A/N: you know how this works; thank you for reviewing and reading. You're the best, all of you. Also to Claudia, the reviewer who told me I should write this for every episode THANK YOU! THIS IS A BRILLIANT IDEA! I know I should have said this before and I don't know why I didn't, but this whole story (all of them) got me into writing fanfics again, so yeah thank you.
Don't forget to review
Spoilers: episode 1x09 if you haven't watched it
Also feel free to follow me on tumblr, my url is "elementarydearsherlock"
Fran
He wrapped his blanket tightly around his body as an involuntary shiver attacked him. He had never, in almost two years, felt what he's feeling right now. His whole body ached, his head was spinning, and his eyes were closing slowly.
Sherlock Holmes was sick.
And he was having a hard time dealing with it.
"Would please go back to bed?" Joan asked him, though it sounded more like an order.
"I feel perfectly fine," he spoke, and sniffed. Joan stood next to him, touching his forehead with her hand and he closed his eyes at the feel of her warmth. "Despite what you think."
"I think I should take your temperature again," she spoke, removing her hand from his forehead (much to Sherlock's protest) and walked passed him towards the cook. She took the kettle off the stove as he spoke, pouring hot water into two sets of mugs.
"I dropped one degree since the last time you checked."
"Still leaves you with 101, which is more than enough reason for you to get some rest."
"No, I'll be fine."
"Sherlock…"
Before she could continue any further with her protests, his phone beeped. Taking a look at the screen, he got up slowly from his chair, the blanket still tight around his body.
"Tea will have to wait; Detective Bell has extended an invitation."
"Sherlock, you're sick. You can't go out." She screams though there was no point since he was out of the kitchen. "Stubborn!"
"You love me anyways," she heard him yell.
There was no point in arguing.
.
.
.
"You look awful," Bell greeted Sherlock as he walked into the open crime scene, followed close by Joan. He didn't respond, he merely focused on staring at the dead man before him.
"Well at least I still have my eyes. That makes three of us," he responded with a raspy voice, tired from coughing so much the night before.
"No wallet. No I.D," Bell continued. "All we know is male, white, mid to late 40s and the shots he took to the face are near contact wounds. Though you could take a look before we wrap up the scene but that was before I knew you were dying."
"No shell casings, no skull fragments, no gray matter," Sherlock spoke, ignoring Bell's last comment. "He was killed elsewhere and then dumped here."
"Yeah, tell me something I don't know," Bell told him.
"A pig's orgasm lasts up to 30 minutes."
Bell glared him, and then to Joan standing behind Sherlock, who shrugged at him in response.
"Are you sure he's not dying?" Bell asked her.
"I told him to stay in bed but he's stubborn," she responded.
"Yes, and he's standing right here," Sherlock snapped.
"Well, you know I'm not your mother, nor your nurse but I'm entitled to be worried about you, okay?"
"I know, but I told you I feel better," he told her. "Now, can we focus on the dead man and the killer on the loose?"
"Fine, as you wish."
.
.
.
Her phone rang in the middle of the interrogation. She stared at the I.D. and then slowly made her way out, Sherlock watching her as she stepped out.
She didn't expect the call, she didn't expect talking to him after so long so she was effectively surprised to hear his voice. Especially him asking for help.
"Watson, I feared I'd lost you," Sherlock spoke, walking towards her as she waited outside. "We're off to Garrison to speak with the dead man's colleges."
"Is it okay if I peel off for a little while?" She asked him. He stared at her for a few seconds before shrugging.
"Off to Rikers?" He asked her. "My eyes may be red, but I can still read your caller I.D. What is he, a friend in trouble?
"Old client."
"And?"
"Just…an old client. Nothing more," she explained, avoiding giving him any more information than needed. "I'll be back when I'm done, okay?"
"Sure, I'll keep you apprised as to our location via text."
"Okay," she nodded and walked away, before she could a little bit further Sherlock grabbed her hand, pulling her towards him.
