Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sherlock is in the kitchen quietly preparing dinner. His senses are divided for the two tasks he set himself up to. One is to listen to every noise coming from upstairs, should Joan would require her help, and two is to not burn the dinner while he focuses on his “other half” upstairs. They’ve arrived back from Watson’s third chemo session an hour ago, and by the second session they’d already worked out a routine for dealing with the aftermath. He would help Joan up to her room, make sure she’s comfortably lying in her bed, with a bucket nearby. Then he would prepare dinner and wait for Arthur’s return from his martial arts class with Rose. Usually, by the time he finishes the dinner, Joan would appear slowly descending from the stairs in comfy sweat pants and t-shirt. But now he’s finishing washing up, the dinner is ready on the stove and Joan is nowhere to be found.

The door opens just as he is about to go up to see Joan.

“Hi, Uncle Sherlock!” comes a greet with an accompanying toothy grin. The child diligently shrugs off his jacket and he is running into the kitchen but his mother is absent, so he turns around and runs toward the stairs. Sherlock grabs the kid mid-air.

“Arthur, how about you surprise Mommy by helping Rose put out plates?” asks Sherlock, depositing Arthur on the floor. His gaze is directed at Rose, who gets the message loud and clear.

“Okay.” replies Arthur a bit deflated but the prospect of surprise lifts his spirits and skips back to the kitchen, expecting Rose to be behind him.

Sherlock quietly ascends panic quickly rising in him. He opens Joan’s door, and he immediately directs his look to her bed finding it empty. He bursts the door widely open and calls out for her.

Hearing the worry in his tone Joan answers from the adjoining bathroom “In here.”

Sherlock rushes in not even caring what state of undress he would find Joan. To his relief, she is standing all dressed up in front of the mirror, slightly holding onto the sink, head slightly bent down. He exhales loudly in relief but as she looks up at him, his breath is hitched. Her gaze holds a darkness he is not accustomed to, pain and fear radiating from her presence. Joan looks back down to the sink.

Sherlock approaches her, barely putting one foot in front of the other as if Joan would run away like a scared deer, muscles straining to hide the inadequacy he feels in not being able to take away Joan’s pain. The yellow tinge on the white sink disturbs his approach. Locks of hair are staining the sink. The amount of hair redirects his questioning gaze over her head. When he stepped into the bathroom in his heightened state he was only searching for her eyes, that could express half the world to him without uttering a word and he wasn’t focusing on anything else. Now as he looks at her more closely, he can see the thinning of her hair, on the left side, a bare area is visible, explained by the contents of the sink.

“I was just trying to bind my hair … ” Joan starts to explain but her voice cracks.

Her doctor told her of the expected consequences of her treatment and she purchased a few scarves a day before the start of the therapy. If she is honest with herself, she was hoping that the effects wouldn’t be this severe. In the past week, a few strands begin to loosen, but now she’d lost almost a third of her hair from one minute to the other. She knew perfectly that the chemicals coursing through her veins kill rapidly growing cells, and not just the cancerous ones. And hair follicles are one of the most susceptive victims of chemotherapy. She could recite from heart other expected symptoms, as a reaction to the different kind of chemical treatments. But when the locks remained in her hands thirty minutes ago, she froze. The reality of her illness suddenly crushed over her head like a runaway wave, pulling her down into the darkness unable to breathe properly. Panic slowly crept upon her, she felt her legs giving way under her, so she grabbed the sink in front of her. At the same time her breath became faster and shorter, increasing the dizziness already present because of her treatment. Joan tried to look into the mirror to steady herself, clinging to reality, trying to breathe properly. Deep down she knows that panic fools her body into thinking something is very wrong, and in response, her heart beats faster than it used to when she runs in the mornings, that the muscles in her chest are creating pressure as if somebody would be sitting on it. And that she’ll sink into unconsciousness if she is unable to regulate her intake of breath. So, she fought a desperate war with herself like the chemicals in her veins. Until she heard Sherlock’s voice, looking for her.  

Sherlock gingerly puts a hand on her back. A month before the gesture would’ve been a shocking experience for Joan, but the news of her chemotherapy changed a lot in their interactions. Gentle touches asking if she’s okay, helping arm slung around her waist as they climb the steps after a session became regular despite Sherlock’s nature. The touch now sobers her up, helping to conquer her panic.  

Joan releases the sink. With shaking hands, she reaches toward the highest shelf. She sets down a chocolate brown scarf on the sink. She brushes her fingers through her hair again to see if more come loose. This time no new locks are caught in them. Joan picks up the scarf and hides her hair underneath it.

Sherlock watches her practised movement with awe and dread. This is not the first time she tried to fix it on her. She prepared. His heart sinks with the notion, but he is also amazed by her strength. The strength he craves, he turns to when his resolve is weakened is now used to keep herself from crumbling. He clenches his jaws trying to stop the tears gathering in his eyes. Now it is his time to be strong for her.

When she is satisfied with it, she turns to Sherlock. “How does it look?” she asks, defiance painting her tone. The forced smile she put on for the question softens as she notices the mist clouding over Sherlock’s eyes and her own eyes mirror his, a tear running down her cheek.

“Perfect.” Sherlock answers with a nod. He brushes the tears from Joan’s face, then he gathers her into his arms. Joan exhales with relief. “I’m here.” he whispers into her ear. Joan lets out a sob and returns Sherlock’s warm clutch.

They stand there for a minute basking in their shared love. Then with a sniff, Joan steps back and looks into Sherlock’s eyes. The pain and fear that was evident in her eyes before retreated for a while and a newfound calmness fills them. Sherlock sighs happily, content that maybe he is not so useless after all. “Dinner is ready if you’re up for it.” says Sherlock. At her nod, he offers his arm to help her on their way down.

Chapter Text

The latest chemotherapy session on Friday wrecked through Joan’s body with an unexpected force. She’d scheduled the sessions to Tuesdays, so she could be with Arthur during the weekends without shouldering most of the effects of the therapy but she had to postpone it due to a court hearing about a case. It was already midnight and she was still unable to keep anything down for more than an hour or two. At that point, she was not only trying to fight the waves of nausea but she was also exhausted. Try as she might, she felt like fighting against windmills. Before trying to retire, Sherlock asked for the 3^rd time if he should call Dr. Televecchio but she insisted that such episodes are possible. He pursed his lips, not satisfied with the answer. The look prompted Joan to say, that should this continue into tomorrow lunchtime, she’ll call him, making Sherlock a bit more relieved. He put a bucket near the bed in case she needed it and left Joan for the night after he made sure that everything she should need is within her reach.

Sherlock awakes to a scraping noise coming from the room below him. He grabs the undershirt lying at the foot of his bed and rushes downstairs. Fade yellow light escaping through the narrow opening of Watson’s door illuminates the corridor. The amount and color suggest Sherlock that only the bathroom light is on, where he’ll most likely find Joan. Then he hears Joan retching. He steps inside making sure to close the door behind him, leaving it in its original state. He looks around finding the bucket a foot away from the bed. Joan probably stumbled in it when she woke causing him to wake up, he deduces and walks into the bathroom.

Joan leans over the toilet emptying whatever still left in her stomach. She then sits down on the floor looking weary. Without any word, Sherlock walks to the sink and reaches toward a shelf with clean towels. He gets a towel and rinses it in cold water and presses it to the back of Joan's neck, who releases a welcoming sigh at the contact. Next step is a glass of water handed over to Joan, who begins to sip it tentatively. Sherlock takes a hold of three other folded towels when Joan sits up on her knees again as another wave of bile rises up in her and he lays two on the floor underneath her. One he puts down for himself sitting behind Joan. When Joan levels herself down, she is encompassed by Sherlock’s frame. His legs fence her in, providing warmth to her own. He lays back halfway down, and his arms lightly direct her to lean back on his chest offering a more comfortable position for her.

The seven years spent by each other’s side tuned their senses to understand the other from the smallest gestures. When Sherlock went dark, the months spent apart almost broke Joan’s heart until she found solace in bringing Arthur home. She wouldn’t have thought that the three years spent apart and her illness would forge their relationship even stronger. Should anyone told her, that Sherlock would envelop her the way they are now, she would call them insane. But the initial reassuring touches and helping arms became more frequent in the past month, offering comfort for both of them.

With Sherlock’s arms around her, her sleep-deprived mind wanders off. Her mind comes up with the scenario where she’s facing the same predicament but without Sherlock. She’d probably call Lin to take Arthur with her for a day and then she’d be miserable on her own. Which is still better than Arthur stepping into the bathroom following the noise, finding her mother on the floor, disheveled, eyes red, on the verge of breaking down, bald. She still hasn’t told Arthur about her condition, and he doesn’t seem to mind, that Joan now wears scarves all the time. It most likely would scare him and she couldn’t have done anything against it in her state, emotionally scarring him for life. She can see with her mind’s eye as the child’s face scrounges up in fear, he bursts into tears and he is running away from her. Joan feels the darkness of her thoughts pulling her down to the abyss. And what if this is not the worst case? If the chemo is not enough and the cancer comes back? Arthur spent the first 3 years of his life in the foster system, it took her a little more than 6 months for him to finally settle down, to understand that she won’t disappear. How could she possibly explain to him now, that he’d back in the system within a year or two, because she’d die? She would fail as a mother and she would put the poor child through hell for nothing and the prospect of that possibility chokes her up biting back a sob.

Sherlock feels the hitch in Joan’s breath. “Are you okay?” he asks interrupting her waking nightmare.

Joan sniffles, but the emotional toll is too much and it completely drains her energy unable to form words, so shakes her head. Sherlock tightens his arms around her in a hope to make her feel better, to make her believe that he’s is here to stay. Rain begins to pelt the windows hard, wind gust slams on the shutters hard. Minutes run fast by, while Joan is silently crying despite Sherlock’s soothing gestures. Then they hear Arthur’s door squeaking. Joan lifts her hand to Sherlock’s arm encircling her and looks up at him. “I … I can’t … ” is all she manages to say. I can’t face Arthur like this, I can’t let him see me like this her eyes imply, tears glistening on her cheeks.   

Sherlock nods then extricate himself from behind Joan. He leans back down “I’ll be back in a few minutes.” he murmurs.

Joan tries to find the strength in his timbre tone filled with caring. She nods and watches Sherlock leave. Murmuring low voices infiltrate into the room but she can’t focus on them. She holds on to the nearby tub for support to pull herself up and she sits on its edge. By the time she garners enough strength to walk back to her room, Sherlock and Arthur have already left the corridor and she can hear the clinking of the plates from the kitchen. She crawls under the covers, hoping for a dreamless sleep.

Ten minutes later Sherlock sneaks back to find Joan deeply asleep. Buried in their own world, they didn’t even notice that morning crept upon them, and Arthur just woke at his usual hour and not because of the weather outside. Sherlock walks over to Joan’s side examining her features. Physical and emotional exhaustion paints her face even as she is sleeping, so the only sensible thing for him to do is to let her sleep as much as possible. The proverbial bulb lights up in his mind he is already working on making sure that both Joan and Arthur are cared for, before heading down to the youngest Watson.

The next time Joan opens her eyes, the rain is still relentless. She sits up disoriented. These days she usually wakes up to Arthur or to one of Sherlock’s antiques, but this time the house is eerily silent. Last night’s dread of hurting Arthur still haunts her. Looking at the nightstand she is presented with a note and a juice. Her hand reaches for the note which is clearly written by Sherlock. Drink the juice. Call me when you wake up. She doesn’t need to sniff the contents of the drink to know, that it’s the usual concoction Sherlock makes for her, banana with a hefty amount of ginger. Protein, electrolytes and water to quickly restore some of what she’d lost the previous day and to settle her stomach, should she still have any problems.

“Watson you’re up! How are you feeling?” the voice on the other end of the call says instantly after picking up.

“Refreshed. No nausea.” she replies in earnest, the smile she wears can be heard through the line. “Where are you?” The reply comes in the form of a message. Arthur is posing and grinning beside a velociraptor. Joan releases a giggle, her heart swells and the darkness that she fell into previously slithers back into a deep cave in the back of her mind. She hears Sherlock grumble.

