In the process of getting this betaed. I haven't written a multi-chapter fic in awhile. Gosh.

Stories are carried by the wind. Long, expansive tales of heroes and villains; darkness and light; good and evil are passed this way- tugged along by the cuffs of their plot twists, fluttering like birds with their metaphors. The wind has shaped the land and the wind will shape the people. It has always been this way, and it will always stay so.

This story begins with a cool breeze on a warm night, rustling the trees of a land whose name will be muddled and then forgotten when its tale is finally told. It twists and flows, languishing, catching the leaves and the long grass, and as it breathes through a clearing in the trees, it tangles itself in between strands of dark hair and the folds of a cloak. There is a man lying still in the clearing, ignoring the stars with glazed eyes. The land whispers secrets to him, but he does not listen. He's waiting for something.

There. A crow slides through the pale darkness, drifting and then dropping gracelessly by the man's arms. It stops to peck at the handful of bread in his hands.

"You've brought news?" The man asks, pale eyes tracking his new companion lazily.

"Darkness in the East," The crow flutters its wings in irritation, but does not abandon its meal, which the man then drops in order to avoid its beak. "Dead Flockmates/ egg-breaker feeling/ Nest Mothers dead/ cold/ danger/ danger/ unknown/ Flock moves/ new Nests."

The man absorbs this silently, staring up into the sky, looking at the darkness- the places between the stars. "Anything else?"

"Nestmate knows/ Nestmate has message/ Nestmate says-"

The man explodes upwards suddenly, cutting the bird off as he jerks into a stand, flapping his hands in disgust, "Any information my brother wishes to share is of no value to me. Return when you have something of genuine significance!" The crow surges toward the sky, alarmed by his flailing, and he stands there, sneering after it as it slips into the folds of the night. After he's calmed a bit he makes an about face and gazes Eastward, towards where the black outline of the mountains reach toward the sky.

"Really," He thinks scornfully, "Darkness in the East indeed."

There is a river that runs through the forest between Sir John Watson's dwelling and his sister's house, and he always thought that, had his life with Mary gone another way, he would have liked to take their children there to play. It's an unremarkable size- deep enough for fish to live but not strong enough to sweep a child away, and as John's horse dips her head to drink from it John finds himself thinking about just how very convenient a thing it is. It seems a silly to do, romanticize a river, and an unimpressive one at that, but he's been inside so long he feels that the grass he stands on is itself a miracle. Or perhaps it's just a miracle he finds himself standing on it at all; the priest's had certainly thought it unlikely that he ever rise from his sickbed again.

His shoulder twinges at the thought, and he reaches up to rub at it without meaning to, feeling the bandages underneath his tunic. Yes, it certainly has been awhile since he has had the chance to feel the sun dapple across his skin the way he does now. The warmth seems to sink deep, unthawing places that had been so cold and desperate, and so he closes his eyes to enjoy it more thoroughly. There is no danger in this forest- he knows it well- and so it is silly to cringe at the pictures behind his eyelids, but he does so anyway. He can't help it, not when the image of the demon's faceless heads and their twisting, writhing forms are seared into his mind. Not when he knows so intimately the cut of their blade through his armor- the yowls of the beasts they ride- the smell of men's blood, his friends blood-

His eyes snap open again. It's silly to dwell on such things, especially when he has places to be. Harriet will be waiting for him. He lifts himself off the ground, his bad knee buckling once before he can get his feet properly underneath him, and makes to pull his horse away from the river. She startles suddenly before he can reach her, head snapping up and her ears twisting around this way and that. John freezes and reaches for his sword- perhaps there is danger after all, something too quiet for him to hear- and simultaneously tries to sooth his mare, murmuring nonsense. She whinnies anxiously in response, but just before he can get to her and grab the reigns there is a thunderous snarl from the patch of trees behind him. John whirls around. His horse bolts.

He stands frozen for a second, torn between standing and facing whatever is hidden in the trees or chasing after his horse. His horse, who's currently saddled with the majority of his worldly possessions. Put that way the answer seems rather obvious, and so with a frantic shuffle of his limbs John crashes through the water after her. He figures that he's moving away from the danger at least; well, unless, of course, there's more than one thing he should be running from. His strides lengthen at the thought, his knee twinging painfully as they do, and he cries, "Stop! Gwen!" As if this might help.

