Italy was sheer beauty and indulgence. Time had apparently stopped once the old masters set brush to canvas; the Tuscan countryside looked very much like its renaissance likeness. The food was spectacular, fresh, bright, paired with wines the gods would be pleased to sip. And the company, ah, her friends were warm and cheerful, fun and full of life. Joan was enjoying herself; but for all the perfection of the trip something felt slightly off. She was antsy and not completely at ease. She told herself it was a manifestation of her recent traumas, but really it wasn't. She told herself it was Sherlock, she missed him and was worried about him, a symptom of codependency. But no, that wasn't it either. She was not too worried about him though she did miss him.
At one of the many multi-course dinners she enjoyed throughout the trip, Joan took a good look around the table and realized she saw the world very differently than her friends. They were happy just to sit and enjoy the moment and she could not, not fully anyway. Her attention was pulled into the dark corners, drawn to the waiter who was obviously put out by something the owner said to him. The owner in turn reviewed his days receipts over and over becoming more agitated as he did; something didn't add up. The owner's wife flirted with a customer, a regular by the looks of him, and this seemed to upset the waiter and to a lesser extent the owner. From those observations, Joan started trying to solve a mystery that most probably did not exist. Her friends laughed at her and told her she was looking for trouble; she should instead try the just harvested figs. But her mind needed occupation. The books she read, conversations she had, concerts and dinners attended, all occupied her on a superficial level only. She needed more.
His words came back to her, "It has its costs ... seeing the puzzle in everything." Was this the cost? The sense that there was so much going on beneath the surface of the everyday, seeing the connections and the possibilities and not having any one else understand or care about what you saw or felt or solved? Is this how Sherlock led his life? She wondered if this was the result of his training, living with him, being influenced by his view of the world.
Joan sighed ... Of all things! Her friends had started singing after dinner. She discreetly left the table and took her drink to the veranda. The moon rose slowly over the Tuscan hills, casting silvery light on the cypresses and the rocky outcrops, causing shadows to appear in the darkness.
No, she thought, this was not Sherlock's doing. She had always had this fuzzy sensation, this feeling there was more, and it had kept her separated from others. This "difference" had always been there for her, waiting just below the surface. Meeting Sherlock, being drawn into his world, allowed her to come into herself, to rise and ask questions, make connections and not be ridiculed. He was like a prism through which she passed. Sherlock focused her diffused light and separated it into all the colors of the spectrum, a rainbow to then, in turn, guide him. Hmm, she smiled at herself for getting a bit carried away - too much Chianti and moonlight she supposed, but there was truth at the core. The question now was whether she wanted to continue on this path or turn back to a life of less intrigue and challenges, a more normal existence, like her friends and family wanted for her. Joan knew the answer and knew her family and friends would not understand; having hidden her true nature from them for so long, they'd see this as an aberration. But did it really matter what they thought at this point?
Joan came to terms with what she wanted and who she was on the trip. Dr. Reed had been right. It cleared her head. Getting away from Sherlock's environment made her realize it was not just his world she lived in, it was her world too. She was ready to go home.
Ulan Batur was cold and the remnants of soviet architecture was not the cheeriest of environs to work and live in. But Mongolia and its people were certainly fascinating. Sherlock enjoyed his first sighting of a yak in the countryside, studying the construction and deconstruction of a yurt, tasting the traditional butter tea, partaking in traditions that have remained unchanged for centuries. But when all was said and done, he was ready to go back to his old life. Sherlock missed Watson and the friends he hoped waited for him back in New York. It was an odd feeling for him, this longing for comrades. Misanthropy surely was easier, yes, elegant as he had once told Watson, but it was not very satisfying. He was under no delusion that things would be the same once he returned, but he was willing to work at making them better.