A/N: Hey guys, thanks for joining me for this chapter and thank you to all who left a review for me about this story. You're all too kind. I recognized some of my faithful ducklings (you all know how fab I think you are), plus it was great fun to meet a few new readers. It's a great part of posting FF.

So, this chapter, ended up getting quite wordy. Don't know why I was surprised by that. I really shouldn't be. There is a lot of back and forth with Joan and Sherlock, but it was fun stuff to write given how different they are, but also given how much they care about one another.

Hope you enjoy it… (oh, and that it makes sense, that's always good too)

CHAPTER TWO

Joan kept her voice determinedly calm as she felt the tension in the room starting to increase. "Sherlock, put me down."

"If I do that, you will cut your feet." Sherlock lifted his head and glared at the officer. "She'll cut her feet if I put her down."

"Put me on the sofa," instructed Joan. "I'll be fine there."

Sherlock looked at her uncertainly, like the act of setting her down was somehow a confusing one to him.

The officer's tone was hasher again. "Sir, put the woman down, that's the last time I'm going to say it."

Joan nodded at Sherlock encouragingly. "Sofa, Sherlock, now."

Sherlock grimaced and then walked over to the sofa, glass crunching under his feet once more. He set her gently down on the sofa and Joan immediately smiled apologetically up at the officer. "Sorry, Officer, I know this must look a little strange—"

"Yeah, it does," said the officer tightly. He scanned the room. "What happened here?"

Sherlock straightened up and clasped his hands behind his back. "I was having a bad day," he informed the man in clipped tones.

The officer arched an eyebrow. "And do you have a lot of these bad days, sir?"

"Not usually," said Sherlock coolly, "but I'd received some bad news." His gaze lingered on Joan as she sat on the sofa. "Some traumatic news." Sherlock was back looking at the officer. "I fear I did not handle it very well."

The officer gave Joan a concerned look. "And were you here for the bad news, ma'am?"

"No," said Joan immediately. "Like I said, this isn't how it looks. Sherlock would never hurt me."

"If only the same could be said of you, Watson," he said a little hollowly. Sherlock was back to looking haunted.

The cop gave him a wary look. "I'm here about the Lexus," he said, gaze intent on Sherlock. "It was reported stolen last night, and now it's parked in front of your house. Care to comment, Mr. —"

"Holmes," said Sherlock calmly. "Sherlock Holmes. I required the vehicle because Ms. Watson here was in need of immediate assistance."

"So, you stole it?" said the officer disapprovingly.

"There was no time for niceties," said Sherlock uncaringly.

"I thought you said the car belonged to an acquaintance?" said Joan in distress.

"I am sure the owner of the Lexus and myself will become acquainted retrospectively, during the course of the court proceedings," said Sherlock casually.

"I could have gotten a cab, Sherlock," she groaned. "You didn't need to steal a car."

"When you receive a phone call from beyond the grave, then you are compelled to make haste to meet with said phantasm," said Sherlock, a muscle ticking along his jawline. "There was no time to be lost, in case… in case—"

Sherlock didn't finish his sentence, but Joan could see it in his face. He hadn't trusted that it was really her on the end of that phone call. He'd been afraid that his mania at losing her had conjured up a hallucination to torture him with losing her all over again. It was a crazy thought for a man so rooted in logic, but then that was always the flip side to Sherlock's greatness, the madness which was always lurking in the shadows.

Joan shook her head at the officer. "Look, we consult for the NYPD. Speak with Captain Thomas Gregson. He'll vouch for us. The taking of the car was a poor judgement call, but one I'm sure we can discuss with the owner and make our own private reparations."

"That's not down to me. I've just got to call it in."

"I know, do that and I'm sure we can fix this in no time," said Joan.

In the end it took well over an hour with various phone calls back and forth and the involvement of Gregson, plus Joan reporting her mugging, but ultimately, the officer finally left, happy in the knowledge he'd done his job. It had, however, taken a few more rounds of very pointed questions to reassure him that Sherlock was no threat to her though. Joan understood. Sherlock didn't always give out the most reassuring of personas on first meeting. In the end though, the officer continued on his way, and it was just the two of them again.

Joan was still on the sofa, and she moved to get off it without thinking.

Sherlock held up a warning hand to her. "No, Watson, the floor, your feet."

