It was almost one in the morning by the time they set up shop in her new apartment. Joan had not been there in weeks and needed to get a change of clothes. The decision was made quickly - they could work here just as well as at the brownstone. Sherlock made himself at home spreading papers, photos, clippings on the ivory carpeting in her living room. The space was minimalist, very white and too bright for Sherlock's tastes. Joan was not thrilled with it either but it had come furnished, it was a month to month and it was reasonable. They sat on the floor, took apart the pieces of the case and dove into the familiar process of solving the puzzle.
Forty-five minutes went by without a word from either of them. Something was bothering Sherlock. He couldn't concentrate. His eyes kept leaving the file notes and landing on his partner. Watson failed to notice. Having flown in from Europe and then agreeing to work this case with him with not even a moment to catch her breath, she was exhausted. He caught her mid-yawn.
"Watson, why don't you go lay down? You are of no use in your present state and you are a ... a ... distraction rather than a help."
"Excuse me? I'm a distraction?" Joan felt insulted. She was going above and beyond trying to keep working, mainly because she had missed their collaboration these past months, missed doing the work with him.
"Yes." He really did not want to have to elaborate.
"How so? I've never been a distraction before?"
Sherlock sighed and looked at her, "Never mind how, you just are. Go take a nap. You'll feel better. And I might be able to get some work done."
She stared at him, so tired she was punchy. He stole glances of her from under his lashes, hoping she was too tired to figure out why she was distracting him.
She kept staring. He kept trying to work and ignoring her but his eyes kept sidling towards her, drinking in and analyzing her smallest movements, bringing back images and feelings from yesterday.
Joan crawled over to where he sat and looked over his shoulder, attempting to read the file he was holding and breathing on his neck, rather purposefully he thought.
Sherlock put down the file, turned and stared her right in the face. "Alright, Watson. That's enough. You are overly tired and not yourself. I insist you go lay down," he was adamant.
She stared at him and, after a few long seconds, quietly said, "Alright, I will. Feel free to join me if you'd like, you look exhausted as well."
"Watson! Please ... Go." Sherlock didn't know if the seductiveness of her at this moment was just his perception or she was actually trying to lure him to bed with her. He smirked at himself - the thought that Watson would actually have to "lure" him anywhere was ridiculous. He'd go anywhere willingly, do anything for her gratefully ...
He tried to turn his attention back to the work, to concentrate on stripping out the suspects and peripherals, the evidence, photos, ephemera, examining and finding relationships, then stepping back to find the gestalt of ... It was no use. Sherlock was also tired and he couldn't stop thinking about Watson, asleep in the other room. Their relationship was in the process of a rebirth. He considered their months apart as time spent in metamorphosis, cocooned. Yesterday afternoon they cracked open the chrysalis and, stretching the metaphor into a thin silken thread, one could say they were inching their way out but not yet ready to fly.
Sherlock suddenly bounced up from his position on the floor; he would just check on her, make sure she was alright.
Watson's bedroom was dark but enough light filtered through the windows from the street lamps below to allow him to make his way to her bed. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw she lay on her side, fully clothed on top of the bedspread, sound asleep. He noted that this bedroom was laid out much the same as hers back home and with the same dearth of personalization.
He watched her sleep. A sense of peace, a calmness, overtook him. Sherlock convinced himself he could just lay next to her, fully clothed, wouldn't touch her; he just wanted to be near her right now, just for a few minutes, and then he'd get back to work.
Carefully, making sure not to wake her, he lay down on his side, facing her. He watched her breathe and soon his breathing matched hers. Sherlock felt himself getting drowsy. His hand moved towards hers. He needed to touch her, to bind himself with her in someway as they slept, lest she slip away. His hand lay next to hers and he moved his index finger so it lay gently in her palm. They slept.