She opened the door and stood at the threshold, steeling herself to face the icy emptiness of the brownstone. Sherlock had been missing for almost three days now and each time she returned home an ever smaller part of her that hoped he'd be there waiting was crushed. This time the crushing of that last small hope was too much for her to bear. She sat at the foot of the stairs. Tears streamed, the leaden lump of sorrow she had carried in her throat since that first day finally burst and uncontrolled sobs of pain erupted from her. Alone, she was able to let go of the iron will that kept her strong in front of others. Her world became gelatin - no structure or person strong enough for her to lean on existed. She had failed him, he was out there hurt, bleeding, dead and she could not find him.

Joan gasped for air. She couldn't breathe. As empty as their home was, it was suffocating her. Through the watery haze of uncontrolled tears, she found her way up the stairs to the roof. Finding her place in front of the hives, she sought comfort in the weak afternoon sun and the humming of the bees. She swiped at her face, embarrassed by her weakness, by her need for him. But the tears as soon as removed, replenished themselves and fell once more clouding her view, sending her spiraling...

... Three days prior ...

The last time they spoke they argued. He stated he thought her deductions less than factually rigorous, bordering on the intuitive. She argued her case once more to him, finally calling him an analytical zealot and announcing she was off to bed. Before she had a chance to leave the room, he stopped her and gave her a kiss on the cheek. Confused, Joan gave Sherlock a quick kiss back, and went upstairs. He never came to bed. In retrospect, she should have realized he was up to something.

She woke up to silence. An unnatural quiet. Nothing creaked, nothing moved. Even at his most considerate, she knew when Sherlock was in the house. Watson turned over and immediately covered her eyes - too much light. She grabbed for her phone, checked the time and messages - none from Sherlock. Something felt wrong. The whispers of vague anxiety came uninvited. "Stop it. You're feeling rather than observing," she told herself. Watson shook her head at the decidedly stiff-upper-lip accent in which the thought presented itself.

Grabbing for the comfort of her red sweater, she made her way down to the kitchen, calling out his name several times as she descended. The kitchen table caught her attention. His phone and a note lay waiting for her.

Vague anxiety became more distinct. Sherlock didn't step into the bathroom without taking his phone. She opened the folded paper: "It is 4:00 a.m., did not wish to wake you. Something of urgency has arisen that needs my immediate attention. I leave you my phone as I do not wish to have my whereabouts traced. This is something I must do alone. Please do not worry. I am in no danger. I will explain all to you upon my return this afternoon." Watson grabbed his phone and scrolled through his incoming and outgoing calls and texts. They had all been cleared. His internet usage as well - cookies, history - deleted. She found his tablet - cookies, data, recent documents - all cleared.

Was this one of his tests? And if not, then perhaps a misguided effort to protect her?

She was able to pull some information from his laptop and cellphone account. The rest of that day was spent in chasing down false leads, investigating empty apartment buildings and talking to anyone who might have seen him. Watson carried Sherlock's phone with her at all times as if it were a holy relic that would somehow connect her with him. It was nearly five when Watson made her way back to the brownstone, defeated. The cold feeling that permeated the house crept its way into her being. If this was a test, she clearly had failed.

Watson made a large pot of tea, lit a fire and set herself to wait, hoping he would turn up. In the quiet emptiness of the hours that followed, Watson concentrated on the facts, created a wall of crazy that even Sherlock would be proud of and did not allow her emotions to enter into the equation. By 9:00 p.m. she could wait no longer. There was no sign of him. Watson called Captain Gregson and told him of her suspicions, gave him all the information she had. A missing person report could not be issued yet, but they would start the investigation and extra eyes would be out there looking for him.

After that call, her world became a blur: scrutinizing every scrap of information, chasing down every possible connection to him. Subsisting on tea, peanut butter sandwiches, and very little sleep, Watson exhausted every resource at her disposal but got no closer to finding Sherlock.

Fear, anger, hurt took turns swelling in her chest and rising to her throat as she walked into the empty brownstone on the second night. She swallowed them all down as best she could. Liam had disappeared like this on more than one occasion, but though she had worried about him, it had never been this visceral a fear, this all consuming sorrow. The panic of having failed Sherlock overcame her again in the small hours of the night. Watson wandered in the dark from room to room trying to find comfort, a place to rest, finally returning to the room in which she and Sherlock met. She turned on all the TV sets and let the noise wash over her until her mind was numbed.

This morning, after an uncharacteristic outburst, Joan had been asked by Gregson to leave the station, go home and get some rest for everyone's sake. He promised to contact her with any breaks. Joan couldn't rest, she continued the search on her own. Images of him dead in a garbage strewn alley or of his bloated body washing up to shore kept forcing themselves upon her as she tried to work. The only conclusion she reached was he left of his own accord, he did not want to be found and obviously something had gone horribly wrong. Watson felt completely lost, alone and adrift ...

. . .

The bees were beginning to settle in the hives as the late afternoon's long shadows were creeping across the rooftop. The chime of a text startled Joan. It came from his phone: "Watson I'm alright." That was all it said. She jumped up, her heart pounded, her breathing quickened. Her own phone rang. Bell. They had him. He was alright! She thanked Bell profusely as she ran down stairs and out of the house.

