Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.

Hello everyone! I must be having a good week or something because this is the second Sherlock story I have published in two days. And to make it better, this will be multi-chapter and it's the one requested by wetrustno1. This is the request they sent me:

What if, after Sherlock's return (*gasp* post fall angst?! YES!) John's too busy piecing together his own life to notice Sherlock's quickly deteriorating physical state?

Anyways, here it is for you! I hope chapter one doesn't disappoint.

It had been two weeks. Two long, miserable weeks since he had first seen his best friend alive.

Once John had worked through the overjoyed phase of knowing his best friend was alive, he became angry. Not 'you ruined my date' angry, but the 'why would you ever tell me you were a fake, make me watch you commit suicide, and then decide to come back a month and a half later' angry. In fact, those were some of the very words he had yelled at a very static Sherlock, who had been sitting in the very middle of their sofa while John paced the floor.

"How could you go for so long without telling me you were alive?" John continued that rainy Saturday. "Do I mean nothing to you?"

"Of course you mean something. I did what you asked – I stopped being dead."

It took John a moment to realize what Sherlock was talking about but once he clued in, his anger rose a notch.

"You were in the cemetery that day when I said that? Bloody hell, Sherlock! It couldn't have hurt you to step out of the shadows for just a minute and let me know you were okay?"

"It had to remain secret."

"To everyone but Molly, right? How could you ask her to do something like that for you? It's a miracle the woman isn't in a psych ward right now!"

"I needed her help, John."

"And I suppose I'm not good enough to rely on for help. No, I was just the one who was there when you almost got yourself killed by taking that stupid pill, or when you were convinced you had seen some deadly hound, not to mention that I bailed you out of jail!"

"Do you honestly think that if I thought you could have you help me, I'd have asked Molly? Moriarty was threatening to kill you. You, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. But not Molly."

"Since when has that stopped me? People are always trying to kill me because of you. From day one it's been," John used air quotes. " 'Could be dangerous' but look, I'm still here. I was there in the pool, explosives strapped to my chest. I was there when you threw us in front of a bus. I've always been there for you, Sherlock, even when it was dangerous."

Sherlock sighed.

"I've read the blog and I know you believed me. You are the only one who did."

"What does that matter?" John exclaimed. "You didn't have the decency to even tell me on the phone you were going to be faking your own death. You didn't think I could play the part?"

"No one should have to play that part."

"Well, I just spent the last month and a half doing it, Sherlock. Only I didn't know the part was cast to me!"

"I thought it would be easier on everyone this way."

"How can you say that? I could have helped you."

"You did help me, John. I needed people to be convinced that my death was real and your heartfelt story convinced them."

"So that's all I'm good for then, a good heartfelt story to convince the masses? And what about now?" John asked. "Am I just supposed to forgive you for what you've done and move on, go back to solving crimes and blogging about it?"

"Yes." Sherlock's answer seemed so simple and John looked – and felt – taken aback.

"I don't know if I can." John finally said and he let out a big sigh. "Look, Sherlock, I'm glad that you're alive and that you're okay. I really am. But I'm angry."

"Obviously."

"I'm angry with you and I don't know if I'll ever forgive you for this."

"Take all the time you need, John. You believed in me when no one else did. Now it's my turn to believe in you."

"Where will you be staying?"

"Here. I've already fixed it with Mrs. Hudson."

John let out an exasperated sigh.

"Fine. I'm going out. Don't wait up."

With that, John grabbed his coat and stormed out of the flat, letting the door slam shut behind him.

It had been two weeks since that awful day. Two long, miserable weeks since he had first seen his best friend alive.

John had fought many internal battles since then. He wanted to forgive Sherlock and go back to the comfortable life they had had at 221B Baker Street but he just couldn't. Not yet, anyway.