Unsurprisingly, it doesn't, and it's only a matter of minutes before the white flick of Guinevere's tail disappears into the trees. John curses loudly and stops shortly afterwards, dismayed by how quickly he finds himself winded- the extent of his illness finally known.

It takes about a minute for him to realize the extent of the situation: his horse has just run off with his things, he has no idea where he is, and, perhaps the most worrying of the three, at least short term, there is a throbbing pain bouncing from his knee to his hip and back again.

John picks a direction and walks; he walks for a very long while.

Enduring pain is no great feat for a knight, but given the choice it is unlikely that any would actually opt to tolerate it for long. They're not masochists, they're just trained well, and John has realized after a time that those who say differently generally have not met many knights at all.

He's thinking about this, trying to not focus on his limp but failing miserably, when he nearly runs into the side of something very large and flat. He stumbles back a few paces before he can get a proper look at it.

He's come across a cottage, he realizes, though he's standing at the back of it. It's nearly obscured by vines and close growing trees, which would explain why John hadn't noticed until he was right up on it, though when he heads around the side he realizes that it's tucked at the edge of the clearing, nestled among the trees. After a moment of uncertainty John hobbles around to the front door. The building is of moderate size- though the workmanship put into it seems especially elegant for something so secluded- and there is a black mare tethered to a peg by the door. She flicks her ears at him as he approaches, but does not seem otherwise interested in him, which John takes as a good sign. He inches past her and raps at the door hesitantly. If fortune is in his favor then the owner of the cottage will be willing to house him until morning- or at least until he feels strong enough to walk again.

There's no response from within the cottage; perhaps its owner is out taking a walk. It seems likely the way John's luck has been going lately. Doubtless they will be back soon, but it's growing increasingly hot as the sun rises overhead, and his leg is growing increasingly painful the longer he rests on it, so he has no interest in staying in wait for too long. Just as he raises his hand to knock upon the door once more it swings open.

A man stands before him, tall and wraithlike and enveloped in a dark cloak. He's quite pale- with sharp features and sharper eyes that he's currently using to peer imperiously down at John. His expression, which had initially conveyed something similar to surprise, quickly schools itself into what John thinks is the very picture of irritation.

"Please relay to my brother that, should he truly wish to send me a message, he would do better to come to me himself, rather than send lame knights in his stead." The man snaps. He has a deep and commanding sort of voice, the tone and intonation of which John has only previously heard on lords and noblemen.

John blinks. "Excuse me?" He says, stumbling badly as the man pushes past him and out into the yard. His leg nearly gives out from under him.

"Or, better yet, inform my brother that he need not send anyone at all! Inform him that I have no interest in any matter that concerns him." He continues, snarling, following some sort of thought process that John is not privy to, and with a surge of great energy strides off into the woods.

"Please wait!" John calls after him, "I have nothing to do with your brother!" The sound of the man's disbelieving snort is audible from back where John is standing, and so with a great huff of his own he follows the indignant flapping of the man's cloak back into the trees. "Slow down at least!" He snaps, and after a moment of apparent indecision the man's steps slow incrementally. "Thank you." He breathes, though he receives only a grunt in response. "How did you know that I was a knight?" He asks after a moment, when it becomes apparent that the man is planning on ignoring him. "I wear a peasant's garb." And he does; he has not the strength to bear the weight of his armor across his injured shoulder, and his illness had left him weak besides. He had not bothered to wear the fine dress more suited to his position as he traveled, as he found it attracted too much unwanted attention from the beggars and thieves that made their living along the road. Indeed the only thing that could have identified him was his sword, still in the hilt that was slung across his waist, but he had gone through great measures to make sure it would keep hidden by his traveling cloak so as not to encourage any unwanted interest in him as he journeyed.

"The fact that you're a knight would be obvious to any man who truly used his eyes. The way you stand for one, and the way you're muscled- you're fit, but not in the same way a farmer or a yeoman might be. You've clearly lost a lot of weight lately and you're pale despite the fact that your skin indicates you spend a great deal of time in the sun- so that means that you've been ill up until recently and have finally recovered enough to travel again. Those things alone might not say much but the injury in your knee is interesting. By the way you're limping I'd guess that it was from falling off your horse. Noblemen learn to ride when they're young, and so it's unlikely that you would simply just fall off. Maybe if the horse bucked you off- but no, this is too specific an injury. So, a knight who was injured in battle and fell off his horse. The wound was infected, you fell ill, and now you're-" He breaks off. His pace had begun to pick up again as he spoke and so when he halts suddenly John nearly ploughs into his back. The man turns to stare at him, a frown playing around his eyes. "You're going back home to rest until you're strong enough to fight again. You're not a messenger from my brother at all."

