Chapter Text
Fear, already well seated in the pit of her stomach after the night's events, leapt upward and sent a prickling chill through her. Glass shards ... splintered wood ... beyond the broken doors, his room lay in shambles.
She turned and ran up the stairs.
Breathless, Joan pulled her phone from her bag, checked quickly for messages then called his number. Her hands trembled. The thought that he'd been harmed pushed her to the edge of the precipice she'd avoided until now.
No answer. His outgoing message was curt: "Leave a message if you must. I'd prefer a text."
"Sherlock, where are you? Call me. Just let me know you're okay."
She hung up and texted the same message to him as she walked towards his desk. She rummaged until she found his tablet, and started the "find my phone" app. Her breathing was becoming erratic as the images of what might have happened downstairs started forcing themselves upon her.
The app beeped and zoomed in on the map of Brooklyn, then honed in on to their brownstone address. She stared at it, confused, wondering if he lay hurt somewhere in the house. She hadn't heard his phone ... the roof perhaps.
She started for the stairs just as the front door opened and a weary Sherlock ambled in.
Joan rushed at him stopping a foot or so before him, examining his face and stance. Eyes locked. The look of fear and worry on her face, the intensity of it, was sufficient to cement that which he had been reflecting upon during his walk back to the house. He would not to tell her, not yet. Watson had enough on her plate without an extra helping of his problems.
She finally spoke; she controlled the panic but could not mask the concern, "What happened downstairs? Are you alright?"
His tone was nonchalant, carrying the implication she was being overly dramatic. "I just had a ... got a bit upset. Sorry. I'll clean it up." He turned away from her, worried she might read too much on his face.
Fear gave way to anger and Joan forced him to look at her, "A bit upset? You destroyed your bedroom! Why?"
Sherlock would not tell her the truth but he also would not actively lie to her. "Your sudden concern for me is touching but I am quite tired. If you are through with your interrogation, I'm going to go lay down."
"What is going on with you? Have I not been paying enough attention to you, is that what spurred your temper tantrum?"
"My well being does not require your attention. You give yourself too much credit." He looked down at her. "Speaking of credit, congratulations on bringing down SBK and Tyus Wilcox singlehandedly, partner." The last word drawled out hinted at sarcasm. "Marcus called and filled me in."
"That's it then? Your nose got bent out of joint because I wasn't consulting with you, so you threw a fit?" She menacingly stepped closer to him. "You've shown zero interest in the case or in Shinwell or in supporting me in any manner. So you know what, fine, go break things, go sulk, go sleep. I really don't care what you do." Seething, Joan abruptly walked away from him. At the moment, she truly didn't care one whit about Sherlock Holmes and his ego. She was going to bed. Adrenaline provided her just enough energy to get up the stairs.
A relieved Sherlock didn't try to stop her. This would make it easier for her. If she hated him, perhaps she wouldn't feel the loss as deeply. The MRI results wouldn't be available until tomorrow but he'd done enough research to know the probable causes of his symptoms were serious. He could handle this on his own. Perhaps he'd take another trip to London. Watson had done quite well by herself the last time he went away. If she were angry enough perhaps she wouldn't care if he didn't return. The thought of facing what was to come without her frightened him, but in the long run it would be best for her. He'd rather she not witness his demise.