Author's Note: My first Elementary fic! Enjoy! :)
Paper Folds
Joan sleeps better than she expects to.
She didn't change out of her clothes before she collapsed onto her bed last night, exhausted. She shed her boots sometime between the living room and here—for all she knows, they could be on the stairs. She didn't burrow under the covers either. They're slightly askew, but if she did have bad dreams she doesn't remember them.
She yawns, stretches, and swings her legs off the side of the bed. Her toes bump into her discarded boots (not on the stairs, then). She takes a deep breath and stands.
She opens the bedroom door. The handle is wrenched out of her grip by something that's leaning on the other side of the door. She jumps and steps back out of the way as the door swings open wide.
Sherlock falls backwards, arms momentarily flailing until he hits the floor.
He blinks up at her like he's just been woken up.
"Morning," he says eventually, staring up at her.
"Sherlock, what are you—?"
"I've made you some breakfast," he says. He stays where he is, makes a vague motion with his hand. She looks to where he's indicating, sees the tray sitting on the floor next to his legs. "Two slices of wholemeal toast with butter and some orange juice with bits in, just how you prefer it," he describes as if it's completely necessary.
It's her turn to blink at him. Her brain feels slow. "I, uh—"
"The toast is most likely cold by now," he admits in a rush, and for the first time he glances away from her, almost sheepish, "and the juice will have reached room temperature. There's a flower too, because I understand that it's common for decorative flora to be included when one is having breakfast in bed. I didn't wish to leave—" 'you', she hears loud and clear, "—and fetch a fresh flower, however, so I have employed the art of origami and made you one out of yesterday's New York Times. The agony column, so I had something to read while I made it. Feel free to interrupt me whenever pleases you," he finishes, somewhat belatedly, because he stops now to stare at her some more.
"...I was just going to the bathroom."
"Oh," he says quickly. "Yes. Yes, of course." He scrambles to his feet with a little grunt, like he hasn't moved for some time, and lets her pass. He's still standing there when she returns, half-blocking her doorway. If he wasn't using them to hold the tray, she knows his hands would be twitching at his sides. "Shall I make you some fresh toast?"
She doesn't quite know what to say—she understands where he's coming from, but the attentiveness still feels a bit wrong. This is not how it's supposed to be. But he's watching her, expecting an answer. "Okay," she says.
"Right. Breakfast in Bed Redux will be arriving shortly."
He turns to leave with his tray. "It's okay," she blurts out before she realises she's going to speak, and he stops and turns to look at her. His shoulders are obviously stiff, probably from leaning against her door all night. "I'll meet you down there."
Some of the worry drains from his face. With a little smile, she reaches forward and plucks the origami flower from the tray. "Thanks, by the way," she adds.
He nods once and goes downstairs.
She follows him ten minutes later, changed into fresh clothes and feeling a little better. On her way to the kitchen she passes the living room and the thirty-two failed attempts at newspaper origami flowers sitting in the middle of the floor.
THE END