"No," John agrees, "I'm not." He extends his hand. "John Watson."

"Sherlock Holmes." They shake, but rather than letting his hand go Sherlock flips John's palm up and inspects it closely, looking for something John can't identify. He smoothes the pad of his thumb over John's calluses, now gone soft, and it's a queer feeling. Sherlock's fingers are long and slender, his fingertips tinged a strange sort of green, and John wonders what that means, what that would translate too should John want to pick him apart the same way Sherlock has just done him. "So I was correct then." He smirks, "Was anything I said wrong?"

John shakes his head and Sherlock lets go of his hand. He lets it drop. "No, you were correct about my injury, as well as the fact that I've been rather grievously ill up until recently. I'm not returning to my home however, but to the home of my sister and her," He hesitates, but only for a second. "Husband."

"You don't get along." It's not a question. How interesting, John thinks, to have met a man who seems to know him better than he knows himself.

"Though it may not be my place to speak, it would seem I'm not the only one here who doesn't feel entirely amorously toward their sibling."

Sherlock's lips twitch upwards. "Quite. If you dislike your sister then why don't you stay with you wife?"

John blinks, "I don't… have a wife." Sherlock frowns and then glances accusingly at the ring that swings from the chain around his neck, as if it has purposely lead him astray. It must have slipped out from under his tunic when he chased after his horse, John realizes, and hastily slips it back into the fold of his clothing. "Not anymore I mean. She died two years ago. She had been unwell for some time."

Sherlock actually looks pleased, as if this covers for his mistake. "I see." He turns around and starts to walk again, and John frowns at his back.

"It would be appropriate to offer your condolences."

"Yes." Sherlock agrees, but he makes no move to correct his social faux pas- something that sends a jolt of irritation zinging down John's spine. He takes a breath and lets it drop. "That's an interesting trick you have- how you tell people about themselves. Where did you learn it?"

"It's not a trick." Sherlock huffs, and whirls back around, striding backwards now but miraculously still dodging trees. "It's simple observation and deduction. If you'd just- Stop." He cuts off what would have surely become a lengthy tirade and freezes, holding an arm out to indicate that John should do the same. His head swivels around, eyes roving the trees intently. "Did you hear that?"

"No? I-" There's a vicious snarl from the patch of trees at John's right, and he wheels around to look but there's nothing there- or if there is it's concealed by shadow. It suddenly strikes him how dark it seems for midday, and how deep they've wandered into the forest. "Yes, I heard that." There's another growl, this time from behind him, and it occurs to John that they may be surrounded, though by what he can't be sure. He's heard noises such as these before, on the battlefield, but he thinks that surely the demons don't prowl alone, without their riders, and surely not this far west! It seems that things have become far worse in his absence than John had realized. "Get behind me!" He orders, turning again to face the sound.

"Certainly not." Sherlock huffs, and John scowls at him.

"Now is no time for pride, get behind me!"

"No." Sherlock says simply, and reaches into the folds of his cloak to retrieve what looks like a thin stick of wood. John gapes at him incredulously, but doesn't have time to comment before he's distracted by the sound of something coming through the brush.

At first he thinks that they are smoke, as that is all he can make out, but as the beast emerges he finds his suspicions confirmed- it is the same animal he has seen charging at him from across the battlefield, the same that the men that are not quite men ride, though it is the first time he has seen one still enough to easily observe. It resembles a cat, he thinks at first, though it's the size of a bear, and has rounder ears and a flatter face than any cat he has ever seen. It seems to be entirely made up of a bizarre, viscous haze, and had he not seen men felled by its teeth and claws he might have thought it unsubstantial.

"Demons." He hisses, and reaches to withdraw his sword from its sheath. The action burns through his arm, the weight of his sword tearing muscles that have only just begun to heal. It seems to have grown twice as heavy since the last time he wielded it, and he can feel his arms tremble with the effort as he settles into a defensive stance.

There are two of the creatures that John can see, and there must be one more at Sherlock's front, judging by how focused he sounds when he says, "Not demons, illusory magic."

