"You Will Be My Music *

By phaedraphelan

Summary: Sherlock has relapsed. What will happen to them now? Can Sherlock put the pieces of his life back together? What will Watson do as her personal life seems to crumble in front of her? This is my second take on Sherlock's relapse and efforts to recover based loosely on events now taking place.

Disclaimer: Elementary is the artistic property of CBS and no infringement is intended.

When all the songs are out of tune,

And all the rhymes ring so untrue;

When I don't find the words to say

The thoughts I long to bring to you.

When I hear lonely singers

Who are just as lost as me,

Making noise, not melody.

You will be my music; you will be my song.

You will be my music. I can't wait any longer if I'm wrong.

Wanting you is everything. . .

Frank Sinatra, Ol' Blue Eyes Is Back, 1973

Joan Watson sensed on a primeval level what had happened to her man when after calling him to tell him that Alfredo was safe, his phone went dead. There was a sinking feeling of dread that overwhelmed her at that moment.

"Marcus, will you come with me?" Joan asked when they pinged his last phone signal. "I feel that you will understand. Help me, Marcus."

"You know I will," Marcus said as they sat in the squad car, hearing the location where Sherlock likely was. "You love him, Joan, don't you?"

"Yes, I do." Joan's voice broke as she fell apart and rested her head upon Marcus' shoulder. "You are like a brother to me. You see us. You saw what has happened to us. It happened before we were even aware of it, Marcus."

"I saw you fall in love with him and I saw him fall in love with you. I ain't blind, girl."

"No matter what . . . I love him, Marcus. I can't walk away from Sherlock in this awful moment. He . . . he is my man, the only one who has ever made me feel everything . . . everything."

"Well, we'd better go and find your man, Watson. Whatever we find can be dealt with, believe me, hon," Marcus said, the affectionate expression coming easily from his lips as he saw this woman that he had come to deeply care for like a sister in such distress.

Joan stopped sobbing as Marcus pulled off and headed to the Bronx where they had last heard the ping of Sherlock's phone.

They found Oscar first at the entrance to the abandoned subway tunnel. He was unconscious, but alive. Marcus called for a bus to take him to hospital. They went on into the tunnel and were greeted by the fetid smell of death.

"Marcus!" Joan cried out, trembling in fear and trepidation at what they were going to find and her knees almost collapsed underneath her.

"Hey! Hey! Don't, Joan. Come on, girl!" Marcus warned her sternly not to jump to conclusions and then caught her arm just in time to support her and keep her legs from giving way under her.

They discovered the body of Olivia, obviously dead for more than a couple days.

"I'm terrified, Marcus," Joan whispered.

"Keep walking, girl. Just keep walking."

About fifty yards farther into the tunnel, they found Sherlock unconscious with the drug apparatus still in his arm. Joan somehow summoned the strength to pull herself together and immediately began to examine him and to try to revive him. His face was dirty. His trousers were undone and he was completely exposed, having obviously urinated on himself. He came to himself quite dazed, half out of the rest of his clothes, his shirt undone, looking at them as if they were strangers.

Joan gently cleaned his face and pulled his shirt back on him. She carefully pulled his pants together, closed them, feeling compelled to try to preserve what was left of his dignity. She then tenderly put his jacket around him as if he were her little boy.

"It doesn't matter. . . doesn't matter, Joan. Leave me with rest of the crap in here," Sherlock muttered.

"Man, you're comin' outa here now, damn it! We need to take you to hospital," Marcus said in no uncertain terms.

"No hospital . . . no . . ."

"I'll take care of him, Marcus. Just help me get him to the car."

Marcus helped him struggle to his feet and they walked him out. He staggered back to the squad car and Joan got into the back with him.

"Joan . . . Joan . . .sorry . . . so sorry," Sherlock began to sob, pathetic wretched sobs as Joan held him in her arms, rocking him, smoothing his hair, trying to calm him. "I'm no good . . . no good. Go and leave me be, Joan."

"Sherlock . . . baby, it's all right. I am taking you home now."

Marcus eyes filled, hearing Joan's gentle expressions of endearment as she tried to help the broken man she loved, who was sobbing like a little boy in her arms. He knew that he would give anything to have a woman love him as Watson loved Holmes at that moment.

When they got to the brownstone in Brooklyn, Marcus and Joan helped Sherlock up the stairs and into the house. Sherlock was so out of it that he was bobbing and weaving, hardly able to place one foot in front of the other.

"Please let's get him into the bathroom. I will clean him up for starters," Joan said. "Will you help me undress him, Marcus?"

Sherlock was drifting in and out of consciousness as they got him undressed and into the shower.

