As I mentioned, some of these Fragile ficlets will be more hard-core than others. This is one that's mostly fluff. Also, if anyone had an idea for something they want to see, don't hesitate to let me know. I have five more Fragile stories queued up, but I'd love to write even more!

John awoke one morning feeling like utter crap: headache, stuffy nose, sore throat, the whole shebang. While most people's first instinct would be to blearily stumble off in search of medication, John instead started packing. Being sick was no fun for anybody, but things would get infinitely worse if Sherlock caught whatever bug had infected John. He might be miserable, but a seemingly benign flu could have the immunocompromised Sherlock on death's door in a matter of days.

This wasn't the first time John had gotten sick and evacuated the flat. He hated to leave Sherlock all alone, but there were very few other options. Previously, when this type of situation arose, Sherlock offered to go stay with Mycroft and leave John in the flat to convalesce. John refused to let him, knowing how much he despised his elder brother's company. Besides, it wasn't his fault he couldn't safely be around the ill, so John felt he shouldn't be the one to suffer for it.

He always kept a small suitcase with bare necessities, an old habit from his military days, so packing up didn't take very long. He trudged downstairs, trying not to exhale too deeply. As he passed through the living room, Sherlock's familiar voice groaned, "John, why'd you have to go and get sick?" Of course the sight of John with a suitcase immediately clued Sherlock in as to what was going on.

"Sherlock, I didn't exactly try to get sick. These things just sort of happen," he replied, making sure to keep as much distance between them as possible without being so far that he'd have to shout. His throat could barely handle speaking at a normal volume in his current state.

"Do you have to leave? Things get so boring when you're gone."

"Yes, I'm leaving. I will not run the risk of getting you sick too."

At this, Sherlock just grunted and flopped over sideways in his chair. John took this as an indication that the conversation was over, so he decided to just leave. He could always attempt to keep Sherlock entertained over Skype or text.

~0~

Sherlock hated it when John got sick. It didn't happen too often, but it made up for frequency with the utter misery it caused. John's absence in the flat was like a gaping wound, and Sherlock found himself aimlessly puttering about and waiting for him to come home. Plus, it plagued him with guilt to be the reason John was essentially evicted from his own home whenever he caught a cold. He should spend his sick days comfortably tucked into his own bed with Sherlock bringing him hot tea or soup when he requested it, not running for the hills.

The first time this happened, John instead waited it out in his bedroom. Sherlock, whose people skills had been steadily improving since he met the doctor, thought it would be the right thing to do to go upstairs to check on him and ask if he needed anything. That's what John always did when Sherlock was under the weather—which was nowadays all too often. He listened at the door for a few moments before slowly entering and offering his services. His brain was thrown for a loop when, instead of gratitude, John replied with boiling rage. He threw a shoe, and then shouted hoarsely until Sherlock scrambled out of the room, hopelessly confused. What had he done wrong?

Sherlock had returned to the living room in his puzzlement, only to find his phone buzzing with a text from John. Obviously he felt the need to explain himself. His text read: "The whole reason I'm holed up in here is to avoid getting you sick. Don't come in here until I'm healthy again and I've had a chance to sanitize everything."

Since that incident, John always left the house when he caught a cold or virus, much to Sherlock's dismay. He wished he could be helpful, but he was nothing more than a nuisance. No matter how many times John reiterated that he didn't mind, or that it wasn't Sherlock's fault, he still felt horribly guilty. The fact of the matter was that if it weren't for Sherlock, John could stay home. There was no arguing that.

Almost as if he knew what Sherlock was thinking in that exact moment, John texted Sherlock from wherever he was currently staying: "Stop blaming yourself. I'd rather spend a few days away from Baker Street than spend ages feeling guilty because you caught some bug from me."

Sherlock read this text several times over, but he still didn't feel any better about the situation. But the subsequent text brought him to absolute despondency: "You have chemo tomorrow, and I'd better not find out that you skipped it." At this, Sherlock audibly moaned. He'd thought there was nothing worse than being left alone and bored for several days, but now he'd get to enjoy a lovely dose of poison to top it all off. Isn't life great?

~0~

John sent him no fewer than ten reminder texts throughout the next morning. Sherlock only replied to the last one in hopes it would shut John up. He should have been resting, not worrying about whether Sherlock would follow through with his appointment. "Fine. Get some rest," Sherlock's brief text read. Hopefully, John would finally leave him alone. As much as he didn't want to go—especially not without John to keep him company—he didn't want to suffer his friend's wrath.

When it was time, he reluctantly made his way to the all-too-familiar hospital and checked himself in. The woman at the desk obviously recognized him, and appeared puzzled at the absence of John. Sherlock tried not to make it too obvious how out-of-place he felt without his companion. He sat down as far away from the other people as possible and fidgeted nervously with his fingers. He always hated coming here, but it was made far worse by the fact that John wasn't here to buffer his anxiety.