This is a surprise, "Sorcery?" He asks, and is answered with a confirming grunt. He and the knights he had spoke with before the battle had all assumed it was the Devil's work- none of them had even considered the possibility of magic. It seemed unlikely that any sorcerers had bothered to stay in the kingdom after the church had announced that magic was a sin against God. John had always thought that was a bit of nonsense- it was well known that plenty of sorcerers had worked in the king's favor for centuries, but it was not his place to speak against the church.

There's a strange humming in the air, and John feels Sherlock's back bump against his own. He glances over his shoulder, reluctant to let the beasts out of his line of sight. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing- shh- I'm concentrating." He snaps, and John watches in wonder as he waves the stick through the air and it, well the only way John can think to describe it is that it leaves a pale blue residue in the air- the markings forming a complex circular pattern. With a flick of his wrist the circle expands, at least the size of Sherlock himself if not taller.

"You're a sorcerer." He says, taken aback. It's probably silly for him to be surprised, why else would a man who was so obviously of noble birth live in such seclusion?

"Yes, your aptitude for observation is impressive, John." He sneers, and John's going to have to talk to him about the disturbing lack of title later- for now it's all he can do to watch as Sherlock flicks his wrist again, this time high into the air, and the circle moves above both of their head's. The creatures begin to yowl in earnest now, and John can feel the hairs on the back of his neck raise at the sound.

"Perhaps you shouldn't do that." He suggests, watching the beasts grow more irritated.

"Perhaps I really should." Sherlock says coyly, and just as the beast at John's right leaps forward, the pattern above their heads dissipates rapidly, only to reappear as a mirror image burned into the grass beneath their feet. The creature makes a terrible noise as it hits the barrier, first its paws, then its head, then it's entire body dissolving as it crosses the line. The smell is terrible as the smoke clears, and the two left positively roar in fury, the oily marks that look a bit like stripes twisting and blurring as they pace the edge of the line. Sherlock barks out a triumphant laugh.

John eyes the burnt grass uneasily, "Would that do the same thing to us should we choose to cross it?"

"Of course not, it's designed to keep magic constructs out, and never have I met a man less inclined to magic than a knight." John snorts, but Sherlock must feel the way the muscles in his back quiver from exertion, because he continues doubtfully, "I would not consider it wise for you to cross the boundary though, I doubt you are much match for them."

"Perhaps," allows John, "but I have no interest in dallying here for long, and it does not look like they will fall for that again." They don't seem to be willing to cross the line in any case. One of the beasts- illusions- constructs- John's not quite sure what they should be called anymore, hisses at him, opening it's mouth and yowling so he can see the dangerous points of its teeth. He jabs his sword at it threateningly and it snarls and rears back on its hind legs. He quickly amends his initial assessment; standing vertically it is even bigger than a bear. The creature screams, and Sherlock simultaneously shouts a cry of warning.

John takes a deep breath- he knows an opening when he sees one- and he bounds over the protective line, simultaneously thrusting his sword up into the soft underbelly of the beast. He has to estimate the height, but if he's right he will have hit its heart. The creature falls forward, bearing the brunt of its heaviness against him, and it boggles John's mind how something that appears so slight could have so much force; it is easily twice John's weight.

He cries out at its claws dig into his shoulders, tearing though his clothes and opening long vertical wounds along his back. It slams its head against his, searching for his throat, and it occurs to John for the first time that he's not sure if it has a heart at all, or that even if it does, a blow to the chest would kill it. In his haste he might have just made the grievous error that will cost him his life. He feels the whisper of its jaws ghost across his jugular, searching for purchase, and just as his knees start to give way he focuses all of his strength into his arms and twists his sword violently.

For a horrifying second he thinks that he must have failed, and that any instant the creature will tear his throat out, but then there is a pause. And the creature bursts into wisps around him. And John hits the ground as his legs finally fall out from under him.

"Look out!" Sherlock bellows again, and John's head snaps up just in time to see the final beast hurtling at him from his left. In a swift movement he raises himself to his knees and skewers it through the throat, twisting once more, and watching in relief as it too disappears. He sways for a second before sticking his sword into the ground and collapsing against it for support, breathing raggedly. Out of the corner of his eye he watches as Sherlock glances around the woods, deems the danger gone, and then strides over to him, crouching to get on his level.

"That was not an intelligent thing you just did." He snaps, his sharp eyes roving over John's face.

