Prologue

"I consider you to be… exceptional; so I make an exceptional effort to accommodate you."

The words echoed around her head; bouncing against the wall that stood between profession and passion, again and again, until cracks began to form.

Whenever he reached out it did this; tried to chip away at what she had so carefully been holding together.

But then, he would do something;

"You must accept, for as long as you choose to be in my life, there will be the occasional fallout from my behaviour."

Say something;

"That must be part of our understanding."

"No one can accept something like that forever."

And just like that;

"To thine own self, Watson."

The echoes turned to mortar and stone.

Chapter 1

"I'm going out Sherlock." Watson clicked down the stairs in black heels and a blue silk dress which at once both clung and flowed over her lithe form. She picked up her jacket, hovering by the coat rack.

Sherlock sat by the fire, tome in hand, "Is it a potential beau?" He pretended to read, not looking up.

She gave him that 'I'm trying to tolerate you right now' look. "Yes, Sherlock, it is a date."

"Of course, you wouldn't be wearing Issey Miyake if it weren't, would you? You only wear that scent on those particular occasions you are hoping to 'get lucky', to use the vernacular," he couldn't help raising his eyes to see her reaction. "Well then, you have my blessing Watson. Go, be free, expend all that sexual tension. I think you might need it."

"I wasn't asking for permission."

"You have it nonetheless. I'm sure I don't need to lecture you on protection." He picked up his book once again.

She flared her nostrils and grabbed her handbag. "You know, despite what you may believe, Sherlock, I do not need your blessing before every date."

"Really? I was of the impression you were looking for an 'out'."

"That is ridiculous." She didn't look at him as she threw it over one shoulder, flicking her hair over the strap.

"Well then, why aren't you leaving?"

"Already gone." She said, slamming the door behind her. She failed to notice Holmes' clenched fists as her heels clacked down the front steps and out into the New York night.

He knew what this was: punishment. Earlier in the day he had made the mistake of acknowledging a café girl's seductive smile. He should have known by now that Watson picked up on things that most people would not.

"Do you know her?" She had asked, as they left the café, coffees in hand.

"In the biblical sense? Yes. We met on Thursday."

"Last week? But we were working all day, where did you find-"

"You went out to get takeaway."

She stopped walking. "How is that even possible? I was gone for 10 minutes."

"Ample time Watson, when you know what you want and how to get it. App technology is quite remarkable."

She scoffed, but continued walking again. "You know, there is such a thing as replacing one addiction for another, Sherlock."

This time, it was Sherlock who stopped. "Don't worry Joan," he said acerbically, "if I ever find my life spiralling out of control once more, I'm sure you'll be the first to notice." He left her standing there and walked, to her great dismay, back into the coffee shop.

She shouldn't have said it, she knew. It was a low blow, but it got her every time; just how casual he could be about it. As if it never mattered, as if the thought of it ever being a meaningful act was alien to him.

"Joan, are you with me?" Tom tilted his head, his kind blue eyes ever-inquiring.

"Oh, sorry, thinking about work." She tried to shake Sherlock out of her mind. This was her night, in the company of the most charming, genuine man she had met for a very long time. She wouldn't let the other, emotionally distant, man in her life ruin it.

"So when am I going to meet the big boss?" He asked.

"Partner," She corrected.

"My mistake," He grinned. "Will I ever get to meet the amazing Sherlock Holmes? I'd like to see how he ticks."

Dr Tom Berkley was a Psych professor at NYU, and Cecelia's last-ditch attempt at a set-up for Joan. All the others had never worked out. CC said Joan never gave them a chance, and maybe she was right, but Joan had told her 'no more' in no uncertain terms. That was until CC had begged - sworn black and blue - that this man was the one she had been looking for.

"You would be perfect for each other," CC claimed.

"Hmmm, where have I heard that before?"

"Ok, ok, I may have been wrong in the past, but this time I'm not! Just give me one more chance; this time I promise."

Joan had acquiesced, although she had needed convincing all over again when CC said Tom was recently divorced. CC had assured her that they had been separated for years, and the ex was a real piece-of-work.

However, any preconceptions of white-haired, tweed-jacketed professors were forever wiped from her mind when she first saw the bright-eyed Tom. Bingo CC, she thought.

"I'm sure you will meet him soon enough." Joan told him. She was, in all honesty, hoping the day would never come. Sherlock was a little like an over-protective father when it came to meeting boyfriends; it was something not to be done lightly.

They finished their wine and, after Tom paid the bill, made their way out onto the street.

