and exhaled breathlessly, her heart racing as she attempted to steady her breathing. It was only at this point that she realised what she had been putting her body through. She had been running constantly for the past thirty minutes, pushing herself as far and as hard as she was physically able, in a vain attempt to block out her own thoughts. She paused, looking up and staring across the Hudson, as realisation suddenly dawned upon her. What I just did to my body is what Sherlock and I are both doing to our minds, and to ourselves. If they didn't get this sorted, if this was not dealt with, then the consequences would be more than either of them could bear. Joan breathed in at this thought, standing up straight as she pressed her palm to her side, trying to alleviate the pain which the stitch was causing her. It felt as though her body was being torn at, shredding from the inside. This is what we are doing she thought, lowering her hands to her hips as she stood tall. This is what is going to happen. Neither of them could afford to risk their partnership, compromise what they had, or endanger the emotional or physical well-being of the other. And neither of them would. Joan closed her eyes reflectively, inhaling deeply as she summoned all of the strength which she could muster. She exhaled sharply, removing her hands from her hips and placing one hand back on her side, massaging her stitch as she began the long walk back to the brownstone, resolution and determination etched on her features.

Sherlock remained in the kitchen for almost an hour, reheating the kettle on the stove a few times, before storming across the room and throwing open the cupboard, selecting some cereal which he ate voraciously, as his mind was filled with thoughts. As he dragged his spoon absent-mindedly across the bowl, separating the remaining cereal into two equal sections, he began to think of Joan. Running his spoon through the vertical gap between the two sections of cereal made him consider the boundaries between them, and the defining features of their relationship. His relationship was something which, as he had admitted to her once before, he did not understand. The only thing which he knew, that he did understand and that he had complete conviction in, was that it worked. Despite the arguments, the conflict, the differences, their relationship worked. They worked. Even now, he mused, amongst all the confusion, they were working. They were able to comfort, console and reassure each other on both personal and professional levels. They were able to provide each other with the security and the comfort which they craved, whilst maintaining a highly successful and mutually-beneficial professional relationship. It worked, he thought to himself, repeatedly. Even now, amidst the confusion, it worked. The emotional side of him was telling him that everything was fine, that their relationship was simply pushing the boundaries which existed between all relationships of this type, and that an eventual level of equilibrium and certainty would be reached. Eventually. Or would it? Their relationship was unlike any other that he had experienced, or studied. There was no explanation of how it worked, no guide or deductive logic which would describe its progression. The variables were too many and too confusing, and impossible to be analysed.

Sherlock continued to draw the spoon along the gap between the two equally-sized cereal portions, before allowing the spoon to rest in the centre, as his hand froze at his own thoughts. He stared blankly into the bowl for a few moments, tilting his head curiously to one side, before raising the spoon a couple of inches above the gap. Sherlock then placed the spoon back into the bowl, and began to stir the cereal once more, dispersing it all so that it mixed together, with both halves now completely mixed up, totally indistinct. He allowed the spoon to fall from his fingers into the bowl, causing a small sound which drew him from his thoughts. Sherlock's intelligent eyes darting curiously across the contents of the bowl, as his head moved slightly with his vision, before he pressed his hands upon the table in frustration. He was unable to bear the current levels of confusion, or uncertainty. Gregson's words ran through his mind in the same incessant loop which he had found himself battling the night before, which he found to be completely non-conducive to inspiring objective thought and deductive reasoning. Sherlock stood at the table for a few moments, staring down at the bowl, and exhaling deeply as he attempted to calm himself, his clenched fists resting by his side. After a few seconds he opened his eyes, and began drumming his fingertips against his thighs, before turning from the room and walking up the stairs.

Joan arrived at the brownstone ten minutes after this incident, the pain from her side being temporarily abated. She opened the door slowly and with great ease, hoping not to wake Sherlock. As she removed her headphones and her hat, and undid the zipper on her jacket, she slowly made her way to the living area, resting her head against the door frame as she glanced furtively inside. He wasn't on the couch. The blue blanket which she had wrapped him in lay discarded on the floor, and the cushions which had just held him were still in place, but he was not there. For a moment, she considered whether this was sigh, some kind of signal which urged her not to continue, not to address the issue with him now, and not to do it directly. But as she walked through this room and towards the kitchen, before descending the stairs and looking in the rooms downstairs, she knew that she had no choice. Joan made her way tiredly back up to the kitchen, resting her hands upon one of the chairs as she leaned against the table. She looked down at the half-eaten bowl of cereal which lay before her, and the kettle which remained boiled but untouched on the stove. The cereal in the bowl looked as if it had been stirred with such force that the enamel from the small green bowl could have been ripped from it. Sherlock was not in a rush, she mused, but was experiencing a degree of confusion and frustration which troubled him deeply. And she knew exactly where he went when he felt like this.

Joan put her hand in her pocket and removed her phone and headphones, placing them on the table next to the bowl, before turning on the spot and walking briskly up the stairs. Once she had reached the landing, she walked past the rooms on that floor and continued walking up the second flight of stairs, holding on to the bannister as she did so. Joan walked all the way to the top, which made her legs ache remonstratively at her exertion, reminding her of just how hard she had pushed herself that morning. As she reached the door at the top of the stairs, she rested her hand on it for a few moments, before pushing it open with feigned confidence. She stepped through the doorway, and found herself instantly struck by the comfortingly cool mid-morning air, which graced her. She stepped onto the roof space, and gazed admiringly at the tops of the buildings which could be seen from this spectacular height. Joan did up her zipper and crossed her arms, drawing them tightly to her chest, for both warmth and comfort. The roof appeared to be deserted, but she knew that it was not.

"Sherlock?" she called, in a confident a curious tone.

A moment later, the figure of her partner emerged from behind one of the apiaries. Sherlock watched her curiously for a moment, his arms resting by his sides, as he took a few steps closer towards her. Joan tightened her grip upon herself as she felt her heart begin to race, and her head spin with a combination of exhilaration and fear. Sherlock's expression was one of kindness and concern, which was highlighted by his actions. He removed his jacket as he approached her, holding it out to her as they stood just a few feet apart.

"You're freezing, Watson" he began, holding out the jacket to her. She offered him a small, grateful smile, but did not take the jacket. He continued to hold it in front of her for a few seconds, before tilting his head slightly and watching her with concern. "Watson?" he asked gently.

"We need to talk." She returned, tightening her grip around herself once more, as the bees behind them began to buzz with anticipation.