Title: Five times Sherlock was watched over/out for and one time he did the watching

Summary: Five times Sherlock was watched over or out for and one time he did the watching. Very gentle mentions of slash in here, preslash in one bit and established relationship in another.

Rating: T just to be save

Disclaimer: I don't own anything to do with 'Sherlock', all those rights belong to the epic Mr Moffat and Mr Gatiss (and the BBC of course)...maybe if I kidnap one of them they'll give me the rights? Hmm, planning may need to happen.

Author's Note: I don't even know where this came from...it just...appeared last night. I've always wanted to do these '5 times...1 time' stories but never had a decent idea. This is my first time including slash in it, I didn't intend it to be Sherlock/John it just sort of happened! I blame the boys. Anyway, I hope you enjoy reading this because I really enjoyed writing some of these little snippets.

One:

Sherlock stared at the tree intently; he was trying to decide the best way to climb it without falling and breaking his neck or other valuable bones. Mummy had told him that he should never try to climb it for the branches hung a couple of inches above his head, and whilst he'd given her his word that he wouldn't climb it, he'd had his fingers crossed behind his back. He wasn't a baby, he could look after himself.

With a determined air he reached up, grabbed hold of the closet branch and pulled on it. It didn't give way and he felt emboldened. The eight-year-old stuck his foot on the trunk, ensuring that he had a good grip on the branch with both hands now, and pulled himself up.

It didn't take him long to reach the middle, he allowed himself one glance down and immediately regretted it. This was, by no means, the tallest tree in their garden but it was still rather high up and he'd never been brilliant with heights. The boy swallowed, fixing his gaze on the next branch and continued to work his way up.

However, just as he pushed himself up his foot slipped and the next thing he knew he was falling. As he crashed down through the branches he couldn't help but think that Mummy had been right, he shouldn't have tried to climb this tree in the first place. What a way to die, he thought glumly.

Suddenly he heard someone call his name, then instead of hitting the floor he fell into someone's arms and tumbled with them onto the grass. He rolled away slightly, shaking his hair out of his eyes before glancing up, a slight sheepish grin crossing his lips.

Grey eyes met brown as he saw his brother, also lying on the grass and staring at him. He could sense the frustration almost radiating off Mycroft, and he tried to ingratiate himself by widening his grin.

"Honestly, Sherlock. What did Mummy say?" His brother couldn't resist the smile, whilst his tone held a slight note of anger his body relaxed and he pushed himself into a sitting position.

"It's just a tree, Mycroft." Sherlock followed suit, pulling his legs in front of him and sitting crossed legged. His eyes slowly drifting from his brother to the tree; a few of the branches were now broken and hanging limply down. He'd have to find a way to explain that to Daddy…

"Yes, and you nearly just broke your neck!"

"But I didn't." His grin was slipping off his face now, he didn't have time to deal with a lecture from Mycroft.

"Only because I managed to catch you." His brother was losing patience with the conversation as well, pushing himself to his feet as he gazed at his younger sibling. Sherlock remained, stubbornly, sat on the grass.

"How did you know I was up there?" He asked curiously, wondering why Mycroft had known exactly when to come running. A small part of him, the part that thought his brother to be some sort of god, had often wondered if he was omniscient and telepathic.

"I have to watch out for you, Sherlock. You know that." Sherlock rolled his eyes as Mycroft's back turned to him and his older brother turned away and began to walk towards the house. Now that was a ridiculously boring answer. Brushing himself off he stood and began to explore more of the garden wondering if there were any insects he could collect for his ant farm.

Two:

The hospital was quiet, the only sounds coming from the variety of machines surrounding the bed. Odd beeps emitted from one, whilst a steady whooshing came from another. To another individual it might have been soothing but at that moment, to Mycroft Holmes it was horrendous, it felt as though the machines were tormenting him. They were the only things keeping his brother alive, or so the doctors had revelled in telling both him and his parents.

He had remained stoic throughout the diagnosis, refusing to allow his inner turmoil show on his face knowing that his parents would rely on him to be the strong one. Wasn't that always the way? His mother had cried, so sure that they had made a mistake whilst his father had sat in the chair, clenching his fists as though he wanted nothing more than to punch the doctor before them. For once Mycroft might have let him.

