Whoo, it's finally up! I'm doing it!

So, this was just something that I came up with at the last minute. I know almost every one shot book has this plot, but I love it, and I think it's a good starter for me :)

Like I mentioned before, in my story, these will be completely out of order, so in one they may be married, but in another they may be just friends, or just flatmates, or still dating, I'm not really doing anything in chronological order, here.

Also, if there was something that was mentioned in Another Watson that you want me to write, shoot me a PM or a review, and I would be more than happy to write it for you!

Anyway, here ya are! Enjoy!

~Taking a Sick Day~

Sherlock had been lost in that morning's paper, drinking the morning tea Mrs. Hudson had brought up every morning (though he didn't know it). John had already gone to work, leaving the flat completely silent. Which was too quiet.

Sherlock glanced around the living room, then peeking into the kitchen, trying to find out just what was off, and that was when he checked the clock, mentally kicking himself for not realizing it before.

It was 10:30 in the morning, and his flatmates sister was up no later than 9:30, usually making herself some breakfast, sometimes watching telly, thought she was usually very quiet herself, only wishing Sherlock a good morning, and asking if he slept well, and wondering if her ahd any set plans for the day. The she went about her day, reading, helping him with cases if he needed it, going out for a case with him sometimes, but other than that, there was rarely ever any communication. It had worried John and Mrs. Hudson at first- they thought she didn't like him, but Sherlock knew she was staying silent out of respect, and if Sherlock wasn't working, she would carry on a conversation with him, usually about music, sometimes he helped her on her psychology homework, or art, which Sherlock learned Elizabeth had a great passion for.

And as antisocial as Sherlock was, and no matter how deep in thought he may have been in, he actually liked those morning questions, Elizabeth checking up on him, and he missed them, along with the companionship she offered, even if they weren't speaking, he liked her presence. He didn't know what it was about it, but it was...calming, in a way.

He decided to give it another hour, try not to be bothered by it, and went on with his morning.

By 11:30, Elizabeth still hadn't come downstairs, so Sherlock decided to go and check on her, ask if she was alright, if she wanted anything for breakfast That was the polite thing to do, right? He thought, kicking himself, mentally, again, for not knowing, but she had always done it for him, why couldn't he do it for her?

He took the stairs to her room as quietly as possible, not wanting to wake his flatmate if she was still sleeping soundly, and finally he reached her bedroom door.

it was cracked open, letting a little sliver of light into the bedroom, and Sherlock peeked in, whispering her name. when she didn't respond, he pushed the door open more, the light now revealing her bed, with a pile of pillows and blankets on top of it, and her nightstand, which was covered in tissues that didn't quite make it to the waste basket beside of it.

The blob of blankets moved slightly, so Sherlock whispered again.

"Elizabeth?" he asked. "Are you awake?" He heard her groan, in response. "Are you alright?"

"I don't feel good." She whinned, like a child, and Sherlock could practically hear her pouting.

"Do you want anything?" He asked, awkwardly, really unsure of what to do.

Elizabeth poked her head out from underneath the blanket, mussed, blond curls covering her face like a curtain. She wiped them away with her hand, lazily. She stared at him for a few seconds, before making her request.

"Could you, maybe, make some soup?" She asked, as if it was too much. Sherlock almost sighed, but reminded himself that he did, in fact, ask.

"Of course." He smiled, and she sent him a tired smile as well, sinking back into the blanket, sneezing, violently, on her way.

Sherlock grabbed a can of Elizabeth's favorite soup, and poured in into a pot, putting it on the stove, meanwhile, making some tea for the both of them.

Elizabeth trudged down the stairs sometime later, in fuzzy pajama pants, and a sweater hanging loosely over her tiny frame, a blanket in her hand. She plopped down on the couch, then looked at Sherlock, who was at his laptop, while he waited for the soup to cook.

"You don't mind if I lay down here, do you. I would like some company." She admitted, shyly. Sherlock shook his head.

"Not at all." He almost smiled when she did. Elizabeth wrapped herself in her blanket, waiting patiently for her soup and tea.

A few minutes later, Sherlock poured the soup into a bowl, and grabbed her mug of tea, which was made exactly how she liked it.

"Be careful, they're still hot, so-" He stopped when he reached the couch and saw Elizabeth sleeping, her nose red, and more than likely raw, from sneezing, and blowing it so much, her eyes red and puffy, almost as if she had been crying instead of coughing, and her mouth hung open slightly, making it easier for her to breath. Sherlock imagined that it was almost impossible to get any oxygen through her nose, considering how stopped up she sounded.

A corner of Sherlock's mouth tugged up in a half smile, as he took the soup back to the kitchen, saving it for later, while drinking the tea for himself.

Elizabeth had slept most of the day, and when she woke up, Sherlock convinced her to take her temperature.

"I don't have a fever." She tried to reason, even though she was shivering, violently. Sherlock sighed, and walked forward, placing the back of his hand to her forehead, lightly, then to each cheek, looking at her.

"Elizabeth, you're burning up."

The thermometer beeped, and Elizabeth looked at it first, sighing, as Sherlock took it from her hands.

101.3

He smirked, as she pouted, shivering slightly, as Sherlock walked to the bathroom to get a cold rag for her forehead, sending a message to Lestrade on his way, that he won't be doing anything else for him today, deciding to stay home and watch Elizabeth (because John would have a fit if she was left here alone, and it seemed like the right thing to do…)

Lestrade called him five minutes later, attempting to persuade him to help, but Sherlock turned him down again, and again.

"How come?" Lestrade asked. Elizabeth sneezed again, coughing afterwards.

"I'm taking a sick day."