Joan sighed in exasperation. "Then could you do something about all the glass, please? I'd like to make myself a cup of tea." She hesitated. "If we still have any cups, that is."

"I will sweep the floor, and make your tea."

Joan leaned back against the sofa and watched Sherlock make short work of both. She absently rubbed her knee which was beginning to really throb now. Looking at her knee, Joan could see that her wound must involve broken skin because there was dried blood crusting the material of her pajama bottoms. A nice little reminder that yesterday really was as bad as she thought it had been. And not just for her it seemed. Joan knew they needed to talk about what happened here last night, but she was letting Sherlock have a moment to collect his thoughts through performing the menial tasks.

"Are you hurt?"

Joan looked up to see his gaze focused on the knee she was rubbing. She frowned, wrinkling her nose at her knee. "A bit. I haven't really looked yet."

Sherlock walked over and handed her the cup of tea she'd been longing for since waking up that morning.

"Thank you," she said gratefully.

He gave a short nod, acknowledging her thanks, but then his attention was focused on her knee. Sherlock crouched down in front of her, taking her leg in his hand.

Joan hissed a little in pain as he straightened out her leg and rested her foot on his own knee.

"Sorry," he murmured, pushing up the material of her pajama bottoms.

"I'm just a little stiff this morning. It'll pass."

Sherlock revealed the flesh of her knee for both of them to inspect, and it was indeed torn up pretty badly.

Joan felt his eyes on her and she met his worried gaze as she gave her professional opinion. "Flesh wound. It's nothing."

"How badly did this miscreant manhandle you?" Sherlock demanded to know. "Do you have other injuries?"

"Nothing as bad as the knee, which isn't that bad in the first place. I just fell pretty heavily when he pushed me to the ground."

"Did you hit your head?"

Joan hesitated. It had happened so fast and she was a little muddled about the order of things. "No… I don't think so."

Sherlock's hands were immediately in her hair, feeling her scalp for lumps and bumps. "You sound uncertain. You may have sustained a mild concussion in your attack."

"Ow!" Joan batted his hand away and rubbed the painful spot on the back of her head his wandering fingers had just discovered. "Don't poke at the sore bits… they're sore," she chastised him.

"There could be a slow subarachnoid hemorrhage." His eyes narrowed. "We should take you to hospital to have the appropriate testing performed."

Joan gave a shake of her head. "No, I don't want to go to hospital. It's just a bump."

"You are in no position to give that diagnosis."

"I am a doctor."

"A doctor with a possible concussion, or worse."

"No hospital, Sherlock. I just need to clean out my knee and maybe take a couple of painkillers."

"I'd like to register my unhappiness with this course of action," he said dourly. "And your generalized cavalier attitude to your own wellbeing."

"Duly noted." Joan sipped her cup of tea. "Just let me finish this and I'll fix my knee."

Sherlock stood up and walked over to the cupboard, removing the first aid kit they kept there. He walked back and crouched back down in front of her, resettling her foot on his knee so he had access to her wound once more.

"Seriously, Sherlock, I can do it."

He didn't look at her, his attention focused on her knee. "Drink your tea, Watson."

Joan sighed, too tired to really fight him on this. Besides, if his caring for her knee made Sherlock work through something of the helplessness he'd obviously been feeling in regard to her, that was probably a good thing. She sipped her tea, gritting her teeth periodically, as Sherlock cleaned out her wound, and rubbed in antiseptic cream before covering it with sticking plaster. "Thank you." Joan saw the way he was eyeing her. "And that's still a no on the hospital thing."

Sherlock gave a grunt of vague annoyance, but said nothing further as he cleaned up after himself with the first aid supplies.

Joan was contemplating another cup of tea and possibly some lunch before broaching the subject of last night, when Sherlock broke the silence between them.

"Everything," Sherlock announced abruptly, still concentrating on tidying up the last of used supplies.

She looked at him over the rim of her tea cup, about to take her last mouthful. "Excuse me?"

Sherlock still wasn't looking at her. "You asked me before, when I woke you this morning, what did I need you for?" His stricken gaze captured hers now. "Everything," said Sherlock hoarsely. "It appears I need you for everything, Watson. My equilibrium, my very existence requires you to function."

