Author's Note: Huge thanks to everyone who has followed, favorited, and commented! I love each and everyone one of you. Big thanks for forensiphile who without this entire thing would not have happened. Thank you all for reading, I hope you enjoy our finale.

Chapter 4: If You Need Me

She set down two mugs of tea, and Sherlock finally agreed to sit down. He was nervous, very obviously as he began tapping his fingers against the tabletop. Joan was the perfect contrast, sitting calm and impassive on the other side of the table. His leg was bouncing now, and Joan was sipping her tea as she allowed her thoughts to really form. She had practiced precisely what she would say during the seventeen minutes she had to wait, but now she couldn't seem to remember how to start it off. The tapping became louder, distracting her from her thoughts as her mind focused in on his hands.

"Sherlock." He stopped immediately, his gaze snapping to her before quickly looking away. The tense silence picked up the instant he looked away, but he did stop tapping his fingers. Even if it meant his foot bouncing had picked up. Small victories. Everything with Sherlock was a series of small victories. Joan took another sip of her tea before finally setting it back down, the mug clinking against the table snapping his attention to her again.

"I'm not very good at this." Joan finally admitted, her fingers idly playing with the edge of her mug. She was picking up some of Sherlock's more annoying habits, or maybe it was his nervous bouncing rubbing off on her. She couldn't be sure. Sherlock was staring over her at the far wall, probably staring at Angus, his jaw set and his lips down turned.

"I've placed you in a terrible imposition, haven't I?" He attempted to smile, but all it looked was apologetic. His leg stilled as he brought his fingers up to his mug.

"No. Well, yes," He shifted uncomfortably, while Joan smirked "but no more than usual." She observed him as he was now looking away from her entirely, trying to avoid any accidental eye contact. He was desperate to get up and pace, she knew it, but he sat and waited anyway. She considered drawing it out, getting him back for all the times he did this to her. Still, of all the things Joan Watson was, she was not petty. "How long has this been going on?"

Sherlock didn't look at her, his eyes staring at his hanging jacket in the entryway. "Sometime, at least six months." He frowned, and his breath was slightly erratic as he kept staring at that jacket as if it carried all the answers in the world. "I dedicated a fair amount to attempting to unearth why I was better with you, even with the consideration of your quickly forming deductive skills there was something. . ." he gestured vaguely between them with his left hand, "else."

Joan observed him as he spoke. His shoulders were hunched, body language showing his fear and lack of certainty. His eyes were glassy, which meant he was not concentrating on what he was seeing, and his face was tense in an expression of forced neutrality. "After some time I realized I wasn't just better focused around you, but calmer, relaxed. Perhaps even. . .happier." He shifted, there was a nervousness in his motion, and he intertwined his fingers to keep from tapping them on the table. "It was a short time after that."

Joan took it all in without a sound, or giving anything away. Her time with Sherlock had made her very good at keeping her expression neutral, though she hoped it was less tense than his. His leg was tapping furiously against the ground again. She wished he would get up and pace, the motion might help her figure out just what to say. "And the pillows?"

"The best I could improvise with so little time." He seemed to ease a bit with this line of conversation, his own ego demanding he silently gloat about his impromptu genius. His left eyebrow raising slightly as it generally did when he felt he had done or said something particularly clever.

"You could have just talked to me." Joan's voice steals away that bit of gloating and he is all nerve ends and tension again.

"I had not planned for this conversation to ever come to pass." He disentangled his fingers, bringing a hand to rake through his hair, the action only put him all the more on edge. "I had accepted that our current arrangement was the extent of our relationship. I would not dare endanger our partnership for my own self-seeking desires. Nor would I threaten the respect you have for me by forcing it upon you." With each sentence his expression seemed to grow more grave, and a hush had taken to him that was only present when something that was deeply personal to him came out. His eyes were pained, raw, and afraid.

"After last night I knew it could not be avoided, but I-" he hesitated, and finally he looked at her, that raw expression twisting her insides. He was in pain, and afraid that he had damaged their partnership. She knew she would need to reassure him, but for now it was best to give him a chance to speak. "It was necessary I let you decide from a point of neutrality. If I was present I would, attempt, to influence the outcome in my favor." His own weakness disgusted him, the way his head tilted a few degrees to the right and his nostrils flaring gave it away.

