Author's note:

I don't own Elementary, or I would have stolen Joan's wardrobe.

Credit for forensiphile on tumblr for the prompt, hope you all enjoy!

Chapter 1: Are You Alright

The case was over. It was supposed to be a great feeling, but as they walked back to the Brownstone Joan was feeling more exhausted than she had in sometime. Sherlock was chipper, practically bouncing as they walked from the subway, and she was lagging behind. He was almost eight paces ahead of her when he finally noticed, stopping and turning to look at her with a contemplative expression. Great, that's just what she needed. Instead of getting to go home and rest he was going to spend his whole time trying to decipher her. She forced herself to walk faster, even as her legs gave her pain in return.

"It occurs Watson, that you do not seem to be in high spirits." His eyes were fully on her now.

She had stepped past him, but he stayed still, following her with his eyes. It was nearing first light, it was past midnight before they got that damn confession, and he was just going to stand there. Stand there in the November cold, and make her stop and wait for him to finish his deductions!

"I'm just tired." She said it automatically, though she knew it would be no use.

"Are you sure you're alright, Watson?" His tone surprised her, and she turned to face him. No accusation of staying up watching the Mets game, no gibe about her menstrual cycle, no smirking face and arrogant air. Instead, he stood there, eyes raw and face showing poignant concern.

She gave him her best smile, before responding "I promise, I'm just tired." He didn't seem convinced. His hands were tense, curling into fists then releasing to repeat the action a second later. Finally he gave a nod, and they continued to the Brownstone.

Once inside she couldn't get upstairs fast enough, she quickly shot a goodnight to Sherlock before taking to the stairs. Her legs were aching now, and she pulled her heels off before she even made it to her room. Her fingers caught the light switch on her way in, and she had never been so happy to see her bed before. She almost forgot to close her door she was so concentrated on that lovely mattress, yet when she turned to close it she stopped. Sherlock was standing in the doorway, the same concentrated frown on his face.

"Sherlock?" He was staring at her with an intensity she was unused to, his eyes flicking from her feet to her head rapidly. He didn't answer right away, the nervous energy too much as he kept an almost avian like degree of concentration on her. It wasn't until she was almost directly in front of him that he finally came out of his deducing stare.

"Watson, I -" He paused there, a strange hesitance in his tone, and the nervous energy coursing through him once again. "Are you quite sure you are alright?"

His expression is the same one he wore on the sidewalk, raw and concerned. She knows she shouldn't be cross with him, but that minor twinge of irritation hits before she can hide it and he picks up on it. He always picks up on it. "I'm sorry, I am keeping you awake. Forgive the intrusion."

The sudden air of formality is stranger than his stares and concern, "Sherlock?" Her voice stops him, sure as if she had barred his path. He turns, his eyes suddenly unsure and avoiding her. She smiles, attempting to calm his fears. "Mind putting my coat up?"

He smiles, and helps her out of the large thigh length wool coat that was a prerequisite for New York autumn. He nods to her, but still his frown has not faded. He leaves and she closes the door, she knows if there is something further he wants to say he'll simply let himself in here and tell her.

The next morning she regrets everything. Agreeing to take on the case, agreeing to be Sherlock's companion, going to med school, being born. Her headache is astronomical, her sinuses are screaming, her throat is burning, and everything hurts. She rolls to one side, realizing she is stiff from laying in one spot almost the entire night, only to realize the sun is glaring through the window. Her headache blooms into white and black spots behind eyelids before she quickly turns back the other way. She groans incoherently as she tries to block out the light.

"Watson!" She knows he is shouting from downstairs, but it feels as if he was right next to her. Her head throbs as she pulls an arm over her eyes, trying to blot out the sound. Then she hears the thunder that is his feet on the stairs and opts instead to blot out both sound and light with a pillow.

"Watson," her door thrusts open, and she can feel his steps into the room. He heads straight for the closet, but she can't bring herself to turn to him, her headache is too strong. "I just got a call from Captain Gregson, and there is a new case he wishes our assistance with. I know you usually prefer a day between cases, but - Watson?"

She groans again and tries to hide further beneath her blankets. She feels the bed groan and she groans in response, he is sitting on the edge of her bed now. She doesn't know when she curled up into a tiny ball, or when she thrust her head beneath her blankets, but she's thankful for the quiet and lack of light. "What is the matter, Watson?"