"No, it doesn't," said Joan compassionately, setting down her empty cup. "You just feel that way, but it's not true. You've gotten used to having me around. You're someone who likes his routines and I've become part of that routine." She reached out and took his hand, squeezing it. "I know you care about me, I know you'd miss me, but ultimately you're Sherlock Holmes and you always will be, whether I'm there or not."

Sherlock looked at her in genuine confusion. "Do you seriously not understand, Watson, even now?"

"I understand that you, more than most people, struggle with change. But just because something is difficult, doesn't mean you can't get through it, keep moving forward in life," she said earnestly. "And if the worst had happened last night, you would have found a way through it."

"Please, Watson, don't talk to me as if this was an afternoon TV movie special," he snapped at her. "Your words might apply to other people, to other partnerships, but not to us." Sherlock lifted her foot from his knee, but remained kneeling before her, expression intent. "There is no Sherlock Holmes without Joan Watson."

Joan's heart leapt a beat at that declaration, scared about what the kind of thinking might result in when it came to Sherlock's sobriety. "We're two different people, Sherlock. We can function independently. That's a good and healthy thing to be able to do."

"Yes, yes," he said impatiently, "independence, long have I beaten that drum. Indeed, I have fought my entire life to secure it – no ties, no obligations, just me, alone in this world, limiting my destruction on other people's lives. And I was happy with my state of being."

"Happy?" said Joan skeptically. "Seriously? Because the man I first met wasn't happy."

"Comfortably numb then," he countered. "Essentially the same thing."

"I'd argue the point on that."

"Of course you would, and that's where you started to scratch your way under my skin, inch by inch, ever deeper with your relentless counter-logic, until one day, I wake up to find that you are no longer an irritation, but have inserted yourself into my life in such a way as to become an integral part of my very system. One I can no longer function without, it seems."

"I don't want that kind of responsibility, Sherlock," said Joan unhappily. "And it's unfair of you to put that upon me."

"Unfair?" repeated Sherlock, his voice rising. "Let us talk about unfairness, shall we? Let's talk about how you walked out of that door last night, and boarded a plane and that plane exploded and took your life." He swallowed hard. "How you were torn out of my body in that instance, and I was left broken and bleeding, but I didn't have the release of death. Oh no, I just had to walk around, like some hollowed out corpse, and deal with the fact you were never coming home again!" He was shaking a little, face flushed with anger and a less easy to identify emotion.

"Those things didn't happen, Sherlock," said Joan swiftly. "I didn't get on that plane. I didn't die."

"158."

"What?"

"158 minutes passed between my turning on the TV and seeing the wreckage of your flight, and you calling me." His face was lined in real distress. "For 158 minutes I was in the purest form of agony at you having abandoned me to walk this wretched life alone, and I do not know how to forgive you for such a cruelty, Watson, I really don't." With that, Sherlock stood abruptly up and walked away from her. He shoved his hands into his pockets, his back to her.

Joan struggled her way off the couch, unable to sit still and listen to his accusations which came from a place of obviously deep pain. "I didn't abandon you, Sherlock. And this is death we're talking about here. I have no control over random acts of fate."

Sherlock spun around, expression furious at a logic she knew he understood, but was intent on rejecting right then. "If that is the case, then you had no right to make me need you so badly in the first place!" he practically roared at her. "You had no business crawling under my skin and burrowing into my body, so that I can no longer function without you, if you were only going to turn around and leave me one day!"

Joan put a hand to her mouth, finding it hard to listen to Sherlock's pain and fear. He never normally verbalized such things. "Sherlock," she said emotionally, "what you're talking about is the human experience. If there is no pain and loss, then there is no value to love and life. You can't have one without the other."

Suddenly he was crossing the room, and grabbing her face, taking it between his hands. "Then take these feelings back, Watson. I can't bear them." Sherlock's breathing was uneven, eyes wide as he pleaded with her. "Losing you hurts more than I can endure. It'd be inhuman of you to leave me like this. Please, end my suffering."

"This is just the human condition," she said softly. "We live, we love, we lose. There is nothing to take back."

"Then I don't want to be human anymore," he whispered, eyes suspiciously bright as his hands dropped away from her face in defeat. "I want to be that monster again, the one who doesn't feel, the one no one could form an attachment with." Sherlock reached out and squeezed her arms. "Please," he begged her, "undo what you have done to me. Release me, Watson. I cannot carry the burden of caring this much about another person. I am too… broken, too much of a coward," he rasped painfully.