“Ms. Hudson should already have lunch ready for you if you’re up for it. We’ll be back before dinner.”

“Are you going to spend all your day at the Natural History Museum?”

“No.” Sherlock courtly says.

Joan squints like if it would have an effect on Sherlock through the phone. She knows he is doing it on purpose. Before she could reprimand him an overly excited voice interrupts her. “Mommy, mommy!”

“Arthur! Honey, hey.” Joan exclaims. “Are you enjoying your trip with Uncle Sherlock?”

“Yes! Are you feeling better?” Arthur asks.

“Yes, honey. Thank you!”

Sherlock overtakes the phone. “We’ll be going now, do get something to eat, drink and go back to sleep. You’ll have to deal with the chatter of a high-strung 6-year old in the evening.”

“OK. Thanks. And please no dead bodies.”

“Might I remind you that we’re at an exhibition of bones and carcasses?”

Joan chuckles. “You know what I mean.” But the only answer she receives is the sound of Sherlock ending the call.

After drinking the juice, a quick shower and a change into sweats and t-shirt, she heads down to find Ms. Hudson preparing two plates.

“I’ve heard you talking, so I assumed you’re feeling better. And you slept for over 6 hours without waking up.” she explains with a grin. “Now, sit down.” Ms. Hudson says in a tone that she won’t take no for an answer.

“Yes, ma’am.” Joan replies jokingly.

“Good girl, dig in.” Ms. Hudson smiles. As she watches Joan eat, she eyes her headscarf. “I know, we’ve talked about this, but I do know the best place in New York to get a wig for you. Spring is coming and maybe you’d want that on your head, instead of the scarf of the day.”

Joan sets down her utensils. ”It helps me stay grounded and not get deluded.” she explains and for a minute the undertow of last night’s current pulls her under.

Ms. Hudson watches as Joan’s face darkens, so she touches Joan’s hand to pull her out of her reverie. “It’s not about lying or illusions. It is about you to be comfortable. And you won’t have to deal with the glances and uncomfortable conversation topics. You know, a little comfort goes a long way during recuperation.” Ms. Hudson justifies.

Joan thinks back to sitting on the bathroom floor, enveloped in Sherlock’s body and the comfort it now brings to her reminiscing about it. “I’ll think about it.”

After her lunch, she was ordered back to bed, where she spent another few hours sleeping. The pleasant surprise of a picture with Arthur riding a square-wheeled tricycle was waiting for her on her phone. When she wanted to prepare dinner and send Ms. Hudson home, Ms. Hudson picked her up, put her outside the kitchen telling her that she is to stay until Sherlock and Arthur comes home, and told her to stay in sight where she can see her relaxing. Sulkily she set herself up on the sofa in the living room, trying to read a book, she’d never managed to finish but from time to time she finds herself staring at the pictures Sherlock sent.

Later, when Ms. Hudson shuts the oven down, the front door opens. Sherlock quietly steps in carrying a sleeping Arthur. He checks the living room, where he finds Joan under a quilt, looking up expectantly, lightly setting a book aside. She smiles at the sight in front of her, and she holds out her arms to take Arthur from Sherlock.

Ms. Hudson watches as Sherlock gingerly deposits Arthur into Joan’s lap and he proceeds to gently remove Arthur’s shoes. Joan pulls her legs up indicating Sherlock to sit down on the sofa while she checks on Arthur and slowly unzips his jacket smile never leaving her face. Sherlock takes the offer, shrugs his coat off putting it on the nearest chair and settles down, arm reaching along the back of the sofa. Joan redirects her gaze to Sherlock and she reaches out to touch his hand as a gesture to thank him. Ms. Hudson smiles leaning against the doorframe and takes the opportunity to snap a picture of them huddled on the sofa. She clears her throat and before anyone could utter a word, “My work here is done.” she announces and gathers her belongings. Before leaving the trio to themselves she sends her new favourite picture to Joan.   

Chapter Text

The past two weeks passed without any serious incidents. Naturally, days with the chemotherapy are the worst, but they waddle through it together. On those days Joan usually retreats to her room, she comes downstairs briefly when Arthur arrives and when the physical toll becomes too much, she signals to Sherlock who immediately takes over the parental duties allowing Joan to rest. Dinners are the worst, dutifully sitting through, making an appearance for Arthur. She listens to the chatter of the boy, trying to ease her mind into the joy that radiates from him to fight her own demons. She smiles at a recounting of a funny event, despite the nausea that is keeping her from eating.

Now, there are two more days until the next session, and Joan is bubbling from energy. Yesterday, after Arthur left for the kindergarten she redressed to her running outfit, ready to take on the world. This was the sixth time she went for running in two weeks, and Sherlock felt a sense of normalcy as the puzzles of the universe begin to fit again – if even for one day at a time. The first time, the only way he allowed Joan to run was to run with her. By the time they arrived back home, Joan was fuming in irritation, and she forbid him to accompany her ever again. He was merely suggesting to take a rest every 5 minutes so she wouldn’t overdo it. In his book that does not constitutes as overbearing.

Today Joan is getting ready again for running. She finds Sherlock seemingly immersed in a case file Marcus brought over in the evening. “Hey, I’ll be back in 45 minutes!” she announces.

Sherlock looks at her for a brief moment, quickly studying her features. She is well dressed up for the sunny spring weather, her cheeks are rosy from her warm-up session, and he takes a note on the colour of her clothing. He hums in agreement and dives back again in the file.

Joan squints at him, but when he makes no move and he lacks further comments, she dismisses her suspicion and leaves.   

When the door closes Sherlock picks up his phone. “Yes, she is on her way, black leggings, red jacket, black hat.” he lists, then ends the call.

Joan arrives promptly as she promised, and she heads into the kitchen for a glass of water. She is sure that on her way home the anger placated on her face made people steer clear of off her way. Joan gulps down the water her body was craving for and easing her mind a bit as well. She fills it back and heads out to find Sherlock. But in a split second she feels a tingling in her hand, then loses all the sensations and as the muscles in her fingers slack, the glass falls creating a sea of shards on the floor. Joan curses in frustration. Why there always has to be something? Why can’t I have a nice day without my body reminding me of what I am going through? And Sherlock is not helping either... She grabs the dustpan and the broom to collect the pieces.

The shatter of the glass rang through the building as a blaring alarm and Sherlock flights down the stairs as hastily as possible. He finds the kitchen floor in disarray and Joan cleaning. He moves with determination to shoo her away from the fragments, but she holds onto the broom and the pan with resolve. “It’s just glass, Sherlock. I can manage cleaning it up, I’m not an invalid.” she hisses.

Sherlock straightens himself, purses his lips, he locates the mop to dry up the spilled water. “I know.” he agrees.

“Really?” Joan asks, her tone insinuates something more, and she empties the pan into the waste bin with a force that makes Sherlock wince. She turns back to him, drops the pan, hand resting on her hips. “Why can’t I leave the house alone?” she continues her outburst, while Sherlock quietly mops the floor not daring to meet Joan’s eyes. “Today your men didn’t even make the effort to hide from me. So, I ran up to one of them to invite him to run with me to make him less suspicious. And when I asked why didn’t they care about me spotting them, he explained that YOU told them, that there is no point since I should know you’re not letting me out without an escort.”

Sherlock cringes at the words. He keeps his head down, trying to escape Joan’s fury and sighs. Joan’s tone is filled with an exasperation he is not used to anymore and can imagine the accompanying proverbial lightning sparkling in her eyes. Back in the days, when she was just in training, when they had daily disagreements it was common. But the world has changed, they had changed, their views on life had changed. She is too precious to him to be carelessly let out his sight. She was, is, always the strongest between them mentally, but she is fighting her own body, and he feels if he is not careful enough her fragile body will give way to cancer. And he cannot allow that. He cannot lose her. He keeps his mouth shut, stopping himself from blurting out something that would most likely earn him a slap and probably get him kicked out of his own house.

“Is this how it is going to be from now on?” Joan asks angrily. “I’m 51, I think I’m entitled to my freedom!” she raises her voice. “Just now, you wanted to take over cleaning up the glass, like I couldn’t do it. Are you even aware of what you’re doing?” Joan demands while she gesticulates wildly at him, on the verge of crying.

Briefly, he closes his eyes, mulling over his options. He then looks up, eyes holding an intensity he rarely shares. Then despite the flashing warning signs in his mind, he begins his rebuttal with equal ferocity “You get tired more easily, you’ve lost 10% of your initial weight, while usually women gain weight during chemotherapy. And you’ve begun showing symptoms of nerve damage.” gesturing around the floor. “This is the third glass this week, which slipped out of your hand.” then he quiets down. “I’m worried about you, Watson.”

Joan’s anger deflates instantly, her shoulders sack and her eyes fill up with tears. She is all too aware of the consequences of her therapy but hearing it from Sherlock had an added weight to it. She can imagine that keeping her on a short leash is the only way Sherlock can think about to make sure, that she’s cared for in every waking hour – and every sleeping. And based on his defeated look, he now understands why she is mad at him as well.

Joan steps closer, raising a hand to Sherlock’s cheek, fingers barely touching. Sherlock leans into the inviting warmth of her fingers while holding her gaze, and Joan brushes her thumb across his cheek. The contact translates into a silent apology felt on both sides. ”I cannot express how much it means that I know you’ll take over whenever I need it. But I also need to know, that I’m still in control.”   

Sherlock nods. “I understand.”

“Good.” Joan smiles and steps back. “About my jogging time,” she starts, Sherlock immediately tries to cut her off, however, Joan holds up a finger in warning and he shuts mouth. “I’ll run alone.” she states. “If I feel like it, I call one of your men to run with me.” she tells Sherlock with an authority he wouldn’t dare to argue and she slowly walks away.

Sherlock acquiesces, however as Joan heads upstairs he shouts after her. “What about your other outings?”

Joan stops in her track midway at the bottom of the stairs, turning back to him. “Seriously?” her ire rising quickly. “I rarely leave the Brownstone these days, and when I do, I either go with Rose and Arthur or with you.” by the time she finishes her tirade, she can see the corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitch trying to hide his amusement.

She points her arm toward the kitchen “If you don’t want me to smack you for that comment, you better make a batch of popcorn because I’m joining you watching whatever surveillance you’re going through upstairs.” Joan warns and heads to the shower with a smirk.

Chapter Text

Sherlock sits by the kitchen table trying to read his newspaper, two sets of teas are waiting on the surface. His thoughts about the newspaper are continuously distracted by the harsh clicks of high heels resonating from the room above. The clicks draw a clear path in his mind as Joan runs about from one end to the other of her room nervously. He checks his watch, sets the paper neatly folded on the table and slowly saunters up to the source of the noise.

Upstairs he finds Joan roaming around insistently looking for something in one second and checking her medical folder in the other. Sherlock scoffs in the doorway, drawing Joan’s attention to him. Her eyes shift from surprised to distracted and to sad in flashes. “The taxi arrives in 15 minutes and your tea is getting cold.” announces Sherlock, trying to dispel the nervous energy flowing around the room.

Joan runs back to the bathroom checking her wig and takes her folder. “How do I look?” she asks trying to mask her unease.

Sherlock scans her to make a point. He spreads his arms “As well as you usually look, I guess. But I assure you Dr. Televecchio is not into fashion, so he wouldn’t even notice if something was amiss.”

Joan sends a scolding look at Sherlock and heads down, Sherlock following at a distance. Downstairs she lays the folder just by the coats, then goes to sit by the kitchen table.

Sherlock sits by his place and analyzes Joan. She fiddles with the cup her as her mind is a mile away. Her leg is twitching nervously, clacking filling the room. “Tell me.” Sherlock says gently.

Joan looks at him. “I’ve already told you what the procedure will be. I’m sure you looked up everything there is about it.” she says, finally taking a sip when she notices Sherlock’s intense gaze.

“Not that. What you’re not telling me.” he emphasizes on not.