"I told you I had no interest remaining here for long."

"Yes, well it looks like you don't have an interest in remaining on this earth very for long either." His hand hovers over the deep gashes on his shoulders before traveling upwards and grazing the nicks on his throat instead, "You're bleeding quite profusely."

"Your aptitude for observation is impressive, Sherlock." John echoes snidely, but his heart's not in it. He can feel his arms and legs trembling; he's certainly going to feel what he's just done in the morning. If there is a morning for him, he's starting to go a bit lightheaded. "You need to stop the bleeding." He tells Sherlock, quite serious now.

Sherlock nods sharply, "Yes." He stands and slashes his wand- well, it must be a wand, John thinks blearily, if he's a sorcerer- through the air again, this time leaving behind a more simple pattern, and then transfers it to hover above John's chest. It fades away after a moment, and John suddenly feels weightless- insubstantial. He thinks that he might be about to faint. "Relax," Sherlock orders, "It's me." And then he pries John's fingers off of his sword, slips the sword into its hilt, and hefts John onto his back, as if he's nothing. John knows that he's lost weight recently, but he's not a slight man, and he marvels at what must have been Sherlock's magic. The movement jostles his arms, and he muffles his moan of pain into Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock has the grace not to comment on it.

He thinks he might fall unconscious once on the way back, though ultimately it's impossible to tell. The weightlessness he feels combined with the throbbing pain that consumes him gives everything a dream-like quality. Time passes strangely- progressing quickly when he closes his eyes but inching leisurely whenever he has the presence of mind to try and stay awake. He tastes blood once and stirs to realize that he has bled all over Sherlock's cloak and then buried his face in it. He tries not to think too much about how much of it he's lost and closes his eyes again.

Sherlock grunts once, and then John finds himself dumped into a chair, a rude awakening if there ever was one. He groans as he settles against the wood and when he opens his eyes again the light of a candle illuminates the room. Sherlock cuts his eyes at him, "Take your shirt off." He demands, crossing the room and circling the tip of his wand around another candle, turning away when the wick bursts into flames. Magic must make things very convenient, John thinks hazily, and then spends nearly five minutes trying to undo his belt with his numb, shaking hands. After much whisking around Sherlock returns with a cup and pins him with the most unimpressed stare John has ever received. With a great sigh he sets the cup down and kneels to undo John's belt for him, his lithe fingers guiding the leather easily. He then helps John lift his tunic over his head, and John does his best not to shout when he has to raise his arms. He collapses back against the chair, panting, and Sherlock holds the cup out to him again, remarking snidely. "Drink this. Or do you need help with that too?" John glares at him. His hands are trembling so badly that he spills at least a quarter of the odd smelling green liquid on himself when he tries to take a drink. Sherlock raises his eyebrow pointedly.

"What was in that?" John asks when he's finished, trying not to grimace.

Sherlock takes the cup and turns back around. "It'll lessen the pain." He says, and John decides not to mention that he didn't actually answer his question. Perhaps it would be better not to know when potions were involved.

"You weren't much help back there." John says, the corner of his mouth lifting. He's not sure if he's trying to pick a fight or not. He's mainly just trying to not pass out.

Sherlock looks unrepentant, returning with another cup, this time filled with a clear, viscous liquid. "I specialize in practical magic. Offensive magic has never been of much use to me." He places his palm against Johns chest and pushes him against the back against the chair with a little more force than is probably necessary, holding him still as he drips the liquid into the open wounds on John's back and shoulders.

It stings, but John doesn't say anything. "So you're a healer then." He supplies, trying to watch him work without moving around too much. He had always been interested in medicine- had delighted in caring for peoples injuries when he was a Page- but had been forced to abandon the curiosity when he became a Squire, too far down the path of Knighthood to have tried to change his course.

To his surprise Sherlock rolls his eyes, "Oh no, that would be dreadfully dull. Potions have always been my strong point though. I am exceedingly clever when it come to plant properties." His lips lift into a smirk, and John frowns fiercely.

"Why not help the wounded then? I'm sure the church would appreciate any help they could get. With the way the fighting has been going—"

"Do you really think the church wants any help from a sorcerer?" Sherlock interrupts, suddenly furious. "Do you think they would open their eyes enough to accept my help? It's a miracle that Sir Lestrade bothers with me, and even that's due to my brother's insistence."

