A/N: This story has: Major Character Death, Graphic Descriptions of Violence, light swearing, spoilers for The Princess Bride and is not season 4 compliant. I will update it as often as possible. This can also be found on AO3.

John had a bad feeling about this. He didn't say anything to Sherlock, of course. Sherlock would roll his eyes and mock John for being superstitious. But as the plane landed in a frozen Polish airport, bouncing in a jarring skip that had John's head slamming against the window John couldn't help but think it was a bad omen.

Sherlock navigated the snow covered city easily, occasionally inhaling too quickly and rasping out a hacking cough in response. John glared at him but swallowed his cigarette lecture. Sherlock looked drained and he had actually slept on the plane. John knew the case was dangerous and had something to do with his wife. Sherlock never told John specifics about his wife's past at John's request which seemed like an oversight that should have been corrected as soon as she disappeared. John had tried to forgive her and there his daughter to consider. But no matter the effort John put in to putting the past behind him John couldn't erase the memories of Sherlock's hospitalizations, the frequent gasps of pain Sherlock couldn't stifle no matter how hard he tried, the multiple pain medications Sherlock had hidden around the flat instead of swallowing. Sherlock said it was because he couldn't think clearly but John suspected Sherlock was actually fighting addiction. John knew Sherlock would have done a much better job hiding the pills if he'd wanted to stockpile them. The smoking didn't bother John too much, considering the alternatives. It was that Sherlock had pneumonia three times while he was recovering and the smoking made it hard for John to tell if he needed to be worried about a cough or not.

But, it wasn't John's place to worry anymore. Mycroft had told John to look after his brother but Sherlock wouldn't allow coddling before everything happened. Sherlock had made it clear John was no longer welcome to do anything outside what a doctor would during checkups and the occasional cup of tea. Sherlock wouldn't eat the food John prepared during his convalescence, going so far as to throw it against the wall in a memorable fit of piqué. John felt like a true flatmate when he saw leftover takeaway cartons in the fridge with Sherlock's name on them in Sharpie. Everything John had bought at the shops was labelled with "John" in Sherlock's scrawl. After Christmas they weren't allowed to communicate. When Sherlock had reached for John's gun John had figured Sherlock was going to stash it so the authorities wouldn't arrest him. When Sherlock turned back saying, "Give my love to Mary." John nearly went into shock. The entire time John was hiding at 221B he was hoping Sherlock would give him a sign, any sign, that they could go back to the way things were before. John allowed himself to be pulled from Sherlock's side and returned to Mary's keeping. Mary had written the whole thing off as Sherlock miscalculating. But, John remembered Sherlock's question as they were walking to the helicopter, "Did you bring your gun, as I suggested?"

That thought had stuck with John, nagged at him.

Before he managed to figure out why there had been an awkward encounter on a tamarack. John watched the plane take off with the words, "Since it's unlikely we'll ever meet again..." twisting his gut like a dagger. John assumed Sherlock would gallivant off, having a grand adventure for a half year then abandon John to live out his days in a boring life of normalcy in the suburbs. Then the overdose and Moriarty took the forefront of his thoughts. Mary was concerned about Moriarty and Sherlock assured her he was dead. But Mary was jumpy, anxious and made John keep all the blinds closed and John realized just how little he knew his wife. When he asked Mary if she had a replacement gun he could use her response was a resounding no, delivered with a blank look and calculating eyes. John knew then that Mary had been manipulating him. That Mary had offered suggestions for Sherlock's behaviour that cast Sherlock in negative light but were believable. That Sherlock had been angry and distant during the months of healing because John wasn't; because John had allowed the thought of forgiving his wife purchase, considering it and deciding to follow through after several awkward conversations. Of course Sherlock would refuse to engage in John's discussions about Sherlock's feelings. Why would he bother to take part when John was only considering Sherlock as an option other than his wife? The more convenient option only if Sherlock had sexual desire for him.

God, he was an arse.

Sherlock hacked a deep fluid filled cough into his elbow, turning his head away from John and wincing with a sniffle when he was done. John studied his friend, noticing that Sherlock's nose wasn't red from cold, but irritation. That Sherlock's sharp eyes were dim, the whites turning grey and Sherlock was blinking more often than normal.

