I blinked open my eyes to the weak morning sunlight and a closeness of Sherlock's face. I cannot remember falling asleep but it couldn't have been that long ago. I watched as the detective blearily opened his own eyes and looked around vaguely before closing off again with a weak groan.
'How do you feel?'I asked, hoping that this sickness his body had been fighting was diminishing. He gave a weak smile for a reply. So still not good, but gratefully better. I reached out and put a palm to his forehead.
'Your fever broke during the early hours of the morning, must have fallen asleep afterwards'. Sherlock responded with a sharp exhale and eyes still shut. The paleness to his already pale skin remained but was no longer flushed. The dark circles under his eyes lined his gaunt face giving it a deathly appearance. The worst part being he had looked worse.
'Do you think you can keep some ibuprofen down?'
Sherlock gave a small nod but buried down further into the bedding. I got up from the feverish warm bed, almost tripping over the now empty bucket into which he had dry-retched into all night. I entered into the kitchen; a half deserted meal greeted me on the table as a result of Sherlock's sudden return. I grabbed the packet of medicine and popped two out and filled out a glass with water. Turning on the kettle to boil I headed back into Sherlock's room. I stood at the doorway, not quit believing the sight of a crumpled Sherlock back in his bed.
'Here', I said as he weakly sat up, duvet slipping down his painfully thin frame. I handed him the glass and pills and sat on the bed.
'I can't believe your back'. I said looking down at my feet, feeling every emotion I held back over the course of the night boiling and building up. Sherlock gulped down the last of the water and leaned back against the bed head.
'Sorry', he said, voice hoarse and quite. 'This isn't how I wanted it to play out'.
I moved forward, hugging him like I had always regretted not doing and wishing I had before the last three years of nothing.