Joan bites the inside of her lip. She closes her eyes and sighs. “I was concerned about the checkup, so I checked my breasts two days ago, looking for anomalies.” she starts avoiding Sherlock’s eyes. “I felt something.” she admits, slightly choking up. She is surprised that he is staying silent so she continues. “I called Dr. Televecchio and he assured me, that the checkup includes the ultrasound examination of my breast.”

Sherlock sighs, setting his shoulders, breathing shallow. His mind begins to churn up possible scenarios of a bleak future, where Joan is not there. Where he has succumbed to the clutches of drugs in an attempt to escape his world crumbling down. He can’t see any case where he would be conscious enough of himself to go on living long after losing Joan. His eyes mist over unnoticed by him at the thought of him standing by her grave.

She finally decides to look on Sherlock, who still regards her in silence, pursing his lips refraining himself to say anything, and his look is shades darker than before. “I didn’t want you to worry in case I was wrong. There is a reason why doctors shouldn’t treat family or themselves.” Joan tries to explain her secret, expecting Sherlock to cut her off in anger in any second but he only nods. His behavior irks Joan to no end. She wants him to lash out, she needs him to be angry. Maybe it would help. “Say something!” she raises her voice, slapping on the table.

Joan’s outburst wakes him from his reverie, grounding him in reality. She is still here. He grasps onto her presence as a drowning man would. She is still here. He steels himself. He is refusing to walk down that dark path without losing her first. He promised that he’ll stay, and he meant it. He’ll stay until the end, whenever it is due. But she is still here. And she’s looking pissed. But her anger is just a front to hide her pain. “I’m not leaving.” he cleverly deflects.

Joan is taken aback at his reaction, the heavy rock crushing her chest sliding off. She is both relived and surprised at Sherlock’s calm demeanor. She feels the reassurance of his presence in her life giving her a stable rock to hold onto in the raging storm inside her. But his eyes show that the tranquility hides an equal ferocious torrent inside him ready to burst, but held firmly behind a dam. A heart-to-heart talk is definitely in order after the appointment. Whatever the result will be today, they’ll need to clear the table to not hurt each other in the aftermath.

“Except, that the taxi is here and we still have that appointment with the doctor.” he says trying to alleviate the tension. He stands in front of Joan offering his hand to pull her up.

She nods, the notion of taking a helping hand not escaping her. “Thank you.” she utters.

Sherlock dismisses it and leads themselves to the waiting car.

After Dr. Televecchio beckons them, Joan automatically jumps on the exam bed in the small room while Sherlock stands guard by her side, both intensely focusing on the doctor.

“I know neither of you likes to skirt around, so how about we start with the exam?” asks Dr. Televecchio.

Joan nods and she begins to unbutton her blouse. Sherlock notices her movement and he turns around to offer her privacy. She lays down on the bed, nervously waiting for the doctor to finish his assessment by palpation.

The doctor leans back to have both Joan and Sherlock in his vision. ”Something is certainly there, but we’ll make sure about its nature with the ultrasound, before moving forward.” he explains in a calming tone. He knows that Joan was an active doctor but when it comes to being a patient, doctors are just as human as anyone else. He pulls the sounding machine closer, squirting the gel both on Joan and on the transducer. Televecchio slowly but surely makes his way around Joan’s breast. Looking at Joan and Sherlock he can see that both of their jaws are clenched, waiting for the worst news. “I can see what is causing the lump.” he begins “It is definitely a cyst, nothing to be wary of.” he watches as the two opposite of him exhale at the same time. “It is not uncommon for such a cyst to develop after lumpectomy. It will most likely dissolve on its own.” he continues to maintain the atmosphere, while he checks the other breast just in case. “If it causes any discomfort, then we’ll drain it, but otherwise I wouldn’t take any steps against it.” assures the doctor Joan, then he quickly cleans the transducer and offers napkins for Joan indicating that they are finished.

Sherlock watches as the doctor sits down by his desk deep in thought, waiting for Joan to finish redressing, so he could address them properly. Something is definitely amiss.

Joan sits up, her legs dangling over the ledge beside Sherlock. She can feel the heat radiating from his body, which she finds is her source of comfort.

“There are no visible signs of remnants of cancer, Joan.” the doctor starts “However, I’m not satisfied with your bloodwork. The marker cell count is higher than it should be. I’d like to change up your medications.” he finishes efficiently relaying the bad news to the pair.

Joan feels her mouth dry and tries to gulp to find her voice but nothing comes out. She just nods in acceptance.   

“The different medicines will require a change in your sessions as well. Your body will need more time to recover, so you’ll have chemotherapy every two weeks. And the therapy time will be extended by six more weeks.” He watches as blood drain from both of their faces as they take in the news. “I know it sounds a lot, but this is the best way to assure the possibility of a full recovery.”

Joan is still at loss for words as her world crumbles down. Sherlock is the one who manages to gather some strength and address Televecchio. “Could we have a few minutes?” he asks in a low tone.

The doctor stands. “Of course. I’ll have to fill out these forms for Joan. I’ll be back in five minutes. Feel free to ask any questions then.” and he quietly leaves.

A tear trickles down on Joan’s cheek and she is wringing her hands. Sherlock lightly touches her hands to gain her attention. Without looking at him, she asks “Would you please get my phone?”

Sherlock obediently brings it to her. “It’s not over yet.” he says solemnly.

While Joan writes a message, she defiantly looks up sniffling. “I know. And I’m not done fighting.” she exclaims resolutely, bringing a slight smile on Sherlock’s face. “But I have to be sure that Arthur is looked after if it doesn't work.”

Chapter Text

It’s the day of Joan’s second session with the new medications, and she’s lying in her bed her energy completely waned. The new concoction acts like a vampire draining out all of her energy and will. The nerve ending at various joint tingle keeping her awake and despite resting all day she can barely leave her bed. She read a nighttime story for Arthur in her own bed and Sherlock came for him just as the boy nodded off deeply asleep.

Sherlock easily gathered Arthur in his arms and brought him to his bed tucking him in for the night. He walked back to Joan’s room, finding Watson already lying down facing the window. “Can I get you anything?” Sherlock asks.     

Two weeks ago, as Joan tried to go to the bathroom at night after her first session, she felt utterly helpless reaching only the end of her bed before collapsing slipping off the duvet as she tried to hold on to it. Sherlock ran up at the thud her body created. He pulled her up without saying a word, and at her nod, he helped her to the bathroom before stepping outside to keep her privacy. Joan could barely keep herself together while she finished. After Sherlock aided her back to the bed and left her for the night, she cried herself to sleep. She knows that suffering a day every two weeks is a small price to pay if it will allow her to see Arthur growing up, but the vulnerability she experiences combined together with Sherlock’s devotion breaks down all of her carefully built walls, strategically placed around her heart.

“No, thank you, Sherlock.” she says, her voice carrying sadness. But just as he turns around, she speaks up. “Are you planning to sneak back again after I fall asleep?”

Sherlock clears his throat in embarrassment but doesn’t answer. Two weeks ago, concerned for Joan’s safety he sneaked back to be able to help her out when she wakes not wanting a repeat of her previous accident. To say that Joan was surprised by his presence in the morning is an understatement. She is used to having him waiting for her impatiently to wake up, but instantly jumping up from nowhere to aid her walk was definitely new.

His non-answer is an admission to her. “It’s okay, I’m not mad. On the contrary, I can’t thank you enough. But please, don’t sleep on the floor. The bed is large enough for both of us.” she says.

Sherlock tilts his head but says nothing. He only turns around heading downstairs.

Around 1 am Sherlock returns to Watson’s room as she assumed. He just sent his findings of a case to Marcus and was ready to call it a day. On Watson’s session days he feels that the increased social interaction taxes him more than anything else. After Rose brings Arthur home, he is left to his own devices in taking care of the boy, as Watson is unable to. He makes sure that the boy is entertained enough without putting him in front of any electronic device, by keeping him company and giving him exercises and puzzles that he created for the boy. By the time Arthur is ready to go to sleep, Sherlock is usually anxiously waiting so he could turn to his solitary work.  

Sherlock quietly opens Watson’s door blanket under his arm and slips inside. Joan is still sleeping where he left her, at the other side of the bed. He tries to sit on the bed making as small movement as possible, but Joan stirs. When she stays silent, Sherlock proceeds to make himself comfortable lying on the bed over the covers, near to the edge. He can sleep in almost all poses possible so staying close to the edge without falling off during the night shouldn’t be a challenge.

Joan, however, wakes slightly, her speech slurred from being half-asleep. “Sherlock?” she mumbles.

Sherlock reaches out his arm to reassure her but he has to slide closer to her in order to reach her. He shifts and with his stretched arm he touches her back between her shoulder blades.

Joan hums in response and falls back to sleep.

Sherlock finds himself unwilling to remove his hand from her. Her body heat transmitted through his hand is a sensory reassurance of her presence in the darkness of the night. He allows the rhythm of her breathing to lull him into a deep slumber.

Four hours into Sherlock’s sleep, Arthur door’s creaks open and Sherlock jumps from Joan’s bed slightly disoriented, and he is toe-to-toe with the boy at Watson’s door. Sherlock leans down to Arthur’s level. “What is it Arthur?” he whispers.

“I had a bad dream.” the boy answers, sniffling at the end.

Sherlock is debating whether to bring back Arthur to his room or let him sleep with them and he opts for the latter. The nearness of a child is usually beneficial for the parent’s health. So, Sherlock lifts his blanket and beckons Arthur to slip underneath it.

Joan wakes at the commotion and turns around finding Arthur huddling up to her. She watches as Sherlock lies down on his back and moves a bit closer so his blanket covers Arthur completely. She is not sure whether the blanket covers the other half of Sherlock’s body, but she’s not going to argue with him in the middle of the night. She wraps her arm around Arthur and exhaustion takes over her body gliding back into a dreamless sleep.

Sherlock wakes to his internal clock. He feels completely recharged; however, his body signals an uncharacteristically warmth and added weight on his left side and on his stomach. He opens his eyes turning to the source of the heat. Arthur had switched sides and he is now snuggled up to his body, and as the boy moved, Watson moved with him instinctually. Arthur is properly sandwiched between them, and Watson’s protective arm around the boy now lies on his stomach. The scene brings him back to two days before.

“If you’re okay with it I would like to put up this on the fridge.” announces Joan laying a drawing in front of Sherlock while they are taking a small tea break from a case Marcus brought over during the day.

The drawing holds three unmistakable figures and a few more features. Arthur stands at the center, on his left, the character resembles Joan with a turban-like scarf on her head, and on his right is Sherlock dressed in a brown suit. The drawing is a textbook example of a well-balanced child’s picture of a family. Clyde saunters in front of Watson and Arthur while on the right to Sherlock there is a box with a bee perching on top of it. Sherlock smirks seeing the bee.

“I know you didn’t stay to be Arthur’s co-parent. And that taking care of him could be overwhelming for you.” Joan says trying to coax some reaction from Sherlock. “But I’m grateful nonetheless. And as the picture shows Arthur already considers you family.”   

Sherlock stands quickly locating a tape to attach the drawing on the fridge. “I’ve told you before that being in your child’s life is a natural extension of our partnership. We’re partners, and partners complement each other. When your body detains you from your parental duties I help out. It is as simple as that.” he explains.

“And doesn’t it bother you that Arthur considers you family?” Joan asks tentatively.

“You are my family, Watson.” Sherlock says with determination as he sits down to his tea. “Besides, I look at it as learning a new skill. Pulling out the parent card can be helpful with adults. Just as chatting up a child about something they’d witnessed. Children have a different concept when it comes to observation and little details that an adult would miss could be handy in our line of work.” he explains his logic. Sherlock put a lot of effort in the past days to analyze his actions through logic, and this is the best version he’d come up with. Though he has to admit that the child began to grow on him.

As he inspects his newfound predicament lying in Watson’s bed with Arthur, he finds that this position is not as unpleasant as he pictured to be few years back. His head turns as he hears Watson sharply taking a breath as she too woke realizing their position. When she retracts her hand Sherlock gently grabs it. His hold is enough for her to pull away if she chooses to but it carries a clear signal that he doesn’t mind its presence.