Now it was Joan's turn to gently cup his face, studying its tormented countenance for a long moment. "Do you know what I thought when I first met you?" she asked him huskily.

His expression clouded over. "I shudder to give the matter any thought."

"I thought – this man, this man is going to change my life." She held his gaze steadily. "And I was right, you did."

"I have been a great burden on you, Watson," he said soberly. "Do you not wish your freedom from me also?"

Joan gave a soft smile, her hands dropping to his shoulders. "You're not always a walk in the park, Sherlock Holmes. In fact being with you can often feel like a full sprint through an erupting volcano, but when I'm with you I feel alive and like I'm doing something with my life. Something good and worthwhile." She looked up at him. "That's no small thing, and not something I'd want to give up because one day it might end. In fact, it makes me want to do the opposite, hang onto it more tightly because it might be gone one day."

Sherlock screwed up his face. "You do not seriously want me to hold onto you more tightly, Watson." He turned away, looking for space from her again. "My reactions last night… the way I felt, what I wanted to do upon seeing you standing on that street corner—"

Joan could see Sherlock had been overwhelmed by the force of his own emotions, and their strength was troubling him deeply. She knew the only way through those feelings was to face them. "What did you want to do, Sherlock?" Joan asked quietly.

He remained silent, shoulders stiff as he kept his back to her.

"Sherlock?" she pushed him. "You're not going to overwhelm me, I promise you. Just tell me. You need to get this out of your system."

"I wanted to peel off my skin and place you back under it where you belonged," he rasped painfully, still not facing her. "I wanted you back where you should be, back to being a part of me, a part which I'd never let go of again. I wanted to absorb you into my body, where I could keep you safe, and no longer share you with a world that would look to take you away from me." Sherlock turned around and stared at her defiantly. "And this man with his fevered, psychotic imaginings, this is the man you share a roof with." Sherlock drew in a ragged breath. "A man who stands over your bed, and watches you sleep because he needs to watch you take each new breath to reassure himself his madness hasn't conjured you out of his fevered desperation and that you are truly safe and sound." He took a step towards her, tone full of challenging rancor. "Do your declarations of unflappable equilibrium still stand on hearing the deranged desires of my brain, Watson? Is such a person someone you are happy to spend your time and energies on?"

"Do you think because you've never really been frightened of losing anyone before now, that you've somehow cornered the market on the fear of losing someone?" Joan threw back at him. "You don't think I have to fight the urge to lock you in a room every day to keep you safe from yourself and all the enemies you amass with frightening relentlessness?"

Sherlock looked taken aback by that information.

"Because I do," said Joan hotly. "And feeling like that doesn't make me deranged."

"Well, it does give me pause for thought that you want to imprison me," said Sherlock unevenly.

"I want you safe," she corrected him, "and in my life for as long as possible. And that's what you want from me. I picture a nice, secure room; you picture peel away skin. It's the same concept, filtered through different psyches, but it's the same." Joan took a step closer to him. "And it's not bad. It's normal, healthy even, to want to feel the need to go to extremes for people you care about."

"So, you're saying what I went through last night was normal and healthy?" asked Sherlock bitterly. "Well, if that is the case, I wish to be neither ever again."

Joan sighed heavily. "Life is like sobriety – not meant to be easy, but it should be meaningful."

"And what meaning should I have derived from having lost you last night?" he asked angrily. Sherlock waved his arms around. "What divine message was the Universe sending me with news of your brutal and untimely demise, eh? There you go, Sherlock, see that small sliver of happiness in your life, see that piece of contentment; well, I'm the Universe, and I'm going to take that tiny ray of hope and happiness, and set fire to it with four tons of jet fuel after smearing it across a runway at a hundred kilometers an hour. The Universe hates me, Watson, and that's why I can't have nice things!"

Joan put her hands on hips and shook her head at him. "That was needlessly graphic and insensitive, given that hundreds of people actually did die like that, only a few hours ago."

"And you were meant to one of their number," bit out Sherlock. "But the Universe cocked up, and you missed that flight."

"Or maybe the Universe gave me the worst cab driver in New York, so that I'd miss it? Why can't that be true?"

