"Are you trying to cool off the kitchen?" Joan asked, walking into the dark kitchen and noticing Sherlock absentmindedly standing in front of the open refrigerator. After not getting a response, she came up behind him and gently nudged him out of the way with her hip, closing the refrigerator door. After living with Sherlock for almost two years, she had become accustomed to his near-fugue states when he was trying to work out a particularly complex part of an investigation. She had observed Sherlock staring aimlessly for ten minutes at a picture taped to what she affectionately calls his "crazy wall." He'd let eggs burn, and the tea pot boil over. Once, passing by the bathroom, she had stopped and witnessed him brushing his teeth for fifteen minutes, oblivious to his own – and her - reflection in the mirror. He once tore an entire head of lettuce into Clyde's tank before she grabbed it out of his hands and Sherlock finally registered her presence.

"What?" Sherlock asked, turning around. He leaned against the counter, and his eyes re-focused on Joan. "Ah. This case has become infuriating," he said, referring to the investigation that Gregson had requested their assistance on. "How does a relatively simple bank robbery become a blackmail scheme, which then becomes a kidnapping, which then becomes a murder?" His left hand had begun slightly twitching, indicating his agitation.

Noticing the redness of his eyes, and the deepened creases in his face, "Sherlock," Joan whispered. "When was the last time you slept?"

"Is that my former sober companion speaking?" he inquired, the exhaustion obvious in his voice.

"No," she said, her right hand slowly reaching out to gently grasp his left. "It's your current friend speaking."

Sherlock's eyes quickly met Joan's, before darting to the dark corners of the kitchen. Friend. That was not a word that Sherlock had ever used himself, in describing their relationship. Although he hadn't objected when Joan had used it in describing how far Sherlock had come, in relation to the monograph written by Sherlock's ex-lover and FBI agent. If rankings were to be given, Sherlock would readily concede that, of the two, Joan was the better friend. Her generosity, concern, and constant support – not simply towards Sherlock, but to most everyone she met – were often not reciprocated by him. It wasn't that Sherlock didn't care. Quite the contrary. His affection for Joan had grown exponentially since their first meeting. And that affection had subtly metamorphosed into desire. What to do about that desire, however, had become quite the conundrum.

Sherlock finally settled his gaze over Joan's shoulder, on a point on the far wall. "I slept three days ago," he admitted.

"You should get some sleep," she said, keeping her right hand enclosed around Sherlock's left, while reaching out with her left to touch Sherlock's face. "I worry about you," she added quietly.

Reflexively, Sherlock closed his eyes and took a shallow intake of breath. "I have functioned quite ably on even less sleep." He let her hand remain on his face for a few more seconds, before lightly taking his right hand and pushing it aside.

"That's before it made a difference to me," Joan admonished. "Were you looking for something to eat? I think you're out of luck."

Sherlock opened his eyes again and softly focused on Joan's face. "Do you?"

"Well, there are probably some lemons. And maybe a few eggs. But that's about it."

"No," Sherlock corrected, slightly tightening his hand around hers. "You said you worry about me. Do you?"

"Yes," Joan replied.

"Even when you were my sober companion, you were not responsible for keeping me from relapsing. Your responsibility is even less now."

"That's not what I meant. Of course I know that you could relapse. No one knows that better than you, obviously. But I don't worry about your sobriety. I worry that you will work too hard. Not take care of yourself. I worry that you will keep yourself cut off from other people." I worry that you will no longer need me, she wanted to add.

"I don't rely on people the way that others do," explained Sherlock. It occurred to him that he and Joan were still holding hands, but he did not yet want to surrender the physical contact.

In responding to her, he had lightly stressed the word "people". Sherlock had learned early - and quite frequently - to depend solely on himself. The few instances where he had allowed someone – Mycroft, Moriarty – access into his inner life, he had eventually been violated. Not physically, of course; his sexual relationship with Moriarty was always consensual. But emotionally. With both Moriarty and Mycroft, he felt as if walls had been breached, only to have new walls put up in their place. But Sherlock had grown to rely not on people, but on Joan. Without his even noticing it, she had not so much penetrated his barriers as scaled them. Although unwilling to tolerate his caustic nature for any extended bit of time, and averse to letting him indulge in it for long as well, Joan had proven to Sherlock that she accepted him for who he is. As long as he was truly honest about who he is. And who he is, he had discovered, is not just an investigator with little time for professional manipulation or personal platitudes. He is also, he had found, a man who can watch a full nine innings of a baseball game despite having no actual interest in the pastime. A man who can offer support to others suffering through the throes of addiction. A man who can offer his home – and his heart – to another person.

"You don't do most things like others do," Joan quipped.

Perhaps it was the lowering of his defenses due to fatigue. Or the way that the streetlights cast shadows across Joan's face. But Sherlock gently pulled her against him, one of her legs caught in between his. "Care to test out that theory in other areas?" Sherlock winced almost immediately after the words left his mouth. He hadn't planned on being so seductive, so absurdly obvious, in his intentions. Until a minute ago, he hadn't had any intentions at all. It is not as if he hadn't thought of kissing Joan before. Of making love to Joan. But he had imagined that it would occur more organically. Perhaps while they were poring over case files one late night, heads nearly touching, a strand of her hair hanging down her face, his hand reaching out to push it aside…..Not after some corny, juvenile come-on in a dark kitchen.

If Joan felt any inappropriateness regarding Sherlock's proposition, she did not outwardly reveal it. Her actions, in fact, indicated the opposite. Wordlessly, she looked up at Sherlock, released his hand and touched his face again. This time with the same amount of care as before, but with an added concentration. Her fingers traced across his brow line, down his cheek, and across the borders of his jawline. She felt the muscle tense beneath her fingertips. She parted her lips slightly and leaned forward.

From the other room, the sound of someone's cell phone disturbed the silence.

One ring. Then another.

"Gregson said that he would be calling with an update." Joan had to clear her throat.

"Yes," said Sherlock, not releasing his eyes from her.

A third ring. Joan turned to look behind her, as if expecting to see someone else rushing to answer the phone. She dropped her hands, hoping to hide her disappointment, and partial relief.

"Ahhhh," Sherlock rumbled low in his throat. "Well," he added abruptly.

Fourth ring.

"Infernal contraptions!" he exclaimed, moving quickly past Joan to pick up the device in the other room.

Standing alone in the kitchen, Joan, holding on the kitchen counter, watched him until there was only his shadow to keep her company.