Joan holds Sherlock’s gaze for a minute in the early morning light losing herself in their warmth. When Sherlock whispers lightly “Don’t get used to this.”, she looks away smiling bashfully like a teenager with a crush. She lays her head back finding his arm underneath her head. Joan slightly shifts her hand upward on Sherlock’s chest while being mindful of Arthur’s position between them to settle it near his heart. The beat skips lightly when she quotes, “But we’re two people who love each other”. And based on his reaction she considers the possibility that the proverbial love means more to both of them than before.  

Chapter Text

“All right birthday boy, it’s time to pack and head for the bed.” Joan says to Arthur. “Pack up the toys and move them to your room, please. There will be time tomorrow to play more with them.”

Arthur pouts but complies to her mother’s wishes. Sherlock helps him with the trickier ones until they arrive at the Lego set they’ve begun to build. “It’s is better if we leave this here, it will be easier to continue.” Sherlock says and winks at Arthur, who smiles in response, then pointedly looks at Joan with worry. Sherlock looks back over his shoulder, then turns back and leans closer to the boy. “It is my idea, let me deal with her.” he whispers in a conspiration. Arthur giggles and he runs upstairs with the remaining toys to play with them until Joan orders him to bath.

Sherlock saunters into the kitchen and begins to collect the dirty plates lying on the table. He nudges Watson away from the sink indicating that he’ll take over the washing up. Joan doesn’t object and she proceeds to take down the various decorations hanging around the area. Sherlock clears his throat to capture Joan’s attention. “I’ve told Arthur that the Lego will stay downstairs.” he says trying to sound confident, but knowing that if Watson would say otherwise, he would adhere to her wishes. So, he explains further when an elegant eyebrow is raised in question. “It is better not to move the construct yet. It would probably fall apart while we move it.”

Watson huffs, shakes her head and continues her work. “Would you like to have a set for yourself as well?” she asks in amusement.

“No.” Sherlock answers. “But I reserve the right to buy more pieces here and there. To add it to Arthur’s collection of course.”

“Of course.” Joan says smiling. She walks over to Sherlock and leans against the counter as he cleans the dishes. She switches to a more serious tone. “Thank you for staying.” Sherlock only hums in response. “Though I don’t know why did you, when you said that you’ll take up on my offer and leave for the day.” she prods further. “I know that wading around exited 6-year old children all afternoon is pretty down on your list of preferred occupations.”

Sherlock concentrates on the dishes by his hands. He exhales loudly then begins his explanation. “I was set to leave for the day.” He pauses for a few seconds. “But Arthur appeared just as I was about to step out and asked if I would be back to his party.” Sherlock stops with the cleaning process a bit then continues, displaying his inner struggle. “It reminded of me being in a similar position.” He turns off the water putting the last plate on the drier and he turns toward Watson.

Joan watches as Sherlock’s posture changes from second to second as he explains, dark memories resurfacing from his childhood.

Sherlock straightens himself and trudges on, but his gaze is fixed on the plates. “I watched my father leave every year just before my birthday. And asked him if he would be back. He always said, of course son, but he failed every single time. He usually missed his mark by two to ten days.” Sherlock furrows his brows as he recounts his memories. “It wasn’t a pleasant feeling.” He formulates the next sentence, opens his mouth but decides to reword his thoughts. “I know I’m nowhere close to being a father to Arthur, but still, I didn’t want him to feel the way I felt. So, I spent two hours running errands and returned.” Sherlock looks up at Watson. “The glint in the boy’s eyes when he saw me returning already made it worthwhile to suffer the party.” he finishes with a smile.

Joan shares a pained smile at his story, her heart breaks listening to Sherlock’s childhood story. “Thank you!” she says and before she could rethink her actions, she leans in to plant a chaste kiss on Sherlock’s face. However, Sherlock turns his head at the same time and Joan’s lips land on his instead.

Both search the other’s eyes in surprise but the momentary embarrassment evaporates quickly and they converge to each other again. Noses brush together asking for permission, followed by slight graze of lips. Joan slips her arms around Sherlock’s neck and he lightly searches a purchase on Joan’s waist. When Joan lightly scrapes the hairs on Sherlock’s nape, the restraints both of them had snap and their lips crash together.

Joan delves herself into the sea of lips and tongues. It’s been way too long since she’d let herself feel like this and be consumed like this. Sherlock’s passion matches her own and she is vaguely aware of being pressed against the counter. Her mind wanders off as she is caught in the waves of her fervor. After Sherlock went into a self-induced exile she never really went back to dating, and if she is honest with herself aside from a few romps, her affairs never lasted more than a week or so in the past 6 years. Except for the one, she is currently pursuing. Her sickness during the treatment kept pushing them together to the point where their intimacy was in par with married couples aside from the sexual factor, that seemingly eluded them. Until now, that is.

Minutes pass while Sherlock’s mind catches up with his actions. And when it does, he freezes. He is grateful that even as his mind is clouded with repressed feelings, his hands remained at Joan’s waist, making it a slight bit easier to disengage from her. He takes a step back, fists clenched in an attempt to keep them at his side. He straightens himself up, but he is afraid to look into Watson’s eyes so he looks at his feet instead. “I’m sorry, Watson! It was unbe….” he starts but Joan puts up her hand on his lips to silence him.

“Look at me, Sherlock!” she demands, her voice hoarse and her hand stays on his lips.

Sherlock looks up uncomfortably waiting for the verbal clash.

“How about we clear some things first, okay?” Joan asks, and Sherlock nods his head.

“Have I given you any indication that I didn’t want this kiss? That at any point I wanted to stop?”

Sherlock shakes his head.

“Over our years living under the same roof, you frequently noted about my satisfaction or the lack of it with my suitors. Do I look like who didn’t enjoy the interaction?” Joan asks, and Sherlock shakes his head again. “Good. Now, did you wanted to kiss me?” she interrogates further but her tone is still calm, and Sherlock nods. “And did you enjoy it?”

Sherlock pointedly looks down to the front of his trousers, which became a tad tighter during their kiss.

“Are you still want to say you’re sorry?” she asks finally, detracting her hand from his lips.

“Watson, ” Sherlock starts, then stops. Shakes his head, then starts again. “Watson, I’m glad that you found the kiss gratifying, and believe me the feeling is mutual but I ask you to hear me out.” he pleads.

Joan leans back against the counter indicating that she is willing to listen.

“I don’t think it is wise for us to progress in our relationship further.” Sherlock says, much aware of the eyebrow that raises on Watson’s face which will surely be followed by a question soon. “At least not yet. Because of your treatment, you became dependent on my help for a day every week, and now a day per two weeks. Your vulnerability stemming from the treatment could heighten the emotion charging through our invisible bond.” he explains. Sherlock watches Watson’s reactions carefully. She bites the insides of her lower lip, and she is blinking away tears that rush forward.

“Our partnership is something that I cherish the most, the relationship that we cultivated over a decade. I depend on it as much as I depend on you.” Sherlock’s tone changes from confident to gentle. “When you asked for my return, you were still the one person I love the most and that never changed. I don’t think it could ever change.” he huffs. “I just cannot jeopardize what we have over something as trivial as sex. And I’m not questioning what either one of feels. I just couldn’t bare you to think some time in the future, that I took advantage of your emotional state and that our relationship became more because of that.” he says with finality.

Joan listens to his words, that make sense more and more by the minute. When he finishes, he stays rooted to his spot waiting for her reply. She brushes her tears with her hand and gazes up to him. “So, what do you want, Sherlock? Do you want to live our lives like the past 5 minutes didn’t happen?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “I suggest that we wait. At least until your treatment is finished. Then we can revisit our predicament.”

“And if the treatment fails and I have a death sentence hanging over my head?” Joan asks bitterly.

“If it comes to that, we’ll take that hurdle together. No matter what.” he says with conviction.

Joan nudges herself from the counter and steps up to Sherlock. She is only a few inches away but she doesn’t touch him and she doesn’t look up into his eyes. “Okay.” she answers softly. Then she turns away, heading upstairs to Arthur.

Sherlock remains unmoving, and he closes his eyes. What have I done? he asks from himself.

Before Joan steps over the threshold of the kitchen, she stops but doesn’t turn back. “For the record, I love you too.”

Joan’s voice envelops Sherlock in a velvety caress, soothing his inner demons. Maybe he didn’t mess it up as much as he thought.     

Chapter Text

Sherlock grimaces at first, tilting his head to the side, eyes closed, headphone covering his ears. Then he opens his eyes, looking around trying to figure out the source of the noise he is hearing. When a loud bang confirms his suspicions, he slams a key to stop the play and uncovers one of his ears. He waits for a minute until there is no repetition of the noise, then restarts the recording, but his senses are picking up harsh scraping noises again and he takes off the headphone tossing it on the chair as he stands.

He stomps downstairs and finds Joan bending over one chaise in the living room, music blaring through speakers. He pulls himself out and shouts “Watson!”

Joan looks up at him in surprise. She steps over to her phone and switches the music off. Then looks back at Sherlock expectantly.

“Watson, may I inquire what are you doing?” Sherlock asks in bewilderment.

“I’m rearranging some of the living room, obviously.” she states.

Sherlock closes his eyes in irritation, closes his fists, then looks back at Watson again carefully formulating his words. “You've told me that you’ll be in a luxurious spa, relaxing, and taking care of yourself. Lin took Arthur with her for three days to New Hampshire for that exact purpose.” he starts slowly. “Then you come back in the middle of the day, and I remained out of your way. And now you’re waking up the dead with rummaging around. Unnecessary, I might add.”

Joan’s response follows quickly, her own exasperation lacing through each of her words. “This is my house. If I want to move things around I will. And yes, I was supposed to relax, but I just can’t.”

Sherlock steps a bit closer noting how Watson fights off crying.

“I just can’t lie back and clear my mind. Every time I close my eyes different scenarios are sprouting in my mind about how my illness will play out.” Joan pauses and looks away from Sherlock, her arms folding over themselves to shield herself away from the world. “The last session will be in three weeks and that deadline frustrates me to no end. I want this to finally end. I want my life back. But I’m also dreading the possibility, that the countdown to my end starts after the last session.” Joan explains, tears sliding down her cheeks. She wipes them off in frustration. “And I’m not even afraid of dying. I know, it’s the natural course of life …”

“But it frightens you, what will happen to others when you’re not around anymore.” Sherlock finishes her thought.

Joan looks back at Sherlock sharply. “How do you …”

Sherlock sighs. “After I met you, whenever I relapsed, the worst part wasn’t even that I failed myself over and over again, but that I failed you. And every time I imagined, you closed the door in my face, or left without saying a word because you were rightfully disgusted with me. And I thought that most importantly my own failure will deter you from the greatness you could achieve.” he says softly.

“Sherlock …”

Sherlock holds up his hand to stop Joan interrupting him. “I haven’t told you, but I failed you during my exile. I was halfway around the world, and I thought about how negatively would it affect you, or your new found motherhood. And selfishly thought that you’d never want to see a junkie at your door nor would I want your child to find my lifeless body with a needle sticking out of my arm. So, I derived that staying away would help you recovering from my death, should I turn to the drugs again.” he says solemnly. “I don’t care that I die, because chances are high, that my substance abuse will kill me off someday. I just don’t want to hurt you by dying.”

Joan stays silent the entire time. She suspected that something had happened during those three years in his absence, that Sherlock didn’t want to divulge on. “Then you also understand, how every waking hour is spent by your mind thinking the worst.”

Sherlock nods. “Yes, though lately, they revolve more around your health.” he says gesturing over Joan’s body.

“I needed something to take my mind off from the challenges that I might never face. To lighten that burden.” Joan explains. “And I promised Lin, that I won’t take any new clients. So, the only thing left was to rearrange the furniture. The way I see it there are two ways this will go, you either go back upstairs and endure the noises coming from downstairs, or you’ll help me move these around and I promise that my next pursuit to quiet my thoughts will make less noise.”

Sherlock squints. Then looks at the ceiling. “I can’t work while you’re making such cacophony here. I have hours of tapes to listen to. The FBI and the cops already went through them several times fruitlessly. I also happen to have a few hundred pages of bank account transfers that are needed to be looked through. So, how about you look through those files in silence, while I listen to the tapes. Then, tomorrow I’ll help with the furniture.”