That damned concerned tone again, she rolls onto her back so he can at least see her. She knows her nose is probably red, and her skin pale. She is sure she looks better than she feels. " I think I caught something." She replies lamely.

"That much is obvious." His lips are pursed, eyes concentrated on her face once more. "I shall let the Captain know the NYPD shall have to solve this crime solo." He stands up with a force that makes the bed shake, and she sits up to try and watch his movement.

"No, it's ok. You go without me." Her voice is scratchier than she remembers, and the pain in her throat is more noticeable. "I'll just rest up for the day. No reason for you to be stuck home too."

He goes tense for a moment, his hands flicking with nervous energy. Then all is still once more, "I really must insist I remain here."

The act of sitting up is too much, she lies back down. "You'll be bored."

A death sentence for Holmes, and she expects him to take the bait. She is surprised when instead he stays where he is, and she can feel that intense gaze on her again. "I shall call Gregson. Then we'll see if we can get something for that headache." He strides from the room, leaving no room for argument. Joan can't wrap her head around what just happened, the work always comes first. She finds herself too tired to argue, and let's her eyes close.

She awakes some time later and finds the room dark, she rolls over and sees that several pieces of cloth have been hung up over the several windows in her room. The sunlight still comes through but it's only enough to make out shapes. She rolls slightly, groaning with the effort.

"You're awake, good." Sherlock is sitting in the chair, though it's been moved closer to where the bed. "I was worried I'd have to wake you." He leans forward, his hand reaching outward, palm up, toward her. "For your headache, it should also help with your sinuses."

She reaches out and their fingers brush as she searches his palm for the pill, it's small and she can't tell what it is. He tenses with the touch, but calms once more when her fingers capture the capsule. She worries for a moment that it's a opiate, but assures herself Sherlock knows better. "I have fresh tea downstairs. I'll bring some up. There is water on the bedside table."

When he leaves this time it's much quieter, she can barely hear him on the steps. The pill is quickly taken, and she realizes it's an over-the-counter cold medication. She feels relief, even if she shouldn't have questioned it.

He is back in moments, tea in hand. He offers it too her, but hovers even when she takes it. Her brow furrows, but a few sips of it are quick relief. Her throat eases, and she visibly relaxes. "Thanks, Sherlock."

"I am afraid I wasn't able to procure your favorite herbal remedy, but I'm having some brought over. For now this will have to do." His body is full of nervous energy as he moves back to the seat, and drags it closer to the bed. She can feel his foot tapping. It must be driving him crazy sitting like this while a case goes on without him.

She sets the tea aside, and sits up. He is up in an instant, moving pillows, attempting to make her comfortable. "Sherlock." He stops, his hands frozen, before he quickly sits back down. "You know, you could just call Ms. Hudson. I'm sure the case needs you."

"Oh, no. I already helped some while you rested, Gregson can take it from here." He is bouncing again, fidgeting. Even in the low light she can see him moving, his head looking away from her. He can't manage to still himself, and she wonders if it's because of the case or because of her.

"Really, Sherlock - you don't have to -"

"No." He cuts her off, and she finds herself gaping. "It is better if I'm here."

He stands and looks to her, but in the low light she has a hard time making out the expression on his face. "Your herbal tea will be here any moment, and some soup as well. Until then, rest." His voice is more commanding than she expected it to be, and then he strides from the room once more. His stern tone still leaving her in shock, just what had gotten into him? She falls back asleep before she can think too heavily on it, sleep is a sweet oblivion and she is not going to argue with it.

She wakes again, and there are voices downstairs. She can only hope he took her advice and called Ms. Hudson. He looked like he was ready to jump out of his own skin, probably with boredom. Her headache is beginning to return, and she finds herself reaching blindly around the side table. The sound must have been enough because the voices downstairs quiet.

Soon footsteps are taking the stairs, but again with much more care. Even the door is opened quietly, but even in the gloom she can tell it's Sherlock. "I hope we didn't wake you." His voice is gentle, compassionate, and far more apologetic than necessary. "I have your herbal remedy."

Now she knows something is up, he is hovering again. Her eyes narrow, and sets the hot tea to the side. Even in the dim light he must feel her gaze because he goes suddenly still.

"Sherlock." Her tone speaks volumes, "What are you doing?"

