In retrospect, the walk had been a bad idea; Sherlock had been noticeably more tired during dinner and the persistent cough had grown stronger in the evening, wracking his thinner frame to the point where it looked painful.
John increased the analgesic dose as much as he felt comfortable, and it took the edge off, but even propped up on three pillows, the incessant coughing was keeping his partner awake, robbing him of the sleep he so desperately needed.
"Here," John said, setting his medical bag on the bed while Sherlock winced in the dim light from the lamp on the bedside table. "I'm going to give you a sedative."
It was a measure of Sherlock's misery that he let John jab his arm without so much as a comment, let alone a protest. John made quick work of the injection; Sherlock watched him wearily, dark circles smudged under his eyes.
"That'll help," John murmured, putting the bag away and shutting the light off again. Lying on his side let him rub a hand over Sherlock's chest, feeling the faint shudder of muscles against his fingers as his partner's lungs tried to clear themselves. The light massage was more soothing than anything, and combined with the sedative and the decongestants, John felt Sherlock begin to relax slowly, slipping gently toward sleep.
He allowed himself a moment of relief, hand pausing in its slow, rhythmic motions. The silence of the countryside was powerful – no hum of traffic, no distant buzz of airplanes, no fading wail of sirens. John could easily have believed they were the only two people in the house, and the peace might have been perfect if not for the laboured wheeze in Sherlock's breathing.
Should've known better, John berated himself. It had seemed like a good idea. In a way, it still did. Sherlock had been better for getting out – at least while they were out – and had been able to air some of his frustrations.
They weren't surprising. He was glad Sherlock had spoken them out loud, and he wasn't particularly worried. The lethargy would fade with the illness – John's main concern now is that the latter might be coming back.
The back of his fingers pressed against Sherlock's face didn't register a fever, but he was uneasy with the rattle in his partner's chest. He'd been doing relatively well at home, but this reminded John too much of how he'd sounded in the hospital.
He closed his eyes but sleep refused to come, focused as he was on Sherlock's raspy breathing. The sound began to wear on him, and John fought against fidgeting, not wanting to disturb his partner, but the restlessness refused to abate. With a defeated sigh, he slipped from the bed and out of the room, leaving the door open. He settled on the sofa, pulling a blanket over his legs, checking the time on his phone. A little after eleven – when he'd normally be going to bed. Amazing how late it felt, and how tired it made him.
John clicked his phone off and snuggled down determinedly. He wouldn't be of any use to his partner if he was exhausted himself, and after living in the hospital for nearly a week, he needed the sleep almost as much as Sherlock did.
It was almost two in the morning when the sound of coughing jarred John awake; he was up and stumbling toward the bedroom before he was fully conscious, registering his name spoken in a faint, breathless voice.
It was bad enough to have woken Sherlock from the sedative-induced sleep, and John could see the silhouette of his partner curled forward, shoulders shaking. He switched on the light, snagging a box of tissues as he scrambled onto the bed. Sherlock took the one pressed into his hands, spit, and tossed it into the bin without looking.
John fetched his stethoscope, listening as Sherlock coughed, not liking the depth of the rattle in his lungs. It meant the congestion was clearing up, but the faint whimper at the end of each spasm was indicative of how much pain it was causing.
"Here," he said, helping Sherlock with a glass of water and two more decongestant tablets, rubbing his partner's back as Sherlock swallowed. "There, good," John murmured. "Let's give that a bit of time to start working. No, don't lie down, stay sitting up. It'll be easier."
Sherlock didn't argue, which John found troubling, but at least he was listening. He soothed a palm up and down Sherlock's back, skin against skin, as his partner kept coughing, running through almost half a box of tissues before it began to abate. Sherlock leaned against him, the wheeze still audible in his lungs. John pressed a kiss against his temple, feeling the faint flutter of eyelashes against his cheek.
Sherlock made another small noise, shoulders shaking again; John hummed wordlessly.
"John, I need to sleep," Sherlock managed, the tension in his muscles underscoring the exhaustion in his voice.
"I'll remind you one day that you said that," John replied, putting a slight smile into his voice, trying to find some levity in the situation. He felt a small shift in the muscles of Sherlock's cheek against his own, a pale reflection of a smile gone before it had really formed.
"Here, I have some menthol rub. I know you hate the smell, but it'll help."
Sherlock nodded, tipping his head back, shuddering slightly with another bout of coughing. John helped him out of his t-shirt, rubbing his partner's bare back slowly, massaging the gel into his skin. He lay Sherlock back on a small pile of pillows and did his chest next, keeping a sharp ear on the sound of his partner's breathing. The back-and-forth motion gave him an excuse to check Sherlock's ribs without being too obvious about it – his partner probably knew, but offered no resistance.
