Disclaimer: I do not own anything.

Warnings: Genderswap.

Yawning languidly, Joan stretched her arms over her head.

With a satisfying pop and a slight twinge of her scarred shoulder, she scratched at her stomach and padded barefoot out of the bedroom, leaving behind warm sheets and any thoughts of coming back.

In the quiet of the night, she could hear the sporadic plucking of a violin and shook her head in fond annoyance. He was at it again.

She contemplated grabbing her guitar and joining him. She was aware that she'd be granted no sleep now, not when he was in this kind of mood.

The hallway of their apartment was dark, as was the kitchen. Joan walked knowingly through the shadows to grab a cup of water, strictly ignoring the table with its towers of case files and mishmash experiments.

Draining her cup with the enthusiasm of a dehydrated child, Joan set the cup down and willfully stomped the small distance towards the living room. Sherlock hated it if she made no noise, as she was so accustomed to doing.

The plucking of the violin stopped.

Joan stood in the doorway and peered into the sparsely lit room, her eyes slow to adjust to even the smallest of illumination. She blinked away tears and yawned again, her arms folding under her breasts as she gazed at the man sprawled on the couch.

His long legs hung lifelessly off of the side and a violin was hugged comfortably to his lean torso. His eyes stared balefully at the painted ceiling and his fingers moved in erratic patterns over the smooth wood of his instrument.

Joan spared a wry smiled at the picture he made, uncaringly lounging about in his pressed slacks and dress shirt.

The small flames of the candles atop the mantle made dancing shadows and she, in well practiced moves, stepped over the creaky boards lining the floor to where he lay.

Large rings of blue-black smeared under his eyes and the slanted sides his sharp nose. His mouth lay in a harsh, unforgiving line as he firmly kept his eyes to the ceiling.

Joan leaned over the couch and gently lay her hand over his where it skittered on the violin. He jerked and his bright eyes met hers in shocked inquiry. She smiled softly and slowly took the instrument out of his hands, carefully setting it on the footstool of the nearby chair. Turning back to him, she found him sitting up and looking at her questioningly.

Joan smiled as she urged him back down and slid between his slim legs. She was just tall enough to lay her head on his chest and she did so, comfortably positioning it so that none of the buttons would press into her face. He lay still beneath her and she closed her eyes, sleep the farthest thing from her mind.

He needed to talk, and she would listen and respond, but she could be comfortable when she did it.

Joan heard the steady beat of his heart as it pumped between his ribs and silently loved the way that his lean chest rose and fell under her cheek. Her arms curled around the sides of his stomach but stopped short of actually hugging him.

Sherlock's hand came up to her back and he picked back up the rhythm that she had denied him with his instrument. It comforted her in the odd way that he himself did; his fingers cool on her warm flesh.

She certainly had an odd husband.

Joan smiled at the thought.

Sherlock sighed loudly and brought his other hand up to tangle in her short hair. His limber fingers tugged and untangled customary knots as he worked. She endured it with long won grace. For such a brilliant man, he certainly had his peculiarities when it came to her.

They were without a case, and without work, well, Sherlock…wasn't himself. Not really anyway. She could deal with it, certainly, but that didn't mean that she didn't long for the other part of him; the part that tore into mysteries with sharp teeth and a mind like a steel trap. Joan rubbed her hands on the smooth leather of the couch and wondered when another atrocity would be committed so that Sherlock Holmes might live again.

Joan was a doctor, and she couldn't, with sound mind and body, ignore the way that they worked, her and her husband.

Joan Watson and Sherlock Holmes.

He would fight, he would deduct, and he would do anything to conquer.

And she, she would be there. She would mediate, she would reason, and she would be the one to patch him up when he failed.

Joan knew this, like she knew the back of her hand.

It would always be this way. It would always be the same. She would always be beside him. She would forever be Watson to his Holmes.

Snuggled there, with him, in the quiet of their flat and thoughts, she wondered at the fact that it didn't bother her at all.