Joanna woke organically, easily slipping from sleep to wakefulness. No alarm clock, or screeching violin this time round either.

She laid there for a moment, just relaxing. Listening to the sound of London from her window, the feel of the sheets against her skin, the vibrations of the flat from its occupants moving about…

…or lackthereof. She couldn't hear Sherlock.

Unconcerned, she rolled over to find the man himself perched beside the bed examining her.

"Sweet Jesu—" the rest of the expletives were drowned in a pillow.

When the doctor resurfaced she groaned at her flatmate, "If you're doing some kind of sleep study on me I will hurt you. Badly."

"That was an abysmal excuse for a threat," Sherlock chastised her, "You're typically more creative."

"Waking up to your voyeuristic flatmate tends to have that effect."

He sighed, "When I tried to wake you before—"

"You bloody well slammed in here bellowing like a banshee!" she growled, rubbing her eyes, "Last time I woke up to something like that I had to disarm a car bomb."

This gave Sherlock pause and he peered at her with interest, "You've disabled a car bomb? What compound was it composed of? C4? Semtex is more likely."

She chuckled a bit at her small victory, "I didn't actually. I just wanted to see the look on your face."

He sniffed in disdain. She smirked, "Yea, that's about right."

His curious eyes passed over her naked shoulders, "Do you often sleep nude?"

She refused to blush on principle alone, "Only when a certain genius decides to send out my entire wardrobe without consulting me first."

At this, he had the decency to look bothered, "You were busy, injured and had no time for such trivialities. I thought you would be pleased."

"And I am," she assured him, "But not when it means I haven't a stitch to wear the next day. You're lucky I don't have clinic duty."

"Very lucky indeed, we've got a case. Lestrade called. Nothing urgent or I'd have woken you earlier."

"With more bellowing or perhaps a Violin Concerto Torture no.2?"

He ignored her, refusing to rise to such blatant bait, "Just a missing persons he wanted me to take a look at."

"Bully for you then. Have fun!" she encouraged as she wrapped herself in the bedclothes.

"Jo, what are you doing?" he demanded.

"It's called a lie in. I'm entitled to one on my day off."

"You're already awake and we've got a case. Come along."

"What exactly do you expect me to wear?"

"You can have one of my shirts for all I care."

Then they'll be no stopping the rumors, she thought wryly. "Sherlock, I don't—"

"How's your injury?" He was distracting her, she knew it but the argument was useless anyway. Of course she was going.

She peeked beneath her covers before dropping them back into place. "Fine."

He gave her a pointed look. "Joanna, you can hardly expect me to believe—"

"It's fine Sherlock! Just—" but he was already striding out of her bedroom. Before she had the chance to properly sulk in indignation, he was back with her med kit in hand and a shirt draped over his arm.

He dropped the shirt over her desk chair and settled on the edge of her bed. "On your stomach."

"Sherlock. I don't need—"

He was growing impatient, "Jo, you know how I loathe repetition. We've already established that you are not flexible enough to change and treat the dressing on your own. On. Your. Stomach."

Joanna wondered vaguely if her inevitable surrender compromised her autonomy. Dear Therapist Ella would undoubtedly have a field day…then again, Ella doesn't share a flat with Sherlock Holmes.

When Jo was settled, Sherlock strategically folded the comforter so only her shoulder and part of her back was exposed to the winter chill of the flat. Spring was inching closer but they were still a long way off from the warmth it promised.

He gently pried the old bandage from her back, careful not to take any extra skin with it. He quickly swabbed the area with antiseptic (cold!) and applied a new bandage.

"I don't even think it will scar," he mentioned conversationally as he packed away the med kit.

"Small blessings. It would just be another for the collection," she joked gathering the covers around her so she could sit upright.

But when she caught the look on Sherlock's face the chuckle died in her throat. There wasn't a trace of amusement in his expression, deadly serious, but his eyes were far away.

"Sher—"

"You've earned your stripes Joanna. There's no need to collect any more."

