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On her first evening home after surgery, Joan startled awake from a light doze with the first twinge of pain from her abdominal incision.
She checked the time on her phone: almost nine PM. She was past due for her evening pain medication.
“Rose? Rose,” she called out, and waited for her reply.
Except it wasn’t Rose who answered her call; instead, Sherlock stood ramrod-straight in the open doorway less than a minute later.
“How may I be of assistance, Watson?”
“Is Rose still here?” Joan asked, surprised; she winced with the movement.
“Negative. She put Arthur to bed and left for the evening an hour ago,” Sherlock replied.
“Damn it,” Joan muttered, and drew a sharp breath. “I should have asked her to bring my evening dose before she went home.”
Sherlock hesitated a split second before stating, “That is quite all right, I shall gladly retrieve it for you.”
Joan’s eyes widened, and their gazes met. “I can’t ask you to do that,” she protested, “it violates what we agreed—”
She moved to climb out of bed and fetch it herself, but doubled over with a sudden stab of visceral pain through her abdomen.
Alarmed, Sherlock sprinted to her bedside and caught her before she collapsed.
“You are nearly prostrate with pain, Watson,” Sherlock said as he eased her back into bed. “I would wager that you have perhaps five minutes at most before it cascades beyond the capability of your medication to quell it.”
“I’m fine.”
“Poppycock. Your grimacing and gasps indicate otherwise. Wait here, I shall return presently.” Sherlock rocked back on his heels, turned, and strode quickly from the room before she could form a reply.
“Sherlock—” she called belatedly, but his footsteps were already echoing down the stairs.
She curled into a ball on her side, cursing herself for her careless mistake. Her pain medication was the one aspect of her post-surgical care at home for which they’d all agreed Sherlock would not be responsible during her recovery, given the potential risk.
She’d been confident going into surgery, that her decision to undergo a total hysterectomy, including ovaries and Fallopian tubes, to reduce the risk of recurrence of her breast cancer was the right choice. She simply hadn’t expected that the level of post-surgical pain would floor her like this.
He returned not ninety seconds later with an amber pill bottle and a tall glass of water. Joan gingerly sat up; he shook two small, round tablets into her palm, taking care not to touch them with his bare fingers. He handed her the glass then clasped his hands behind his back, observing as she swallowed them and drained half the glass.
Joan set the glass on her bedside table. With a frustrated sigh, she leaned back into her pillows to wait for the drugs to kick in. Sherlock perched on the edge of her mattress, but remained silent.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured after a few minutes of awkward quiet, as the tramadol began to take effect and the visceral pain subsided. “I shouldn’t have put you in that position.”
There was no reproach in his expression. “There is no need to apologize for your suffering,” he said softly. He placed his hand just out of her reach.
“But we discussed this. The temptation…” Joan began, then trailed off as she realized he already knew exactly how to access her locked medicine cabinet to bring it so quickly.
Sherlock’s mouth worked silently for a moment, then he looked up. “The undertow of my addiction will always be part of me no matter how much I wish it would disappear,” he said. “But I cannot let that interfere with what must be done. I will always and gladly endure any risk to assist you in your need, rather than watch you suffer pointlessly.”
Sherlock cleared his throat and looked away. Joan reached for and covered his hand.
“Thank you for getting the tramadol for me,” she said.
“My pleasure.” The corner of his mouth twitched upwards but the smile didn’t touch his eyes.
“I should only need it another day or two,” she added. “Ibuprofen and Tylenol will take care of the rest.”
“Understood.” Sherlock cleared his throat again. “Shall I leave you to your rest then?” he offered carefully.
Joan squeezed his hand, sensing the underlying worry in his solicitous words. “You know, I may be laid up right now, but I think I can manage an hour or two to work on our case tonight.”
“Yes, I would be delighted,” Sherlock said, sounding immediately relieved and grateful for the distraction. “If you will allow me to fetch the files from downstairs?”
“Of course,” Joan said, and released his hand. She watched him fondly as he exited a second time to bring the work upstairs.