Joan woke feeling almost clear headed, despite the pain medication. She patted her face, gingerly, wondering how bad the bruising was. She felt the coolness of a metal band on her finger. Funny, she didn't remembered wearing any jewellery that night. She looked down at her left hand.

"What-?"

On her ring finger was a matt gold band, not closed. A deep green oval shaped stone was set on one end lengthways, attached to a curling half leaf, the other side curled in a tendril to meet it. She blinked a few times to make sure her concussion wasn't just worse than she thought. It stunning. But where the hell- ? Sherlock. Her nails were also bright red. She howled with laughter until the pain in her ribs made her whimper.

It was when she was moving in bed that she noticed her toes. Did he have to paint those too? She was going to kill him.

He walked in as she was wiggling her toes thinking her mani/pedicurist hadn't done as good a job.

"Sherlock!"

He saw her toes peeking out of the blanket and raised his eyebrows, suddenly becoming very interested in the window.

"And what is this?"

She held up her left hand in accusation.

"That, Watson, is an engagement ring."

"Ugh! I know what it is. What is it doing on my finger? Did I miss a proposal and acceptance before I was attacked?"

He looked taken aback.

"Nonsense, Watson! You know how I feel about the culturally enforced farce that is matrimony. It merely guaranteed I would be kept informed of your…status."

He looked at the ground under the window.

"You don't like it."

"What?"

She watched him slouch and poke at the ground with his shoe. She glanced at the ring again and sighed.

"Sherlock it's a beautiful ring."

He looked at her, eyes happy.

"I thought if the charade was necessary I might do as well to find something you would like…as a token of my gratitude."

She looked at him. Sherlock Holmes: gifted detective, infuriating eccentric genius and absolute sweetheart. Who knew? She did. Always had.

"Sherlock why are all my nails red?"

He squinted and scrunched his face.

"I was going to get a spot of lunch. Want anything?"

He was leaving the room.

"Sherlock."

"I'll get you some spaghetti."

"Sherlock!"

The door closed. She made an annoyed sound and flopped back on the bed, examining her ring which, when she got out of the hospital, she would move to another finger. She was surprised as she noticed one detail about the ring. It wasn't intended as an engagement ring but it wasn't fake either.

He helped her up the stairs to her room in the brownstone. She agreed, reluctantly, to allow him to "assist in her convalescence" under the condition that she would forego prescription painkillers- she didn't want them lying around, he was still recovering. He sulked, about to argue he'd gone a week unsupervised without relapse but when he saw her features set into "immovable Watson" he gave in.

When they got to the threshold of the room Joan was so stunned she had to lean on the door frame for support.

The books and bookshelves from her old apartment that were in storage had been moved in and a couple of the funky, modern paintings she'd bought had been hung on the walls. The bed had been changed with her own colourful linens. The purple lamp by the bed was hers as was the retro bedside table. A picture of her family on vacation that she had kept in her living room sat on the mantelpiece and her TV and DVD player were in the corner. Even her coloured glass vases had made the cut.

Sherlock stood behind her, his normally busy hands clasped behind his back. He was studying her face for signs he'd crossed the line. He pursed his lips.

"Alistair helped. We used your pornography for reference…You're cross with me."

Her mouth still hung open. She blinked.

"I told you not my pornography. Cross?"

"Angry."

Her eyes filled with tears.

"I've miscalculated. You're upset."

She shook her head and threw her arms around his neck, squeezing him tight. Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment, breathing her in before gently pulling away.

"Thank you."

She dabbed at her eyes.

"Aherm. Right. Good to have you back."

He pushed forward on his toes, wiggling his fingers while avoiding her gaze.

"Best get us something to eat."

He scurried away, leaving an overwhelmed Watson to marvel at her room. She sat on her bed, realising she wanted a picture of Sherlock to go next to the one of her family. Maybe one of him and Clyde. She smiled, wondering what exactly that might mean.

Next: The Dominican cartel get their comeuppance- Sherlock style...and does Sherlock learn to deal with a vulnerable Joan without squirming away. A little longer than planned but almost at the end! :) As always thanks for reading! Please drop a line if you have any thoughts / crit :) x