Heathrow was crowded, but then Heathrow is probably always crowded, she thought. Boarding on her connecting flight to Milan didn't commence for 45 minutes and she was looking for a quiet spot in which to sit. Joan just wanted to be alone. She spotted an empty chair in a corner behind a kiosk. It was secluded, away from the hum of the international terminal and it's traffic. As she approached the seat, rolling her carry-on behind her, she saw a pair of outstretched legs; the body belonging to the legs was obscured by the corner post of the kiosk. Great! Someone had already staked out the territory. Undaunted, she proceeded past him and sat. She gave him a couple of empty chairs as buffer. They could share the solitude.

He-of-the-outstretched-legs glared at her as she sat. Joan observed and methodically evaluated her seating companion: twenty-one years of age at most and from his clothing, attitude, and what she gleaned from his laptop as she walked by, he was American, studying abroad, failing miserably, massively homesick and anemic. Satisfied with her conclusions, she settled in her chair and looked around for her next victim.

In years to come they would argue about who spotted who first.

He was walking briskly along, hours early for his flight but being a nervous flyer he was always early. His rationale: Best to get to know and assess those with whom you will be locked into a metal cylinder for hours while traveling thousands of feet above terra firma. Sherlock saw her out of the corner of his eye, stopped dead in his tracks and almost caused a small pile up of tourists to occur behind him. It couldn't be, but there she was, not more than twenty feet away. Why was she here? He couldn't approach her on the slim chance it might put her at risk. Was she alright? Was she here because of him? Did she need help? All thoughts at once slammed into his brain and all he could manage was to find a seat facing her, and attempt to detangle his thoughts.

Joan spotted him at almost the same moment; the nanosecond in delay of recognition caused only by Sherlock's full beard and longer hair. But there was no denying it was him, every gesture and movement of his shoulders, hands, eyes screamed his name to her. Why was he here? Was this coincidence? He seemed just as surprised to see her as she was to see him. His words about avoiding contact for fear of danger came back to her. She wouldn't approach him, he might be undercover, under surveillance. She wouldn't risk his life.

They furtively stole glances at each other. Joan and Sherlock had an innate ability to communicate without words. He noticed this from the very first day she came into his life, when she pointed out the shoe size of a potential suspect to him with just a glance. A softening of his face let her know it was a joy for him to see her. A slight movement of her head down and to the side acknowledged his reaction and reciprocated his feelings. Her eyes searched him to make sure he was alright. He reassured her with the smallest of head bobs and an easing back into his chair as he maintained eye contact with her. Her lips compressed into a line in satisfaction of her question as he searched her face and bearing to satisfy his need to know she too was well. Joan took out her ticket and boarding pass and looked up at the gate information board for her flight so he would know where she was going.

Sherlock dove into his inside jacket pocket and produced a pen and small notepad onto which he scribbled. Joan instantly deduced what he was planning and found a piece of paper and pencil in her purse. He glanced up and caught sight of her writing and suppressed a smile. Watson always caught on fast. Damn, he missed her.

He tore off the piece of paper from the pad and put it in his outside jacket pocket. Joan glanced up discreetly from her writing to see what he was doing. She folded the small notecard she had written on in fourths and placed it in the outside pocket of her purse. He watched her out of the corner of his eye.

The anemic kid was oblivious to their interaction as were their other fellow passengers. Joan gathered her purse and luggage and stood. Sherlock watched her in as much of a disinterested manner as he could manage and fidgeted with his own bag.

Timing was going to be crucial for them. There would only be one chance. She walked away from the seating area and started walking in the direction of where Sherlock sat. On her movement, he stood casually, collected his things and started walking towards her but not looking at her. If anyone had stopped to look, the glint of pleasure in both their eyes was obvious. She missed this. She missed him. They were on a collision course.

She knocked her shoulder into him and he bumped into her side.

Sherlock grabbed at her wrist to keep her from tumbling. Joan put her hand on his chest to steady herself. "I'm sorry, miss, are you alright?" his manner impersonal and polite as he stared into her eyes and tried to glean every emotion registered in them. She felt the warmth of his hand on her wrist, the small rub of his thumb and slight caress as he let his hand slide slowly off her. Joan's hand at his chest moved tenderly down an inch or two, the small pressure of her fingers reassuring him of her sentiments. His eyes were wide and warm and safe and she just wanted to crawl into him but knew the moment was passing quickly.

"Yes, I'm fine. And you?" She said softly.

"Likewise." And they were parting ways, "Thank you. Safe travels to you." He smiled politely.

"And you," she reciprocated his politeness. One more quick dive into each other's eyes and they walked away in opposite directions.

Sherlock kept walking away from her without turning back, his hand fondling the notecard he had lifted from Joan's purse, before putting it away. He had to admit, she was very good, an excellent pickpocket. Even knowing what she was doing, he barely felt her hand in his pocket taking the note he placed there for her. Of course, his focus had been shifted to the hand on his chest and the soft, warm feel of her skin as he touched her wrist ... He stopped himself from this train of thought and refocused on finding the correct gate for his flight. It was going to be a long flight to Ulan Batur and he'd have plenty of time to analyze their brief encounter.

Joan didn't look at the note she had lifted from Sherlock's coat pocket until she was safe on board her flight and away from any possibly prying eyes. She unfolded the small piece of paper with the look of a child unwrapping a piece of candy. She could hear his voice in each word:

"Watson,

Judging from your expression, you are just as surprised to see me as I you, and hopefully equally as pleased. By your appearance I surmise you are doing well and I am glad. I will most likely be back in NYC in about a month's time. No need for worries on my behalf. BTW your haiku was a great help to me, personally and professionally. My heartfelt thanks. Keep safe. - S."

She re-read the note several times before she re-folded it and tucked it away for safekeeping. Joan closed her eyes and drew in and expelled a deep breath of relief. He was fine. He was coming home. Joan realized this was not what Dr. Reed had in mind for her when she urged her to travel, but things had a way of fixing themselves.

Having satisfied himself that, as far as he could see, for the moment, his traveling companions were a sedate lot, Sherlock finally allowed himself the pleasure of reading Watson's note.

"Sherlock,

I'm so happy to at least get to see you. Everything is fine at home, looking forward to your return. I'm going to Florence by way of Milan, staying with friends and will return in approx. 3 weeks. Please be careful and take care of yourself for me.

Joan.

P.S. Lose the beard, W."

A half-snorted chuckle escaped his lips as he stroked his beard. He liked the beard but he would bow to her wishes and shave before next he saw her. Sherlock's thoughts turned to the future wondering if he and Watson might be able to resume their friendship, partnership, life together. In an odd way, he felt closer to her now than he had four months ago when he left. They still had much to talk about but he was feeling optimistic.