"I think that I can manage from here. Thank you, Marcus . . . more than you could possibly imagine."

Marcus smiled slightly and backed out of the bathroom, surprised at what an outstanding physical specimen of manliness the naked tattooed Sherlock was, even in his semiconscious state, something which was not evident in the tightly wound, buttoned up fellow he was accustomed to seeing routinely.

"I'll let myself out. You know to call us if you need help. I'm only a phone call away."

"Yes, Marcus. Thank you so much."

Joan stripped off her own clothes and got into the shower with Sherlock who was slumped into a corner with the warm water beating down on him. She soaped a cloth with his favorite sandalwood soap and scrubbed him all over, put shampoo on his hair and then stood herself briefly under the cleansing spray with him as the filth of his awful experience ran down the drain. Finally she wrapped a towel around Sherlock, led him into her bedroom because it was closest to the bathroom and dried him off as he sat numbly on the side of her bed. Then she went to find one of his polo shirts and a pair of sweatpants and pulled them on his naked body and covered him with her blanket.

The first twelve hours were a nightmare as the drug exacted its harsh price. Sherlock just lay on Joan's bed, talking out of his head, shaking and scratching his skin raw, sweating and freezing at the same time. Joan held him tightly, helping him ride out the chills that kept coming in rapid succession. He was as sick as a dog and nothing could be done to help him as he vomited repeatedly into the wastebasket that Joan had placed by the bed for his use. His body was already agonizing, craving the drug again and he paid the full price. When Joan sensed that he had finally and mercifully dropped off to sleep, she lay beside him and gave way herself to deep wracking sobs.

In one of his more lucid moments Sherlock heard her crying and his own eyes filled with tears as he lay beside her.

"Just leave me, Watson. I am just no damn good for you."

"I can't stop loving you, Sherlock. I can't stop my feelings for you . . . no matter what."

Sherlock wished more than anything to be able to tell her at that moment that he hated her, that he never wanted to see her again . . . anything to turn her away from him, to make her hate him, but he couldn't make the words come from his mouth. He loved her more than anyone else in the world and he knew that in his heart.

"Leave me be, Watson. I am a worthless piece of humanity. I will only cause you pain."

"Do you want to tell me what happened?"

"God! I . . . I . . . Joan, I couldn't help myself."

"Yes, you could. And you will do it. You had been clean for three years."

"What happened to me, Joan? Why wasn't I strong enough? What is wrong with me? How could I have been so . . . so incredibly stupid as to let Oscar set me up like that?"

Sherlock's voice broke and he began to sob again pitifully into Joan's bosom, instinctively feeling for the softness of her breasts with the tips of his fingers. Joan did not push him away but pulled up her top and held him close so that Sherlock's lips could find her breasts and he suckled and suckled as she stroked his forehead to soothe him.

"Oh, Sherlock, baby, my poor baby . . . my poor baby," Joan said over and over, weeping the whole time that she held him at her breast, her sadness and all of the compassion in her heart for him welling up over and over again.

Finally, after her breasts had comforted him as nothing else had been able to do, Joan covered him up again and went to make tea and toast for him.

"I'll go bring tea to settle your stomach, and a little dry toast."

Joan got up and went downstairs to make tea. She was still crying silently the whole time, feeling ill from the stress of the circumstances they found themselves in. When she came back upstairs with the tea, Sherlock had left her bed. She found him up on the roof sitting quietly in a far corner.

She handed him his tea and he took it without comment. He was deep in the throes of his disappointment with himself, unable to fully process himself why he had relapsed. In spite of everything, he hated himself the most for failing Watson. He could hardly look into her eyes now, and yet in his heart he remembered the comfort of Joan's breasts and he wanted and needed her with him more than anything.

Sherlock spent the next two days mostly on the roof or in his bed, hardly speaking. Joan brought him food which he did not eat, tea which he hardly tasted. The more he contemplated what had happened, the more he withdrew into a shell that was so tightly closed that it seemed impossible to penetrate it.

Joan got the call that his father was in town to check on him. She recognized him immediately when she opened the door to the more solid older version of Sherlock, Morland Holmes.

"My son, what happened to my son, Dr. Watson? He was doing so well."

Joan took him up to the roof to see Sherlock but Sherlock refused to talk with him.

"I will come back in a couple of days. He obviously isn't ready to see me now. I understand," Morland Holmes said as he quietly retreated.

He did return in two days, and this time Sherlock received him, but coldly, with no apparent emotion.

"Do to me what you want, father. I don't care what happens now. I just want Joan Watson taken care of and compensated."

Mr. Holmes came back to Joan at his wit's end.