“Deal.” Joan says, and heads toward stairs without looking back at Sherlock.

Three hours into their respective work in silence, Sherlock quickly stands up from his place, slightly entangling himself in the cords in his rush. He steps into the next room, where Joan sips her tea, papers scattered around her on the floor as she wades through all the information.

Joan barely twitches when Sherlock exclaims. “You’ve driven me mad with moving around the furniture on purpose! You wanted to work on a case!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Joan feigns innocence.

“You could’ve just asked.” Sherlock continues on with his rant.

“Yeah, but where is the fun in that?” answers Joan, hiding her smile behind her mug.

Sherlock huffs and walks back to his seat.

Sunday mornings are usually quiet around the Brownstone, Sherlock lets Joan sleep in and takes care of Arthur. However, this time Sherlock intercepts the boy just as he exits his room. He whispers into his ear, resulting a hushed giggle from Arthur.

They quietly open Joan’s door, both on their hands and knees to be outside her view, but steadily advancing forward. Sherlock sneaks in a speaker, small enough to operate from batteries, and loud enough to wake anybody. He signals to Arthur, counting down from three. On one, Arthur pushes the red button on Sherlock’s phone, and the Reveille begins to blast from the speaker.

Joan jumps from her bed, sitting up, her face scrunched up in anger and she almost shouts Sherlock’s name, when Arthur jumps on her bed to greet her. At first, she is confused about the setting. The classic Sherlock-method of waking her is not lost on her and she has to admit that ever since he came back, she expected such event once or twice but it never came. Until today that is. While she engages Arthur in a tickling war, she notices Sherlock sitting on the floor cross-legged, grinning.

He mouths “Having fun.” at Joan, and he receives a pillow into his face in response.  

Chapter Text

Joan wakes to the alarm clock on her nightstand. When she opens her door, clad still in her pajamas she expects to hear whispers or the clattering of plates from downstairs. But it is too quiet. She slowly walks to Arthur’s door finding it slightly ajar. She opens it and a very awake Arthur greets her, putting down his book.

“Good morning, Mama!”

“Hey Honey, how come you’re reading here by yourself?” Joan asks.

“I went downstairs but Uncle Sherlock wasn’t there so I came back.” he explains.

Joan furrows her brows. It is odd, that Sherlock is not at home at this time. He was supposed to arrive during the night. She walks back to her room to grab her phone, then goes to Arthur and extends her arm for the boy to latch onto.

They walk downstairs hand in hand and then Joan begins preparing breakfast for the boy, all the while eyeing her phone willing it to ring. After Arthur finishes his breakfast, he runs upstairs to dress and get his backpack.

Joan uses that time to call Marcus. “Where is he?” she asks without any preamble from Marcus.

“Agh. Hi, Joan.” rambles Marcus initially. “Look, I can’t really talk right now, we’re in the middle of something.”

“I want to talk to him.” Joan says a little too vehemently.

“He is not here. And his phone is out of order as well.”

“Marcus? What happened?” asks Joan, getting more anxious by the minute.

Joan hears a loud shatter in the background, then men began to shout orders and she can hear shots in the distance. Marcus swears silently, “Damn it. Look, I’ve got to go now.”

“Marcus!” Joan tries to coax more information but the line is dead.

Joan puts down her phone on the kitchen table, hands shaking. She leans on the desk for support, as she feels her legs go weak. She scrambles on the closest chair before she could collapse. Her breathing becomes shallow and quick, and her heart begins to race. She buries her head in her hands supported on her legs. Joan tries to focus on her surroundings. The faucet over the kitchen sink is not properly closed, letting out drops of water every two seconds, the splash reverberating on the walls of the sink. Arthur’s feet tap over the hardwood floor in his room, as he runs around in his room packing for his day. The small basil shrub they have outside scratches the window behind her. A key turns in the front door lock.

Joan picks up her head at the last sound. But the visitor too noisy to be Sherlock.

“Hey, Joan!” Lin tumbles in sounding cheery. But she sees Joan crushed pose on the chair and rushes to her sister. “Joan, ” she crouches in front of Joan, “what is it?”

Joan tries to explain the cause of her distress, but as panic eludes her with the presence of Lin, tears threaten to fall and her throat closes down. “It’s … ” she tries but fails.

“Aunty Lin!” Arthur shouts from the top of the stairs and he begins to descend to greet her aunt.

Joan’s eyes go wide, not wanting for Arthur to see her in her current state. Lin gently touches her shoulder in a silent reassurance and she intercepts Arthur at the stairs. “Hey big boy!” and she gets enveloped in a warm hug. “How about you go back upstairs, and make sure you have your swimming trunks, slippers and a towel in your bag as well? And then I’ll come to get you, and swoop you away for the day.”

Arthur grins at the prospect of going to a water park and runs back upstairs.

Lin walks back to Joan, who fiddles with her phone. “So, tell me.”

Joan sighs. “Marcus asked Sherlock’s help two days ago. Sherlock was supposed to arrive in the evening. And when I called Marcus today, there was a gunfight, and he hasn’t said anything about Sherlock. Which means he was in the middle of it, and Marcus didn’t know what the outcome would be.”

Lin pulls out a tissue from her bag and hands it to Joan.

“And then I panicked. The last time I’ve had a panic attack like this, was not long after I began chemo. I just… ” Joan stops. “I just don’t know what I’ll do, if he is not … ” and she stops again not even daring to finish the sentence.

Lin purses her lips. She can’t promise Joan that he’ll be okay, though she suspects that given the man’s history, he is more than likely to walk out of whatever mess he is in with only minor injuries. “Take one step at a time.” she says soothingly. “You go to your last chemo session, then come back. There is plenty of time between that to get news and change the direction of your steps. All the while I’ll take Arthur to the water park, and bring him back in the evening, most likely completely exhausted so you don’t have to worry about him at least.”

Joan nods.

“Also text me, whatever happens. I’m here for you, whatever you need.” Lin says. Joan smiles at her sister and hugs her but it is cut short when they hear Arthur running down the stairs.  

Joan gathers herself up only to be tackled by Arthur. Lin smiles and heads up to grab Arthur’s bags. Joan picks up Arthur. “Have fun, Honey,” she kisses Arthur’s cheeks “and behave for Aunty Lin.” she warns, though she knows it is not necessary. She brings him to the door where Lin is waiting and puts him down. “Thank you, Lin.” Joan says, her voice is filled with gratitude both for taking care of her son, and for taking care of her.

“Yeah, yeah.” Lin smiles, “See ya.”

Joan prepares herself for her chemo session and hops into her cab 30 minutes later. She steps through the doors, walking down the corridor she has gotten used to over the last 8 months. Time seems to slow down, as she walks over to her usual bed, lying down, waiting for the nurse to arrive to hook her up for the last time, she hopes. She clutches her phone in her hand as a lifeline waiting for Marcus’s call.

Her momentary daze is interrupted by the nurse “Good morning, Ms. Watson!” she greets her. She looks around. “If you don’t mind me asking where is your partner?” she asks, while she is busy checking Joan’s blood pressure.

“He got held up by a case.” Joan answers sounding broken.

“I see. I suppose your higher than usual blood pressure and heart rate are a result of that, right?” She asks remembering that Mr. Holmes once said that he works with law enforcement.

Joan only nods in response, having no mental strength to discuss any dreaded outcomes.  

The nurse is surprised by Joan’s quiet manner, it not what she’s used to. She is usually more talkative, though she’d never seen Ms. Watson arrive without her partner either. “I’m sure he’d wanted to be here. Based on his previous attentiveness.” the nurse muses trying to cheer up Joan while putting the IV into Joan’s arm, who is obviously upset. “Let me know if you need anything, or if you need help getting home.”

“Thank you!” whispers Joan. She opens the book she’d brought herself with, but the words on the pages have no meaning. She couldn’t remember any of the previous sentences she’d read, so she gives up after 5 minutes. Then she begins to count the drops from the IV, trying to focus on that instead of thinking, while her fingers are fiddling with her phone.

Around 847 drips into her therapy, she becomes aware of hasty steps resonating on the corridor leading to her place. She looks up to the source of the noise just in time to see Sherlock emerge from the corridor slightly disheveled. There are bruises over his face, his jacket is folded over his arm, most likely to not cause any further distress as it is visibly dirty and there are blood splotches on it. The dress shirt he is wearing is definitely not his. Most likely Marcus’s Joan assumes.

Sherlock stops momentarily to take in her form lying on the bed, then slowly walks over, his focus is solely on her. He stands by her bed and straightens himself out. ”I’m sorry for my tardiness, Watson. I assure you it was not by my design to arrive back this time of the day.” he says. He can see tears forming in Watson’s eyes, relief washing over her. Sherlock tilts his head in confusion. “Am I correct based on your reaction that Marcus hasn’t called you?”

Joan nods.

“Well, pardon me, but I have to make a call, to a certain Captain.” he announces but Joan grabs his left arm as he is trying to leave. Sherlock manages to hold back a hiss, but his jaw clenches in the process, not going unnoticed by Joan.

“Sit. I’ll deal with him later.” Joan orders, and her tone doesn’t allow any objection on the matter.

Sherlock locates a chair nearby and pulls it over, to sit down on it. He lays his jacket over Joan’s bed. “I thought that resorting to physical intimidation was my area.” he tries to keep the subject about Marcus, though his words are relating to his current position as well.

“Not physical. I’ll call Chantal later. She’ll make sure that Marcus won’t forget calling me instantly next time. Though I hope it won’t be required again for a long time.”

Sherlock looks away, mulling over his next words, while Joan watches his struggle. “I know, I should have called before but the surveillance in the area was too high to risk any calls, we had to go dark. I asked Captain Bell however to call you right after we finished.” he explains.

Joan looks at him pensively. “And why didn’t you call?”

Sherlock purses his lips. “I have to procure a new phone first.” he admits.

“Do I really want to know?” Joan asks, and Sherlock only shakes his head in response. “I'd say that this is not the place to discuss what were you doing for two and a half days with Marcus and I suppose a few SWAT teams.” she starts. “But don’t think you’re off the hook just yet.” And Sherlock winces at the prospect of being roasted by Watson back at home. “There is however, one thing I wish to know now, and I expect you to answer it truthfully.”

Sherlock nods; already knowing her question, he begins to unbutton the cuffs on his left arm.

“What happened to your arm and do you have any other injuries?” Joan asks.

Sherlock folds back the sleeve over his arm, showing a 4-inch-long patch over his arm. “7 stitches, blocked a knife. Other than that, are just bruises.” Sherlock explains, not really wanting to go into details over the extent of those bruises, where anybody could hear them.

Joan nods, accepting the answer. She assesses his features more closely now. Sherlock looks tired, almost dead on his feet, but he keeps up his façade, by leaning on her bed on his right elbow and fiddling with her hand with his left hand. “Why don’t you go over to the cafeteria and buy yourself a coffee and some food. You’re supposed to help me get home not the other way around.” she offers.

Sherlock subtly jerks at her voice as he fought to stay awake. He looks at her, finding her smile and he rushes to stand up. “I’ll be back in 5 minutes. Don’t go anywhere.” he replies with a smile. As he leaves, he stumbles into Joan’s nurse, and mumbles an apology, before continuing on his way.

The nurse walks over to Joan. “I just came to check on you, but I see your partner is already here.” she says with a smile. “I’ll be back when the drip finishes.”

Sherlock stands from his position when the nurse comes over. She disconnects the empty IV sack, from the needle in Joan’s arm, pulls out the needle, and hands over a small gauze for Joan to press it down on the mark. Sherlock helps Joan down from the bed. As they round the bed, his left arm supports Joan by her waist, and he extends his right to the nurse. “Thank you! You’ve been particularly helpful over the past months.”

“I was just doing my job, Mr. Holmes.” says the nurse but accepts the handshake. “You know, despite the circumstances, it was good to see you both every time. It always makes me feel good to see people who love each other care for one other. I wish you both the best.”