The doctor had stood his ground, although his eyes had travelled momentarily down to Mr Holmes' hands. Then once he had assured them that the prognosis was correct he had left; hurried back to the office where a nurse was no doubt waiting for him. Mycroft had noted the lipstick stains on his collar and the way he fiddled with his wedding ring immediately told him that his wife was not the one who'd put them there. He couldn't understand the need for affairs, but then again he'd never found himself interested in matters of the heart. Marriage may, one day, be essential but for the moment he was quite enjoying being a bachelor.

His parents had left, Mycroft had offered them his flat in Kensington for the time being, he would stay…somewhere. Once they had disappeared he had made his way into the tiny, private hospital room. The sight that greeted him did nothing for the frantic, irregular rhythm that his body seemed to be trying to pass off as his heartbeat. Sherlock lay in the bed set in the middle of the room, his alabaster skin even paler than usual and blending in almost perfectly with the white sheets covering him. His eyes were surrounded by deep, purple bags; tubes and wires were sticking out of him in a variety of places and for once he was completely still.

He had pulled one of those horrible hospital chairs towards the bed, setting his umbrella against the foot of the bed before sitting down. For a long while he just stared at his brother, listening to the different noises and attuning himself to their current rhythms. During the silence he kept on replaying that phone call over and over again; what had scared him most hadn't been the consoling voice on the line, nor had it been the actual facts that had brought him here…no it had been the fact that as he placed the receiver down he didn't feel surprised at all. It was as though he'd been expecting this.

With a sigh he lent forwards in his seat, reaching out for his brother's right arm. Carefully he turned it over, and couldn't help the resigned sigh that escaped his lips as he saw the track marks that marred the pale skin. He knew Sherlock had been using drugs but he thought he'd been monitoring them closely enough to avoid all this. One long finger traced the numerous dots, wondering what he could do to stop this happening again, because if Sherlock wasn't given sufficient material to work on then this pattern would repeat itself until there was nothing left of Sherlock Holmes but a tombstone.

Absentmindedly his hand moved from the track marks to grip the younger man's hand, his thumb rubbing against the back of his palm. He doubted his presence would offer his sibling any comfort, after all their latest argument had simply stirred up volatile emotions within both, but he would remain until Sherlock regained consciousness; then he would leave and ensure that no drugs came near his brother again. Ever again.

Three:

"Sherlock! I told you not to add vinegar!" John coughed and spluttered as he threw his head out of the newly opened window, desperately trying to suck in air.

"These things need to be tested, John." Sherlock appeared next to him, trying to suppress his own coughing fit. He hadn't expected that sort of vicious reaction between the chemicals, which was interesting, he was normally very good at gauging what reactions would occur. He must have been distracted. No doubt it was John's fault.

"Why? Why does vinegar need to be added to…to…that concoction of death?" Sherlock turned a blank stare on his friend for a second, smoke billowing out between their heads before he couldn't contain his laughter any longer.

"Con-concoction of death?" He asked, chocking once more as he laughed and took in a huge lungful of acrid smoke.

"Have you seen what it did to the table?"

"I'm perfectly aware of what it did to the table, John."

"Oh, so you know that it's currently eating the floor?"

"WHAT?"

Four:

He couldn't stop the cough from escaping him; it sounded ridiculously weak, too weak to have come from him and yet there was no one else in the room. He groaned involuntarily as he rolled onto his side, letting out another piteous bout of coughing. God he was dying! He had to be dying, there was no way anything else felt this bad.

Reaching a hand to wipe at his watering eyes he stared at the clock; how was it only two o'clock in the afternoon? Surely it was later than that. Where was John with this medicine he'd promised? The good doctor had been gone for almost half an hour, leaving Sherlock to suffer alone.

Grumpily he pulled another tissue from the packet and tried to staunch the flow from his nose. Just as he closed his eyes, hoping that maybe his breathing would ease so he could get a few minutes sleep, he heard the front door slam. It would appear his wayward doctor was home at last.

