It wasn't as if John was always Sherlock's caretaker. Yes, he was a doctor, and a soldier, (as he often reminded people) but on more than one occasion, he'd needed Sherlock too. The great detective was his greatest weakness as well as his greatest strength; and though he always worried, little did he know that Sherlock never stopped worrying back for a second.
Like that time they'd teamed up to unearth a grave, just to figure out if the person buried there was who the tombstone said he was. John argued against digging it up vehemently, as anyone with common sense would, but Sherlock protested so much it was quite out of his hands to do anything but follow.
"Holmes, what in GOD'S name would a tombstone be lying about?" John snapped as he dug his shovel into the Earth. "It's a slab of stone, dammit." He was angrier than usual, and his companion noticed, a bit regretfully.
"It's a very complicated matter John. Tombstones can be replaced. Bodies can't" He glanced over at his friend, his hands red and trembling already. His chest was heaving, and his hair seemed.. Grayer than usual. Sherlock quickly realized. He'd been overworking.
"Sorry" he added, stealing quick glances over at his friend, mentally kicking himself for not having noticed. John stumbled a bit, nearly fell.
"It's fine. Let's just get this over with"
"No, it's not"
The digging stopped, at least on the detective's side. John's shovel still pierced the soil.
"John, answer me honestly. When was the last time you got any sleep?"
"What a joke, look who's asking. Have you slept more than an hour this week? Incredible!" John's cutting sarcasm was far from out of character, but it hurt either ways. Sherlock was actually trying to be caring for once. It wasn't easy.
Without an answer, he deduced it. He hadn't heard John's usual snoring for the past couple days, and he'd only been out in the daytime; whenever he'd seen him, John would have a cup of coffee at his hands. He hadn't slept for at least three days, undoubtedly. Without another word, Sherlock wrenched the shovel from his friend's hands and turned.
"Where are you off to n-" John stumbled, then fell to the ground at the sudden movement. It'd made him dizzy. Sherlock had got him.
In the conversation, and quite literally. The first thing John saw when he looked up was one outstretched hand to his face and another resting on his shoulder.
"Come on then, John." His voice was soft, a bit like a child's. "You're human, not me."
John refused the hand, as Sherlock knew he would, and hobbled up. "Alright, alright." He took the shovel from his companion. "We'll get some rest, how bout that."
Sherlock smiled a bit to himself. It'd occurred to him on more than one occasion that John viewed himself as a bit of a hinderance; a nasty little human who needed to be cared for and got in the way of the "great detective's fine machinery". Needless to say, what he'd always wanted to say suddenly became more important than ever.
He didn't quite know how to say it.
"John" he said, as they finally entered the solitude of their apartment. His friend turned, and suddenly, at the sight of his weary face, he lost the courage. But he had to say something.
"You're more than just… another.. Shovel to me" He managed to sputter out.
John smiled, his innocent, radiant smile. "Thanks, I.. I think." he managed before he stumbled into bed.
Oh, John. If anyone was a burden, if anything was a burden, it was this:
The feelings that weighed on Sherlock's heart.