"He is my only remaining son. He is the only one capable of giving me an heir. Wherever Mycroft is, his ability to produce an heir was severely compromised by the chemotherapy treatments he endured. I cannot bear to see Sherlock slip through my fingers like this. Will you help him, Dr. Watson? I will pay you handsomely."

"I will help him, sir, but not on a monetary basis. You see Sherlock and I have a . . . a personal relationship now."

"My son?"

"Yes, your son. We didn't choose it to happen, but it did happen, and I cannot do anything but stay by his side and help him through this. I care for him, I . . . love him that much."

Morland Holmes went back up to the roof and approached his son.

"This woman, Dr. Watson, Joan, is willing to help you recover. She appears to be a fine woman in every way. I must say also that she is uncommonly beautiful. She stated that you are involved beyond your work. Am I to understand that the two of you have a sexual relationship?"

"If you must know, she is my partner . . . in every way. We were having coitus regularly of late. Of course I am sure that she will reject any further liaison with me in view of my relapse. I am in no wise worth her company now."

"Sherlock, I would hope you would have left the profligacy of your life with whores and other loose women. I would strongly advise you to try to pull yourself together from this. You have three months, Sherlock. I will expect a positive report by then. Your . . . your Dr. Watson can make regular reports to my attention. There is no need that you or she may have that will not continue to be taken care of."

He turned to leave Sherlock but then stopped for a moment and turned back to face his son. "Dr. Watson is obviously a brilliant young woman. Treat her with all deference and respect. I would hope that she also has a forgiving spirit. It would be the worst mistake of your life to mistreat this woman, as apparently she is my only hope for progeny. I will remain in New York for the next few weeks to take care of other matters and see that you are truly on your way to recovery."

Sherlock did not answer his father, but continued to stare vacantly across the water into the sunset. His father reluctantly left the roof and went back down to take his leave from Joan.

"I bid you farewell for the moment. We will be in contact. And I am thankful that my son is in your hands."

Joan's eyes filled with tears at that moment and she broke down completely, bent over double sobbing. Sherlock's father reached out awkwardly to her to touch her shoulders, when faced with Joan's breakdown and Joan simply buried her face in the wool front of his coat till she could compose herself in the face of this man who had as much difficulty expressing his emotions as his son.

"Please do not give up on my son. I confess that have always loved him in a special way. His mother and I . . . we loved each other very much. But she was Mycroft's governess and I took advantage of the situation. She was not of the aristocracy, but she was brilliant and beautiful and my son Sherlock was my gift from her. I took him from her when he was but an infant and raised him, denying him the benefit of his mother's love and training. I see that that was wrong now, but it is too late to change the past. I see Sherlock and I see myself and I want him to succeed in his life."

"I will do all within my power to help Sherlock through this, sir. I love him as I never thought possible to love anyone. And for that reason I can't allow you to hurt him."

"I approve you, Dr. Watson, for my son. I just hope that you can help him out of this quagmire he finds himself in. Please fell free to call anytime to give me the status of matters. I will be at my hotel, The Chatwal, for the next several weeks and then back to London."

Holmes' father handed his card to Joan, tipped his hat to her and took his leave.

Joan went back up the stairs to the roof to Sherlock. She felt as if all her strength had drained from her, every bit of emotional energy. The stress of the previous week had taken a tremendous toll on her. She had nothing left whatsoever. Seeing Sherlock's father had brought together to her everything about Sherlock, everything that she loved and needed so about Sherlock in a moment. She felt as if she were on automatic pilot as she made tea and carried it up to the roof to Sherlock. He was still sitting in that same chair.

"Sherlock, try to drink some tea."

"Thank you, Watson. Please just put it down and leave me. I am not fit company for someone like you."

Joan began to tremble uncontrollably, the cup and saucer rattling in her hand as she placed it next to Sherlock and her eyes filled with tears.

"Please . . . I really need you to hold me, Sherlock. It all is coming down on me and I need you to be my Sherlock. I'm feeling so very bad right now. I feel like I have a case of PTSD. I need to know that you understand that I love you no matter what, that I will not ever give up on you."

Sherlock looked at her now, as if seeing her for the first time realizing how his actions had hurt her, reached out for her and drew her down onto his lap. That is when Joan fell apart completely, trembling and sobbing and shaking in his arms.

"You are not feeling well now and I am totally to blame. I'm such a total arse."

Sherlock put his hand on her hip and his hand slipped down to involuntarily squeeze her flank lightly. Touching her this way seemed to ignite all the feelings he harbored in his heart for her, but he felt so totally worthless that he made no further sensual gesture, but instead just shook his head as desire for her surged in the pit of his belly.