She couldn't even begin to fathom how to respond to that, but Sherlock didn't seem to expect one. He gathered the medical kit and the scraps from the bandages.

"We need to be at the Yard within the hour. That gives you ten minutes before we have to be in a cab." He made his exit while she attempted to gather her scattered trains of thought.

What the hell just happened?

There really was no time to waste, she had very little opportunity to make herself presentable, let alone organize her thoughts about the events of the morning. So she did what had to be done: she ignored them.

Jo heaved herself out of bed and grabbed her dressing gown. Cinching the waist she scrambled down stairs, past the kitchen, sidestepping her perplexing flatmate, and flew down the seventeen steps to the ground floor of the building.

She hastily knocked on their landlady's door.

Mrs. Hudson answered the knock in all her twittering glory, "Hello, dearie! Goodness, where are your slippers?! You'll catch your death, come in come in."

With rushed greetings, Joanna got straight to the point, "Mrs. Hudson you wouldn't happen to have any trousers I might borrow?"

"Well, of course Joanna." Mrs. Hudson smiled, beckoning her to follow to the bedroom, "Take your pick."

"Sherlock decides to be helpful at the most inconvenient of times. He's commandeered my entire wardrobe for cleaning, but left me nothing to wear."

The landlady smiled, "Oh, such a dear. He does try, but it tends to backfire a bit." She opened the double doors of her wardrobe and gestured to the colorful contents with a sweep of her arm. "Help yourself, whatever you need." Mrs. Hudson had lovely and rather impeccable taste in clothes. It was a fortunate circumstance that would seem ridiculous in any other setting, but this was 221 Baker Street.

Joanna smiled graciously at the offer, "Actually, I think I'll do just that. Sherlock has generously donated a shirt to the cause but showing up at the Met like that?-I don't want to think about it."

Mrs. Hudson tittered with amusement, "Oh Joanna, that would simply be leaves in a wild fire. There's no stopping them."

Joanna grinned, and tapped her finger on the end of her landlady's nose, "You sound just like Sherlock."

"Certainly better than dressing like him. It could be worse. He might have offered you something useless like his trousers."

A deep voice sounded from Mrs. Hudson's sitting room, "I would never offer something so useless as my trousers," Sherlock argued by way of greeting. The pair looked up from their gossip just as the detective appeared in the bedroom doorway, "Jo is much too short for them to be of any use."

Joanna glowered, "Yes, well thanks for that you human beanpole."

"Now now," Mrs. Hudson soothed, moving forward to greet Sherlock, "None of that, you've got lots of bad people to catch. You find some clothes and you can be on your way."

Their landlady left the room then, mumbling something about tea and scones.

"Seven minutes Jo." Sherlock warned her as she riffled through the clothing. She made a noncommittal noise as he turned to leave when suddenly he swooped in, his features aghast, "NO! No, absolutely not."

He snatched a lavender blouse from her hands and tossed it unceremoniously over his shoulder, "I refuse to be seen in public with you wearing that. With your complexion you'll be washed out, they'll think I starve you and keep you up nights."

Joanna was not amused by the sudden onslaught of textiles taking flight over Mrs. Hudson's bedroom furniture, "You do starve me and keep me up nights. Sherlock!—Is that necessary? Just hang it back up. It's not your wardrobe!"

"Aha!" he crowed, pulling a rich, blue fitted jumper and a pair of brown (Joanna had to admit) lovely trousers from the rack. He pushed them into her hand.

"Only when we have a case," he replied, ignoring the rest of her lecture, "If you refuse to wear what I offer, I must (at the very least) make sure you are properly outfitted for the weather." He weaved his way back towards the door, careful of the scattered clothing, "Can't have you dressed like a primary schooler."

She threw an odd pair of socks at his retreating back, "Lay off my wardrobe you smarmy jerk! Not everyone has a trust fund for Hugo Boss!"

He popped his head back through the doorframe with a smile that can only be described as cheeky, "Spencer Hart actually."

She retorted with a flying shoe to his skull.