Word Count: 350
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"John, you need to start eating. I'm getting the feeling this is a one-sided conversation. John, please respond." Mycroft whispered with desperation. He heard John cough.
"Are you okay? John?"
"I'm here." John croaked.
"Your throat is raspy."
"Great deducing Mycroft." John coughed for a long time.
"I'm coming over and that's final." As if John could try and change Mycroft's mind; he was too busy coughing. John stumbled to the sink and groped around for a cup. He poured water from the tap in and limped towards the plush armchair. He sat down with a groan. Life has been terrible with Sherlock gone. I'm sure he's coming back. Sherlock would never abandon me. God Sherlock, come home already. John thought with all his might. His thought process was interrupted by a fit of coughing. Bloody cough. A knock, then two sounded at the door.
"Come in Mycroft." John wheezed.
"You look terrible." Mycroft commented as he strolled in.
"How else would I look?"
"At the very least presentable for company."
"So you're company?"
"Yep. Come on, let's have a look at you."
"Whatever. Look all you want. I would know if something was wrong. For bloody sake, I'm a doctor."
"Army doctor." Mycroft dismissed. Mycroft held up a first-aid kit and grinned like a Cheshire cat.
"Shut up." John groaned. Mycroft leaped forward and grabbed John.
"Never." He laughed. John grinned.
"Am I interrupting something?" Came a deep voice from the doorway. John snatched his gun from it's wedged place in the couch and pointed it at the mystery man.
"Well, I can see you missed me John. Or you don't remember me. I doubt it. John? John?"
"I do believe he has gone into shock." Mycroft commented as John still grasped the in his hand and he had a look of shock on his face. He sat frozen in his chair. His face was a pale white.
"Sherlock." John whispered.