Sherlock and Joan blush at her words. ”Thank you again, Annette. Farewell.” Joan says, and she looks up at Sherlock. “Let go home.” she announces, and Sherlock is happy to oblige her request.

Chapter Text

The air in the Brownstone is buzzing with energy. It’s the first day of school, and Arthur chatted through the whole dinner yesterday about how excited he was to go to school again. And this morning is no different. He woke up earlier than usual and he has been ready to go for thirty minutes even though they supposed to depart in about another twenty minutes. He had checked his bag three times already to make sure everything he’ll need is in order. His unusual high-strung energy drove Sherlock to lock himself up in his workroom after Joan woke.

Arthur’s energy became infectious to Joan who is also ready to start her day. To keep up her mood, and to wane some of Arthur’s energy down, she’d decided to call the cab earlier and make half the route to the school on foot. She watches as Arthur glances over to her in every half minute, trying to gauge if she’s ready to take him to school. Joan drains her cup of tea, slaps her thighs with a smile and Arthur shots up from his place getting his coat, waiting for Joan to join him at the door. Joan puts on a light coat and ushers the overexcited boy out the door.

On their whole route, Arthur lists all of his wonders and expectations about his day and Joan can only hum and nod in response, amused by the amount words that fly out of Arthur without any indication that he is willing to stop. Joan escorts Arthur into his new classroom. Before she could even say her goodbye, Arthur runs in to find his friends from last year. Some of the parents are mingling outside the classroom, while she watches Arthur interact with the others a sense of pride and accomplishment filling her. When Arthur school year finished, she was under the influence of chemotherapy. Her thoughts were mostly about how to gather herself up every day and make sure she’s doing everything o she would be able to see such events as today’s. At morning, when she donned her wig on – she hadn’t worn one in two weeks – she was pleasantly surprised to see and feel whispers of hair beginning to grow on her head. That alone made her smile. And now Arthur’s joy is superimposed on her creating an invisible bubble around her, which she is reluctant to leave.

“Good morning!” comes an excited voice directed at Joan, making Joan spring slightly. “You must be Ms. Watson.” a man greets her extending his hand. “I’m Thomas Bishop, this class’s teacher.”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Bishop. Good morning.” Joan answers.

“I just wanted to introduce myself and thank you for filling out the form early about authorized persons to pick up Arthur.” Mr. Bishop starts, and he continues in one breath not leaving any room for Joan to reply. “But just to verify, you’ve enlisted Ms. Rose Shapiro,”

“Arthur’s nanny” Joan replies.

“Mr. Sherlock Holmes” Bishop lists on and Joan follows with a response, “My partner.” Bishop makes a note and ends with Ms. Lin Wen to which Joan says, “My sister.”

“Thank you. And should we’re unable to reach you in an emergency situation who should we call?”

Joan dislikes these sorts of questions, but she knows the teacher is just doing his job. “Mr. Holmes.”

“I see. Thank you for your patience.” Mr. Bishop replies reading the discomfort from Joan’s face. “There is one more thing. Would it be possible for Mr. Holmes to come with you today to pick up Arthur?”

Joan furrows her brows. “Why …”

But Mr. Bishop interrupts her. “I got the pictures of the responsible persons you’ve enlisted. I just wish to meet the parents of my students head-on. So, I could assess quickly a family background, to create a sort of a baseline for the students. A child’s academical performance is highly affected by their family especially this early on. And should Arthur experience some difficulties I’d like to know whether I should pay more attention to his classroom needs or to other sources.” he tries to explain his inquiries to Joan.

Joan sighs. “I can’t make any promises, he is busy and doesn’t work on a time regulated schedule.” she answers.

“I get it.” Mr. Bishop says understandingly. “Most parents work all the time to make ends meet so it is difficult to meet both as early as when the kids are picked up. Well, I won’t keep you longer. Have a nice day Ms. Watson.” says Bishop and hurries off to another new parent he saw.

Joan checks her watch as she leaves the building. If she hurries with her errands maybe she could ask Sherlock.

 When Joan arrives at home, she can hear the clinking of a spoon against a cup from the kitchen. She takes in a deep breath to calm herself down and leaves her coat on the rack. On her way back, she devised different scenarios in her head about how to approach the subject with Sherlock, but none of them seems appropriate. In the earlier days after Sherlock’s arrival they quickly corrected the assumptions related to their association and even Arthur’s fatherhood. As the weeks progressed, they’d found it easier to let people assume what they want rather than spend five uncomfortable minutes explaining their status. Though their bond has never been stronger, the tension stemming from wanting more is becoming more distracting these days. Neither says a word about it but there are glances and slight touches that became more frequent. Joan, however, is unsure that when it comes to parental duties how willing he is to participate and how the prospect of being more involved with Arthur will affect their relationship.

Sherlock usually dismisses any conversation about parenting, but he follows anything she asks and he interacts with Arthur even on his own. And despite him voicing his fears about being a bad parent he’s actually doing an excellent job.  

“Sherlock, hey, are you busy?” she asks her partner stepping into the kitchen.

“I have spent 6 hours watching CCTV footage of a corner where Captain Bell’s last case took place. I think the block of building has ingrained in my brain and everywhere I look I see a hideous poster and the corner of a building right around here.” and he makes a grandiose gesture to his left. “I needed the break.” he explains without even looking at Joan. However, when there is no response he looks up at Joan, trouble darkening her features. He steels himself for the worst. “What is it?”

Joan doesn’t meet his eyes and she sits down at the table, formulating words in her mind. Trying to figure out how not to scare Sherlock away could be tricky.

Her nervousness is on full display without her noticing as she is wringing her hands. Sherlock cannot help, but mimic her position on the other side of the table. Despite his fears, he paints the look of a patient man, waiting to be addressed.

“Arthur got a new teacher.” Joan starts “And he’s been asking about Arthur’s parental background.”

“Was he too forward with you and you want me there as a deterrent? Or …” he begins to pick up on Watson’s lines. Everything non-health related is good.

“What? No!” Joan exclaims. “It’s not like … he wasn’t.” Joan stutters in her surprise “He didn’t make any advances.”

“Oh.” Sherlock sits back.

Joan cannot decide whether his response is elated or deprecating. “He asked for you to meet him when I pick Arthur up today.”

Sherlock merely grunts.

“When he asked, I said, that you’re my partner and that if I’m not available should anything happen to Arthur, you’re the one to be notified. And I think he concluded that you’re Arthur’s father or at least his other parent. And wishes to meet us both.”

“I see.” Sherlock remains passive trying to mask his uneasiness.

“I thought that I’d ask if you wanted to come.” Joan says, watching as Sherlock purses his lips. “I’ve told you before I’m grateful that you look after Arthur, that you treat him like family. I’m not going to hold it against you if you don’t have time or you don’t want to. I understand it perfectly.”

Sherlock gazes at the cup in front of him, listening to Joan’s ramble. He takes a sip, then locks his gaze with her. “Your child well-fare has utmost importance in your life, therefore in mine as well. I’ll go with you.” he states and stands from his position.

“Sherlock, you have a case and …”

“I’ve already solved the case. I just think that I’ve stumbled on a smuggling ring at the site and I’m looking for evidence. If you feel guilty about” he makes an air quote “ “ruining” my afternoon, then you could help me with some medical files in the evening. An old contact of mine is suspicious about something, and I offered to take a look into his case.” he says and heads upstairs.

Joan frowns at his action but agrees nonetheless. Recently she only had minor spouse infidelity cases and reading medical files feels like a refreshment for her mind.

 Nearing the school with the cab Sherlock breaks the comfortable silence between the two of them. “So, how do you want to play this out?” he asks Joan.

“Play?” Joan shakes her head. “What do you mean?”

“Doting husband? Jealous and possessive boyfriend?”

Joan rolls her eyes. “You’re overthinking this. He just wants to have a few words with us. That’s it. No need for acting around.”

Sherlock hums.

“Just be yourself.” says Joan. Then squints when Sherlock indulges himself in a small smile. “You know what, you can stay in the car, I’ll tell Mr. Bishop that you got caught up in a case.” Joan says, getting worried about what shenanigans Sherlock would pull around the teacher.

When the cab driver pulls up at the school Sherlock quickly hands over the cash to the driver and jumps out to round the car and helps Joan out. “I’ll try to behave.” he says smirking and Joan thinks that maybe this was a bad idea.

They walk in side by side, Joan with her usual stride, Sherlock matches her speed, his hands tucked in his pant pockets. Mr. Bishop brightens up, when he notices Ms. Watson arriving with presumably Mr. Holmes. He quickly jumps on the occasion to greet both of them. While he is talking to Sherlock, Joan walks into the classroom to get Arthur. The boy flashes a toothy smile running towards Joan to hug her mother who squats down for Arthur. Joan forgets for a minute that she’d left Sherlock with Mr. Bishop and helps Arthur to gather his items. With everything packed she walks back to Sherlock and Mr. Bishop are still talking amicably much to her surprise. Arthur notices the elders speaking so he greets Sherlock quietly by walking up to him and hugging his leg, then walks back to Joan who extends her hand for Arthur to take.

Mr. Bishop seems pleased with what he’d seen and heard and he lets the Watson-Holmes family on their way. Mr. Holmes extends his hand for a shake, then he gently touches Ms. Watson’s lower back to indicate they are ready to go. As they walk away, he watches as Mr. Holmes takes the hold of Arthur’s backpack and flings it over his own shoulder. The pair grab Arthur’s hands who is walking in between them gleefully. He smiles and heads back into the classroom.

Outside the school, Sherlock glances over to Joan. “The weather is still nice.” he exclaims. “How about we go to the pier to watch the ships before we go home?”

Joan raises an eyebrow silently asking Sherlock’s intentions, but he only shrugs his shoulders. Arthur looks at Sherlock with a smile. The two of them spent a lot of time during summer to analyze the different passing ships. He then turns his head toward her mother looking for permission. Joan looks down at Arthur, then back at Sherlock. “All right, why not.” she acquiesces.

At the pier, Joan slightly stays back as Arthur practically drags Sherlock to the rails holding onto Sherlock’s hand. The area is still a frequent tourist spot and they quickly disappear in the crowd. She follows their general direction, finding both glued to the railing. Sherlock’s arms hold Arthur protectively, the boy’s colorful backpack still hanging from Sherlock’s shoulder. As she walks closer to them, she wonders if this is what runners feel when they can already see the finish line. All the work and suffering she got from her cancer seems to be repaid in spades. She steps besides Sherlock smiling while she listens to their conversation about a particularly shiny yacht crossing the East River. Joan can see Sherlock glancing over to her acknowledging her presence. He juts out his right elbow while still holding onto Arthur and she loops her left arm through Sherlock’s. They still have one more step to take, and the way Sherlock’s gaze heats up she is confident that they’ll deal with it soon, but at this moment she is content to be in their little world of wonders.     

Chapter Text

Joan finishes her conversation with one of her clients over the phone. She is just about to flag down a taxi when she sees an accident unfolding. The revving up of an engine, the blaring noise of the horns of other cars, then the squeaking of tires, and a car is headed towards her. Adrenalin spikes in her blood, she concentrates on the car and she just has enough of a mindset to jump away, before the car rams into the nearest house.

She sits up from her position lying on the road. She quickly inspects the abrasions on her hand as she’d skidded over the concrete. Water splashes to her skin despite the sunny, cold October day. Then Joan looks around to assess her surroundings. One car smashed into a building, the motor space buried under the patio, then she notices the other on the other side of the road crashed into a lamppost. The first one ran over a fire hydrant water spouting several feet up. A small crowd gathers around and the surgeon in her takes action. She orders a bystander to check on the second driver and she heads to the first one.

Water barrages down on the crashed car. The door is fortunately easy to open, but the sight is not promising. A narrow metal rod had fallen through the already broken windshield from the building, piercing through the thigh of the driver. The woman in the driver’s seat cries in agony and fear as she realizes the state, she is in. Joan tries to calm her down as professionally as she can. “Hey. My name is Joan.” she introduces herself to initiate trust with the driver. “I was a doctor. I wish to look over your injuries and see if we can do anything before help arrives.”