"Are you alright?"
"I'm fine," she smiled weakly, trying hard for her uneasiness not to show.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, of course."
He gave her hand one last light squeeze before she slowly pulled away. He watched her until she disappeared on the street, his chest tight with a strange feeling of discomfort.
.
.
.
The cell close behind her loudly, and she took quick steps toward the man sitting behind the iron table. He smiled weakly, but she didn't, having absolutely no need to smile at all.
"Wow, you look incredible."
"Yeah well you look terrible," she told him, pulling a chair and taking a sit in front of him. He smiled again in return.
"You're using again," it was more a statement than a question, and she knew him too well to know he had been lying.
"What's the saying? Rehab is for quitters?"
"If that's your excuse I think its ridiculous and pathetic, if you ask me," she responded harshly to which he remained quiet. "What do you want, Liam?
"I need your help."
"If by help you mean bail…"
"I don't," he responded quickly.
"You want to tell me what you did?"
"According to the cops? Hit and run. I don't think I did it, okay?"
"What do you mean you don't think that you did it?"
"I partied a couple of nights ago, I passed out. I woke up and there's two cops banging on my door saying I ran a red light and hit somebody with my car."
"Well did you?
"No. Come on, Joanie, I would have remembered if I clipped someone's car."
"Not you were blacked out, you wouldn't."
"Listen, all I'm asking is if you could put in a good word with your friend at the DA's office…"
"I know this isn't what you want to hear, but I can't do it," she told him. "I can't help you anymore."
"Why? Why can't you?"
"Because things are different now, Liam. You can't just show up like this, after being away for so long, and tell me you need my help with something like this. I can't, I'm sorry."
"Is this because…" He stopped for a minute, glaring at her as if he saw her with a different light. Something suddenly hit him. "Are you seeing somebody? Is that it?"
"This has nothing to do with Sherlock…"
"Holmes? As in your new client?"
She didn't respond, she just looked at him for a brief second.
"Its a thing now, isn't it? You, sleeping with your clients…"
"Stop right there," she snapped. "What we had was completely different to my relationship with Sherlock. We cared about each other, is not just one way street. He would never disappear for days without saying a word to then call me when he needs me."
"We used to be friends, Joanie…I'm your friend."
"If that's the excuse you're going to use for me to help you, you're very mistaken. I can't help you."
"Oh, so do you treat all the man's you slept with this nicely, or is it just me?"
She got up quickly, sliding off her sit and refraining herself from slapping him like he deserved.
"No, just you."
.
.
.
"Good, you're here," Bell greeted her, Sherlock was walking a few steps behind him and smiled weakly at her when they met, his hand immediately reaching out for hers. She accepted contently.
"You can deal with him."
"Everything okay?" She asked, though by the way Sherlock's face had become paler and he was trying hard to walk straight but failing, she knew the answer. "Spent the entire car ride yammering into a digital recorder something about the effect of tides on crime rates in New York."
"I'm considering writing a monograph," Sherlock explained.
"You should check his fever," Bell interrupted. "I think he's hallucinating."
Sherlock intentionally began walking relatively slow, giving Bell distance between them so he and Joan could talk in private. He knew something was disturbing her and he was certain it had something to do with her visit to Riker's.
"Can I help…with your old client?" He asked her. "Its obvious his predicament is distracting you."
"He isn't your problem."
"No, but there's something I've always heard about relationships, about 'your problems become my problems'. I think this can be the case."
"Thank you, I appreciate your concern Sherlock, but its not necessary. Really."
"Alright. Is there any chance he is innocent."
"He's not," she answered sharply, walking a little bit quickly as to join Bell as he walked inside the building.
.
.
.
She let the mug in front of him as he watched suspect's photos on the station. He was fully concentrated in them but still took the time to take a sip of the warm beverage in front of him.
"Ugh, what is that? I asked for coffee," he complained, looking at Joan sitting next to him.