Nervousness bubbled up inside of him like the nausea he knew would soon follow, and it only worsened when he was taken back into the room where the treatment would be administered. He hadn't felt this on edge since the onset of the leukaemia, tendrils of panic creeping up on him like the rising tide.

He crawled closer and closer to losing it as he was forcefully prodded in search of a vein. He despised being touched, especially when he wasn't fully prepared. His peripheral veins weren't the easiest to access because of his earlier… habits, so it always took nurses an agonizingly long time to get a needle in. At this point, John usually distracted him, but today he had nothing more than his own thoughts, which only dizzied him further. His breathing picked up speed and he clenched his eyes shut to quell the rising uneasiness. All his efforts were to no avail, and he found himself in the clutched of a full-blown panic attack.

"Mr. Holmes? Are you alright?" the nurse working on him noticed his predicament. Sherlock couldn't respond verbally, he busied himself instead with trying to maintain consciousness. He gritted his teeth and breathed deeply through his nose. He focused his thoughts on John, and how disappointed he'd be if he found out that Sherlock couldn't handle something so simple by himself. By some miracle, he managed to calm himself down enough to regain functionality.

"Are you okay?" the nurse asked again. Sherlock nodded tightly. "Should I continue?" Another curt nod. He kept his eyes firmly shut until the IV was safely inserted and tried not to focus on how much he wanted—no, needed—John here. He knew Dr. Harrison would be here soon with the actual medication, so he decided to take a brief trip to his mind palace to avoid interaction with her. She wouldn't care that he was obviously zoned out; she'd probably still hook up the drugs even if he was sitting here dead as a doornail.

He lost track of time as he continued to reorganize things from the storm that had racked the mind palace so long ago. He visited occasionally to continue the process of neatening up, but much work still remained. By the time he came back out of it, a fourth of the medication had already drained into his bloodstream. He could sense the first hints of the side effects wreaking havoc on his body, and wished desperately for a distraction. Usually, he talked to John and deduced the other patients, but the former was not an option and the latter wasn't nearly as enjoyable without the doctor there to marvel at his deductive skills.

He was on the verge of giving in to despair when the door opened and a man Sherlock didn't recognize entered the room. He thought he knew all the regular staff here, so this must be a new person, and he generally didn't like new people. The man continued to hold the door open behind him, and Sherlock was confused for a moment. There didn't appear to be anyone following him into the room. But then Sherlock adjusted his gaze slightly downward and saw the legion of therapy dogs that had trailed him inside. His heart inexplicably soared at the mere sight of them. Not many people knew this, but Sherlock had a soft spot for canines. For the first time since he'd set foot in this awful place, he didn't feel entirely depressed.

A few more people filtered in after the dogs, and they dispersed throughout the room to offer the patients company. Sherlock was approached by a man with a russet-brown spaniel. The little dog's coloring reminded him of his favorite breed: the Irish setter, and he read a fierce intelligence and compassion in the dog's eyes. The man introduced himself and whatever program he represented, but Sherlock wasn't really listening until he asked if Sherlock wanted the dog to sit with him. He looked at the man with barely-concealed enthusiasm and nodded earnestly.

At the man's signal, the dog leapt up gracefully and curled up next to Sherlock, resting her head gently on his lap. Normally, he despised close contact, but the spaniel possessed both a literal and metaphorical warmth that brought a smile to Sherlock's face. He stroked the dog's long, silky ears with his free hand and she let out a contented nose-sigh.

"What's her name?" Sherlock asked the man, without taking his eyes off his new canine acquaintance.

"Frenzy," he replied. "It's a bit of a misnomer, since she's easily one of the calmest pups you'll ever meet." This elicited a small chuckle from Sherlock. Frenzy perked up at the sound of her name, but relaxed again when she realized nothing was expected of her. Being a dog would be such a wonderful life, Sherlock thought. No responsibility beyond being adorable and letting people stroke you.

With Frenzy around, Sherlock could almost forget the discomfort that always came with chemo. This rush of endorphins erased everything but the pure innocence of petting a dog. Many dogs he'd met in the past were obsessive and needy in their desire for attention, but Frenzy understood that her purpose was to simply exist and provide comfort. Possibly the best part was that when Frenzy saw Sherlock, she didn't see his bald head and massive scar or his missing fingers; first and foremost, she saw someone she could keep company and put at ease.

The handler came and went, checking on other dogs with other patients, but Frenzy stayed with Sherlock for the duration of his treatment. He invited her to sit entirely on his lap instead of beside him, and she gladly obliged. About an hour in, John texted to make sure Sherlock had actually gone to the appointment and to ask if everything was going okay. Sherlock pondered for a few moments before deciding to have a little fun and send a cryptic response. He snapped a photo of Frenzy curled up in his lap, ensuring the angle obscured the words 'therapy dog' on her vest, and sent it to John.

"Sherlock, what the hell? Whose dog is that? Where are you?" John's text read.