The woman nods and winces as Joan checks over her scars. She stays silent and waits for the ruling. When she sees that Joan shucks her coat the top of the car and the door to create a bit drier environment she speaks up. “That bad?”

“The water washed away most of the blood but there is too much blood under your leg. I think that the pipe cut your superficial femoral artery. I need to at least try to make a tourniquet to slow down the bleeding.”

“OK. So, bad. Just do what you think is best.”

Joan nods and unties her belt to try to fit it around the woman’s leg. “What’s your name?” she asks to distract the woman.

“Susan. What did you mean, when you said you were a doctor?” she inquires.

Joan sighs. Her fingers are getting numb as the cold water permeates through her soaked jacket cooling both her and the injured driver. It’s getting difficult to move the belt around. “I was a surgeon. I’ve seen one too many deaths. And walked.” Then she curses under her breath. The wound is too high up to use the belt.

“Sorry. You seem like a good doctor.” replies Susan, but her answer sounds weak.

“Susan, hey.” Joan ushers to stay awake. “The EMTs are almost here. You need to stay with me.” The response is only a slight nod as Susan loses her consciousness. Joan sighs and tries to feel for the artery with her fingers to slow the bleeding. With Susan unconscious, it is easier. It would cause tremendous pain to the woman. The sirens behind her quiet down and a man behind her leans in.

“We’re here, you can step away ma’am.” a gentle but firm voice addresses Joan.

“No, I can’t. If I move my fingers she’ll bleed out.” she shouts over the bluster of the water. “You’ll need to find a way to remove the pipe, then we could get her out of the car.”

The EMT watches the serious face in front of him. “’You a doctor?” he asks.

“Yes.” Joan answers, not really willing to divulge any further. The guy ducks out and begins to shout orders.

“Could you move around the pipe?” the EMT asks. “We’ll need to hook her up.”

Joan tries her best to fit her body around, kneeling on the blood-soaked seat, then sitting on the water-soaked seat next to the driver. The next time Joan hears his voice the pelting of water stopped and there are firemen looking in through the crashed window, waiting for a signal.

“We’ll pull the pipe out on three. I have clamps ready. I’ll start with the upper side.” he says curtly.

Joan nods in agreement. She only has to will for her finger to work for a few more minutes.  

The firemen and the EMTs make quick work of freeing Susan and getting her into the ambulance. “Hey!” the EMT shouts at Joan. “You could ride with us.” he says, noting Joan’s state. She’s soaked through, blood covering various parts of her attire. That wakes up Joan from her daze. She checks her watch. “Dammit!” she curses getting into the van. She fishes her phone out of her bag, but the phone is dripping water. “Would I be asking for too much to use your phone?” she asks the EMT.

The guy raises an eyebrow, while he is making sure Susan is strapped in and her vitals are in the acceptable range.

“I was on my way to pick up my son.” Joan explains. “I have to call my partner to get him. And to get me some clothes. I’ll be quick.”

The EMT reaches for his phone and hands it over. “You saved her life.” he nods over to Susan. “But you may have to shout ‘cause we’re in a hurry.” he says and tells his partner that they are ready to go.

Joan takes the phone gratefully and punches in Sherlock’s number with slight difficulty as her fingers are still numb from the cold.

Sherlock notices the phone in front of him buzzing with an unknown number. “Hello?” he says mistrustfully.

“Hey, Sherlock it’s me.” Joan shouts over the sirens. The sound makes Sherlock to sit up and head downstairs to leave the Brownstone to find her. “There was an accident. You need to pick up Arthur.” that stops Sherlock on his way as he opened the door. “And also get me a full set of clothing.”

“Watson?” Sherlock asks unsure of Watson’s state of health.

“We’re headed toward the NYC Coney Island Hospital. Meet me there after you picked Arthur up.” she says, her voice urgent.

“Watson!” Sherlock tries to get her attention, but it seems she cannot hear anything over the sirens and she ends the call.  

Sherlock purses his lips in irritation. He heads upstairs to Watson’s room, to grab her hospital go-bag. During the initial stages of her chemotherapy he noticed the bag stashed under the commode in her room. He checks its contents finding a set of pyjamas and undergarments with toiletries. Fortunately, there is enough room in it for him to pack trousers and a blouse. With careful placement he even manages to put in a set of shoes. The cab he called earlier arrives just in time for him to jump in to pick Arthur up.

On his way, he calls Marcus. “Captain Bell, I need a favour.” he starts without greeting the man.

“What is it Holmes?” grumbles Marcus.

“I need a location of Watson’s phone.”

That picks up Marcus’s interest. “What happened?”

“I don’t know.” Sherlock admits unsure. “She called me from an ambulance using someone else’s phone. I’ve tried calling the person back, but they don’t pick it up.”

“Okay, don’t do anything rash. I’ll call as soon as I know something.” Marcus says and begins to make a few calls.

The cab pulls up by Arthur’s school faster than Sherlock expected. There are already lots of students walking away with their respective parents. “Stay around here.” Sherlock tells the driver and hands him 50$ note. “I’ll be back in a few minutes and I need to be on my way immediately.” The conviction in his tone makes the driver gulp and nod. “I’ll be just over there.” the driver nods over to a parking spot. Sherlock nods in acceptance and jumps out of the car leaving Watson’s bag on the backseat of the taxi.

Sherlock hurries in finding Arthur’s classroom almost empty. He nods over to Mr. Bishop and calls Arthur. The boy rushes over to him. “Go get your stuff, we need to leave soon.” Sherlock tries to hide his anxiety from the boy and it comes out sounding harsher than intended. Arthur nods noting his demeanor. He knows that he is not in trouble, but there is something which bothers Uncle Sherlock, so he packs away his notes fast.

Mr. Bishop has a strange feeling about Mr. Holmes’s uneasiness and he pulls him outside. “Is everything all right?” he asks. “I thought Ms. Watson would pick up Arthur today. And it is unusual to be this late.”

Sherlock nods. “She got held up.” he says curtly, his jaws clench. Not knowing Watson’s state makes him worried. The last time he got similar call, somebody almost murdered her.

Mr. Bishop translates Holmes’s behavior quickly. “Look, tomorrow is Friday. We’ll only practice what we’d learned this week. So, if you think it’s best for Arthur to stay home, he won’t miss anything.” he says gently.

Sherlock takes a look at the teacher’s face, surprised by his quick and accurate assessment. “Thank you. I hope there is no reason for him to stay at home.” Sherlock answers. Arthur walks out of the room with his bag and scarf in his hand, his jacket in slight disarray on him. Sherlock crouches down and fixes the stuck zipper. He takes the scarf from Arthur. “We won’t be needing it, the cab is just outside.” he then takes the bag from Arthur and they wordlessly leave the building, heading towards the cab.  

When they got in, Sherlock only shows the next destination to the driver on his phone not really wanting Arthur to hear where they are going. But the kid is curious enough. “Where are we going, Uncle Sherlock?”

“To see your Mother.” he answers his gaze connecting with the driver, prompting him to shut up. “Do you have some homework?”

“No. I’m already finished. But I can read further in our book.” Arthur notes and he fishes out his book.

“Good.” Sherlock acquiesces. He grabs his phone, trying to dial the number from which Watson called earlier. But Marcus’s call interrupts him.

“Hey,” Marcus starts “There was an accident involving three cars at the last location her phone got pinged. A woman matching Joan’s description was taken into hospital with possible minor injuries. The officer I’ve talked to said she walked on her own. He is on his way to get a statement from her. I can tell him to call you as soon as he is contact with her.”

“Thank you, Marcus.” Sherlock breaths out. “I’m already on my way. I’ll be there in about 40 minutes. There is no need to call.”

“Okay.” Marcus replies. “If there is anything, I can do, call.” he says, but Sherlock ends the call as he receives another incoming call. It’s the same number Watson called him.

“Hello?” a man opens but Sherlock is impatient and introduces himself. “My name is Sherlock Holmes. A woman used your phone about twenty minutes ago to call me.”

“Ugh, yes.” but before the EMT could go on, Sherlock quickly continues “How is she?”.

“Oh. Nothing serious. A few scrapes and bruises. I’m sure she’d appreciate a hot soup for dinner. But that’s it.”

Sherlock nods to himself. Two reports from two different sources, confirming roughly the same story, concluding that Watson is alright. Though he still has to verify that by himself.

“Thank you, Mr.?”

“Meyer. And it was really nothing. She was wrist-deep in blood to keep a woman bleeding out under a spraying fire hydrant. She is quite something. It is good to see someone like that in action. You’re a lucky man.” he notes, and Sherlock smiles at the other of the line.

“Yeah. Thank you again, Mr. Meyer. And if you’re in need of any kind of help, do not hesitate to call me.” says Sherlock much to the EMTs surprise. Throughout the rest of the route, he listens to Arthur’s reading, sometimes helping the boy out when he stumbles on a more complicated word. But his mind is focused on reaching Watson.

After arriving at the hospital Sherlock quickly finds the reception looking for Watson. The nurse smiles and points to the corridor on her left. Just as he turns in the corner with Arthur in tow, he sees Watson sitting on one of the chairs on the corridor dressed in light blue scrubs. Her hair is wet, she brushes the scrapes on the heel of her hand but otherwise she seems intact. Arthur reacts faster and he rushes over to his mother.

Joan’s face lights up as she sees the two of them. She hugs Arthur and picks him up, standing to greet Sherlock. She notices the shimmer in Sherlock’s eyes as relief washes over him. His eyes are also intensely gazing at her willing her to understand his desperation and need to see her. He doesn’t say a word only nods, lips pursed, and he presents her bag. Joan puts down Arthur and takes the bag from him. “Thank you.” she says and she cannot help herself but places a small kiss on Sherlock’s cheek shocking Sherlock. When Joan vanishes behind a door, Sherlock is still standing rooted to his place. His reverie is broken by Arthur who tugs on his sleeve to drive him away from the center of the corridor as someone pushes a gurney behind him.

Watson walks out of the changing room after a few minutes, her comfort level already better. She walks over to Sherlock and Arthur. She looks around expectantly. “Did you bring a coat?”

“Ugh, no. Where is yours?” Sherlock asks.

“In the trash along with almost all of my attire. They were beyond repair. It was a messy accident.” she says not really wanting to explain further with Arthur near.

Without a word Sherlock divest himself from his coat and holds it up for Watson to wear. “I still have more layers on me than you.” he explains his chivalry at the questioning eyebrow, though they both know he would’ve done it either way.

Joan accepts the gesture and she burrows herself in his coat, relishing in the heat and smell of him surrounding her. She walks over the reception to talk to the nurse, then indicates Sherlock that they’re ready to go.

The taxi driver is still outside waiting, waiving at them. Sherlock walks over to him wordlessly. “I figured it would be worth to wait a few minutes to see if you’d need a lift to go back home.” he says. Sherlock looks back and opens the door for Arthur and Joan to climb in.

The road home is filled with traffic, but Arthur keeps up the elders with his talk about his day. Watson listens to him, humming and laughing along. And every once in a while, she glances over to Sherlock who seems to be deep in his own world staring out the window of the car or fiddling with his phone. His posture is clenched as if will himself to be still.

“Dinner will be here in 10 minutes.” Sherlock announces as they step in the Brownstone. Arthur nods in response and he runs upstairs with his bag unaware of the tension behind him. Sherlock walks into the kitchen to put some water on for a tea and Joan follows.

“Sherlock … ” she starts but she is stopped by Sherlock’s hand.

He steps closer, only a foot distance between them. “Watson, I …” he then stops. He glances down, while Joan smiles lightly assuming where this is heading. “Watson have you thought about our earlier discussion about us?”

Joan smirks. Finally. “Yes.” she answers slightly drawing out her answers. Sherlock only manages to lift an eyebrow not trusting his voice to ask. “My intentions are the same.” she says.

Sherlock huffs, smirking at her. He straightens himself but, in his anxiety, he puts his hands into his pockets and breathes out a sentence. “May I kiss you Watson?”