The empty lot where Sherlock had been found was now overrun with emergency vehicles. Joan searched the crowd of police officers and other first responders but didn't see him. Out of nowhere, Capt. Gregson appeared in front of her.

"He's alright Joan. He has a gash on his head, bumps and bruises. He looks much worse than he is."

"Where is he?" she scanned around Gregson trying to get by him.

"Why don't you let the paramedics clean him up before ..."

Joan lost it, "Tommy Gregson if you don't step out of my way, so help me I'll ..."

He stopped her, "May I remind you you are threatening a captain with the NYPD ..." Gregson saw the desperation in her eyes and caved in. He took her by the elbow and lead her to Sherlock.

She saw him ahead of her sitting on a gurney. Half his face was covered in blood as was his shirt. He looked pale and exhausted. The EMTs around him were cleaning away the blood that caked the side of his head so they could examine the wound. Sherlock saw Joan, perked up and smiled a closed lipped smile "Watson!" he said cheerily.

Relieved, angered, on the verge of tears that she refused to let drop, she walked determinedly toward him. "You fucking asshole!" she yelled at him. The EMTs stopped their work and let her through without being asked. She was a force of nature at this point.

Sherlock's smile quickly faded, "Watson I can explain..." She had reached the gurney where he sat and started her examination of the man. Joan was cold and clinical, her ER training rushing back. The gash on his head required stitching but was not bad. Head wounds tend to bleed. Bruising, scrapes... her eyes began filling with tears again. She was in his face, checking him for shock.

Sherlock whispered "Good god woman, you look worse than I do," as he saw the pain and fatigue that registered on Watson's face. Watson lost control, a sob escaped her lips as tears began to slip. "No, no, Watson, its alright, really, I'm sorry, please don't ..." He knew Watson never cried in public. Ever. It was painful to watch. She grabbed at him not caring if she was hurting him or not at this point and he responded by clasping her to him as if some one might try to take her away. She sobbed into his neck and swore at him until she caught her breath. Joan found his mouth and kissed him, anger and passion mixing. He responded, holding the back of her head, pressing her lips even harder into his. As they stopped to catch their breath, she hissed at him "Don't you ever, ever do this again." He looked at her wide-eyed, "I won't, I swear." She held his face tenderly, "As soon as you've recovered, I'm going to make your life a living hell." He looked deep into her eyes, and said with a glint of mock anticipation "Promise?" She laughed softly as their foreheads met. His dried blood, moistened by her tears, was now spread on both their cheeks as they held on to each other once more.

Around them in stunned silence stood NYC's finest. Bell looked at Gregson and raised his eyebrows. Gregson shook his head and reached for his wallet, handing Marcus a crisp twenty dollar bill. "Best money I ever lost," he said with a lopsided smile.

The EMTs finally broke in and asked Watson to step aside. They needed to get him to the hospital. "I'll ride with him," she said. They didn't argue..

At the hospital, they checked him into an ER room to wait for the wound on his head to be cleaned and stitched. She pulled over a chair and sat as close as she could to him, resting her arm on his bed protectively close to him. She needed answers. Sherlock told her that Alistair had come to him for help. "Domestic squabbles are the worst," he said, "especially when your ex is a jealous testosterone laden footballer." Alistair had recruited Sherlock to go with him to return his ex's belongings. The man became upset, thinking Sherlock was the new man in Alistair's life. Things got messy. He kept them sequestered until Sherlock tried to break free and got hurt. "They're both alright. They talked it out. I'm the one that got the worst of it. By the way, you can't mention this to Alistair. He was adamant about no one else knowing, especially you ... Made me leave my phone against my better judgment." His eyes were closing. "He is old fashioned, not out yet ... I've talked to him about it ..." He fell asleep in mid sentence. Concussion had been ruled out. Joan let him drift off to sleep.

Further questions would have to wait. The adrenalin rush of having him back had drained the little energy Joan had left. She lay her head down close to his.

She realized they had "outed" themselves in front of the whole NYPD ... "Woman." He had never called her that in public, only in moments of intimacy or personal conversation. Joan had challenged him out on the term the first time he used it, telling him it was overbearing, reducing her to an object, never mind the Irene overtones. He explained himself so eloquently, she had melted into his arms. It was his acknowledgement that Watson was his only one, not an ideal, not "the woman" but that she was his woman - his flesh and blood counterpart. His other half as man - the half that completed him, that made him whole, that made him better...

Sleep was overtaking her, half thoughts and odd images flitting through her semi conscious state ... wondering if it was legal to GPS chip a human being ... What would her mom say if she saw them like this, tear-stained, bloodied ... Clyde! when was the last time she fed Clyde ...

Gregson came into the ER room to check on them and found them sound asleep. Joan was snoring inches away from Holmes' face, hair falling in all directions, hand on his face. Holmes, for his part, was sleeping open-mouthed, slightly drooling, his hand on Watson's wrist. The Captain's first thought frankly was, "yuck." They were a mess. Then he smiled. "Partners" he thought and sighed. He needed to call Cheryl. They needed to get back to being partners.