Anonymous asked: So, here it goes… Joan wakes up at her new place to the sounds of someone in her kitchen and Clyde climbing over her. According to Sherlock, Clyde's been missing her so he thought of bringing the pet for a visit.

AN: This is my first time writing for these two, so forgive me if I haven't got the characters quite right yet.

It takes Joan a minute to realize where she is when she wakes. She can feel the familiar weight of Clyde crawling across her blankets and hear Sherlock in the kitchen making breakfast. She yawns, stretches her arms above her head and opens her eyes.

She's not in her old room in the brownstone. She's in her new place, the place she was so keen to get, but always seems to feel cold and empty now that she's moved in.

It takes her another minute to realize that if she's in her house, Clyde shouldn't be on her bed and Sherlock should not be in her kitchen. At least, she assumes it's him. She doesn't know anyone else who would break in and put a tortoise in her bed.

With a sigh, more fond exasperation than actual annoyance, she swings her legs over the side and climbs out. Grabbing a cardigan from the chair in the corner and carefully picking up Clyde, she leaves her room and heads downstairs.

She can smell an omelet cooking, and her stomach growls. She'd be lying if she said she didn't miss this part of living with Sherlock; waking up to find a delicious, painstakingly prepared breakfast waiting for her.

"You know, you do have a kitchen in your own home." She says by way of greeting, as she walks through the door to see him standing by the stove.

He turns to look at her over his shoulder, his face unreadable, before he narrows his eyes.

"Clyde missed you."

She places the creature carefully on the floor before moving to sit at the table. He's already put out plates and glasses filled with orange juice. It's nice, homely. Familiar.

"Oh. Clyde missed me?" She parrots back, a skeptical look on her face, even as he puts a perfectly folded cheese omelet on her plate.

"He has trouble sleeping. I thought a visit might do him good." He says calmly.

She knows he's not talking about the tortoise. She's not stupid. But she feels a pang of regret at the thought of him stuck in that house alone, missing her, talking to pets and skulls like he did before she arrived.

"Alright. But that doesn't explain the omelet." She plays along, because that's what they do; humor each other.

"You have nice frying pans. I wanted to try out the… Non stick feature." He doesn't look at her as he serves his own breakfast, taking the seat opposite before tucking in.

"So you came to my house at eight in the morning because your tortoise missed me and you wanted to try out my frying pans?" There's a smile on her face. Because it's so him. It's so them.

"He's our tortoise. And yes."

"Okay." She acquiesces, because she's just as reluctant as he, to admit that she misses this too.

"Eat your omelet. It's getting cold."