Time passed too quickly and not fast enough for him . . .

It was about two in the morning. An ancient desk lamp kept the darkness around him at bay, producing barely enough light to drape over his hunched shoulders and illuminate his work. Sherlock sat in the deafening silence, scouring page upon page of numerical data. This was not what he had envisioned when he agreed to work for MI6. Berlin, the Middle East, Prague - those were the locations for espionage. Instead, Sherlock sat in a dingy hotel room in Maracaibo, Venezuela, trying to find the connections between shipping cartels and organized crime in Britain. His thoughts wandered back home to Brooklyn. His thoughts as of late always seemed to find their way back home to Brooklyn.

Home had little to do with housing structures and geographical locations and everything to do with the people who populated said structures and locations. Two months had passed since he'd left her.

Sherlock's message to her, sent nine days ago, had met with no reply. He assured himself this was a good thing. Joan needed time alone, out of his "orbit" as she had put it. He consoled himself with the thought that at least she had cared enough about his well being to make the initial contact.

Staring blankly at the spreadsheet before him, he let out deep sigh. He needed to get used to being alone again, back into the hazy mist, on the periphery of the light that every one else seemed to live in. He thought he had found his better half, a partner to share life and work. But she didn't see it that way, she didn't feel what he felt, she needed and wanted something other than him and the life he offered.

"So be it. Her loss." He slammed down the papers and rose to stretch. The ego soothing bravado kicked in and just as quickly faded at the thought of her. Joan deserved all the happiness in the world and Sherlock would never be the source of that happiness.

He sat there wishing he could call Alfredo and wondering how Randy was getting along with his new sponsor. Yes, he truly was a failure in every aspect of his life save his work. He had messed up Watson's life and Randy's - perhaps rehab had been the wrong solution, things should have run their course. More people would be happier at the moment if it had.

Stop! This train of thought needed to be stopped immediately before the empty hole in his soul consumed him again and he disappeared altogether. Sherlock picked up his laptop and plopped down on the bed, the metallic squeals of the springs snapping him back into the reality of his present situation.

The Hive, the site always soothed him. He didn't login as himself just in case. He knew there was very little chance of any one caring, but better to stay paranoid and safe.

Sherlock saw it immediately. Someone had logged in as him and posted:

Living in hope the

gravity of my desire

Pulls you home to me

Warmth spread through him followed by disbelief. It had to be Watson. But a poem and dare he say one full of ardor? The last time they spoke she wouldn't even look at him. It must a cruel joke ...

And then he realized what had happened, brought his hands up and covered his face. His poems! She had found his stupid, adolescent paeans to all that she was to him and he could never, would never express. Insipid droolings that he'd so carefully hidden at the site within notes about his bees.

All the lights at the brownstone were blazing. Sherlock had been responsible for the finances before he left but taxes and licenses and fees needed to be paid and would not wait for his return. Joan was on a mission to find the paperwork she needed. She pulled out several file folders from his desk while looking for the proper records. One beat up manila folder caught her eye; scrawled in pencil on the outer tab it said "The Hive." Opening it she noticed that among the scribbled notes on his beehives, the pages of bee research pulled from the site itself and detailed photographs of the euglassia watsonia, was a printed out page of a poem - Lord Byron's "She Walks in Beauty." So much for the man being post love she thought. Immediately her thoughts went to the password for The Hive website that she'd not been able to crack. Anger soon rose within her - that the poem was obviously a reference to Moriarty. After all, he kept her letters in the hive. Poor man will never be free of that bitch. Joan didn't think Moriarty's name itself was the password, too simple a solution. Perhaps a part of the poem itself was the key. Joan skimmed the poem in her hands for clues and soon realized it had very little to do with Moriarty, no raven tresses on that bleached blonde and there was nothing innocent left on that carcass of hers.

She opened the site and attempted the first line of the poem as the password. Immediate access was gained to his profile, his stored documents, his writings. Flipping through some of the posts in his private blog, she came across more poetry, his own poetry. The man was always a surprise. Joan found three poems -

Infinite compassion

Tempered by wisdom

A gift I did not deserve

_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\

Breath is caught on sight

Slowly released it follows

Her away from me

-/ -/ -/ -/

Symmetrical perfection

Angered and aware

of my many limitations

Her beauty radiates from half-closed eyes

Fills the room with light and forgives

My love

Her eyes filled with tears and a small faint sound escaped her lips. Joan set herself to work and wrote a small poem for him. Fear kept her from posting right away, she stared at the screen, insecurity gnawing on her insides: what if these poems weren't about her? She eventually convinced herself that it did not matter - she wanted him to know he was cared for. Joan hit the "post" button on the thread in The Hive's miscellaneous boards, and hoped he would find it soon.