It had been exactly 25 hours and 17 minutes since he overheard Joan's conversation with Emily. It had been approximately 30 hours since they had (platonically) slept together. It had been exactly 46 hours and 24 minutes since they had shared that toe-curling kiss that left him so desperate for more. It had been 48 hours since they reunited after 5 months apart.

And now here he sat, beside her, stealing sidelong glances, while Capt. Gregson droned on.

They were in the back area of the meeting room, on a cushioned bench. The room itself was full of NYPD's finest listening to the captain's status update on the current case. Joan and Sherlock sat close, almost touching but not quite. That had been the status quo for the past day - almost but not quite. Sherlock didn't know what to say or do and Joan was equally hesitant to make the first move. Instead of dealing with the elephant in the room, they concentrated on the work, immersed themselves in the data while stealthily observing each other for any minute deviation in behavior that would provide an inkling as to how to proceed.

Joan sat uncomfortably beside Sherlock. Inadvertently, she had more or less declared her feelings for him yesterday when she set Emily straight or at least she thought she had. Perhaps he didn't understand, perhaps he didn't share her feelings ... But that kiss two days ago! Was it just lust, not anything more? Sherlock long ago said he was post love. Was it conceit on her part to think his rules were different where she was concerned? Oh, but that kiss ... a warm flutter wafted through her at the memory.

Sherlock noticed the slight shudder and looked at her. In her eyes he saw her soul open for him. He sat immobile with the look on his face of someone long kept on the outside, staring longingly at an open door. Fear of being turned out when everything he wanted was within grasp kept him immobile. She looked away embarrassed.

His breathing accelerated slightly. His fingers drummed nervously on his thigh drawing her attention to his fingers, and his thighs. She stared. He caught the look on her face again as she raised her eyes to his. Her breathing accelerated.

Sherlock readjusted his jacket and discreetly moved closer to Watson so that their knees and arms lightly touched. Watson leaned in toward him. They looked at each other again. He bit his upper lip, a nervous habit. A habit she had always found slightly erotic which set off a small catch to her breathing.

That did it. He wanted her now. He couldn't wait much longer, nor could she.

Unfortunately, Captain Gregson was not quite through with his briefing on the case. The officers and detectives at the meeting listened attentively.

Joan looked at Sherlock, pressed her lips together and slightly parted them. The look on her face was almost beatific. Sherlock could take no more. He knew what he was about to do might be a touch unethical but his accuracy rate was very high in these matters and he believed there was a 77% chance he might be right. He had to cut Gregson's ramblings short.

"Captain?" His arm shot up and his voice was perhaps a tad too loud. The roomful of men and women turned to looked at him. Gregson motioned for him to continue.

"Captain, I believe the blood spatters from the victim's initial wound will show that the perpetrator was left-handed. I believe we only have one suspect currently who is of the sinister persuasion so perhaps we should hold off expending any more energies until you've spoken with him."

Blank stares met his comments. Sherlock continued, "Watson and I have a rather important matter to attend to, so if you will excuse us." He flashed an insincere grin, then turned to Watson, "Shall we?" and stood.

Watson, long accustomed to following his lead no matter how ridiculous, smiled at the captain, "Excuse us, we're late already..."

She stood and they both quickly exited the meeting and the building. They hit the sidewalk at a good clip, putting distance between themselves and the station while just as quickly closing the gap between them as they walked. His hand found hers and clasped it tightly. She took a deep breath of satisfaction at his touch. Sherlock steered them into the recessed doorway of a closed shop. They huddled for a second, forehead to forehead, reconnecting, before they stepped into a deep and passionate kiss, her back against the door, his back hiding her from onlookers. Her hand found his waist under his jacket and held on. Too much time denying their emotions had left them like hormone ridden teenagers with little self-control.

His hand cupped her face as their lips separated, "I don't think I'm going to make it back to the brownstone, Watson ..." He gave her a soft kiss biting at her lower lip.

"The Algonquin," she spoke into his mouth, her words mere whispers. "I've always wanted to stay at the Algonquin."