"Will explain later," Sherlock typed. He sent that reply and huffed amusedly. Frenzy's handler saw him receive and send those texts, and Sherlock felt he owed him some sort of an explanation. Normally, he'd avoid talking to people at all costs, but Frenzy's presence put him so at ease that he surprised himself with his own geniality.

"My friend usually comes here with me," Sherlock explained. "But he has a terrible cold right now and is determined to avoid me."

"That's probably smart of him. Nobody wants to spread a cold," the handler replied.

"No, but he's also my flatmate, and it seems rather unfair that he takes it upon himself to stay elsewhere whenever he's unwell."

"I'm sure he's just trying to keep you safe, mate." Sherlock sighed resignedly and accepted that the handler was probably right. He couldn't be the only cancer patient whose family and friends shoved their own needs aside to take care of him. And he truly didn't want to get sick again—that never ended well. Frankly, it was touching that John was willing to go to such lengths to preserve Sherlock's health. His loyalty was commendable.

When the dose had finally finished, Sherlock was (almost) reluctant to go. He didn't want to leave Frenzy, and he knew he'd be returning to an empty house. But the dog had other patients to see, and Sherlock knew from experience that his stomach would begin to rebel very soon. He wanted to be at home for the inevitable aftermath. So he gave Frenzy one last pat on the head and left the hospital.

The flat still felt despairingly empty without John. Sherlock plopped down on the sofa and idly picked at the dressing from the IV site. He expected to feel sick, but boredom bothered him much more forcibly than nausea or malaise. He also missed the feeling of soft fur beneath his fingertips. He stood up again and fetched his laptop from the kitchen table to Skype John. Fortunately, germs could not be transmitted through wireless communication. It took a while for John to answer; Sherlock hoped he hadn't woken him from a much-needed nap. When John's face finally popped up on the screen, Sherlock was relieved to observe he didn't look nearly as awful as yesterday.

"Let me guess, you're bored," John stated with a chuckle. "You haven't burned down the flat for some experiment, have you?"

"I've done nothing of the sort," Sherlock retorted. "I only did as you asked, since you wouldn't stop nagging me about it."

"Really? I should go away more often, if it gets you to listen to me."

"Absolutely not. All I've got to talk to is the skull, and he's a horrible alternative to an actual person."

"So wonderful to know you prefer my company to that of your own twin," John teased. Sherlock let out an amused snort at his reference to that inside joke. A while ago, John had taken the skull from their mantle and painted it to match the heart shape permanently etched on Sherlock's head. He'd presented it to Sherlock and christened it his twin, claiming it looked more like him than Mycroft ever would. Neither of them had stopped laughing for hours afterwards. Every time Sherlock looked at the skull, he couldn't help but chortle amusedly.

"The skull doesn't listen like you do. He just sits there." Sherlock saw this as a perfect lead-in to his next point: "We should get a dog. A dog would be a better listener when you're away."

"Wait a minute. That picture you sent… did you go and bring a dog into our flat without asking me? You told me you did nothing more than go to chemo." John's tone was somewhat accusing, and Sherlock almost wished he had brought a dog home just to see the look on his face.

"No. I wouldn't make such a big decision without you. I'm not that impulsive."

"Then whose dog was it?"

"She's a therapy dog. They brought a bunch of them to the hospital today, and she sat with me for most of the treatment. Her name's Frenzy," Sherlock explained.

"That sounds great. I'm happy to hear you had some company. I must apologize, this was rather inconvenient timing for me to catch a cold." His statement was punctuated with a violent sneeze.

"She was wonderful," Sherlock sighed, fondly remembering the way Frenzy had eased his anxiety.

"How do you feel now?"

"Surprisingly okay. I haven't thrown up even once."

"Maybe there's something to be said for the medicinal properties of dogs."

"You look like you could use some canine healing right about now," Sherlock commented. "I could find a stray and bring it over, let it works its magic."

"No thank you. I think I'm already on the tail end of this thing." John was proven wrong with another massive sneeze that made even Sherlock reflexively cover his mouth and nose.

"Sure about that?"

"Not so much. But I am sure that we're not getting a dog. All Mrs. Hudson needs is one more reason to throw us out."

Sherlock harrumphed and crossed his arms over his chest grumpily. When John was adamant about something, there was no plausible way to change his mind. The best Sherlock could hope for was to schedule his remaining chemotherapy doses on therapy dog days. He'd have to remember to look into that and remind John. He said goodbye and let John hang up to go get himself tea. He hoped that John's illness would be over soon so he could return home, but he knew John wouldn't dare come back until he'd allowed ample time for the window of contagion to close. It could easily be another three days, or even more, before Sherlock's solitary confinement ended. He was certainly not looking forward to that, but maybe he could use the time to beef up his argument for why they should get a dog.

This story is dedicated to my dog Nilla, who sat here and let me pet her the whole time I was writing this. She's not a therapy dog, but she sure is cute :)