"Don't be unrealistically optimistic, Watson. It tries my patience beyond words."

"And your the-Universe-is-out-to-get-me rhetoric is beneath you, Sherlock," she snapped. "You don't even believe in that kind of thing."

"I believe that happiness is something that I was never destined to enjoy, and I resent very much your presence in my life making me forget that very pertinent fact!" said Sherlock loudly.

"I'm not apologizing to you because you've grown to care for me," she said in disbelief. "That's not my fault."

"Of course it's your fault," he insisted roundly. "It's certainly not mine!"

"So, you want to preempt any further heartbreak down the line by having me out of your life now, is that what I'm hearing?" she asked a little indignantly.

"I have yet to consider all the ways in which this issue between us maybe negated or at the very least controlled," said Sherlock, retreating behind that unyielding logic of his. "I cannot make a proper analysis of how best to neutralize this threat to both of our equilibriums as of yet. I need to consider the data more fully."

Joan called his bluff, knowing logic wasn't go offer any kind of answers. "Let me uncomplicate your life, Sherlock. We can end our partnership right now, and you can get back to never caring about anyone other than yourself. That was working so well for you before, I'm sure it'll just be peachy keen for you going forward." She turned to leave, to let him stew on the ridiculousness of thinking you could control emotions of not only yourself, but those around you. Suddenly she felt Sherlock's hand clamp around her wrist. He stalled her with that grip on her arm, turning her around to face him. Joan arched a challenging eyebrow at him. She looked down at the way he was still holding onto her wrist. "Do you mind? Apparently I have packing to do, and a new job to look for."

"I know what you're doing," he said tightly.

"And I know what you're doing," she responded evenly. "It's typical addict behavior. You're looking to kill pain."

Sherlock's eyes flashed his displeasure at her. "Don't reduce me to an illness, Watson."

"Then don't reduce our relationship to a problem which needs to be managed," she shot back at him. Joan held his gaze steadily, knowing this was going to be hard for Sherlock to hear, but it was time. "You love me, Sherlock, and caring like that makes you vulnerable to feeling a lot of things. You either have to decide if you can live with that, or slip back into your comfortably numb state. It's your decision to make."

Sherlock abruptly let go of her wrist, taking a step back and looking at her like her claiming he loved her was akin to accusing him of child molestation.

Joan wasn't surprised by his reaction. It was the first time the word love had been discussed between the two of them, but she wasn't backing down. "Looks like I'm packing," she said calmly. "I may need to borrow a suitcase." With that, Joan turned around and limped towards the staircase. She was halfway up the stairs when there was the sound of Sherlock's feet on the stairs below her.

"Stop!"

Joan did stop at the imperious command, but she didn't turn around.

"Your accusations of love on my behalf are entirely without merit," he blustered up to her from the foot of the stairs. "And I demand you retract them immediately!"

Joan was glad her back was to him, so she didn't have to hide the smile his words caused her. "No," she said simply, and just kept walking up the stairs.

"Stop!"

Joan stopped again on his order, but still refused to turn around. She knew Sherlock was still attempting to process this latest twist in their relationship.

"So, you imagine me in love with you, eh?" he demanded to know. "What else has your fevered imagination cooked up, hm? Are you imagining me going down on bended knee one day and proposing marriage? Has your brainwashed female mindset of hearts and flowers being the ultimate goal between a man and a woman so blinded you to the limitations of the man who stands before you? Can you imagine no other recourse than that I should fall madly in love with you and lose all reason?"

Joan turned around on her step, and then slowly walked back down to him, stopping when she was a couple of steps above him, so that they were on eye level. "Yes," she said with utter seriousness, "that's exactly what I pictured for us, Sherlock, from the first moment we met." Her tone didn't change in its evenness. "Take me now, big boy, I can't stand it any longer. I want you so badly."

Sherlock actually looked flustered, as he stood there, eyes skittering away from hers. "You're mocking me," he said stiffly.

"Now, why would I do that?"

Sherlock looked back at her, lips set in a thin line of impatience. "Because imagining me capable of your understanding of the word love is most definitely mocking me and my limitations."

"And what exactly is my understanding of love?"

"Your assertions of me loving you have me believing you are imagining that one day this—" He waved an agitated hand back and forth between them. "We will be an us."