The small sense of relief John let himself feel when Sherlock's eyes dropped closed was short-lived; his partner doubled forward again, wracked by another coughing fit. John rubbed his back, murmuring meaningless reassurances, until Sherlock slumped on the pillows again, pale and wrung out.
John smoothed another dab of the rub on Sherlock's chest, using his free hand to run through dishevelled curls, hoping the light coughs wouldn't deepen again. Sherlock relaxed slowly, eyes falling closed again, face turned slightly toward John. There was a faint crease around his eyes even as he drifted to sleep, accompanied a sharp wheeze in his breathing. It was louder than before and John tried to ignore the weight of unease settling in his stomach as he checked Sherlock's temperature again.
When he was certain his partner was asleep again, he shut the light off and shuffled down to lie on his side, still stroking Sherlock's chest gently. John closed his eyes, hoping for sleep, but it eluded him, stolen by the rasping, laboured sound of his partner's breathing.
It was obvious with a glance that John hadn't slept; he looked as bad or worse than Sherlock felt. The doctor greeted him with a tired smile that came nowhere near his eyes; an attempt to speak was cut off by a coughing fit and Sherlock moaned, the muscles around his ribs protesting the abuse.
It was over much sooner than the previous ones but left him feeling exhausted, as though he'd been awake all night as well. Sherlock rubbed his eyes, muscles aching with the motion. He was tempted to roll onto his side and go back to sleep, but the rattle he could feel in his lungs told him he wouldn't succeed.
"Let's have a bath," John suggested. "The steam will help."
Sherlock nodded, listening to the sounds of John shaving while water filled the porcelain tub. He padded wearily to the bathroom when John called him, and sat on the toilet, letting his partner shave him carefully.
It helped him feel a bit more human, but not much.
The bath wasn't as roomy as theirs, but they made do, and the hot water helped his tired muscles while the steam cleared his lungs. When they were done and dressed – John in jeans and a jumper, Sherlock in a fresh pair of pyjamas – there was a faint knock on the door.
His mother gave them a sympathetic, knowing smile when she entered. There was a quick, critical assessment to her gaze, one Sherlock was long used to, but that made him feel both old and like a very young child.
"Oh my boy," she sighed, leaning down to press a kiss against his forehead, lips warm where they met his skin. "I was hoping a good night's sleep might have helped."
"It might have," Sherlock agreed. "If I'd had one."
"You should rest then."
"What was the plan otherwise?" Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow, unsurprised that his mother neither backed down nor looked embarrassed.
"That you rest regardless," she said. "I'm taking John to town for breakfast."
"He shouldn't be alone," John said – immediately and predictably.
"He won't be," Sibyl replied, as though Sherlock were a child, unable to have an opinion about his own welfare. "William will stay with him."
"Mum," Sherlock sighed.
"John will see to whatever medications you need, but you clearly need some sleep. Your father has plenty of work to keep him occupied, all of which can be done from here."
Unable to stop himself, Sherlock folded his arms over his chest, ignoring the mild ache it caused, and slouched down on the sofa. Sibyl's fingertips brushed his cheek, a smile touching her features.
"Is it so terrible I want to spend time with my son-in-law?" she asked.
"We're not married," Sherlock muttered.
"Nevertheless." And there it was. No room for argument. Sherlock sighed, cast a glance at John, who looked almost relieved at the prospect. He wanted to protest – he was confined here while John went out. Sherlock was ill; he needed a doctor. What would he do if the fever came back or the coughing wouldn't abate?
"We'll be no more than ten minutes away," Sibyl assured him, reading the momentary flare of panic he couldn't quite hide. "Contrary to what you might think, your father is actually capable of caring for you. Would you deny me something I enjoy?"
"What about something I enjoy?" Sherlock muttered, aware he sounded petulant, not entirely willing to concede.
"Right now, I think there's little you'd enjoy more than rest. An hour, maybe two, Sherlock. You're likely to sleep through it all anyway."
"Oh all right," Sherlock muttered, slumping down even further, glowering at the knowing smile that played on his mother's lips.
"Thank you," she said, kissing him lightly on the crown on his head. "John, meet me in the drive in ten minutes. William will be here shortly. Sherlock, please behave for your father. For once."
"You really don't have to do this."
"I don't feel obliged, John," Sibyl said with a kind smile. "It's something I want to do. Whether or not you ever have it formalized, you are a member of my family. I'm glad to know you – and not just as my son's partner."
John gave her a smile in return; it felt weak, tempered by the fatigue that clung to his muscles. Three hours hadn't been nearly enough sleep, especially as he'd spent the rest of the night on-call.
In a way, it was a relief to have a break, and he felt a sharp pang of guilt at the realization.
"My sons are both very demanding men," Sibyl continued, arching an eyebrow, and John got the impression she somehow knew about the guilt, even if he'd tried to hide it, "and Sherlock was always the baby of the family. He's never completely outgrown the sense that he deserves everything."