"Oh, god, you're sick, aren't you?!" John growled at his friend accusingly.

Sherlock's cheek twitched as he clenched his jaw. "Yes, John." He admitted when he realized lying was useless. "I occasionally get the flu during the winter months. Although I do contract it less often than other people." Sherlock sneered. "There's nothing to worry about, doctor."

Anger and guilt warred within John. Anger because Sherlock was taking stupid risks for a woman John wouldn't ever forgive. He didn't even know her name! The only reason John was so panicked was because when Mary disappeared the baby did too. John may hate his wife but his daughter had no crimes and didn't deserve the punishments Mary had earned. And there was no doubt that Mary had earned them, she was associated with Moriarty and there were things on that flashdrive Mary was happy he didn't know. Sherlock knew them though and the anger flared when John thought about all the things Sherlock kept from him. The anger died as the guilt won out. Sherlock was just following John's instructions. John had never informed Sherlock he'd changed his mind about forgiving Mary and although Sherlock was observant, he was no mind reader. He observed John reaching out to him in a panic saying Mary was missing. How would Sherlock know that John only cared about the baby his wife refused to let him help name? Another pulse of anger doused when John's guilt about calling Sherlock a machine, the late night talks John ham-fistedly tried to talk about Sherlock's urges, chickening out of admitting his own feelings by covering it with medical concern when Sherlock asked him why he cared. John remembered watching his friend pull further and further away after that, succumbing to pneumonia before John was allowed near him with a stethoscope. And even then John had to listen with the barrier of Sherlock's clothing. Sherlock wouldn't even let him check his wound, it had mostly healed and the antibiotics would take care of any unlikely infections that arose.

John bit his cheek, trying to come up with words to salvage the situation. John knew this may be their only chance to find Mary and/or the baby alive. Sherlock had tried to make John stay behind but Mycroft had put his foot down, informing John that it was probably a trap and if Sherlock was going John would have to watch his back. He also sent some agents to gather information and watch them from afar. The cab stopped and Sherlock opened the door, a cold gust of wind replacing his friend's body heat. John swallowed back bile, his sudden nausea a result of a feeling of impending doom rather than a sign that he was falling ill.

The sound of the boot closing shook John from his reverie and Sherlock started arguing with the cabbie in Polish. John got out of the cab to intervene but a magpie landed nearby with a squawk and the cabbie said something, took the money Sherlock offered and left. Sherlock entered a staring contest with the bird. It was unsettling and John tried to break the tension by picking up the bags. The bird flapped its wings in a threat and Sherlock muttered the same phrase the cab driver said before stalking off to the hotel. John blinked, cocking his head at the bird that was staring at him expectedly. Sherlock coughed again and John lugged the bags past the bird, feeling as if he failed some sort of test as he followed the fluttering Belstaff.

When John entered the lobby Sherlock was stalking up the stairs. John started walking to the girl behind the desk, figuring Sherlock couldn't have finished checking in already. Sherlock corrected him by calling, "Come on, John. We don't have time for you to try flirt with someone who doesn't speak English."

The girl called the statement into question by giggling and John glared at Sherlock's shoe, the only part John could still see, but followed nonetheless.

By the time John made it up the stairs he was panting. Sherlock was on one of the single beds, hands under his chin with a laptop John had never seen open on his abdomen. John considered interrupting Sherlock's thoughts, Sherlock was probably only in the pose so they wouldn't have to talk anyway, but he didn't know what he wanted to say.

Sherlock coughed again, trying to hide the sound of the fluid but his transport rebelled and Sherlock was forced to hack up the mucus or choke. John sighed, grabbing the bin and spare roll of toilet paper from the bathroom and setting them next to Sherlock. John knew from the glare he received Sherlock wouldn't welcome any other caretaking effort from John so he didn't bother to go back for a cup of water. John sat on the edge of the other bed instead, trying to be subtle as he checked the colour of the sputum and wanting to be available if Sherlock vomited. He didn't, though it was a close thing. John wanted to check for a fever he knew was present if the pink tinge to Sherlock's cheeks was any indicator but the icy stare Sherlock levelled at him as he binned some of the toilet paper turned tissue pinned John in place.