"It's ok, Sherlock." She reached across the table and offered her hand to him. He took it like it was a lifeline, his fingers surrounding her own. The simple action seemed to ground him, his body language losing a bit of it's tense edge.

"I must admit Watson, this is not at all how I envisioned this conversation going." He was looking away from her again, his intense gaze leaving her to fixate elsewhere.

"And how did you envision it?"

"You were throwing things at my head." His voice was soft and his facial expression a bit sheepish. She laughed softly at the idea though, Sherlock Holmes ducking away from a variety of objects thrown at him.

"I may still, don't think you're out of that danger zone yet."

He smirked at that, before focusing in on her face again. His gaze was extremely intense, moving from lips to eyes in a semi-rapid movement. "I believe we have fully discussed the events that preface our current situation." His hand gripped hers a little tighter, like his arm around her shoulders. It was that sting of fear, that whatever was going to be said would break this tentative peace. " I believe all that is left is your answer, Watson."

Joan removed her fingers from his own, though he did his best to stymie the attempt, and looked down at her tea. She took another sip, feeling it ease the last of the sore throat. Luckily it was fading or this conversation would have been closer to torture. She tucked a few strands of hair behind her ear, eyes staring down at the table.

"I-" It was her turn to hesitate, her body tense and the mask of neutrality slipping off her face. She was afraid of this too, had always been afraid. She could feel her cheeks burning with the self awareness of how focused in on her he was. "Is this just a sex thing, like with the Lynch sisters?"

He went rigid, and his jaw clenched. His right eye twitched, and his hand turned into a fist. "I am offended by the notion, Watson. Do you honestly believe I would risk our partnership for a mere dalliance?" His words were very controlled, but the slight waver and the fact that his knuckles were turning white with how hard he was clenching showed the anger he felt.

"I just -" Words failed her, she felt guilt twisting the knot her insides had become painfully. She knew he respected her too much for that to be the case, but there was that edge of doubt.

"I understand." His words were still harsh, his breath not yet normal, but he seemed to have calmed somewhat. He ran a hand through his hair again, his free hand brushing against the wood of the table. "You had to be sure."

Joan wrapped her hands around her mug, as if the warmth could calm her down. "I'm not good at relationships, Sherlock."

"Neither am I." His answer was instantaneous, as if he had been waiting for her to say it. He lifted up his tea and finally took a sip before setting it back down, his eyes taking her in once more, "but I believe it is worth pursuing."

"It can't interfere with our working partnership."

"Wouldn't dream of it, Watson."

"And if things don't work out that can't interfere either."

"Of course." His was smiling again, he had already deduced that she was not shutting him down. His bouncing leg slowed, his face relaxed and his eyes seemed to have a spark in them. "I shall keep all efforts to keep this separate from the work we do. I shall also maintain a professional level of interaction in front of our colleagues, suspects, and people of interest."

He knew just how to talk to her, boundaries and rules were the stability she made in her life. It was control in a world she had discovered was completely without it most of the time. "Agreed." His expression broke into a real smile then, but she felt all the more awkward. The talking was easy, but what did they do now? Should they go get dinner, or simply call that good for a day? She felt suddenly very uncomfortable. Change always put her on edge, and she found herself looking to her tea for answers like Sherlock would look to Angus.

"You're over-analyzing." He was suddenly next to her, his breath hot on her ear and her whole body tensed. She hadn't even heard him get up. He retreated quickly with that smug grin on his face. He hadn't even touched her but she felt herself blushing half out of embarrassment and half out of the sensation of him so close.

"So, what happens now?" She asked it calmly even with how unsure she felt at this moment. Sherlock did not sit down but instead moved to the side of her so she could easily track his movements. His hands went behind him once more, and he looked out over the kitchen.

"Well, now you answer my question."

