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Joan doesn’t mind (much) when people assume she's Sherlock's assistant. In fact (and it surprises her as much as the next person) she thinks she might kind of like it. Of course, there's always the little part of her that relishes the chance to show it off - to be allowed the opportunity to crush the latest extra in the drama that is her life with the vulgarity of their assumptions.
She has the shiniest toy in this sand box, and she damn well knows it.
She rarely does, however. She lets them have their petty victories, lets them hold on to their self-validating condescensions. She prefers it that way. It means that this, her partnership, her other half, is just hers. It's a secret she is honoured to keep, an illusion she delights in maintaining.
Sherlock is a miracle, and he is hers to keep, for exactly as long as he allows himself to be kept.
Joan watches from around the doorway as Sherlock works another one of his miracles, and has to stop herself from throwing herself on him and kissing him senseless as a reward. For a man who clings so stubbornly to his 'otherness', his separation from the plebeian hoards of 'normal people', he has frequent moments of such astonishing sweetness that Joan is constantly reminded of why she puts up with him at all.
Joan practically flees the room as Remus and Romulus cluck placidly at each other, an indulgent Sherlock looking on. She climbs the stairs all the way to the roof, too out of control to even fake her way through the proper motions of hostessing for Lestrade - let Sherlock handle it, for once.
She curls herself into the battered chair in front of the beehives; it rocks precariously under her as her weight settles, but it holds out for one more day. Given the amount of time both she and Sherlock spend up here, one would think they'd have invested in better chairs - but something stops her every time she considers it.
Joan sits for a while, watching the Euglossa watsonia clamber over each other, buzzing gently. If she's grinning like a madwoman the entire time… Well. It's not like the bees are going to tell on her.