"I dare not impose myself on you after all the trouble I have caused you this week. I have been an insufferable bastard. And you are so strong, Joan."

"Sherlock, I love you . . . and I was so sick with worry. All my strength is gone now I think it's all just coming down on me. And I feel so weak inside now. I need you, Sherlock. I need you to help me be strong for you. I feel as if we are both so broken."

Sherlock kissed her tenderly on her cheek and forehead as she clung to him.

Joan continued to tremble in his arms, weeping, her emotions giving way to all the pain in her heart for her broken man as she clung to him. At that moment Sherlock sensed the depth of her need and, as his manly nature came completely to the fore, he finally began to try to express his feelings to her again. His body that had been dead, numb to any sensation for days suddenly came alive and he was powerfully aroused by her.

"Thank you for coming to find me . . . and for bringing me home . . . and for still being willing to be with me. Would you please take me to your bed and touch me the way that you do? Joan, I don't deserve to be with you, but I am desperately in need of intimacy with you at this moment."

Joan looked at Sherlock and realized that tears were rolling down his face as he held her and she continued to sob as well, trembling in his arms as they held on to each other for dear life. Finally Joan lifted her face to his and their lips met in a kiss that was salty with their mingled tears, at first tender and then became so passionate that it went on and on and on till Sherlock's hands began to search and urgently rub her thighs and hips.

"Sherlock, I think we need to go downstairs now."

Joan stood up from his lap and Sherlock got up and took her hand and led her back into the house and down the stairs to Joan's bedroom. They went into the room together and stood facing each other for a long moment.

"May I undress you, luv? Please, I need to undress you and . . . and touch you and feel your hands on me . . . and be with you," Sherlock said so softly that his voice was barely above a whisper, asking for permission to make love to her. "I would understand if you never wanted to see me again. Forgive me for falling so far short of the man I want to be for you. I have so disappointed you, but I need to be with you."

"You may undress me. You may do whatever you need to do to me, Sherlock. You have ruined me for anyone else but you. Do as you wish, baby. I cannot refuse you."

Sherlock shed his clothes and then piece by piece he took off Joan's clothing and hugged her tightly for what seemed like forever, letting the sensation of their bare flesh touching capture them both. Then he picked her up in his arms and laid her gently on the bed.

"I am sorry, Joan . . . so sorry that I wasn't strong enough. I wanted to be strong for you." Sherlock's voice broke into sobs again as his hands began to rove all over her body, caressing her breasts and then her belly with just his fingertips. "Please forgive me, luv, and give me the comfort of your flesh again. I need to know that you can still love me, that I am not worthless in your eyes. Just say it if you no longer want me and you know that I will not force myself on you. I will leave and you will never be troubled by my again. Tell me, Joan, please tell me I am not worthless in your eyes."

"No, Sherlock! No! You mean more to me than anyone I have ever known."

When Sherlock gently touched her thighs, Joan guided Sherlock's hand to caress her and they both gasped in ecstasy in that moment; Joan, because she wanted and needed him so badly; Sherlock, because he felt all of Joan's love surrounding him and permeating his very soul as he carefully arranged himself on top of her to take her.

"Joan . . . please allow me . . . your wretched Sherlock, your foolish wretched lover . . .your Sherlock needs you desperately."

"Yes! Yes, Sherlock," Joan whispered, "whatever you need, whatever you want, baby! I need you too, in the worst way."

They both gasped at that moment as their bodies joined. Then they began to shake helplessly, crying the whole time as their bodies merged and fused and began to undulate slowly in the rhythm of the ages. All the emotions that had assaulted them over the past days came to a peak in them and they groaned out in anguish as each of Sherlock's thrusts found its perfect mark deep inside Joan. Yes! Yes! Sherlock, yes! Oh, Sherlock, my baby!"

"Thank you, Joan. Thank you, my sweetheart," Sherlock groaned as they rocked together in perfect intercourse for the next several minutes. "Is this what you need, luv? I'm so sorry . . . so sorry. Forgive me . . . please."

"I forgive you, baby. I can't help loving you so. Ooh, Sherlock!"

Joan was coming close to climax, trembling helplessly in his embrace.

When Sherlock felt the amazing sensation of Joan's flesh in spasm, clasping and clinging to him inside her, he cried out in ecstasy.

"Dear God, what am I feeling is what I feel only with you! Joan! Joan!"

"Sherlock . . . It's you, all . . . all of you! And it's me . . . all of me!"

Suddenly Joan began to vibrate and shake out of control, digging her nails deep into Sherlock's flesh, her eyes rolling back into her head as the climax seized her.

"Joan, I love you!"