She could have said she wanted to go to the moon and, for her, he would have found a way. The Algonquin was just seven or eight blocks from where they stood, but still too far to walk in their current state. He took her hand once again and led her to the curb. Sherlock pulled out his cab whistle, Joan cringed and with one shrill tweet they were on their way.

The small dark wood lobby of the hotel quietly welcomed them. Their request for a room met with some resistance from the day clerk - no rooms available, housekeeping was still making the rounds, etc. Sherlock, with no remorse, used the cachet of his father's name to his benefit. A small room was miraculously found for them. Small was not a problem; Joan's only requirement for a room at this point was a door. They gladly took the room.

They entered the elevator. Both stared straight ahead as the door slowly closed and the motion upwards started. Sherlock bent down and across, his face appearing before hers. Control on both their parts was momentarily lost until the elevator's ding announcing arrival on their floor separated them like prizefighters.

Joan felt seventeen again. She hung on to his waist, finger looped through his belt as they searched the dark halls for their room. It took Sherlock several swipes of the keycard to unlock the door; he held it open and let her in first.

Once inside the room, the monumentality of the moment briefly stopped them. After this, there would be no going back. Joan reached for him first, placing her hand on his chest, she felt the excited beating of his heart. He felt the warmth of her hand through his shirt; the confirmation he needed. For future reference, he noted that it is possible to clasp tightly to another and undress each other at the same time.

All logic and temerity abandoned them as the soft cloud of white linen caressed, gave way underneath and drew them deep into each other. Months upon months of desire was unleashed and allowed freedom until spent. Struggling for breath, their satisfied bodies incapable of further movement, they lay wrapped around each other savoring the moment.

Sherlock managed to raise his head and look at her, disheveled hair spread out across the pillow in black streams, the remains of mascara smeared lightly beneath her eyes and her lips in a small smile. Beautiful. He lowered his head overcome with emotion and her lips briefly found his forehead. Sherlock found his place in the crook of her neck, eyes closed, settling in while her hand stroked his hair and kept him in place.

Her hushed tone broke the quiet of the moment. "Sherlock, promise me you'll never leave like that again." She drew a heavy breath, "Promise me. Trust in me enough to tell me how you feel."

He raised his head over hers, supporting himself on elbows to either side of her. Sherlock stared deep into her eyes. "I promise. I will." The conviction in his voice made her dark eyes glassy with tears. He continued, "But you need to promise me the same." She closed her eyes to stop the tears from flowing and shook her head yes, not trusting her voice.

Joan felt him lightly kiss her closed eyes and then felt his warm breath at her ear. "Come back home ... please ... come back home." His voice, soft yet sonorous with emotion, pleaded with her. "It's not just the work, Watson, I want you there with me. We are partners. I want to share our ... " He took a breath and looked up at her, "If you need to hear the word, for you I'll say it. ..."

She stopped him, "I know its difficult for you to say. I wouldn't ask that of you. ..." Joan smiled at him and stroked the side of his face. "...rather I would ask you to consider a proposal... Let me stay on permanently ..."

Sherlock realized she was paraphrasing his words, and beamed in delight. "Yes!" he rolled over on to his back and took her with him so she lay upon his chest.

Joan kissed his stubbly chin, "Actually, I started packing last night."

"What?" He feigned mock indignation, "That was extremely presumptuous of you, Watson ... " His hands roamed under the sheets to places that made her giggle and soon they were lost within each other once more.

-:- -:- -:-

Epilogue:

Sherlock came home after attending a meeting with Alfredo. He had helped Watson move back into the brownstone earlier in the day. Sherlock radiated contentment.

He caught the light and crackle of the fire coming from the library and turned. Where the ottoman usually sat, an overstuffed chair, upholstered in material with a thin grey and blue stripe pattern presented itself. Watson sat upon the chair, feet tucked in under her, looking rather enticing.

"What do you think?" She asked him as he crossed the room and sat in his chair opposite her.

"I think it rather suits you Watson, ... Or I mean the room, it suits the room ... It will make it easier to converse when we are working or ..." He stared at her, the firelight playing across her face enhanced her beauty.

"Good." She smiled at him as she stood. "Come on upstairs and let me show you what I did with the bedroom."

He returned her smile, stood and followed her upstairs.