Joan smiles, she grabs his tie and pulls him down to her level to reach his mouth. Their kiss is nothing like the previous one. This is a languid confession of need. A kiss that seasoned partners share to reassure their connection to each other. Sherlock’s hands remain sheathed in his pockets. He fears that if he’d embrace Watson, he would have a hard time releasing her and they are most likely to be interrupted any time. Joan, on the other hand, brushes Sherlock’s chest eliciting a groan from him ending their kiss.

Arthur chooses that time to shout “Mom!” prompting Joan to step away from Sherlock as well. They both share a nervous smile desire flooding their gaze.

Joan finds her voice first, though it is deeper than she’d expected. “We need to continue our discussion later.”

Sherlock nods in response. “You lead, I follow.” he says conveying his intentions about not wanting to rush if Watson chooses not to and that he’ll accept anything she is willing to give him.

Joan smirks. “Then, we’ll continue this in my room after Arthur is put to sleep.” she says firmly and begins to walk upstairs. Then she turns back to address Sherlock. “Oh, and you better wear only a pair of sweatpants and maybe a t-shirt.” with a grin she proceeds to Arthur leaving a slightly giddy Sherlock behind.

Chapter Text

“Please, remind me again, why are we attending this ball?” asked Sherlock wearing a winter coat and a tuxedo.

“Because we’ve been invited. And it might help us to be in the good graces of the new Chief of Police.” Joan answers, sitting beside Sherlock in a cab, a deep green gown peaking from under her coat.

Sherlock grunts in response, slightly adjusting his bowtie. “I don’t like to parade around.”

“We won’t. I’ll only try to gain his attention. I want to be a consultant again, and he could help me reinstated a bit earlier.” Joan explains. She sighs watching the lights passing away in the night. She’d never felt better. Her energy levels are almost up to before the therapy; she feels she could take on the world by herself.

“You must be aware that half of the precinct captains will be waiting in line for him.” Sherlock rebuts.

“I aware.” Joan sighs. “You know what? Just pretend that you’re taking me out to somewhere nice.” she says, not looking at Sherlock.

Sherlock frowns. “I wasn’t aware that you’d want to go out like that.”

“Every woman likes to be wooed every once in a while.” Joan muses.

Sherlock hums. As the driver halts, Sherlock hands over the money and jumps out of the cab to help Joan out of the car. He takes in a deep breath before stepping towards the direction of the reception. “There is one thing I have to ask before we venture in, Watson.” His question is met with a silent raise of an eyebrow, and he braces himself. “How do you wish us to be introduced?” Joan remains silent, but her face switches to annoyance. “I mean, we are too old to be considered boyfriend and girlfriend. We are still partners. We just took a step forward, a step that half of the people we meet already assumes.”

Joan starts to become amused as Sherlock continues with his ramblings. “And now we’re truly partners in everything. And my initial assessment is confirmed regarding our compatibility in sexu…” Joan stops his babble by putting her hand on Sherlock’s mouth.

“Hey Joan, Holmes!” Marcus hails them with Chantal on his arm, stepping out from a cab. “I see, he is already not behaving. Just let me know if you need a squad to remove him from the reception.” Marcus offers jokingly at the scene unfolding in front of him.

Joan quickly removes her hand from Sherlock’s mouth, and she sends Sherlock a warning glare. “My Partner” she emphasizes “just expressed his discontent in wearing a tux to an event which doesn’t involve theater or a wedding.” She keeps her hold on her clutch moving to greet Chantal. Sherlock stands at his previous place awkwardly. “Shall we go in? It’s freezing outside?” Joan proposes, and they set on their way to the reception. Joan waits for Sherlock to follow who steps up beside her but not touching.

So far, they’d only discussed their new relationship twice. Once which involved Joan feeling embarrassed, after Mrs. Hudson greeted her with a smile, congratulations, and a “You do aware that I’m cleaning your home, right?” accompanied by a wink. And the second one they had a minute ago. Neither of them is a person who needs PDA to show their affections towards the other. Though having Arthur around and helping Watson through her therapy did decrease the general distance between them when they walk, and the number of assuring touches has significantly increased at the same time. But touches usually remain in the confinement of personal moments, or when they are around people they don’t know. So, Sherlock decides to go with the usual stance, walking within reaching distance but not touching Joan, knowing that if Watson wants to do otherwise, she’ll let him know.

Chantal watches Joan from a few tables away. A captain from another precinct approaches her. He had his eyes on Joan for a while now. As he is closing in on her and introduces himself, she notices the way Sherlock moves a tad closer to Joan, especially after Joan introduces her partner to the captain, much to the dismay of the man. Both Sherlock’s and Joan's body language suggest that she is not available for the taking, and the captain wisely moves back to his companions.

“You okay?” asks Marcus his wife.

“Hmm. Just observing.” Chantal answers. “Have you noticed anything particular with Joan and Sherlock lately?” she asks.

“No. Why?” he asks back and turns his head towards the pair in question.

“Could you be a little less obvious, dear?” Chantal hisses and turns his head away before Sherlock could notice their inquisitive look. “They are awfully chummy, considering their usual rapport.”

“Nah, I don’t think so.” Marcus dismisses Chantal’s suggestion, but then he notices from the corner of his eyes as Sherlock leads Joan to the dance floor. Few guests have already been waltzing to the gentle classical music playing in the background. Marcus’s view is sometimes obstructed by the other dancers, but despite the distance between the body of Joan and Holmes, their hands and looks tell another tale. Holmes rests his hand just slightly above Joan’s waist, while Joan’s thumb caresses Holmes’s hand as they wade through the dance floor. Marcus sharply turns his head back to Chantal. “Damn!”

Chantal watches the shock and amusement running across Marcus’s feature. “So, who is winning?”

“Huh?” Marcus asks.

“Who is winning on the longest bet of the precinct?” Chantal asks like she is coaxing out the truth from a 5-year old.

“Ugh. Don’t know. We still need the date though, to be sure.” He turns around and watches as the duo walk back to their tables. “How about I distract Holmes while you work your way around Joan?” Marcus offers a plan of attack to which Chantal nods, and saunters off to Joan. Marcus bites back a laugh when Holmes is shooed away.

After an uncomfortable 10 minutes, Sherlock notices Chantal coming back to Marcus. “Honey, how about we head back home? You’ve already wooed the new Chief.” she asks conspicuously leaning over Marcus’s shoulder and Sherlock takes this as his cue to head back to Joan.

On their way back home in the cab, Sherlock suddenly turns to Joan. “What did you tell her?”

Joan smiles. “That we do not want people to get involved. And if all goes well, we’ll disclose the information she seeks to Marcus on the day I’m reinstated.”

“Devious. Do you hope that this will hasten his decision about letting you go back?”      

Joan shrugs her shoulders. “I don’t think so. The new Chief is adamant in making everything by the book. It will just annoy Marcus to no end.” Sherlock shares her smile in response.

Chapter Text

Joan sits tightly in her bed, clad only in shorts and a t-shirt. Her hands fondle her phone, her mind miles away. It’s a bit after midnight, and she waits for Sherlock to arrive. She can’t seem to do one thing by herself and she needs her companion to make this step. A step that will define her future. And even though the thought that Damocles’ sword hangs overhead is not alluring, her fear wins, paralyzing her actions. It would be just one quick swipe to read an email and it would be all over, but the prospect of this being her last Christmas freezes her.

“The presents are under the tree; I drank from the milk and ate a cookie just as you requested.” Sherlock starts mindful only to close the door as quiet as possible. When he turns around, his heart drops. Watson’s posture is anything but festive, she looks like who’ll crumble at any moment. He slowly approaches the bed and sits on it, his legs dangling down. “What happened?” he asks gently. There is no use to ask about the nature of the news. He’d learned a long time ago how to read Watson. But now even an untrained eye could see that something is wrong.

Joan sighs. She grips the phone in her hand. “I got the results from Dr. Televecchio.” her voice breaks.

Sherlock lowers his head. He wasn’t looking forward to this. He was convinced that the results will be good. He scoots over beside Watson, and he embraces her. “I’m not going anywhere.” he whispers, “Whatever challenges you might face, we’re facing them together.” he assures Watson.

Joan smiles, letting his warmth calm her. “I haven’t read it yet. I wanted to wait for you.”

This takes Sherlock by surprise. There is hope yet, he thinks to himself. “Well, I’m here. No monster has any chance against the two of us.” he tries to alleviate the mood. He watches as Joan unlocks her phone and nods to herself. He then takes off his gaze from her, giving her the privacy she might need to read the contents of the email. He attempts to clear his mind, to ward off any somber thoughts because Watson wouldn’t need that. She needs him to be strong.

Joan quickly runs through the contents of the email. The last sentence confirming what every result showed. She gasps and slams the phone on the nightstand a little harder than intended. Tears well up in her eyes, and she looks up to find Sherlock’s gaze.

As soon as he heard the gasp, Sherlock turned his eyes to Watson. He just needs to know. The uncertainty of her health kept him on edge. They visited Dr. Televecchio a week before. He’d made every test available, but of course, they had to wait for the results. On the one hand, he finds it assuring that they have the results with the start of the holidays, but on the other hand, he could’ve spent the holidays without news that seal Watson’s fate.

He catches Watson’s tears. And for a few seconds, his world crumbles down, followed by devastation in its wake. Unwanted pictures of him and Arthur standing by a grave surrounded by Lin, Oren, Marcus and lot of other people whose face blurs into nothingness swims into his mind. He’d rather put himself into that grave before he’d to endure the pain of losing Watson. He reins his emotions the best he can, and he pulls Watson closer pressing a kiss to her temple.

Joan closes her eyes at Sherlock’s tender gesture. He can be outright brash, but then he has moments like this reserved for special occasions that makes her love him more. Energized by the news and by Sherlock’s closeness, she quickly changes position and straddles Sherlock.

Sherlock’s breath is taken away by Watson’s action. Yet, his heart is heavy with emotion, and the only sensible reply he can give is, “Whatever you need.”

Joan brushes Sherlock’s shoulders before finding a purchase on them and she kisses him in elation. Though she definitely had similar plans before she got the message, her renewed energy increases her passion. She quickly deepens the kiss which Sherlock follows almost too methodically. As if he’d wait for every advancement of hers, completely allowing her to control their intimate moment, rather than to equally participate in it. She is aware that his hands are still at her waist, while hers are wandering around his back and his chest. Usually, by now, his hands would find a lot less chaste route. When she tastes saltiness in their kiss, she leans back in realization. “Have you read the email with me?” she asks.

Sherlock shakes his head in response.  

“The one time you decide to value my privacy … ” she starts laughing, confusing Sherlock. She takes hold of his face looking directly into his eyes. Her eyes sparkle when she shares the news. “I’m cancer-free.” She waits until she can see the realization sink in Sherlock, and her breath is taken away when Sherlock kisses her with a fervor matching hers. His hands are now roaming around under her shirt on her back.

Then Sherlock pauses. He leans back a bit. “Captain Bell told me he’ll be working on the 26^th. Do you want to make an appointment with him?”

Joan shakes her head. Her fingers play with the neckline of Sherlock’s t-shirt. “No. As much as I wanted to go back to work before, I’d rather enjoy this Christmas and start the new year fresh.”

Sherlock hums in response. “And in the light of new events, do you wish to change the parameters of our relationship?”

“Do I look like someone who is going to kick you out of my bed?”

“No,” he answers and quickly deposits a kiss to Joan’s neck, “but you might want to change some things.”

Joan smiles. “There is one thing if you’re up for it.” she starts, and Sherlock quirks up in interest. “Not that.” she emphasizes. “When we introduce each other, we still refer to each other as partners. The change is, if someone asks about the nature of our partnership, we confirm that we’re together, partners both professionally and personally. I don’t want to hide it anymore.”

“Are you sure that being named only as my partner is good enough for you?” Sherlock asks, while his hands venture over Joan’s thighs.

“We complement each other, we share every good and bad. The term partner is more intimate than any other one. And being called as a girlfriend would be weird given that we’re in our fifties.”

Sherlock nods. “Then I agree to the new terms.” and he kisses Joan in approval. He divests her of her shirt. “Partner.”

Joan grabs the hem of Sherlock’s shirt and mirrors his actions. “Partner.”