At the end of February Mycroft came over to Baker Street with a matter of gravest national importance. The case posed an unforeseen challenge in its scale and complexity, so Sherlock couldn't feign disinterest convincingly for more than half a day. The matter concerned certain vital trade relations outside Europe as well as an eminent multi-national company along with its chairwoman and board.

The problem was known only to a handful of people in the government, but was imperative to the survival of the country, according to Mycroft. It involved people both in politics and business who were to be handled with kid gloves, but who mostly didn't know, and weren't to know, what the investigation was about (or that there was an investigation).

Courtesy never was Sherlock's forte, but this time he had to acknowledge that Mycroft was right, and did his best in keeping a civil tongue. It would not help getting to the truth, if Mycroft would have to spend his resources explaining why his brother went about harassing the high and mighty, when the whole thing needed to be kept under the lid.

The social demands were a further strain on Sherlock on an already demanding case. On some meetings he hardly spoke, whispering or writing his questions and comments to John and letting him mind the p's and q's. On occasions, when Sherlock's irritation was getting the better of him, John hurried them out as soon as he could – even if it meant going back a second time. These were people you could not cross, not even if you were the world's only consulting detective. The poor blighters who weren't, had to suffer twice as much impatient rudeness.

Sherlock laboured tirelessly, hardly sleeping and eating even less. When he wasn't out chasing clues at all hours, he was thinking, hands often in front of his face, immobile for hours. On many nights John left him to go to bed, and found him exactly as he had been in the morning. He said nothing, sometimes stroked Sherlock's back in passing or kissed his head. He could feel the tension under his fingers, Sherlock's mind and body restlessly pushing for results. But John also saw the breakthroughs, when another piece of the puzzle slipped in place, and Sherlock was full of energy and excitement, eyes shining. He knew Sherlock needed his work. As the spring drew on, he could only hope that the work wouldn't claim all of him.

It was evident that Sherlock didn't sleep for more than an hour or two on most nights, only occasionally allowing himself a full eight hours. More than once John woke up to the plane hitting the tarmac, not remembering whether they'd headed abroad yet again or just got back home. And Sherlock glimpsed him, fully alert, with a hint of disappointment in his eyes for John needing the sleep.

John was more worried about the eating, though. Digestion impeded thinking and week after week the case continued to demand Sherlock's full capabilities as new people had to be interviewed, more data piled up, and new clues had to be followed. The plane food obviously didn't invite anyone's appetite, so John tried to tempt Sherlock with Chinese, ordered in from the Thai place they had been meaning to try out, until finally attempting to get even a cup of tea in him. It was futile. He had to settle for popping a multi-vitamin into Sherlock's glass of water every now and then. Sherlock gave him long looks for that, but even Sherlock had to give in to some demands of his body.

By the end of May the case had really taken its toll on Sherlock. He had lost weight, his whole face grey from lack of sleep. He couldn't manage even the shortest conversation without agitation, snapping at the slightest excuse. John regularly stood outside their flat just breathing, calming himself down, for the first time seriously wondering how much verbal abuse he could take, almost longing for the army's basic training as a new recruit – how wonderful it had been being called a maggot. He might just have lost his temper had it not been so clear how strained Sherlock was.

However, at long last, the case was finally drawing to a close, a maze of suspects and witnesses having been navigated through successfully and tons of documents read to understand the connections. Sherlock headed out alone to hand in his results. John watched worried as a shadow of the man he loved got on a cab. There might be havoc in the cabinet, if anyone present wouldn't follow Sherlock's deductions immediately to a t. Hopefully men and women of that stature knew how to take an earful.

While waiting, John straightened out some piles of papers, tidied up the kitchen. He was wondering whether he'd dare to throw out the strange smelling excretion specimens that had been lying around the fridge for weeks now, when his phone rang.

" 'Tis Watson?"

"Yes?"

"I've got yer mate in me cab and 'e won't get off on 'is own."

John went to look out the window and saw a taxi on the kerb with the passenger door open, Sherlock trying to scramble out. He hurried down.

"I'm fine!" Sherlock insisted annoyed, but couldn't muster the strength to pull himself up from the backseat.

"Sure you are," John affirmed as he helped Sherlock out. "What do we owe you?" he asked the cabbie, but Sherlock had managed to pay. John put his arm around Sherlock's waist, letting Sherlock lean on him. He was bony and light despite being too heavy for his own feet to carry. John swallowed a sad sigh. He had done his best to ignore the worry over Sherlock's well-being while he worked, and now John's own work was obviously cut out for him.

John helped Sherlock to his bedroom, sat on the bed and undressed him, then put in pyjamas and tucked him in.

"John, really, I can manage," Sherlock grumbled as John lifted his feet under the duvet, but had to let John handle him anyway, not having the physical strength to carry out the words.

"Sure you can," John replied, kissing Sherlock's forehead.

"What next? Spoon-feeding me some chicken soup?" Sherlock's strained voice not quite accomplishing an ironic tone and his eyes betraying tenderness.

"That's the plan, luv."

John headed for the kitchen as Sherlock let out a wheeze, which supposedly was laughter. The man had been drained. John couldn't help being upset, even though he knew Sherlock needed this – to give his all on a case. The problem was it left you with nothing.

Sherlock was nodding off as John returned with a bowl of soup. Nourishment being as important as sleeping in regaining strength, John nudged him awake.