"Oh, Sherlock . . . baby. . . yes! Yes!"

"Oh, God help me! Please, woman, don't ever leave me!" Sherlock cried from the depths of his heart as he saw her so overcome.

"I can't! I can't leave you! Ooh, Sherlock!" Joan moaned and gasped as frissons of pleasure continued to surge through and through her in that supreme moment as she fluttered like a butterfly in his embrace. "I . . . I love you . . . so much, baby!"

"Please God . . . please! Oh, God! Help us through this, God!"

Sherlock snorted and grunted between sobs as his release came. But when he felt Joan's moment of capitulation once again and he knew that she was still the woman who loved him more than anyone or anything in the world, he broke down completely in pathetic wracking sobs upon her bosom as his spasms of release took him and his semen spilled into her in spurt after spurt.

They finally lay exhausted and incoherent together, whispering and murmuring words that neither had ever said even in their most passionate moments.

"Forgive me . . . please forgive me. I need you so badly. I can't make it . . . without you, Joanie. Ooh . . . Luv!"

"Sherlock . . . I cannot let you go . . . cannot let you go."

Finally they dropped off into exhausted sleep and it was morning when Joan was wakened by Sherlock kissing her on her shoulders and neck, his head next to hers on her pillow.

"Thank you, dearest Joan, for loving me last night."

"I hope that you are feeling better."

"I know that I feel better, luv, after your attending to me last night. Joan, are you . . . less stressed?"

"Yes, I . . . felt like I was going to lose my mind. I needed you so, so much. I needed you."

Sherlock smiled gently at Joan and reached to smooth her long hair from her face before he kissed her forehead.

"Do you think we could have some tea in a little while and then will you go to a meeting with me later on? I dare not miss a meeting now, Joan."

Joan lay silently beside Sherlock for a long while before she spoke again.

"I am glad to have met your father, Sherlock."

"He is not the warmest man you will ever meet by far."

"He loves you. You are his favorite son, despite what you may think. He told me so himself. He is quite handsome, Sherlock. He reminds me of you actually."

"He feels that I am his last hope for 'issue' perhaps."

"We have spoken on this recently. Do you want to be a father?"

"Do you want to be a mother?" Sherlock patted Joan on her flat belly. "I will give you whatever you desire. Would a child of your own give you a measure of happiness?"

"I do not want to be a mother without a husband. And you have always said that you don't believe in marriage."

"I would never impregnate you and leave you without the legal protection of my name. That is not something that I would ever do. As it is, all that I have will be yours when my death, albeit premature comes."

"This is a ridiculous conversation in view of what we have just been through."

"My father wants an grandchild, issue to carry forth the family name. He asked if we were involved. He probably sees you as his only real hope in that department."

"He as much as asked me the same thing . . . in a very polite way."

"If you ever want to do that, do not tell me. Just toss the birth control pills and we will let nature take its course."

Joan stared at Sherlock, trying to understand where they were going. The last week had been so turbulent and painful for both of them that to even discuss such mundane aspects of their domestic sexual life in this context seemed surreal. It seemed ridiculous to talk on this at this time. Instead Joan reached for him, drawing him on top of her to take her as his woman again.

Soon they were making love again, desperately, passionately with both of them crying and sobbing for joy as they realized that the powerful sexual bond that they had forged was still intact. Finally they lay quiet in bed and just held hands and caressed each other's cheeks as they stared into each other's eyes.

"I need to call Marcus and let him know that you . . .you are going to be okay."

Joan moved to get out of bed, but Sherlock caught her by her hand and drew her back into his arms.

"I am grateful to you for standing by me, Joan, through all of this. Please don't leave me now. I . . . I have such need of you. Just lie here with me for a while longer and let me breathe you in."

Sherlock's eyes were full and he looked very tired and pale with dark circles under his eyes, despite having slept several hours. The effects of his ordeal were still heavy upon him. The worst of the craving for drugs had subsided, but he was still weak and quite rattled, his confidence in himself badly shaken.

"You appear to be tired, Sherlock. Why don't you just stay in bed and I will bring you tea and toast in bed."

"Joan, you please stay close to me today. I don't want tea or toast. I just need you. I don't want to be alone. I feel such a lack of confidence in my sobriety right now."

"I will stay close by. You rest, baby."

"Please hold me to your lovely breasts and just let me suckle, Joan. I need the comfort of your udders so much . . . please."

Joan climbed back into bed with Sherlock, took him in her arms and held him to her breasts. Sherlock turned his attention to finding the solace he craved at Joan's breasts and quickly fell asleep, Joan kissing his face and smoothing his ruffled hair as he slept in her arms.