Chapter 10

Song inspiration: Turning Tables- Adele

Joan walked through the door of the brownstone. She felt heavy; dragging her feet up the stairs to her room and collapsing on the bed fully dressed; barely able to remove her shoes before falling into a deep, dreamless sleep.

The first thing she noticed as she opened her hot, stinging eyes the next morning was how heavy her lids were. Her throat felt scratchy and swollen, and her shirt was damp with sweat.

She gave a small groan and rolled over, to see Sherlock sitting on the chair beside the window. He was watching her, his fingers forming a triangle at his lips. The light spilling in through the crack in the curtain cradled his stubbled cheek and she wondered how long he'd been there.

"How are you feeling?" Sherlock asked.

"Like my throat is on fire," Joan swallowed with a grimace. It looked like it was almost midday.

"What time is it?"

"10 am. I took your temperature while you were sleeping," Joan gave him a questioning look. "You looked clammy. And my suspicions were right: you have a fever." He stood, opening the curtains. Joan squinted as the sunlight assaulted her eyes. "I've taken the liberty of calling the GP. He's on his way."

She was about to thank him, tell him there was no need, but then she remembered that she was annoyed at him; that he had sowed baseless accusations in her mind and allowed them to germinate.

"You were wrong about Tom," she said, staring out the window, "you purposefully made me doubt him, and now he's not speaking to me."

"-I've got some liquorice root brewing downstairs for your throat -" he continued, ignoring her.

She sat up. "Are you even listening to me, Sherlock?"

He spun around. "It is considered it a mark of a good friend to worry after each other's well-being, is it not?" He spat.

"Not when it turns to you causing your so-called-friend heartache, Sherlock." She could not believe his audacity. "Are you really that thoughtless?" He didn't answer, only stared with an incredulous look, as if he couldn't believe she wasn't thanking him for his input. It was the last straw. "From now on, my relationship with Tom is off-limits in any conversation between us, do you understand?"

He straightened, took a deep breath, and walked toward the door.

"You know Joan," he said in a deceptively soft voice, turning, "when someone goes out of their way to find you a doctor who does house calls in New York, a 'thank you' is the customary response."

She couldn't believe what she was hearing. "I don't need a home visit, the clinic is only a few blocks away."

"Nonsense. You're not well enough to get out of bed," he said, standing.

"We're in the middle of a murder case…"

He studied her for a moment with a conflicted look, as if he were warring over something within himself, before snapping his eyes away.

"I can handle things on my own for a few days. I did it before you, and I can manage again."

Well, Joan thought as he walked out, if that wasn't a clear message she didn't know what was.

The doctor confirmed what Joan had suspected, a nasty case of strep-throat. He prescribed antibiotics, salt-water gargles and plenty of rest.

And although it felt like guzzling knives, she swallowed her pride, and picked up the phone to ring Tom. She wanted to apologise, to explain that Sherlock had been her mentor for so long, and she was so used to relying on his judgement that she did it by default. She reassured him, soothed him, that he was her priority, that she did trust him and Sherlock was just being protective. That's all he really wanted, wasn't it?

Joan waited, but after all her entreating explanations, Tom didn't respond.

"Um, ok well, I completely understand if you're still mad at me, I was an idiot-"

"Mm-hm," Came the affirmative noise from Tom's end.

She rolled her eyes. "Anyway, I'm off work for a few days, on Sherlock's insistence, so I'll be free if you want to brave the contagions and come visit."

"You're sick?" He finally answered.

"Yes, strep-throat."

"Oh Joan, why didn't you say? You have to come stay at mine. Let me keep you company. I'll be in and out of work but at least I can take care of you that way."

Joan exhaled, smiling into the phone. "Thank you, Tom, that would be lovely."

Sherlock couldn't focus: whether it was Joan's illness, or her complete dismissal of him less than an hour ago; her cold words and look on her face crept into his thoughts over and over until, when the doorbell finally interrupted his inner-torture, he found himself gripping the desk with white-knuckled force.

He stood, long legs crossing the creaking floorboards to the front door, where he found Dr Tom Berkley standing.

Tom smiled and held out his hand toward him. "Hi Sherlock, how are you doing?"

"Can I help you?" Sherlock gave a cautious smile.

"Tom?" Came Joan's voice from upstairs.

"Ah, excuse me," Tom said, pushing past Sherlock and up to Joan's room.

Moments later, Tom came back down carrying a duffel bag, with Joan following close after.

"I'm going to Tom's for a few days to recover," she told Sherlock, avoiding his gaze.

"You can't recover here?" He asked.

Tom looked between them. "Um, I'll just be in the car."

Sherlock watched him leave. Yeah, you're fucking loving this aren't you, you utter twat.

Joan crossed her arms. "You made it clear this morning you don't need me on the case, so I'm staying at Tom's. I need the rest, and… I think it would be good for us to have a bit of - space."

Sherlock froze, tilting his head. "Space?"

"We've just been a little on top of each other lately," she said as she collected her things, "and maybe if we were able to spend a little time apart - it might clear the air."

He could hardly hear her voice over the whoomph whoomph whoomph of his heart in his ears. "You're not making sense."

"It's only until I get better."

"You hardly know the man; what if he's a serial killer?"

"Sherlock," she warned.

"No!" He shouted in a burst of desperation.

Joan's eyes widened.

He swallowed, blinking furiously at the floor, unable to look at her. He mumbled something in a low voice.

"Sorry?" She asked.

"Don't go," he said, louder now, as if the words had been forced from him.

Her face was blank. "I-I don't understand…"

He brought his eyes up to meet her gaze. Reaching toward her face, he rested his long fingers on her cheek, brushing her bottom lip with his thumbpad; his eyes pleading with her to hear what he couldn't say.

The sound of approaching footsteps made Joan jump. She whipped her head around as Sherlock snatched his hand away.

"Ready?" Tom asked as he appeared in the doorway. Sherlock repressed the urge to smack that guileless smile right off his face. He quickly turned to the coat rack before his face gave him away.

"Don't… ah… go with- without your jacket," he said in a monotone voice, thrusting a coat into Joan's arms, "must keep rugged up."

Joan took it with hesitation, noticing the way he clenched his jaw. She felt muddled, uneasy, guilty… but for what?

Tom was looking at her, raising his eyebrows in a 'Are we going now or what?' kind of way.

"I'll see you in a few days," she lifted her hand in a half-hearted wave, passing it over her lips as she turned and walked out the door.

Getting into the car, she saw Sherlock watching from the steps of Brownstone with that haunted, lost look on his heartbreaking face.

Too late, she thought, as Tom started the engine and pulled away.