"I'm not sure he'd agree," John mused, half to himself.
"Oh, he'd agree he deserves everything," Sibyl replied, a knowing glint in her eye. "But not because he was the youngest. John, you've been at his beck and call both professional and personally since he's been ill. You deserve a reprieve – not just to get away physically, but emotionally, too. William will call if there are any problems. From now until the time we get home, leave Sherlock where he is and just enjoy yourself."
His smile was more genuine this time, but John felt a little abashed – he was a grown man, for god's sake. He shouldn't need someone else's permission to relax and enjoy himself.
"Sometimes we all need permission," Sibyl said, and John rolled his eyes, lips twitching again.
They found a little place in the village for breakfast, reminiscent of a Victorian tea house but with a more extensive menu, much to John's relief. A full meal and a cup of tea made him feel more human, and the distant company of the other patrons helped ease the narrow focus he'd been feeling lately. Sibyl kept the conversation deftly away from Sherlock, enquiring about John's family and work, reminiscing about her favourite places in London.
"You should come visit," John said. "You and William."
"Soon," Sibyl agreed. "I've convinced William to spend a week in southern France, and Angela's happily agreed to let us take the children. I'm sure I can encourage my husband to spend a few days in London on either end. He enjoys the city more than I do."
"Why don't you like it?" John enquired.
"It's not that I dislike it," Sibyl replied. "Just that the men in my family like it more. I appreciate it for what it is, but don't crave the busyness on a regular basis. It's quieter here. Slower. As much as I'm sure he'd protest, those things are good for William, too."
John nodded, remembering Sherlock's musings on retirement the day before. Now that he thought about it again, it was hard to picture his partner retiring. What would he do? He couldn't play the violin or shag John for twelve hours a day, and his work kept him busy enough that he had few other hobbies.
What would John himself do, for that matter?
"Let's take a walk, shall we?" Sibyl suggested, shaking him from his reverie. "It's a beautiful day, and we could both use the fresh air."
He could smell freshly baked bread.
For a moment, Sherlock considered that he was having a stroke – that was one of the symptoms, and he was hardly sleeping in a kitchen – before the smell resolved itself into something more familiar and logical: scones. Freshly baked, yes, which meant the kitchen staff had just sent them up. The faint sounds of rustling paper and the clink of porcelain on porcelain indicated he wasn't alone. His father was in the sitting room, working and having tea.
Reluctantly, Sherlock opened his eyes, focussing slowly on the handmade card John had brought with them. Olivia had made it for him while he'd been in the hospital. Sherlock had eventually thought to ask what kind of seven year old girl preferred dinosaurs to princesses; John had rolled his eyes and presented Sherlock's entire family as evidence. The memory made him smile now, but the expression vanished as a spasm clutched his lungs, making him double forward. It was shorter lived than the bouts that morning, but his ribs still ached, protesting the continued abuse.
With a sigh, Sherlock eased himself from the bed, brushed his teeth in the small ensuite, and padded into the sitting room. His father extended a cup of tea on a saucer to him without comment; Sherlock took only the cup, knowing it would irritate William. He got a raised eyebrow for his insubordination but only shrugged, slipping out the French doors onto the stone-paved terrace outside.
William joined him a moment later, tucking a blanket around Sherlock's shoulders and another over his legs. Sherlock gave him a long-suffering look, which his father ignored altogether. He settled in the chair next to his son, tea in hand.
"It's rather Victorian, isn't it?" Sherlock mused.
"What is?" William asked.
"This," Sherlock said, gesturing vaguely with one hand. "Falling ill, being sent to the country to recover. Fresh air, lifting the spirit, et cetera."
"Oh, I don't know," his father replied. "Back then, you probably would have died."
"Yes, thank you for that," Sherlock said, hiding a slight smile against the rim of his cup as he took a sip. His father gave him a neutral look in return, but Sherlock didn't miss the light of laughter in his eyes.
"And you weren't sent so much as you chose to come. If you didn't want to be here, Sherlock, you wouldn't be. There's nothing wrong with your flat in the city."
Sherlock nodded vaguely, closing his eyes. That was true, yet he didn't miss it. In some indefinable way, for some incomprehensible reason, he'd been homesick for here while in London. Certainly not, he told himself, because he required his parents' presence when he was ill. He was forty and well passed that sort of thing. But the air here was better, and it was more peaceful. Calm and quiet.
Normally he'd have found that hateful – right now, he appreciated it immensely.
"I assume your presence and John's absence means they aren't back yet," he commented.
"Mm," his father replied. Sherlock cracked an eye open to look at him. "Your mother called, said they were taking a walk." William paused, taking a sip of his tea, looking contemplative. "You're a very lucky man, you know."