"We are an us, Sherlock. That was pretty much been the reason behind your meltdown last night and into this morning, wasn't it? You realizing we're an us that you feel like you need to function."

"Yes, yes," he said in aggravation, "but we're not an us us."

"You simply repeating words brings no further value to them."

"You know what I'm trying to say, Watson, don't be obtuse," he bit out. "You imagine me in love with you, whilst I know full well I am not capable of the love you believe me to have developed for you. This can only result in crushing disappointment for you when you realize your folly, then you will of course leave me."

"I'm perfectly content with how you love me, Sherlock. You don't have to change a thing about that or you."

"That is a bare-faced lie, Watson!" he gasped. "And we both know it. You have been working on changing me since our very first meeting."

"I want you to grow, Sherlock," she corrected him. "Not change who you are."

"Everybody wants me to change, to be less… irksome, to be more—" Sherlock waved his hands around distractedly. "Bland and generic. All so they can feel better about their dull and pointless lives."

"Leaving that ridiculously broad generalization to one side, I'm going to say this. Who you are at the most basic level, the man I see standing before me, he doesn't need to be anything other than what he is, because then I wouldn't love him half as much as I do."

"You-you love me?" said Sherlock in something akin to horror.

"For someone who prides himself on his deductive reasoning, I find it hard to believe you don't already know that," she said wryly. "Of course I love you, Sherlock. Why else would I still be here?"

"A borderline fanatical need to fix that which is irreparable broken?" he suggested.

"Well, obviously there is that," said Joan wryly. "But a more honest truth is that as much as I love you, I also like you."

That seemed to confuse him even more. "You… like me?" Sherlock's gaze raked her face. "I fear my initial fears about you suffering a brain trauma are being proven to be correct. We should leave for the hospital immediately." He took her arm. "Are you experiencing a metallic taste in your mouth? Any issue with your balance?"

"Your go to reaction to someone telling you they like you is a brain hemorrhage? Seriously?" Joan shook her head at him. "Unbelievable."

"Not nearly as unbelievable as believing that this wreck standing before you could ever be in anyway likeable," he said sternly.

"I didn't say you were likeable, I said I liked you. It's not the same thing." At seeing his confusion persist, Joan put her hands on his shoulders. "Sherlock, I know you're more comfortable painting yourself as the broken down monster in your life's narrative, but the truth is, you're not. There are people around you who have genuine affection for you, and I'm sorry if that makes you uncomfortable or makes you feel like they're asking more of you then you can give, but it's just a fact."

His shoulder's sagged. "This is a distressing turn of affairs."

"Yes, that's normally how most people react when they hear they're important to other people," said Joan dryly.

"I am not most people, Watson," said Sherlock unhappily.

"Sit down," she instructed him.

Sherlock hesitated for a moment, but then he was taking a seat on the stairs.

Joan followed suite, the two of them sitting side by side. "I'm sorry that you became so upset about the thought of me dying," she said softly. "I know how distressing that was for you, how that made you feel abandoned. I also understand how you felt resentful of me for making you feel all those things."

A muscle ticked in Sherlock's jaw as he stared directly ahead as she talked to him.

"But I'm not going to apologize for our relationship becoming important to both of us. What we have is so rare and precious, I'm not going to reduce it to pain management any more than I'm going to make it about sex."

Sherlock had the grace to look sheepish about that fact. "I am sorry, Watson." He cleared his throat. "I was being churlish in my accusations of a romantic fervor being the reason for your devotion to me."

Joan bit her inner cheek to stop from laughing. "Yes, you were."

Sherlock moved restlessly on the step. "It's just that you conjure up emotions in me—" He said the word as though it was a dirty one. "And I am unused to having to deal with such things."

"You're not telling me anything I don't know, Sherlock. But you know your ongoing recovery is about facing these things head on, and letting yourself feel things, so that you know you can be wounded, but still heal. That's important for everyone to know in this life, and particularly for any addict, no matter their method of painkilling."

Sherlock was back to regarding her seriously. "I understand your meaning, Watson, but I am not entirely sure that I would be able to find a way forward if I was to lose you from my life permanently."

She lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug. "I don't think anyone can truly know something like that until it happens, and personally, I've kind of got my fingers crossed that it's not going to be an issue for me for a long time."

"A scientifically proven method of warding off the inevitable," he noted dryly.

