The front door creaked, dismayed no doubt at being swiftly swung open at 12:17 a.m. A swirl of cold air snuck in with Joan. She leaned her woozy head against the door as she closed it, centering herself before she turned to open the foyer door. On the other side of the glass panel stood her housemate. Immobile, she stared silently at him. Sherlock stepped forward and opened the door that stood between them.

"Watson, are you alright?"

Joan's eyes glazed with tears, tears of embarrassment and disappointment in herself. She didn't speak, but nodded her answer to his question and took a wobbly step forward.

"You turned off your phone? I've sent you several texts ..." As she came closer he caught the scent of alcohol and surmised by her physical stance, carriage and emotional state that Watson was inebriated. "Your friend, Emily called me ..."

Joan looked at him, trying to focus her eyes, to keep the herself steady.

Sherlock continued, "She said she canceled dinner with you tonight, and when she called back to make sure you had gotten the message, could not get through to you..." He kept talking out of nervousness unsure how to proceed with Watson. His objective was to make sure she was not hurt in some way. She had yet to utter a word.

Joan took a few steps, a hot feeling of panic swept over her as she moved past him, "I think I'm going to be sick." She dropped her purse and bolted up the stairs towards the bathroom with Sherlock following closely behind her.

She ran in, pushing up the toilet seat and thanking her lucky stars for the wonder that was Ms Hudson. Sherlock peeled the opened coat off her back as Joan went down on her knees in front of the toilet. With the precision of a personal valet, he stood by her and in true "BFF" fashion neatly held her hair out of harm's way as Joan vomited.

"I'm so sorry. ... Sherlock, I shouldn't have ... " she mumbled to him, tears rolling down her cheeks, as she got herself into a standing position, holding on to herself, head tilted down. She was unable to face him.

He couldn't take it anymore, "Watson, other than being obviously well into your cups, are you alright? Are you hurt in any manner?" He grabbed a washcloth as he talked, wetted it with cool water, lifted her chin and gently wiped her face.

Taking the washcloth from his hand, she took a step towards the sink and rinsed her mouth, "I'm fine. I had dinner by myself and had too much ... I shouldn't have come home ..." Tears formed in her eyes again "... You're in recovery and I... " tears fell, "... but I didn't have anywhere else I wanted to be..."

Sherlock had enough, "Stop it Watson. This is your home, where else would you go." He had her by the elbow now, steering her towards her bedroom. "Come." He sat her on the bed and removed her boots, refraining from his usual disparaging remarks about her choice of footwear. Joan was dizzy and focusing was difficult. She tried to protest that he needn't bother but the words never made it to her mouth.

Sherlock pulled back the covers and carefully set her back onto the pillows, remembering from experience how sudden movements exaggerated the room spinning sensation. He kept talking softly and calmly, not sure she was conscious enough to hear or understand at this point."Sleeping in your clothes for one night won't hurt, I suppose..." He picked up her legs and swung them in under the blanket, "I'm not about to try and take those tights off of you ... much as I would like to ..." he added softly. Sherlock went back into the bathroom and came back with a clean, cool washcloth that he gently placed on her forehead. "There," he said pushing her hair away from her face, watching sleep overtake her completely, "silly woman, at least I know you're human now ..." He patted the blanket down around her and sat in his chair. He'd watch her sleep for a bit, make sure she was okay.

. - . - .

Morning came too quickly and with too much light. Joan woke up confused, in pain and with a dire need to brush her teeth. She was fully clothed under the blankets. Slowly the events of the night before stepped up and presented themselves to her. Embarrassment flooded over her. What a fool she was, an utter careless fool.

Over on the chair, Sherlock slept crumpled, legs spread out, neck twisted, arms at odd angles. She slowly made her way to his chair. Her head throbbed. She placed a hand on his outstretched arm. Startled awake and not sure what had just happened, he sat up in the chair and found her face.

"Hey," she said quietly, "I'm going to take a shower, why don't you stretch out on the bed? You don't look very comfortable here."

She gathered some clothes and made her way to the bathroom while Sherlock fell backwards on to her bed. Thankful limbs stretched out, his back relaxed, he stared after her as she walked away.

Sherlock had the tea ready by the time Joan arrived in the kitchen, bathed and dressed in her most comfortable clothes.

"Ah, Watson!" He said a little too loudly. "How are you this bright and lovely morning?" He was going to be a pain about this.