"What?" Her mouth hung open in confusion as she looked at him with an expression that must have been hilarious because he started laughing. Holding one hand against his forehead as his shoulders shook with badly suppressed laughter. Joan rarely heard Sherlock laugh, and usually enjoyed the sound, but not when it was at her expense.

"You should realize, my dear Watson, that at times there is no great mystery to be solved. Sometimes the answer truly is the obvious one." His voice still sounded on the edge of laughter, but he was doing his best to keep it under control as he spoke.

"So, the pillows weren't some obtuse attempt to get me to answer the question of why you took care of me?" She couldn't believe it. She had truly felt she had uncovered what he was trying to say and there he stood trying to not break down in laughter again.

"Forgive, Watson. I had considered that you may not comprehend the message I had left, or be offended by it's intonation. I had not considered that you would misinterpret it entirely." His grin had turned into one of gloating that she had not been able to infer exactly what he was asking and that annoyed her more than his laughter. She crossed her arms in irritation.

"So what was it?" She didn't hide her irritation when she spoke either. She had been so sure she had solved it, so absolutely sure.

He leaned down close to her again, his breath against her ear though he didn't physically touch her. He kept perfectly still, but she could feel the heat from his body with how close he was. "I was proposing, if you were so inclined, to join me in my room for the evening."

He was so close, his voice soft and deep. She felt her insides twist as he spoke and she had never realized Sherlock's voice could be downright sexy. His breath moved the hairs near her ears and the heat seemed to spread across her face.

"I would be most grateful for your company." He wasn't kidding when he said he would manipulate the outcome in his favor, the way he phrased his words was incredibly seductive, "What is your response, Joan?"

She decided to forgo words in favor of action. She turned her head and pressed her lips to his, feeling the mixture of stubble and the softness of his own lips. He responded immediately, one hand against the table for support and the other moving to cup her cheek, His body leaned into her, and Joan rested her arms against his shoulders.

The kiss only lasted a few moments, their breath intermingling as they separated. The hand left cupping Joan's cheek removed itself to rest against her shoulder and she found Sherlock's blue eyes searching her own. "I shall take this as an answer in the affirmative?"

Joan smirked in response, and he gave her his best smug grin. "Then I suggest we retire upstairs, before I place you into a series of unenviable positions on the table."

"And just what is so awful about that?" She was back in her stride, a sarcastic smirk on her lips as she leveled her eyes at him.

"I will not let my efforts to make my room presentable go to waste." He wrapped his fingers around her wrist and tugged to get her moving. Joan gave in without her usual fuss, standing as he looked down at her, his free hand reaching to push some hair behind her ear. "And I would loathe having to buy you yet another spatula." He smirks in response to her outraged expression and turns with his fingers still wrapped around her wrist, tugging her toward the stairs. He takes them two at a time and she finds herself rushing, trying to keep up. He tugs her along until finally they mounted the last stair and he thrust open the door to his room.

Her white pillow was still there, stark against red pillows and red sheets. Wait, weren't his sheets usually blue? She doesn't get a chance to ask though as he turns on her and wraps his arms around her. He crushes his mouth against her own. Gone was the Sherlock afraid to touch, instead he was pressing her as close to him as he could. His lips wandered away from her lips to kiss along cheeks where her jaw line met her neck as he, quite efficiently, backed her against a wall.

"You do not know how long I've wanted this." He whispers against her skin as he fights with her skirt. She pulls on his shirt and he separates long enough to toss it aside before returning to press his lips against her pulse. Her fingers stretch against his shoulders, following the lines of muscles and bone. His skin is not fully smooth, ridges from tattoos and wounds exposed to her curious finger tips. He shivers and gooseflesh forms when her fingers brush from shoulder to the back of his neck, a groan muffled into her skin.

"Six months I believe is what you said." She finds it amazing she can think enough to retort as his teeth nip at her collarbone and his fingers tug down her skirt to pool at her ankles. His fingers are insistent and quickly press under her shirt, tracing along her skin and pressing up her top to trace along ribs.

He chuckles gently against her skin, the sound rough and low. "No, Watson, I believe I have wanted this my entire life." He reaches out a hand, and turns off the light.

AN: Thanks again for reading!