Sherlock tried not to dwell on the terrifying prospect of taking care of another human being. His time was divided between plotting non fatal revenge against the Dominican Cartel and puzzling over Watson as she slept. He was unsurprised by how few friends turned up to visit- doctors were a busy lot and friends who had severed ties like Watson had were hard for them to understand or extend more than token gestures to. Apart from a stoic but sympathetic Bell and Gregson stopping to deliver info on the cartel and visit Joan, flowers arrived from her ex and others sent cards. It really was just the two of them.

He left her to go home for supplies. The sight of blood on the bottom step tightened his throat, turning his thoughts to abandoned buildings, stained mattresses on the floor and syringes full of oblivion. He could calculate to the half minute how long it would take him to score and get to the nearest squat. But there was Watson. Alone and broken in a hospital bed- because of him. Logic forced him to admit, that at present, he was all that she had. This, for reasons he refused to understand, gave him peace. He took a deep breath and started up the steps. It was in the house, using Joanie's phone to notify everyone of her situation that he saw the email reply from his father:

Received your message but do not wish to extend your services at this time…

It was dated weeks ago. He laughed out loud when he realized he'd known all along, deep down. Still, his mind grasped for any reason she would remain by his side unpaid that didn't mean that she cared for him a great deal. Love was a word stricken from his vocabulary when he lost Irene.

Later that day, Sherlock dragged Alistair ring shopping to "make good his cover story". In Greenwich Village they wandered into a bright little jewellery shop.

"Sherlock, my heart goes out to Joan, really. But have you given any thoughtto the reasons for what you're doing here?"

Sherlock waved him away.

"I'm simply ensuring my continued involvement in Watson's well being. The status of fiancée grants me uncurtailed visitation in addition to guaranteeing that I am the first point of contact regarding any developments in her convalescence. It's society's fault that "fiancee" trumps "deductive mentor"... Or "friend", not mine."

Alistair threw his hands in the air.

"Sherlock we've been to eight different shops. Eight! Why don't you buy her a small fake ring if it's just to hoodwink hospital staff?"

Sherlock pursed his lips and sniffed at Alistair before quickly turning his head back towards the display case.

"Ah! I believe I've found one. Not traditional, quite remarkable looking, actually. What are your thoughts?"

Alistair groaned. For a genius Sherlock barely understood himself. Alistair rolled his eyes and approached his friend, laying a hand on his shoulder as he leant in to look.

After three days, they told him he couldn't be in the room overnight. Time for a plan. Scrubs were easy to come by and a fake ID was obtained courtesy of his "friends" at the conspiracy theory chatroom. Once he insinuated that they were engineering super soldiers at Mount Sinai hospital using gorilla DNA they couldn't send it quick enough. He made himself scarce and changed back into normal clothes as morning approached. The kind nurse who he'd met on the night he arrived turned a blind eye to him asleep in scrubs and unbeknownst to Sherlock mentioned to the other nurses that he was an old doctor friend of Joan's. The man was odd she thought, but she'd never seen a fiancée more faithful. He had even put her ring back on her finger- how romantic.

He brought a couple of boxes of cold cases to keep him occupied during the day, laying files out on the floor or on Watson's bed. He talked to her about each case's particulars, watching Clyde crawl up Joan's leg. Once in a while he'd play with locks of her glossy black hair, assuring himself he was familiarising himself with the precise look and texture of Asian hair- no telling what might be useful in future cases. Of course, this was why he held her hand, studying her muted olive skin and slender fingers. Sometimes he played violin for her. Simply because, he told himself, his reading indicated that stimulation of any kind was good for the unconscious. In many cases, comatose patients remembered things said to them. It was unrelated to the dream he'd had. He was certain she would wake up presently; her wounds were healing at the normal rate. Still…he thought, she should have woken by now. He dismissed this and decided to paint her nails cherry red. She'd kill him. The thought made his eyes twinkle.

Next: It's easy for Sherlock to watch over a sleeping Joan. What happens when Joan wakes up? How will she feel about depending on Sherlock? ;) Thanks for reading, really apperciate it. Would love to hear you thoughts, drop me a line. It's food for my typin' fingers ;) x