He whirls away, leaving John blinking dumbly in his wake. He should have had better sense than mentioning the church to a sorcerer; Of course he was still bitter that he and his kind had suddenly been banished. Who wouldn't be? "I must have lost my good sense when I lost all of that blood," John thinks, and when Sherlock returns with a tin of foul smelling goop that he proceeds to smear along the edges of his damaged skin John doesn't try to speak to him again.

John has nearly dozed off again when Sherlock secures the last of the fresh bandages and says suddenly, "Fighting?"

John rouses himself with a jolt, "What?"

"Fighting. You said knights had been fighting." His eyes are hungry now, searching John's sleepy ones. "Who?"

"Well- shouldn't you know?"

Sherlock flaps his hand agitatedly, "I've been avoiding my brothers messages. Who."

John raises his eyebrows again, sitting forward. "Have you really not heard? The demons- illusory magic you called it? They've been attacking the kingdom. Not just the beasts, they have riders. Faceless knights." John unwittingly tenses at the memory of the surge of black crashing towards him, ripping him, breaking him.

"How long?" Every muscle in Sherlock's body is tensed as if he's about to spring to action, his face intent.

"Months. Our forces aren't enough; they get closer to the King every time. We don't know what they want- control of the kingdom I suppose."

"Do you know where they come from?"

John purses his lips. "The mountains it seems. We can't get too close to them before we're driven away."

Sherlock's eyes drop away from John's suddenly, focusing inward. "Darkness in the East." He murmurs, and then jolts upward, grabbing a clean cloak and bounding for the front door.

"What?" John calls after him, mystified, "Darkness in the what?"

"Nothing!" He cries, poised in the doorway, "I'm going out. Have my bed if you'd like!"

"But what if there are more of the beasts out there?" But he's yelling at an empty room because Sherlock's already gone.

He stares at the closed door for a second before heaving himself out of the chair and across the room. There's a cot there, covered in expensive furs, and John might feel guilty about possibly sullying them were he not so tired. He still feels like his connection to the ground has been severed, and that he's floating a few inches above the floor. With great care he lowers himself into the cot and closes his eyes, the idea of keeping them open suddenly seeming like a vast impossibility.

He's asleep in minutes.

When he opens his eyes again the cottage is swathed in darkness, the candles now extinguished, and John has to bite down the roaring panic that threatens to engulf him. Once he spends a good few minutes gathering his sense about him he remembers that he is in Sherlock's cottage and spends another few minutes calming himself down. Once he's done this he realizes what has woken him; he's on fire. That's what it feels like at least- a blazing fire, roaring hottest underneath his bandages. He tries to lift his arms and tear them away, but if yesterday he felt like air then today he feels like stone. He can't find it in himself to move.

But he needs to move, needs to find some sort of relief from this terrible heat that's consuming him. The idea of cool air sounds heavenly, and without really being conscious of anything but the thought that he wants to go outside, John finds himself standing in front of the cottage. It's a full moon, and though the breeze should feel warm it sweeps through John, cooling his burning skin.

Sherlock is standing there, his back towards John, in the middle of the clearing, a crow aloft on his arm, and two others at his feet. John stares at the picture but can't make sense of it. The moonlight shimmers off of the crow's glossy wings, off the curls off Sherlock's hair, glows on the pale skin of his nape. He seems impossibly still- the foil of the man who hours ago had been vibrating with energy.

John doesn't know how long he stands there until Sherlock speaks, his voice carrying clear despite the space between them. "How did you get here?"

"You carried me." John thinks, but then realizes what's being asked, "My horse ran away after something spooked her. I ran after her and found this place instead."

The back of Sherlock's head bobs, a nod, and the crows take to the sky. John finds himself entranced by the way their wings move, the slide of air sinuous and fascinating, and then suddenly Sherlock is standing in front of him. Close enough for John to watch as the shadow of the house falls across his eyes. "You should sleep." He says, and his voice is low, low, crows wing soft. "The medicine I gave you will make you feel ill."

"I feel ill now." John says without meaning too, and he hears Sherlock's low chuckle as he finds himself back in bed. He doesn't remember moving. The furs feel very soft now though, ridiculously so, and John thinks that he might feel the brush of thin fingers across his forehead. He's not sure. He's still warm, but it's not so unpleasant anymore.

Something cool touches his face again, and there is a soft considering hum.

Once again, John sleeps.