She just smiled at that. "If it makes you feel any better, I think we can both agree that you're exponentially more likely to die before me."

Sherlock inclined his head. "That does make me feel better," he conceded, straight-faced.

Joan arched her eyebrows at him. "So, am I forgiven for the unforgivable, making you care about me?"

"It would be impossible to forgive such an atrocity, Watson," he said sternly. "How can you even ask me that?"

Her smile widened at his gruffness. "Alright, maybe not forgive, but find a way to live with it, perhaps?" Joan's expression became more serious. "Because I don't want to lose you from my life, any more than you clearly want to lose me from yours."

Sherlock studied her back, just as seriously. "You have become an incredible burden to me, Watson, just as I knew you would be. What I did not expect was the nature that burden would take, and how I find myself completely inconsolable at the thought of being without that encumbrance."

Joan half-smiled. "Well, you sure know how to sweet talk a girl, Mr. Holmes," she drawled.

Sherlock was looking at her intently. "Does it get easier? Having someone else in your life that you care about more than yourself?"

Joan thought about that for a moment. "No," she said truthfully.

"Ah," said Sherlock, clearly disappointed.

"But the more you invest, the more you get of everything, the pain, the worry, the frustration…" A slow smile spread across her lips. "The laughter, the love, the growing and learning. Being human has always been a double edged sword."

"One I would have happily fallen upon last night on hearing of your death," said Sherlock, a faraway look on his face.

Joan put her hand on his arm. "Sherlock, nobody gets out of this life alive, and knowing that, being able to go on that journey with someone who is important to you, who gives your life real meaning, well…" She shrugged. "That makes me pretty happy to think about."

Sherlock screwed up his face, as though he'd just smelled something rotten.

"Yes, Sherlock," she said indulgently, "you have the power to make someone happy. Just deal with it."

"This is new territory for me, Watson," he said unevenly. "I cannot promise further missteps."

"Just don't stand over my bed watching me sleep in the future. Everything else I can deal with."

He tilted his head and looked thoughtful. "I could possibly manage that, as long as you are no longer intent on scaring me half to death."

"Just say yes, and let's leave this little talk on a positive note, okay?" she suggested wryly.

"Very well, Watson, as you wish."

They sat there for a few moments in companionable silence before Joan sighed heavily. "The day is nearly half over, and I've got so much I still have to do. I need to cancel credit cards, call Vienna, organize a new driver's license, and have new house keys cut. Basically, prove that I exist again."

"You exist, Joan Watson, I am proof of that."

Joan looked at him for that comment. "And are you going to be okay with that? Having your feelings wrapped up in another person?"

"I suppose I'll have to be," he said huskily. "Because I can see no earthly way of undoing it now."

Joan gave a short nod of her head, seeing him slowly making peace with the concept. "Okay, good, that's good."

"That has yet to be seen, Watson."

"You'll get used to it," she predicted confidently. "The rest of humanity has."

"So, I am sentenced to join the great unwashed in their destiny, is that it?" he said a little morosely.

"Looks like," said Joan unsympathetically.

"If this all goes horribly wrong, I shall be blaming you." Sherlock looked at her intently. "You realize that, don't you?"

"I realized that two days after we first met," she said philosophically. "And I'm still here."

"You have a very poorly-defined sense of self-preservation, Watson," he noted. "You may want to address that in the near future."

Joan just smiled, knowing her life would be a lot less complicated and emotionally challenging without Sherlock in it, but knowing that wasn't what she wanted for her life. "Now then," she murmured, "where would be the fun in that?"

Sherlock stared at her profile for a long moment before staring ahead as well. "Indeed," he said, finally acquiescing to her point of view. "No fun at all."

The two of them sat there for a long time after their words ran out. Joan slowly felt the tension ebb from Sherlock's body as their conversation drifted over to other things, like the case from yesterday. Sherlock had been confronted with being forced to acknowledge a lot about their relationship, and he'd made his way through it, with a limited amount of carnage, their living room notwithstanding. The thought was a positive one for Joan.

It looked like today was going to be a good day.

A/N: Thank you all so much for reading. That was very sweet of you. I've got an idea for a one shot follow up for this story, involving a lot of Sherlock snark. If anyone is interested in reading it, let me know. Thanks again for reading. :D