That moment in the kitchen was never discussed. There was, however, a noticeable increase in the tension between them. While superficially the nature of their relationship was the same, especially to an outsider looking in, the more routine aspects had been altered. Pots of tea were still shared, but now usually in separate rooms, rather than across the kitchen table or in front of a computer screen. Gone were the personal wake-up calls, her finding Sherlock sitting in her bedroom, ready to regale her with his latest revelation about a case. It was rare that Joan and Sherlock spent a late afternoon like they presently were. Joan had finally made it home and they were in the same room, she reading a medical journal on the sofa, while he sat by the fire, looking over crime scene photos from a case he was considering taking.
After a half hour, Sherlock abruptly shifted in his seat and dared to disrupt the companionable silence.
"So are we going to talk about it?"
"It?" Joan asked, looking over the tops of her glasses.
Sherlock again shifted in his chair. "The kiss," he confirmed, directing his eyes first to the fire next to him, then back to Joan.
"I wasn't sure that you had registered that it happened. Or if you had, that you would even remember it," she sighed, setting the journal down next to her on the sofa.
"When have you known me not to remember something?" he asked.
Joan paused. "I don't need to talk about it…..," she responded haltingly. "…if you'd rather not."
Rubbing his fingertips on the fabric of his pants, Sherlock tried to calm his characteristically erratic movements. "It's not that I…..That is to say, I think that we…."
"It's fine, Sherlock," Joan interjected, saving him – and herself – from further awkwardness. "It was an aberration. How did you describe my having sex with your brother? A free radical into our otherwise highly functional relationship? We can just consider this another free radical."
"No," Sherlock stated adamantly. "We are adults, are we not? We can be adults about this."
"By all means," Joan smirked. "Let's be adults."
An electric silence settled between them.
Settling back into the chair, "You expected that I should go first?" Sherlock extended, a slight smile on his face.
"You brought it up," Joan challenged. "I told you that we didn't need to talk about it."
"I think that for the sake of our relationship, a conversation is in order."
"Which relationship are we supposed to be considering?" Joan asked, leaning into the corner of the sofa and stretching her legs out next to her. "Our professional one, or our personal one?"
"Watson….," Sherlock jerked his head slightly. "Joan," he began again. "I think that they have become one and the same." Then, after a brief pause, "Do you disagree?"
"Our lives have become rather intertwined."
Sherlock rose from his chair, centering himself, but remained across the room from Joan. "I do not wish to be disentangled."
"What are you saying?" Joan remained seated. The weightiness of the conversation descended upon her.
From her tone, Sherlock tried to ascertain a clue to Joan's thoughts. "I have come to realize that you are important to me, Joan. No, that's not true. I've known for a long time that you were important to me. Within days of your being hired to be my sober companion, I knew it. That's why I was so pleased when you agreed to become my professional partner. But you will not want to do this work forever, I am sure. And when that time comes….." He absentmindedly waved a hand in the air, as if to cast the possibility from his mind.
Joan responded, finally rising from the sofa, "What makes you think that I'm going to quit working with you?"
"Your medical work has been taking more and more of your attention. I'm not complaining," he added quickly. "I told you some time ago that you'd probably return to practicing medicine. You were good at that. I believe that you have missed it."
"I would miss you more," Joan said, walking slowly towards him. "I know that you've appreciated our relationship. I have too. But not just our work as police consultants. I consider you a friend. More than a friend."
Sherlock let out a sigh. "My reliance on you has gone beyond preventative and professional. As you well know, the number of people whom I like is small. Of people whom I respect, smaller still." He approached Joan, head down. "Of people whom I love, the number is singular."
Joan reached out her hand to grasp Sherlock's. The crackling of the fire seemed to barely camouflage the beating of her heart. "I will never leave you. I don't know what will happen to me professionally. But whatever I am doing, I never want to leave this brownstone. I never want to leave your heart. I love you."
Sherlock closed the remaining inches between them, gathering Joan in his arms. "I am glad you're home."
Outside, a young child walked with her mother in front of the brownstone. As they walked back home from the park, the two had been playing a game they had made up, called "Who lives there?" So far, the child had decided that circus performers, astronauts, and a spy lived in the apartment building on the corner. A famous actress must live in the modern structure right next to that, she insisted. And in the black building with the turret lived, naturally, a princess.
"Mommy," the young girl said, "I bet people who love each other live in that house."
"What makes you say that?" replied the mother, looking up and down the height of the building.
"You can tell from the shadows."