"I understand you're a doctor, John. But I was unaware your practice was so boring that a common cold was riveting." The scathing tone Sherlock normally used to utter such insults was dulled by way of stuffy sinuses making him seem more miserable than angry. Sherlock dabbed at his leaking nose and glared at John's pity. He sneered, "If you're just going to sit there you might as well make yourself useful. There's some Paracetamol in my bag and a cup for water in the bathroom."

John got up to do as bid and only let himself smile when his back was to Sherlock. He retrieved the medicine first, finding an unopened bottle of antibiotics and non-drowsy cough syrup too. John left the others be and waited for the honking sound of Sherlock trying to force the blockage out to stop before returning with the water. Sherlock swallowed double the recommended dose, waving away John's objection and finished the glass, holding it out for John to refill. John took it, hearing Sherlock shuffling around and waiting for Sherlock to settle before returning. Sherlock was fighting with the bottle of antibiotics and John traded the bottle for the glass, frowning at how weak Sherlock was that he couldn't open the safety seal himself. "When was the last time you ate?" John asked, keeping the now open bottle out of reach.

"John." Sherlock growled, warning John of both his irritation at being mollycoddled and the normal irritation that comes with feeling sick amplified Sherlock's general temperament.

It's not that Sherlock had never been sick before, it happened quite frequently. But not as often as John felt it should considering his friend's eating habits, sleeping habits, occasional drug habit (smoking or otherwise), stress levels, job hazards and the biohazard that was their -no- Sherlock's kitchen. "You know you can't take these on an empty stomach, Sherlock." John argued. John decided to skip over the fact that there was no prescription and Sherlock probably hadn't seen a doctor, just acquired the penicillin from god knows where since Sherlock was trying to take care of himself. John felt relief and realized, with some horror, that a part of him wasn't planning on being around Sherlock to take care of him after they found Mary.

John looked at Sherlock and Sherlock shrugged, plucking the pill bottle from his hand before pocketing it. "I'll come back with something edible then." Sherlock muttered.

The door clicked closed and John wanted to turn and follow, but he felt rooted to the spot. He couldn't go back to the house with Mary and the baby. John couldn't leave the baby to Mary either though, it wasn't right and it sure as hell wasn't safe. The latter was true with John too though so he didn't hold it against her too much. John had no idea what to do, it wasn't as if he could be mad at Mary for being kidnapped; John was kidnapped so frequently it was a running gag at the yard. John knew what he wanted to do; he'd like to take the baby back to 221B where she'd have John, Sherlock and Mycroft's protection. But Sherlock would have to move his experiments and John wasn't sure he was welcome at Baker Street anymore anyway. And with a baby too? Mrs. Hudson wouldn't mind the crying but Sherlock? John had no idea if Sherlock could handle a newborn or toddler. Sherlock frequently surprised him he'd been wonderful with Archie even if it was a bit not good to show children pictures of dead people. Archie was a unique child and grown enough to understand. If John's daughter's first word was murder John would be livid.

John rubbed his face in frustration. He decided there was only one thing he could do until Sherlock returned: get Mary out of the picture, for good. John pulled his mobile from his pocket and dialled Mycroft.

If Mycroft had any thoughts on John's request he kept them to himself. Mycroft's only condition was that a DNA test be done on the baby before John was awarded sole custody. John snorted at Mycroft's flimsy explanation that it would make legal issues disappear but didn't argue. It wasn't that he doubted the excuse was true, John was sure it was, John was just as sure Mycroft doubted John's paternity.

"She needs to be gone for good, Mycroft." John insisted. Mycroft muttered platitudes but John needed to make sure. He hadn't forgotten Moriarty, released when it was convenient to wreak havoc on Sherlock's life. "I don't think you understand." Mycroft scoffed but John knew Sherlock never told him in a bid to protect John and keep his ridiculous vow. "Mary was the shooter, Mycroft. I won't have another Moriarty." There was silence following this statement. "I want your assurance she won't come back."