"Bringing you the tea that you are convinced will ease your symptoms." He says with an ease he doesn't feel.

"Convinced? I seem to remember it working just fine for you." The words make her throat burn, and she leans over to grab the tea. He is there again, offering the tea to her, her brow pinches in irritation.

"Consider this a second opinion." He eases the tea to her, and she grabs the material of his sweater to force him still. He tenses up, tight as a wire.

"You are a bad liar." He almost drops the tea with the sudden movement, but she releases and takes it from him before his shock can cause a mess.

"Whatever do you mean, Watson?" He straightens his sweater, not because it needs it but to ease the energy inside.

"You didn't work on the case," She sips the tea before setting it aside once more. He doesn't rush to help, he stays perfectly still. " And you're not here to see if my herbal remedy actually works."

" What am I here for, Watson?" His voice is wavering, she can't decipher what is under it. He seems to be shaking.

"I don't know." she confesses.

"Then I shall consider myself fortunate that your deductive skills still need honing." His lips crease to a tense line, and his entire body seems to tense on just as fine a line. He leaves on that note, softly closing her door behind him. For the next twenty minutes the voices downstairs continue. She couldn't hear enough to figure out who it was, but she was fairly sure it was female. By the time her tea is finished the voices have stopped all together.

A few hours later he bring her another pill, but doesn't linger. It's around an hour after that she hears the soft tones of a violin, and his playing finally let's her sleep.

She is awoken by a light in her face, and groans at it. She tries to roll, but finds she is being held still. Blurry vision can see a face, but can't truly make out the features. He is speaking, but she feels like she is underwater. Everything is muffled. The light is being shined in one eye, then the other, before disappearing.

It is a hand on her face that makes her realize what is happening, touching against cheek and then forehead. Large hands, she had never realized how thin his fingers were. She has a fever, those hands are like ice touching against her face. "Sherlock?"

He freezes, hand against her right cheek. He's sitting beside her on the bed once more, his face a few inches from her own. He is leaning over her, a small flashlight in his hand. It's hers, from her days in the ER, normally kept on her dresser now. His expression is grave, lips pulled downward in an obvious frown. He removes his hand slowly, sitting up to give her space.

"Forgive the impropriety, it would appear we do not have a thermometer." His voice shows how on edge he is, his form tense. He keeps still, but the energy is boiling over beneath it. He stands, stiffly, and moves over to the nearby dresser. "I must bring your fever down."

She can hear pills in their containers as he moves several and returns with a small assortment. Her head can't follow him, her body too weak from the fever. She reaches blindly when she hears him return, and he cups her hand with one hand, and lifts her shoulders with the other. Some part of her mind realizes this is the closest she and Sherlock has ever been, and the most they have ever been in physical contact. Another part of her is aware she is still in her pajamas, and that this is the most skin she has ever shown around Sherlock. The whole of her is too sick to be embarrassed.

He grabs the water with a now free hand, and she places his assortment of pills into her mouth. He lifts her head gently, cradling it as he brings the water to her lips. It takes a few swallows to get them down, but finally the process is over. He gently eases her back, and she had never realized before he could be so gentle. He was usually a flurry of motions, harsh and fast. This care is unexpected. He adjusts a pillow and then sits back fully. Still his eyes remain on her, and once again she cannot figure out that expression. It's not one she's ever seen before.

"Please rest, Watson. It will hasten your recovery." His voice is warm, and it carries a caring she's not sure she ever heard before. He sits up from the bed, and it feels colder for the lack of his presence, but perhaps that is just the fever. His fingers reach and slowly pull her comforter up over her shoulders. She is shivering, she hadn't even realized it.

Sherlock steps slowly away, but does not leave. Instead he circles around the bed to the chair, and sits down. There is a lamp near it, and in front of the light he is almost entirely a silhouette. She rolls toward him, and her mind begs her to say something. The fever prevents it, her normally sharp mind dulled through fever. The drowsiness of the pills is on setting, and she can feel it adding lethargy to her limbs. "Sherlock," she reaches a hand out from beneath the covers, and in an instant his large hands enfold her own.

"Do not worry." His voice is a whisper, so quiet she can barely hear it, "I shall always be here if you need anything." The comfort of those words, and the warmth of his hand, lulls her once more into a dreamless sleep.