You Do It To Yourself (Elementary SxW)

[Semisweet]

This fanfiction is based on episode 9, season 1 of Elementary. I know we all were excited when we saw that Sherlock was ill; however, I think we can take it up a notch from the original content of the episode and make it more appealing. It has been ages, and I mean ages, since I last wrote so please bear with me if my grammar is incorrect or something seems off…not to mention my ability to get into artificial characters. I just had this urge and needed to fulfill it.

 

I tentatively followed the episode but used some creative freedom with the path of events. I'm all for Sherlock and Joan though so don't mind me. 

 

Enjoy friends!

 

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In the shadows of a bare room, sat a businessman with wrists bound behind a weak wooden chair. Tears were pouring from his eyes as he focused on the front of a black 45. The masked possessor of the weapon faltered not an inch while he pointed it directly at the left eye of the man. “P-Please,” the businessman whispered, “I..I..”

 

BANG.

 

The gun fired and the room went dark. 

 

*

 

The gentle sound of the rain pattered against the window. It was a dreary day in the city with an unpleasant windchill factor. Winter was slowly creeping up on Fall, setting in on every nook and cranny possible of every household. It was even more prominent in the walls of the Brownstone. The building was in dire need of renovation but there were hardly any funds to proceed with such a task, regardless of the leaky ceiling and drafty rooms. It was enough to condemn one if they were not careful with the nastiest of colds. Of course, there had been a recent victim of this season but it hadn’t been the doctor, who had arranged a system of immune-boosting rituals to protect herself from the bravest of germs. 

 

The silent air broke by the whistle of a tea kettle in the kitchen followed by the soft padding of feet from the other room. In marched the dark-haired companion, Joan Watson, bundled in a warm beige cardigan and carrying a fresh box of tissues in one hand. She paused at the sight of her friend--no--coworker--no..erm. Well, that relationship was still fumbling around definition. She didn’t know what she was to Sherlock. Nor he to her. There were always boundaries broken, yet, some barely ever to be touched. The woman heaved a sigh of concern as she placed the box of tissues on the table before the detective consultant, who looked like he was about to keel over at any minute. The usually spunky Brit was huddled beneath a blanket staring somberly at the floor, cursing his ill fate in silence. 

 

“How are you feeling?” the woman asked as she extended her hand to press the back of it against his forehead, “Jeez, you’re still burning up,” Sherlock grunted and peered his bloodshot eyes at the woman. “Yes well…” he began only pausing to clear his throat, “My fever may have dropped a degree.” Joan rolled her eyes and hurried her way over to the whistling kettle. “That still means you’re running a fever of 101, Sherlock,” Joan took the kettle off the stove and began dispersing the hot water between two mugs, “I think you need to go back to bed. If it climbs any higher I might want to take you to the hospital….How did you get so sick?”

 

Sherlock leaned back into the kitchen chair and slumped his shoulders. It had been raining for nearly a fortnight due to climate change, the tail end of a Floridian hurricane, and just a change of season. And he, the wondrous Sherlock Holmes, had been spending the past few days trudging in mud, looking to solve the case of a former murdered child. They had found only some of her bones in one part of the woods and the dogs failed to be proven useful to find the rest. He, of course, took it upon himself to act almost like a Baskerville Hound and sniff out the remaining remnants of the poor child. The man was successful but his success came at a price. 

 

As his lips parted to even begin to explain, he froze feeling his sinuses start to play games with him. An itchy sensation began to rise quite quickly in the back of his nose. He sniffed a few times in an attempt to quell the pestering ich, but he was so congested it seemed to only aggravate the feeling. He attempted to clear his throat to find some sort of relief but found his breath begin to hitch. “Sherlock?” Joan’s voice shattered his attempt to control the inevitable - and he, of all things, hated to lose control. “H-heh…,” he made a quick snatch of the tissues, causing Joan to pause before she approached with the tea. The man grabbed as many tissues as he could, in that moment from the box, shoved them in his face, and let out a few forceful and painful sneezes, “H.. H-Haaushhh! Heshhu!”

 

Joan bit her lip as she watched the usually extraordinary energetic maniac, doubled over in a chair looking miserable. She quickly moved over to the table once he seemed to settle and proceeded to blow his nose with a few wet coughs to follow. Her deduction at that moment was a respiratory infection, but, who was she to tell him? Once she sat the mugs down, she casually reached for the blanket that fell onto the floor during his episode and redraped it around his shaking shoulders. “Sherlock..,” she kindly whispered, “You really are in bad shape.”

 

“...Tell me something I am not aware of, Watson,” he spoke with a voice embowed with congestion. It was almost difficult to define his words with his cold and accent combined. As if there needed to be icing on the cake, Sherlock’s phone went off with the recipient of a text message. Joan attempted to alter the path of his hand by shoving a warm mug of tea into his clutches. “Drink,” she firmly stated, “That can wait.” 

