It's been a long time, too long, since Sherlock has been this vulnerable with her. They haven't been like this since he left, since she moved, since she broke them apart in a desperate attempt to keep whatever parts of herself remained solidly in her own possession.

Most of her belongs to Sherlock, Joan harbours no delusions about that.

She's gotten good at this routine, at caring for Sherlock without pity, at giving him what he needs without scaring him away.

Step One is silence. Joan doesn't know what Sherlock sees in her face and body – who knows, maybe even in the way her hair bobs and trembles – but she knows her thoughts are sure to be louder than screaming in a silent room to him right now.

Step Two is clichéd platitudes. Joan knows that they're heartfelt, which means Sherlock knows it too, but it's so hard right now not to hijack the conversation with her own reassurances and affirmations and what Sherlock needs is for her to feel what he feels, not to be waiting for his turn to talk, so she has to restrict herself.

She knows that, when Sherlock's fighting a relapse, often her presence, the tangible evidence of another soul in his vacant, ever-expanding black hole can be enough to settle his mind. For Sherlock, the regular melody of her breathing and the thrum of her pulse and her even gaze are enough.

But for tonight, for Joan, it isn't.

She hadn't been lying when she had said she wanted to hug Sherlock. The confession took her as much by surprise as it did him, but she hadn't lied. Her love for Sherlock wasn't physical, hadn't been physical, but since she left… something'd changed.

Suddenly, sitting on the orange ottoman was too far away from Sherlock.

Suddenly, this wasn't enough.

She stood, maybe too abruptly because Sherlock startled, and she took the two short steps necessary to put herself inside Sherlock's space. She sinks easily to her knees and then to the floor between his feet, folding her legs up beside her so that the heels of her shoes rest beside her hip, not beneath her. She ignores Sherlock's sudden intake of breath and leans her head on his thigh.

She can't see him like this, looking out to the living room as she is, but she doesn't need to see him to know that his eyes are wide and stunned and child-like, that he'd never before entertained any thoughts of this but now that it's happening, nothing has ever been more real.

She knows this probably isn't ideal, for him. Sherlock would prefer to kneel for her, she thinks. Nobody owns that many pairs of handcuffs or quite that style of riding crop if they don't enjoy being forcibly ejected from their head every once in a while.

But right now, Sherlock doesn't need to be controlled; he needs to be connected. And right now, Joan doesn't need to be in control; she just needs to be as she always is.

Steady.