The walk home from the park was a relatively quiet one. Joan and Sherlock shared a comment or two about their surroundings and reminders of domestic duties, punctuated by the occasional yawn. They stopped for food, brought it home and sat on the couch and ate contentedly. Exhaustion coupled with a full stomach quickly did them in. Joan and Sherlock were no longer twenty-somethings. There is only so far you can push a forty year old body.

The morning sun found them sprawled on top of each other on the sofa, hair, legs, arms carelessly tumbled about. Both phones had been ringing for some time. Watson answered hers first as Sherlock disentangled an arm to reach for his. Simultaneous conversations were held with Bell and Gregson who once again called to drag them out in the direction of a crime.

-.-. -.-. -.-. -.-. -.-. -.-. -.-. -.-.

Two days later ...

Joan shuffled into the kitchen where Sherlock stood finishing his tea. "Did you get any sleep?"

"I may have dozed at some point, not sure." He set his cup in the sink.

"Did you bring someone home last night? I thought I heard a woman's voice," she asked with her back to him as she pretended to look for something in the refrigerator. Her question was met with absolute silence. Her stomach dropped. Joan had stewed about this all night. Did she have a right to ask? She grabbed the milk and turned around to find him staring at her. He had moved closer down the counter. She couldn't tell if it was anger or disappointment that registered on his face.

"Watson," he took the milk bottle from her hand and set it on the counter, "I am going out for a walk, down to the tree." His voice was flat. "Once you have finished your breakfast, please join me," with that he turned and left the kitchen.

Joan was left completely flustered. His reaction had been controlled but she could tell he was upset. No more upset than she had been last night. She had heard the sound of a woman's voice coming from downstairs around 3:00 a.m. Her first instinct had been to go down and confront him. But confront him about what? They had no romantic commitment. They had engaged in some intimate behavior, yes, not sex. It meant nothing. Sherlock was capable of meaningless sexual escapades with random women on any given day. Although, she had to admit that he abstained, as far as she could tell, from that behavior since they had started meeting under the tree. That tree. That stupid tree. She had made a mistake. Their friendship was about to be ruined because of their encounters under that tree.

Joan reluctantly dressed and walked down to the park to face the truth.

She found him leaning against the oak, hands in pocket staring at the ground, the perennial frown upon his face. Joan again could not read his feelings. She walked up in neutral unsure whether she should be on the offensive or defensive. He didn't look up but started talking to her.

"I think we need to clarify a few things between us."

Joan's whole body clenched, "Sherlock, I know that we ..."

"Watson, listen first." He looked up sharply at her. They were no longer Sean and Gianna. He took a breath. "The voice you heard last night, the female voice, was my father's secretary. The damn woman kept going round in circles so much that I opted to put her on speakerphone so that I might get some work done while she informed me ad nauseum of my familial business responsibilities."

"Oh," Joan felt a wave of relief and embarrassment.

He continued. "What upsets me about your assumption is first, you let emotion cloud your sense of observation. You jumped to a conclusion without getting all the facts. The difference in the sound of a voice filtered through a phone speaker compared to the voice of a person physically present in the house should have been obvious." He was lecturing her now, his hands emphasizing his words, his eyes darting up to look at her. "The voice itself, distinctly British and excruciatingly annoying, should have been recognizable to you. You've spoken to her on many occasions. Your process was impaired by emotion. You made assumptions based on emotion rather than on fact. Which brings me to the second upsetting circumstance ..."

Sherlock looked straight into her eyes, "Did you really think I would bring a woman home for casual relations?" He stared at her with an almost childlike look of hurt in his eyes. "What do you think we're doing here? That this is some sort of casual hookup? ... You know me better than that Watson."

Sherlock had been wounded by her words but Joan was not about to back down or apologize. "I don't know what to think. I don't know what we are doing or where the boundaries of all this are. You have some very different ideas about sex and commitment than I do, if that is in fact where we are going. You flat out told me once you were "post love." Her arms crossed in front of her, she looked away from him unable to stand the look in his eyes as she talked.

Sherlock sighed, his voice softened, "I meant what I said about being post love. Love is petty and transient. I love pancakes and tea and explosive devices. The word holds no meaning. What I feel for you, the connection we have, cannot be encapsulated in that limited, trite little word."

A lump formed in her throat. Joan shook her head trying to find the words to express herself, "... You are my ... my l... " She stopped and took a breath, her voice whisper thin, "I don't want to lose this, lose you, because of a misunderstanding. I need to know where we are going, that I can trust that you'll be here tomorrow or next month or next year..." Tears played in her eyes but she would not let them drop. She stared at the ground as she spoke, "I watched my stepfather cheat on my mother, watched her world collapse from within ... I've had the experience myself ... on more than one occasion. It left scars. ... Some part of me fully expects you to hurt me."

He nodded his head and shot her a pained grimace. "We both carry scars I suppose ... "

After a moment, Sherlock took a step towards her, forcing her to look at him as he spoke. "I want you as my partner in all aspects of my life. ... I have no simple word for what I feel, for what we are, for what you mean to me. I'm not being dramatic or exaggerating when I say that if I should ever lose you, I would cease to exist. There can be no Holmes without Watson. And if you don't feel you can trust me as your life partner, then please tell me now while we can still possibly salvage this and remain friends and business partners. We are heading to the point of no return."

Joan stared at him, emotion welled up inside her and forced the tears to drop.

His voice was low and husky with emotion, "This is your decision ... I am one hundred percent committed to you, to us, body and soul. ... You need to decide for yourself what you can ..." Sherlock swallowed hard. He squinted and looked away into the distance. "It is an important decision. Take time to think and uhm, let me know. Are we or are we not ..." His last words were barely audible. He wanted to touch her, hold her hand at least but restrained himself and suddenly just walked away.

Joan stood stunned. She had always believed she was the more mature of the two of them, the more committed and emotionally prepared for a relationship. Confusion, anger, sadness battled within her. She fought the urge to run after him. His advice to her was surprisingly sage. She needed to think, sort out her feelings and fears, and decide what was right for her.

Walking to the trunk of the tree, she bent down and sat at its base. The safe haven they created for themselves underneath these branches had vanished. It was time to face reality.