 

“Ah, yes,” he scoffed, even though he was quite grateful to clutch onto the hot mug, “Let me tell NYPD that they cannot collect any dead bodies today.” The man took a large mug sip, wincing as the hot liquid moved down his throat. At that point, he wasn’t sure what didn’t ache. “If you go outside and die from exposure, I will not be collecting any checks here on out from your father,” Joan coyly spat at him as she propped up against the table and took a ginger sip of the tea in her hands. She had learned that, over time, sometimes she had to be as verbally vicious as he. 

“Nmm..quite r-right..,” Sherlock had aimed to grab the phone but the rapid oncoming sneeze diverted his attention back to the tissues, “..b-bloody hell...hh-heh..hheh...” The signs began of the oncoming sneeze. Yet, as aggressive as the feeling started, the sensation seemed to toy with his emotions. His breath hitched, eyes sealed tight, his chest fluttering - and then froze as if time stopped. He didn’t want to move. He knew it was there. He could feel the burning and pulsing in his sinuses until finally, he let out a loud, violent set of sneezes.  “..Hehhh--ashuu! H..heh-heshu!..” The man had his face submerged into a wad of now quite wet Kleenex. Joan observed with wide eyes at this dramatic display. 

 

“Bless you..” she began but he shook his head rapidly, signaling to her that he wasn’t finished. He took a bare minute to lift his head, just enough for Joan to see how red his eyes and nose were becoming. His breath hitched a few more times as he hovered over the tissues in waiting for the finale. “..Ah-hhe..a..haashuu!” The force, once again had him doubled over in the chair. 

 

The former doctor bit her lip in sympathy as she watched the whole escapade. Sherlock slumped back into the chair nearly out of breath. He pushed the mound of used tissues aside and reached for a few more in hopes of blowing out something - but the congestion wouldn’t budge. In addition to the redness in his eyes and rawness creeping onto his nose, his cheeks had a tinge of flush. This, to him, was absolutely embarrassing. He rarely caught a chill this rough and of course she, of all people, had to witness it. In attempts to try to reassemble whatever pride he had left, he cleared his throat and attempted to straighten his posture. 

 

“I think you need a doctor..” Joan calmly stated, breaking the silence. She gingerly sat her tea down and moved to stand behind him on the chair. She never knew or thought to expect from him - he was always abundantly full of spontaneous eruptions when he approved or disapproved of something. “..Aren’t you one?” he croaked sarcastically. His voice slowly started to obtain a hoarse characteristic. She took a deep breath and rested her hands on his tense shoulders which seemed to even further tighten once he felt her pressure. “I’m only trying to help…,” she whispered, partially with the intention of a doctor and partially with the intention of something else, perhaps, “Relax.” She began to gently knead his aching muscles and attempt to release the tension in his neck glands in hopes of bringing some sort of relief to her ailing friend. 

 

At first, Sherlock didn’t know how to react to her touch. Yes, he had been accustomed to other women touching his body but Joan wasn’t like his traditional sex playmates. He never saw her in that light for a reason: he respected her too much. After a minute of her massaging his shoulders and relieving the pressure in his neck, the man finally gave into her touch and slowly began to melt. He felt too miserable to really make an effort to resist, and if he needed an excuse for his permission for her actions, he simply would chalk it up to his illness. Sherlock soon found his head resting against her arm as she continued, yet, his hand wandered over to the telephone that sat mere inches from their position. 

 

Joan seemed to become lost in her thoughts about how this insane and absurd man could actually be one of a kind and caring nature. 

 

“Body found with both eyes shot in an alley. Would like your perspective. Are you available?”

 

Sherlock’s congested voice shattered Joan’s meandering concentration as he read the messages off of the phone. “Sounds like we have a case, Watson,” he said and shrugged off her hands as he stood. Joan’s face went from one of peace and tranquility to one of rage, “Are you kidding me?! You are running a fever, Sherlock! You can’t breathe. You are going to catch pneumonia.”

 

So much for thinking that he was not as absurd as she thought. He was definitely a lunatic.

 

Sherlock dismissed her words of objection with a simple wave of his hand. “I can manage. You just have to come with me to make sure I don’t suffer a more grave fate. If I stay here, I might end up dying from boredom,” he stated trailing off with a few coughs, “Don’t worry. I shall dress in layers to ensure I sweat out the ailment. Though, a respiratory infection is usually best treated with a regiment of antibiotics.”

 

Joan couldn’t speak and just stood there with her arms crossed against her chest. She was angry. She was upset. She was in complete and utter disbelief. And as fate would support her judgment of his ill-ridden state, the man had paused in the archway of the kitchen to the living room in an attempt to fight off another fit of sneezes. He, of course, failed miserably. Sherlock had buried his face into the crook of his elbow, attempting to muffle the fit. “H..hh-hetchmp! Hashmp! H-heh-h…hesshumpft!”

 

Joan clicked her tongue in disapproval but she knew she couldn’t stop him. With a sigh, she snatched his arm just as he seemed to recover from his sneeze daze and guided him towards the stairs. “If we go, then you dress according to how I say,” she snapped and nearly pushed the thirty-something-year-old man up the stairs almost like a grounded teenager. 

 

 

 

[Mysecretlifee]

That was good!! It made me go watch the episode in question, which I also liked so thank you lol 

I love your writing style! It's so complete somehow, you leave out no details and I love that