He handed the valet his ticket, "May I take you home?" He asked, looking at her with the same unrestrained hope as he always did, it was as startling as it was endearing.

Something in that look warmed her. "That would be lovely, thank you." She answered.

Am I really doing this?

The thought nagged at her, all the way from the restaurant to the front steps of the Brownstone, where she hesitated.

What about Sherlock? The voice in her head said.

"Tom…"

What about him? She countered. He was her housemate and associate, nothing more. It was her choice who she brought home with her. And yet… she didn't want a confrontation with Sherlock tonight.

Tom seemed to anticipate her thoughts. "It's ok, Joan. You've been working hard this week. I'll let you rest." Joan dropped her shoulders, letting go of the tension she didn't realise she'd been holding. He traced a hand lightly over her collarbone, her shoulder, and down her arm, "But next time, I can't promise you any." Goosebumps sprung up where he had touched her. "Good night, Joan." With a hand still resting on her arm, he leaned in, watching for any hesitation. Joan lifted her chin towards him, and he bent, moving his hand up to cradle her jaw-.

The door opened. "Hello there," Sherlock said with casual surprise. "I do apologise; I was just popping out for some fresh air." He extended his hand to Tom, "Sherlock Holmes."

"Tom Berkley," he said, holding out his own hand to shake, glancing at Joan.

"Won't you come in?" Sherlock gestured inside.

"Tom was just leaving," Joan said.

"Yes, I was just saying good night to Joan, but thank you." Tom squeezed Joan's hand and turned to leave.

"Nonsense, we'd love to have you. Wouldn't we Joan?"

She stared at Sherlock blankly for a moment. What had gotten into him? "Ah, of course."

"Wonderful, do come in." Sherlock held the door open as a hesitant Tom and a wary Joan stepped through the door and into the lounge room.

"Can I get you some tea?" Sherlock asked Tom.

"No, thank you. I just had coffee." Tom answered.

"Joan?"

"No."

"Well then, won't you take a seat?" Sherlock pointed toward the couch.

Tom sat, crossing one ankle over his knee, but Joan stayed standing for a moment. She did not like this one bit. He had that look on his face, like a lion who had just cornered an unsuspecting wildebeest.

Her troubling thought was interrupted when she noticed a large, gaping hole in the plaster next to the bookshelf.

"What happened there?"

"Sparring accident. Seems I got a little too vigorous for my punching bag." Seems this was affecting me more than I wanted to admit.

Joan frowned. He was agitated, something was wrong.

She turned to Tom, "I'm actually really tired. Would you mind if I just went to bed?"

"Of course not," Tom stood, but Sherlock waved him down.

"No, no, Tom, don't feel you have to leave on Watson's account. Stay and have a chat won't you?"

Joan glared at Sherlock. Sherlock smiled innocuously.

Tom looked back from one to the other and stood up. "I think I should leave…"

"We must do this again sometime." Sherlock said, waving, as Joan walked Tom outside.

When the door closed she held out her hands in a helpless gesture. "I'm sorry Tom, it's just… Sherlock…"

"At least I know I wasn't the reason you didn't want us to meet." He gave a brief smile with the corner of his mouth. Putting his hands around her shoulders, he looked down, concern in his eyes. "Will you be ok? I mean, with him?"

"I can handle Sherlock."

"It's just, he seems a little… 'off'."

Joan couldn't stop the laugh that came bubbling out. Tom looked suitably confused.

"When comparing Sherlock to the rest of the world, 'off' is an understatement."

Joan walked inside and closed the door, steeling herself for a moment before facing Sherlock again.

"What is wrong with you?" She asked when she found him in standing the kitchen pouring two cups of tea.

"What was the prognosis then?" He asked, turning, "Sociopath? Borderline Personality? I've always been of the impression that psychology is the layman's psychiatry, but whatever floats your boat."

"How did you…"

"Oh come now Watson, I could practically see him ticking the diagnoses off in his head when he first laid eyes on me." Truth was, he knew Watson had been seeing Doctor Tom Berkley for a short time. He may have noted down his number plate the last time the good Doctor picked Watson up in his wanky Prius hybrid; and he may have asked Detective Bell to look it up for him.

Watson let out a sound of exasperation and turned, stomping up the stairs. "Yes good idea, bed," he called up after her, "All that eye-rolling must be giving you a headache."

"Good night Sherlock," she said, closing the bedroom door behind her, certain now that the mortar and stone would never crack again.