"Sherlock?" He heard the voice calling up the stairs soon to be accompanied by footsteps. He didn't bother to reply, his throat was too sore anyway. After a few minutes his bedroom door opened and his friend appeared, carrying a steaming mug and yet another packet of tissues.

"How are you feeling?" Sherlock stared incredulously at his flatmate, surely he could guess how he was feeling seeing as he was still in bed! He hadn't moved since last night, was that not obvious.

"Peachy." His throat hurt so much, his voice was horrendously weak but he forced as much venom into his glare as he could. John seemed unperturbed though, even having the gall to smile at him.

"Well, I brought you some Lemsip, it should help some of your symptoms." Sherlock's glare intensified.

"This is your medicine, a shop bought concoction of watered down analgesics. I thought you were a doctor, where are your miracle cures?" John raised an eyebrow at him, placing the mug on the nightstand.

"There's no miracle cure for a cold I'm afraid, you'll just have to man up and deal with it."

"This is far worse than a cold, it feels like I'm dying." He tried, and failed, to pout wondering vaguely if John had any decent drugs hidden away in a medicine bag. He'd been clean for years, ever since his over dose but something small, something medicinal couldn't hurt.

"You are not dying, Sherlock. You have a common cold, you caught it off Lestrade and I'm probably going to catch it off you." He pushed the mug towards the consulting detective, obviously inferring that he should drink it now. Sherlock took it grumpily, blowing on it to try and cool it slightly before he took a sip. As he drank he couldn't help the grimace that took over his features, it really was disgusting.

"If you end up in bed I'm going to make you drink this every day." Sherlock said, in what he hoped was a threatening voice.

"Good, I quite like Lemsips." He glared at John once more, ignoring the strange feeling in his chest as he saw his friend grinning at him. He'd been feeling this odd sort of…affection was the only word for it, towards John recently and it worried him.

Suddenly there was a noise from the stairs, before he knew what was happening Mrs Hudson had appeared in the room a tray in hand. Sherlock stared at her in terror, he didn't think he could stand any of her alternate healing remedies. However, she instructed him to sit up properly (for once he obeyed without question) and she placed the tray on his knees; on the tray was a large bowl of steaming soup. He raised a questioning eyebrow at her.

"Chicken soup, Sherlock. It'll do your throat good." With that she bustled out of his bedroom, leaving John to smile gratefully after her. Sherlock stared down at it for a moment, before he picked up the spoon and tentatively took a sip. It was, surprisingly, very nice. Greedily he gulped it down, definitely preferring it to the Lemsip and much too quickly it was all gone.

John took the tray from his lap, placed it on the floor before he sat down in the small chair next to the door. Sherlock settled back into his bed, staring at his flatmate for a moment before speaking.

"You don't have to stay in here."

"I know, I just needed to sit down for a moment. Am I bothering you?" The genuine concern made Sherlock's heart ache, why had this man managed to affect him so much?

"No, it's fine."

"Okay, get some sleep Sherlock."

"Okay, night John."

"Night Sherlock." With a smile the world's only consulting detective closed his eyes, his head rolling subconsciously to face John before he drifted off to sleep at last.

Five:

The nightmares were worse now; the whole fiasco with Moriarty and the bomb had brought them back but now they were much more vivid than before. He could feel every punch, taste the copper of blood in his mouth, hear the bottles smashing. Most nights he could handle it, he'd simply refuse to sleep and keep his mind focused on a case. However, he had no cases to occupy his thoughts tonight.

Sherlock thrashed against the covers, his eyes working furiously under his lids as he watched his father pin his mother against the wall. He could hear her screams, could feel his tears running down his cheeks again. Then his father turned to him, he was angry that his youngest son was crying; Holmes' didn't cry. A fist connected with his stomach, he fell to the cold floor as a yelp escaped him. A hand grabbed his hair, pulling his face up, he could smell the alcohol wafting off his father. There was also that flowery scent, the one that told him that his father was seeing another woman. No matter how much anger flared within him he was unable to fight against him, he could only stand there and take everything that was thrown at him.