She looked at him and gave him a weak smile. She was not fighting back. She looked rather ill as she shuffled over to get her mug. Sherlock took pity on her. "Here, Watson, sit. I'll get that." She didn't refuse his help.

Joan sipped her tea and took a bite of toast. Sherlock watched in silence for a second or two.

"I texted Emily last night and told her you were alright." He brought his cup over and sat at the table with her.

"Thank you." She answered glumly, staring at her tea.

"Come on, Watson, it's not as bad as all that. So you had a few too many, everyone makes mistakes." He peered at her hoping to get a response. None came. He continued, "So are you going to tell me what happened, or is this one of your reserved areas, the ones with police tape around them and blinking warning lights..." Sherlock was just prattling now, prodding at her, hoping to receive a smile although even an eye roll would do at this point.

Joan put down her tea and took a breath. "I don't. I don't have a few too many. I know my limits. I know how huge of a trigger having me show up drunk ... " She shook her head in disgust. "I'm sorry ..."

"Watson, this isn't about me. I'm not about to relapse because you came home under the influence of alcohol. Now, tell me what happened?" He usually wasn't this direct with her, but he was tired of the walls she put up between herself and the world. She had knocked down his, it was time to breach hers.

Surprised, Watson looked up and finally made eye contact. Sherlock met her gaze and waited.

"It's stupid really," she looked away, and fiddled with her cup. "Truth is I was feeling sorry for myself." To anyone else, that would have been a trifling admission, for Joan, it took all her strength to admit.

Sherlock sat motionless waiting for her to continue.

"I was already in a bad mood and when Em texted me her cancellation ... I guess I got angry. ... Sometimes I feel everyone puts everything else before me, you know ..." She stopped and took a sip, stared down and continued. "I'm always there to take care of everyone ... you, my parents, my poor dad whose out there somewhere ... " her voice trailed off. Joan took a breath. "When Marcus got shot, I became mom to him, took care of him. ... I have Cheryl Gregson calling me to talk, mainly I listen ... Same with my mom, Ms Hudson ... I listen, I advise. I babysit Em's kids so she can have some time. I take care of people I don't even know..." Tears brimmed in her eyes again. "But who takes care of me? ... Who listens to me ..." Her voice was barely audible.

Sherlock tentatively reached his hand across the table and placed his fingers gently on her wrist. He said nothing, waiting for her to continue.

Watson wiped a tear away, "So when I got the text, I sort of snapped. I felt disposable." Her eyes darted to take a quick look at Sherlock's face and saw the concern registered there and stopped.

"Go on..." Moved by her openness, the words came out huskily from Sherlock. He waited for her to continue.

"That's all really. I decided that all of you could go to hell..." She half smiled trying to make it seem less important. "I turned off my phone, ordered dinner and a glass of Chardonnay, and then another and uh, took out my tablet and wrote some truly horrible angry things ... and had another glass ... and ... when I realized how uhm ... compromised ..."

"Drunk." Sherlock piped in, his hand now more firmly placed on her wrist.

"Drunk" she looked at him and nodded. "... How drunk I was, I got even more upset with myself than I was with the lot of you ... Realized I had nowhere I wanted to be but home but knew what a horrible position I would be placing you in ..."

A vague smile crossed Sherlock's lips, "You're even a responsible drunk, worrying about others when your head is in the toilet..." He shook his head.

Finally, he got a smile from her. She placed her free hand on his. "The waitress got me a taxi, poured me in and sent me home." Her head bent as she stared at his hand, lightly playing with the hairs on his fingers.

"You do realize we all care about you don't you?" His head ducked down to catch a glimpse of her face. "We are ... I am guilty of taking you for granted, yes." He sighed, "But you share some of the blame. You keep yourself aloof, a paragon of perfection ... This ... We need more of this ..." He placed his other hand on top of hers creating a small mountain of warmth with all four hands in contact. Their heads were bent and close, their eyes meeting.

"I'm sorry," she said again and lowered her forehead on to their stacked hands.

He kissed the top of her head, "Stop that! You have nothing to be sorry about." Removing his hands from hers, he suddenly stood up. "Come along Watson, get your coat. You need some fresh air. Best cure for a hangover. We'll go for a walk in the park." He stopped and turned towards her as he reached the sink, "If that's alright by you?"

She carefully nodded her approval. Her head still throbbed. "Give me a few minutes, I need to get some ibuprofen first."

He smiled at her as she left the kitchen. "As you wish..." he whispered as he rinsed out their cups.