As John approached the door to their flat, he looked up at the dreary sky. It seemed to sympathize with him, providing him with so many rainy days that seemed to fit his mood perfectly. He shoved the door open and closed it firmly, rubbing his hands together to warm them. John went upstairs and listened, as he now normally did. He had decided the night of their argument that he was not going to let Sherlock's presence interrupt his daily life, although he had to admit he had become accustomed to arranging his schedule around where Sherlock wasn't and often listened to see if Sherlock was in the flat. Though the few times they had crossed paths had led to strained and somewhat awkward conversations, it seemed to be for the best. Hearing silence, John went into the kitchen and boiled the kettle, making himself a nice cup of tea. He sat down with the evening Times and began paging through them.

Sherlock was indeed home that rainy afternoon and he had been listening for John to return from his errands. The truth was Sherlock hadn't even left his bedroom, much less the flat, that day. He had grown accustomed to the people staring at him as he walked down the streets alone but that was not what had kept him shut in today. Rather, it was an aching body and a pounding head that kept him in bed. Ordinarily, Sherlock dismissed any bodily discomfort with a trick of his mind – he had trained himself to be able to convince his body that pain was just a figment of imagination – and carry on. However, things felt different now, knowing that John was angry with him and in the room upstairs. It was oddly unsettling for Sherlock and he wished John would come around. However, he knew that if their friendship was going to be reconciled, it had to be on John's initiative. So it had made perfect sense for Sherlock, upon waking up to the pounding headache, to just stay in bed. There was no pressing case – he hadn't had a case in ages – and he didn't have anything better to do. Sherlock slept for most of the morning and woke up at lunch time feeling worse than before. His body had decided to wage war and he was so incredibly achy that lying still felt like there were a thousand needles pressing into his back. It was at the point where Sherlock was considering taking paracetamol, although he didn't even know where to find the drug in the flat so he had simply been lying in bed, listening for John to come home.

He heard John come in and pause, trying to gage Sherlock's whereabouts, before making himself a cup of tea and sitting down with the paper. He was undoubtedly sitting on the sofa, cushion closest to the window, with the paper spread open on the coffee table. John would have his knees spread apart and elbows resting on them as leaned over to read the small print. Despite having waited all day for John's return, Sherlock did not want to speak with him about something as simple as paracetamol. Another cold shoulder response would only make him feel worse. However, Sherlock decided as his pain intensified slightly, not getting some medicine was not an option and Sherlock thought about it.

Paracetamol … a common pain-killer … found in a medicine cabinet. Medicine chests were often in the bathroom (usually behind a mirror or under a sink) or the kitchen (often the small, oddly shaped cupboard that every kitchen seemed to come equipped with). Their bathroom did not have a mirror that opened, but there was room under the sink. Or was it in the kitchen? No, it wouldn't be in the kitchen. John was a medical man, meaning he wouldn't keep a first-aid kit in the kitchen. He would want access to clean towels and a sink that wasn't contaminated with food particles. So the paracetamol was in the bathroom, under the cabinet.

Satisfied, Sherlock forced his aching body out of bed and staggered to the door. As quietly as possible, he opened the door. He could see John sitting on the couch, knees on elbows, reading the paper but he didn't move when Sherlock's door opened – either because he didn't notice or he did and chose to ignore it. Sherlock, keeping his eyes trained on the ground, went into the bathroom. He knelt by the sink and looked under it. There, on the small shelf, next to the rubbing alcohol and hydrogen peroxide, was a bottle of paracetamol. Sherlock opened the child-proof cap and took two, swallowing them dry. He closed the cabinet and retreated back to his bed, feeling uncharacteristically tired.

I'm actually really pleased with how this turned out. I was quite nervous to try a post-Reichenbach but I think I might actually like this. The only problem I can't seem to get around is that I doubt John would've stayed in the flat all that time without Sherlock (he says he can't go back at the moment in the episode but I don't know where else he would end up permanently, if that makes sense.) Anyways. Feedback is always welcomed with a smile =)