"Of course, John." Mycroft agreed.

Sherlock returned with food but John wasn't hungry. He wasn't sure he'd ever be hungry again. Sherlock also had information but John couldn't take in anything he was saying. John was sure Sherlock noticed something was different, wrong, but Sherlock didn't bring it up and John wasn't able to. John wanted to talk about other things, the least of which his living situation when he returned to London with his daughter but John found that all of his limited emotional strength had been used up by the request. The room felt heavy and Sherlock's staring was turning from curious stares to depressed glances. John knew Sherlock was coming to the wrong conclusions, how could he not? John shifted through all his thoughts for something related, a clue that he could give his friend without breaking. Mary and he hadn't yet decided on a name...

"What's your mum's name?"

Sherlock was startled by the question and put his food aside while he considered why John would ask. His face went blank and John didn't know if Sherlock understood, even his voice was flat as he answered, "Mary."

John choked, sputtering noodles across the bedspread. Sherlock got up, smacked his back a few times, his hits ineffective, feeble and weak.

"Her middle name was Liealia." Sherlock offered when John could breathe again.

"God!" John muttered after trying his hand at saying the name.

Sherlock smiled at John's butchering of the French name. John purposely mispronounced it worse and worse before finally rhyming it with mésallia in an awkward phrase then bemoaning the fate of his daughter. Sherlock barked a laugh at the sheer ridiculousness of John's performance then frowned in apparent horror at himself. John giggled and Sherlock relaxed, chuckling with him until the tension left the room. John finished the food, complimenting Sherlock on his find now that he could taste it. John thought Sherlock blushed but it could have been the fever and John decided to push his luck.

"I missed..." Once again John chickened out replacing you with "this."

"Me too, John." Sherlock responded and before John could figure out if Sherlock was saying this or you or both Sherlock continued, "You'll want to clean the mess, this room has pests but they've tried to hide it." John's eyes widened in horror when he realized he hadn't checked for bedbugs. "No, only cockroaches. You can relax, John."

Later, when John was crawling under the covers Sherlock muttered, "Good night, John."

"'Night, Sherlock." John responded automatically.

"Don't let the bedbugs bite."

John started. "You said there weren't any." When John didn't get a response he pressed. Normally he was all for a joke but he hated the blood sucking pests with a passion one only gets when mild allergies and fear collide. "Sherlock?" Again, the man was silent. John sat up. "Seriously, Sherlock. You know if they get me I swell and itch for weeks."

"It's all in your head, John. The bites are only itchy for so long because you scratch and dwell." John could hear the smile in his voice.

"How would you-" John remembered falling asleep at the table one day and waking up covered in what he thought were mosquito bites. "Oh my god, you did an experiment, didn't you?"

"I tested several varieties. Although your bites did swell a little more than mine the ones you didn't scratch disappeared at the same rate. The species didn't matter although it was trickier to convince the Cimex pipistrelli to bite us properly."

John started scratching his legs, imagining the bugs crawling around in his pyjamas. His irritation at Sherlock experimenting on him pale in comparison to the fear of being stuck on a plane, or god forbid a stake out, covered in itchy bites.

"Relax, John. The only pest in here is me."

"What about the roaches?" John retorted, mostly to be difficult.

Sherlock huffed a laugh. "They won't bother us with all the delicious food we left in the bin in the bathroom as a temptation."

John relaxed, feeling safer and happier than he had since before Moriarty's trial. "You're a cock." He drifted into a hazy half-consciousness, hearing Sherlock mumble something about temptation that settled in his dreams as Sherlock experimenting with different ways to convince cockroaches to bite them. John woke up halfway through the dream when his bed dipped. He tried to swat Mary back to her side.

"The only outlet is there."

John mumbled at her to stop being a pest.

"I may be a cock but I'm not a roach, John." Sherlock laughed and John's dreams took a very pleasant twist.

End A/N:

One is for Sorrow,
Two is for Joy,
Three for a Girl,
Four for a Boy,
Five for Silver,
Six for Gold,
Seven for a Secret Never to be Told.
Eight a Wish,
Nine a Kiss,
Ten is a Bird you Must Not Miss