"Little bastard, what are you crying about? I'll give you something to cry about." Thump. Whack. His head connected with the wooden table, his cheek stung from a slap and then he was discarded on the floor. Blood was dribbling from his split lip, he just wanted to leave.

"Sherlock!" He jerked from the dream, his whole body still aching from the beating. His hands thrashed wildly in the air, still trying to fight off his father. He felt someone grab hold of them, hold them by his sides whilst a voice whispered comforting, soothing words into his ear. Finally, he blinked and his bedroom came into focus.

"J-john?" He asked, staring up at the man who's face was mere inches from his own. His heart was hammering in his chest, possibly from the images of his nightmare or possibly from the proximity of his favourite doctor.

"Yes, it's me." The soothing voice made his eyes drift shut once more, he just wanted to go back to sleep. A hand was stroking his hair, smoothing it away from his forehead and then it was wiping the stray tears from his cheeks. The hands holding his arms loosened.

"Go to sleep." He suddenly felt a huge pang of fear, was John going to leave him? His eyes snapped open and he grabbed the other man's arm, the terror of the nightmare gripping him once again.

"Please don't go." It was a sign of weakness but John didn't mention it, instead he simply nodded and climbed into bed next to him. Sherlock instinctively curled into him and he felt an arm wrap around his shoulders protectively. The ghost of a smile crossed his lips before he was asleep.

John remained awake for most of the night, watching over Sherlock, fighting off the remnants of the nightmare with soft words every time a frown appeared on his sleeping friend's face. Finally, he felt tiredness creeping up on him, he glanced down at Sherlock and placed a soft kiss on his forehead before he, too, dropped off to sleep.

ONE:

The hospital was quiet, the only sounds were the incessant beeping of the various machines positioned around the small bed. Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in the chair, he'd forgotten how horrific these contraptions were. He should have brought a cushion, he thought briefly before he pushed the thought away. He had to remain here, would remain sat here until the occupant of the bed opened his eyes. He would not leave, nothing could drag him away. Nothing at all.

He would never admit that he had feelings, he preferred people to think he were a robot, completely devoid of emotion. It made it so much easier to work that way, people never came too close and he never allowed them entrance to his heart. Naturally there was always some exception to the rule, John Watson had found his way past the many walls Sherlock had built during his life. Thanks to John he had survived many battles, done many things he never thought he would.

Hands reached up and scrubbed at his face, trying to remove the fatigue that was desperate to claim him, before his gaze returned to the sleeping figure. He thought back to the conversation with the hospital doctor, nothing interesting had been revealed, in fact Sherlock had begun to feel slightly perturbed that this particular man had even made it through University. He'd spoken of the seriousness of the injury, Sherlock had then proceeded to interrupt him by stating that most knife wounds were serious, then he had gone on to say that they should not expect him to wake up soon. What a wonderful ability to state the obvious that man had. Sherlock had simply rolled his eyes and returned to his chair, refusing to acknowledge the man again. He clearly wasn't worth his time.

"Sherlock?" With a sigh he drew his eyes from the unconscious figure in the bed, and turned to the doorway. "How is he?"

"Improving, I believe."

"Good." John moved into the room, a hand resting briefly on Sherlock's shoulder before he picked up another chair and brought it near the bed. The two of them fell into silence as they both stared at the bed.

"If he hadn't…"

"I know." Sherlock's voice was nothing more than a whisper.

"I'm sorry." John refused to look at him, he was staring resolutely at the floor now as though ashamed.

"Don't be." Carefully he placed a hand under John's chin, mindful of the bruise that took up half of that perfect face, and forced those brown eyes to meet his. "It wasn't your fault."

"But Mycroft wouldn't have…" He cut off John's words with a kiss, just a soft brushing of lips but it had the desired effect. His flatmate smiled slightly as they pulled apart, and Sherlock sent him the most fleeting of genuine smiles before he turned his attention back to his brother. The room fell into silence once again, but this time there were no self-recriminations and Sherlock felt fingers entwine with his. The two of them sat there, watching over Mycroft as he slept, waiting for him to wake up.