"Well, you asked for coffee but you got tea," she answered.
"No, I'm British, this is not tea," he told her, glaring at the cup in his hand.
"There's some traditional Chinese herbs in there. I found the ingredients of some tea my mom used to make me when I was sick."
"Well, all due respect to your mother, I would prefer something proven by the scientific method."
"Just shut up and drink it."
"Oh, is this another 'do it for me' situation?"
"Keep this up and you're sleeping on the couch tonight."
He fell silent, slowly taking a sip of his herbal tea. He waited for a couple of minutes, until he carefully pushed a brown manila folder towards her. She eyed it suspiciously.
"What is that?"
"The arrest report from your former client, Liam Danow," he explained.
"I said I didn't want your help."
"Well, I thought you might want to have all the facts at your disposal, just to be sure," he told her.
"I know its hard to give up on someone, especially if they mean something to you."
"I never said he meant something…"
"He did. I know it. I know you," he murmured. "Like you wouldn't give up on me."
She reached for his hand, giving it a light comforting squeeze, showing him with one gesture how thankful she was for trying to help her and just for being there.
.
.
.
"May I ask you a question?" He spoke to her, late at night, at home after a long exhausting day at the station.
"Sure."
"How long you were working with Liam before you started sleeping with him?"
She ignored him, pretended the pictures spread across the floor were far more interesting than his question. Truth was she didn't want to, nor feel the energy, speak about him at all.
"Your disappointment in him the other day seemed a little, extreme," he spoke again. "No judgment, or jealousy, I'm just curious."
"I…" She spoke, but then changed her mind at last minute, "I'm going to Rikers first thing in the morning, okay? Hope you don't mind."
"I don't. Anything you can to help a friend in need, right?"
"I'm going to bed," she spoke, gathering her things as she made her way towards the stairs.
"I'll be there in a few minutes," he spoke, she smiled weakly before disappearing up the stairs.
.
.
.
When she came home from Rikers, she found Sherlock in front of a dismantled computer. He looked as frustrated as ever as he explained the new direction the case had taken; he rubbed his face with his hands and sighed over and over again. He looked, if possible, more tired than he was before.
"Hey, that tea you made me, could you make me some more?" He asked her. She nodded and made her way towards the kitchen, he followed her suit.
They both sat face to face, Sherlock drank the last bit of tea and she took a sip of her glass of water.
"I lied to you," she muttered, a frowning Sherlock stared at her as she spoke, "about Liam. He's not an ex client, he's just…"
"An ex?"
"Yes," she answered. "I meet him at an ER rotation, back when I was still a resident. I gave him 39 stitches."
"Was he already using when you meet him?"
"No. No, that came later," she sighed, pushing the glass of water aside and resting her arms on the table. Instinctively Sherlock's hands reached for them, she welcomed his gesture joyfully. "I hosted an intervention, drove him to rehab. He was better when he came out… for a while."
"Was he the reason why you became a counselor?"
"Part of it. I learned a lot about how to deal with people like him, so when I left medicine this seemed like a nice fit," she whispered, noticing how he had pulled his chair a little bit closer to her, their knees touching. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you about him."
"Do not fret. Everyone is entitled to their own secrets."
"Yes, but not two days ago I was complaining to you about not trusting me and now I'm hiding things like this…"
"Hey, its okay. Liam is part of your past, right? He won't be showing up your doorstep proclaiming his love for you, if me being upset is what you're worried about then don't, because I'm not."
"Even if he came, which he won't, he would be wasting his time. Obviously."
"I know," he pulled a rebel hair behind her ear, letting his fingers caress her cheek before pushing himself towards her for a tender kiss, which she responded gladly. He pulled away when air became necessary. "You know I am not the jealous, possessive boyfriend, but if he ever shows up at this doorstep I might have to use some physical force to state my point of you being taken."
She giggled. "Of course you are."
The end.