Joan looked down at her watch, Sherlock had been resting in a cool bath for just over half an hour and she decided she should check on him. "Sherlock?" She gently rapped on the closed door. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine. It does not take a genius to sit in a tub of water nor does it require a supervisor."

"Just checking." Joan responded to his sarcasm with her usual calm tone.

Kitty was watching Joan with building interest with the manner in which Joan repeatedly treated Sherlock. "He trusts you."

Joan looked at Kitty with utter confusion. "Pardon?"

"Sherlock. He trusts you. I can only imagine the endeavor one must undertake to receive such a seldom experienced bond such as yours with him."

"Sherlock and I have been through alot together, he understands me and I understand him. Sometimes."

"Indeed. If one is to share custody of a turtle I presume a degree of trust and respect has been earned."

"Are you okay?" Joan was absolutely stunned by Kitty's response to the bone of friendship she shares with Sherlock.

"I'm fine. I'm just... Nothing. Never mind." Kitty crossed her arms over her chest defensively and walked away from Joan, returning to the first floor of the brownstone.

Joan still had difficulty getting a solid read on Kitty which made it hard to get through the walls that Kitty had put up. Leaning against the wall Joan slid down against the smooth surface until she was sitting on the hardwood floor. She pulled her knees up to her chest and buried her face in an attempt to rest her weary mind.

Sherlock was resting his head on a towel as he continued to rest in the cool water. He refused to admit how horrible he felt and how he longed for a medication strong enough to make him sleep for a year. His body ached, he was nauseous, the still clinging sweat made him feel unclean despite the bathwater, his head was beginning to hurt, his throat was becoming irritated and sore and the damnable cough would random act up and send a wave of pain through his aching chest.

He looked around the bathroom and tried to focus his eyes on the mirror above the sink but the combined headache and fever caused his vision to become blurry and at times, doubled. The uneven patterns of light and shifting objects caused his nausea to worsen. Closing his eyes tightly he straightened his body and continued to rest.

His mind was racing with memories of his time with Joan and how she had selflessly tended to his needs even when he denied needing help of any kind. How she had taken care of him when he had taken ill before and how she was willing to take care of his bullet wound after being shot by Moriarty.

Ah yes, Moriarty. Jamie Moriarty or Irene Adler, she was one in the same. A clever seductress who uses her brilliance and wiles to charm the world into caving for her demands. Yet, Joan could see Moriarty for the vile criminal she was, even without years of experience in reading criminals or befriending Moriarty. Why he still had feelings, whether it was love or anger, for the dangerous woman still confused him. He knew she was a master manipulator and would surely cease any and all opportunities to escape her imprisonment and resume her criminal activities. If she did ever escape she would far more dangerous as she would have taken note of his mistakes and take the property liberties to avoid repeating any error in her future schemes.

Her bewitching beauty, smile, talent and above all else, intellect drew Sherlock into her world like a moth to a flame. The more he tried to deny his feeling for Moriarty the stronger her mental grip became.

The memories gave way to dreams. Dreams that were both real and surreal. Sensations that were vivid and painful. He could see her eyes, Moriarty's eyes. The eyes of the Devil staring at him, staring into him. He could not look away.

"Sherlock?"

A voice. A familiar voice. The voice of a friend.

"Sherlock!"

A warm hand pressed again his cool, sweaty face.

"Sherlock, look at me."

'Watson.' Sherlock opened his eyes and struggled to focus on the face concerned face of his dear friend.

Joan had walked into the bathroom to check on Sherlock after he failed to respond to her knocking at the door for the second time. She saw him in a deep slumber and once again lost in the throes of a nightmare. Leaning over the tub Joan could see the distress he was enduring, even if it was only a dream.

"Watson?"

"Are you okay? It looked like you were having another nightmare."

"One tends to suffer mild hallucinations when one is enduring a fever. I assure you that I am okay."

"It looks like the ice bath helped. Your body is cooling down."

"Then I may exit this bone-chilling vessel?"

"Yeah." She handed him a towel before returning to the door. "You can get out. Then go to bed."

"It is not even-"

"Doesn't matter. You need to rest." She left the room once more to give Sherlock some privacy.

Slowly Sherlock pulled himself up and out of the tub. His skin was beginning to 'prune' from the prolonged exposure to the water and his legs were shaking from his body being weakened by his ongoing ailment. Wrapping the towel around his waist he looked at his sickly reflection in the mirror. "Perhaps bed rest would be most beneficial."

...to be continued...

Author's Note: Decided to focus more on Sherlock's P.O.V. this chapter. Thanks for all the reviews, I appreciate it! And yes, I'll keep the Joan-Kitty opposing personality dynamic ongoing. ;)