A/N: Just something random I sketched up on Tumblr last night.

Blurring Into One Color

When he'd regained consciousness again, John had been pressing a damp cloth to his forehead. He was saying something, but Sherlock had no ability to process what ever it was. His eyes rolled back and forth and, for a moment, he expected to pass out again. For some reason he didn't.

"John.." He moaned. It was as if the ever so slight physical exertion of just voicing John's name, had completely drained his body of all energy in one go. Immediately, his vision began to blur and his lungs felt weak. He took in a few deep breaths while trying his damn hardest to make out John's response.

"'m ride here Shrluck" Was what he could make out. John was still there, good. That way, if Sherlock had begun to seize, or throw up blood, or die, John would be right there to save him. Of course, those symptoms were incredibly unlikely to occur with only a fever. But of course, this was no ordinary fever. This was a Sherlock fever.

Sherlock, despite his lack self care, hardly ever was ill. His immune system was top notch and only ever faltered on very rare occasions. However, when he did get sick, he got extremely sick. Fevers up to 106 Fahrenheit, yet his skin becomes so cold you would swear he was a dead man. His fevers would break after 2 or 3 days (and on one dreadful occasion, a week) but during those hours of pain, he would all but scare the pants off of John with every wet cough, dry heave, and drop of sweat.

John was a man of medicine. He knew how to take care of the average fever, but of course, Sherlock Holmes was anything but average. His sickness would terrify John. He supposed it was because he often saw Sherlock as some divine creature, racing through cross fires and reading peoples minds and all. So when it was proved to John that Sherlock was in fact mortal, it scared him. Yet, John had learned as a soldier, as a doctor, as simply being John Watson, that he were to never show fear even when faced with his personal phobia. That being, loosing Sherlock.

So he toughed out Sherlock's fevers and when they broke, he prayed thanks to whatever power helped save this man he loved so much.

John felt his hand being grabbed and held onto. It took him a moment to blink out of his fear before he noticed Sherlock was looking at him, holding his hand,was right there with him. And John let out a deep breath and traced Sherlock's palm with his thumb.

"Why do I let you do this to me?" He said.

Sherlock's eyelids were already falling closed again and he had to take a breath in between each word he spoke.

"You love me." He said, a lazy, dazed, probably very confused smile danced on his lips.

"Yeah, of all people, I had to become infatuated with you."

Sherlock grinned, then passed out again before John could say anything else.

John felt a pang of anxiety when Sherlock's eyes closed once more. He had a sudden urge to scream, to beg, to plead that he stay awake with him. He wanted to keep talking, keep knowing that he was there, as aggravating and sarcastic as ever. He wanted to bang on his chest and demand an audience, or a actor or just someone to either listen or be listened to.

Woah Watson, calm down. Deep breaths.

He watched the rise and fall of Sherlock's belly and chest and he listened to his breathing and he felt his pulse and, he kept reminding himself that these things meant that Sherlock was alive and awake and here.

It didn't feel like enough though. He wanted to fuse into this man, to absorb him, to become a part of him. John wanted to blend into Sherlock, like two colors would do. He imagined if him and Sherlock were colors, they would be yellow and black. John would become completely consumed by Sherlock. He'd be devoured, sucked in, taken with no trace of evidence to leave behind. And by god, he wanted it to happen.

When Sherlock woke up 15 minutes later, John called him a idiot and a git and 'for gods sake if you would just take care of your bloody body' and 'I fucking love you, you bastard' and 'stop scaring me like this' and 'you're the greatest thing I've ever known'. Sherlock would just squeeze his hand to indicate he heard it all and after John was done yelling and his tears were wiped up with his wrist and he'd quit cursing, Sherlock would mumble, almost inaudibly.

"'uv you too."

And then proceed to loose consciousness again and not remember any of the conversation when he woke up the next morning, with a broken fever, and John asleep by his side, still holding his hand. He'd turn over and envelop John in his arms and kiss him awake.