"Come on, Goldilocks, time for your porridge."

Sherlock's eyes sleepy, half-closed.

"Yes, doctor," Sherlock muttered grabbing the spoon. He had some pride left in him as he resolutely fed himself, even if John had to remind him to repeat the motion again and again. Finally he took the dish away to let Sherlock fall into a quiet, restoring sleep. Sherlock took his hand, squeezed it and murmured John's name before going out like a light.

Sherlock slept like dead, as if he hardly had the energy left even for that. Just to be sure John checked his pulse. It was there, faint, but steady. John stroked his face softly. My exhausted genius. He had never seen Sherlock so worn out. It usually took him a mere couple of hours between cases to get bored, but now he wouldn't simply have the strength to work for a while. Sherlock hadn't even objected to John confiscating his phone and laptop (and making sure he couldn't get to John's either). Mrs. Hudson was under the strictest instructions to let no one upstairs. The Queen would have to wait if need be. Sherlock needed to rest.

The next morning Sherlock was still too weak to get out of bed unassisted. After feeding him another bowl of soup, John sat by his bed watching as he dozed off again. The blog was getting quite a lot of anonymous comments congratulating Sherlock on his success – clearly the lid hadn't been on as well as it should have. Both their emails were also filling up with requests for help, but John had set up an auto-reply telling senders that they'd get back in a few weeks, if the issue was still relevant. He wasn't picking up their phones either, just screening the texts.

John had just sat down with the paper when he heard the front door followed by Mrs. Hudson's stern voice.

"Mr. Holmes, they are not to be disturbed!"

Mycroft's heavy steps headed for the stairs and John closed the bedroom door quickly before meeting them on the stairs.

"I'm sorry, John. He wouldn't listen," Mrs. Hudson apologized.

"It's alright, Mrs. Hudson."

She retreated, leaving John and Mycroft on the stairs.

John standing on the top step, Mycroft a few steps lower didn't leave Mycroft in any doubt that getting to his brother would be problematic.

"Doctor Watson," Mycroft attempted his pleasant smile.

"Mycroft." John wasn't warming up to it.

"I would like to speak with my brother."

"He's unavailable."

"John," he pleaded.

"Mycroft," John stared coldly at him.

Mycroft blinked first.

"Be reasonable. Just a few, small details still needing clarification..."

John didn't budge: "How interesting for you. Surely nothing to do with us?"

Mycroft huffed annoyed: "It would go faster, if Sherlock'd work them out."

John shook his head determined: "Sherlock has worked quite enough for a while."

"I'm sure he can decide that for himself. He hasn't needed a lover to make those decisions for him in the past," Mycroft sneered.

John felt violent. The callous bastard.

"It is my professional opinion as a doctor that your brother is overworked," he stated coolly. "He needs to rest. Any strain at this point would be detrimental to his health. I suggest that you finish your work on your own. You're a smart lad, I'm sure you can do it," John gibed. "As to my personal opinion as your brother's lover, I think it's best you leave, before you're made to leave."

Mycroft assessed his options. John being a few steps higher than Mycroft and using his sturdier frame to man the stairs, left him no choice but to turn down.

"Very well then. You take care of him. Goodbye."

"Bye." As if John needed prompting to care for Sherlock.

Sherlock managed a tired chuckle as John returned to the bedroom.

"You're finally starting to learn how to handle Mycroft."

"You heard then. Your brother can be an ass." John sat on the bed, took Sherlock's hand in his.

"He sure has that talent. I was hoping you'd punch him."

"Almost did – it would've been a relief to hit a Holmes," John smirked.

"I haven't been easy on you, have I?" Sherlock almost looked apologetic, not an emotion he showed too often.

John lay next to him on the bed, took him in his arms and enjoyed the feel of Sherlock relaxing in his embrace.

"Nah. But then I didn't sign up for easy," he said playing with Sherlock's hair. Sherlock sighed pleased.

"Any interesting cases on offer…?" he asked after a minute.

John laughed.

"Dream on. You won't be working for a while. Not 'til you have the strength to wreck the living room in boredom." Sherlock caressed John's arm.

"I could work from bed. You'd gather the info and I'd just process it…?" He was like a kid trying to get cookies. "I saw you reading something interesting on the blog…"

"No. Absolutely not. Negative." John leaned in and gave Sherlock a comforting kiss. "In fact… remember that mate of mine, Hayter, who's been asking me to visit him?"

"The colonel in Surrey?"

"That's the one. I thought we'd go over," John said and added: "He specifically welcomed you, too, the last time he mailed."

Sherlock looked agonised.

"A pompous old colonel, his nosy wife and a herd of unruly brats? No thanks. Just leave me with an interesting book and go. If you want to." There was the slightest trail of hurt in his voice. He would be upset if John were to leave him alone now.

"None of those. Never married, lives alone. You'd have all the privacy you want. We'd have all the privacy we want," he added stroking Sherlock's chest. "It's a big house and he spends his time studying military history and weaponry. He won't want us on his back all the time."

Sherlock still didn't look convinced.

"Come on – a spot of country air would do you good. You'd get some rest, no one would bother us with cases," John implored. "Walks in the park, long mornings in bed…" he said, nudging Sherlock gently.

Sherlock smiled at the thought.

"Alright. Country retreat it is then. But if the man is a rambler, I'll leave. I won't put up with any reminiscence about his heyday."