Sherlock snorted softly. "So are you."
"Oh, believe me, I have no illusions about that," his father replied. "I think I'll live the rest of my life not quite understanding how remarkable your mother is – and not for lack of trying." William paused, sipping his tea. "John's a good man."
I'm not a good man. The words came back to him unbidden, making Sherlock feel a pang of unease. If William noticed his momentary discomfort, it didn't show.
"He is indeed," Sherlock agreed. "But far too fond of insisting that I rest."
"He's not the only one," William replied. "You're too much like your mother."
Sherlock raised his eyebrows but made no comment; William gave him a long, knowing look.
"More tea?" his father asked.
Sherlock hummed, tilting his head back against the chair, relishing the cool breeze across his face.
"And biscuits," he replied.
John's return was a palpable relief. William's company wasn't demanding or tiring, but Sherlock couldn't remember having spent that much time with his father in years. If ever. It irritated him that he felt a bit like a child, uncertain how to act. Conversations had never been their strong suit – particularly since his father seemed disinclined toward them in general.
In the end it hadn't mattered; Sherlock had dozed off in the chair, and was now regretting it, even as John leaned down to press a warm kiss on his forehead. His muscles, already aching, felt stiff and resistant, and his neck cracked when he tipped his head from side-to-side.
John looked better, though – a smile on his lips at Sherlock's obvious discomfort, the light returned to his brown eyes.
"Thanks," he said to William, unfeigned sincerity in his voice.
"Of course," William replied, gathering his work and leaving them in silence.
"You survived," John commented, helping Sherlock from the chair, rubbing his back gently.
"Barely," Sherlock muttered. "You wouldn't have let me fall asleep in the chair. I feel like a rusty hinge."
"Oh yes I would have," John countered, his smile growing.
"I'm surrounded on all fronts," Sherlock groused, succeeding only in making John grin again.
"Come on inside, I'll give you a massage."
That made it all worth it; there were few luxuries in life that compared to John's massages. He had no formal training, but his medical expertise – not to mention nearly a decade of knowing Sherlock's body – made John as skilled as any professional Sherlock had ever hired.
He undressed slowly, shuffling under the blankets and propping himself up on a pillow. Lying on his chest wouldn't work for long, but it was enough time for John to loosen his tired muscles, making him feel warm and relaxed. At a murmured command, Sherlock rolled over, sitting up to cough, then lay against the pile of pillows. John rubbed his chest, soothing strokes down his arms, digging thumbs into palms. Sherlock closed his eyes, feeling drowsy and content. Not enough to sleep, but enough to feel properly relaxed for the first time in over a week.
"Want me to do your legs?"
"Mm," Sherlock hummed, nodding. He normally disliked it, but the ache was still clinging to those muscles while the rest of his body felt sated. John worked downward slowly until he could dig his knuckles into the arches of Sherlock's feet and tug lightly on his toes. Sherlock hummed again, wondering vaguely when the last time he'd felt this human had been.
"Good?" John whispered, leaning over to brush a kiss against his lips.
"Perfect," Sherlock murmured, reaching up to card a hand through John's hair without looking.
"Glad to hear it," John replied, and Sherlock could feel the smile stretching across his partner's lips. "I've got to shower; you just rest."
He was too satisfied to argue, unbothered by the loss of warmth as John pulled away. Receding footsteps took his partner into the bathroom; Sherlock floated blissfully, listening to the steady stream of water hitting porcelain, to the faint, soft sounds of clothing puddling on hard tile.
It was several minutes before Sherlock realized that it had been a longer shower than normal for John. He cracked his eyes open, glancing toward the bathroom, lips pulling down into a slight frown. John wasn't prone to long showers, especially when he was on his own – too much military training.
Ah, Sherlock realized and sat up, swallowing a faint groan as his body protested the movement. He padded into the bathroom and slid the frosted glass door aside, raising an eyebrow at John's surprise.
Before his partner could protest, Sherlock stepped in with him, curling long fingers over John's wrists, undeterred by the sudden resistance of muscles.
"Let me," Sherlock murmured.
"You can't–" John managed, voice thicker than normal.
"You can," Sherlock replied, leaning down to brush their lips together, a small moan bouncing in the space between them.
"Sherlock–"
"Shh, John, let me."
John relented, pulling his hands away from himself reluctantly, tipping his head back when Sherlock's roaming fingers circled his nipples, pinching and twisting. The doctor groaned, the sound reverberating off the tiled walls, and Sherlock felt his own body stirring but ignored it. He really couldn't, not with his lungs, but there was nothing wrong with John.
He kissed his partner again, tongue flickering over John's bottom lip until the doctor parted his lips. Sherlock kept the touch light, teasing the tip of John's tongue with his own, tasting the desire.
"Jesus, Sherlock. Please."
Sherlock hummed in agreement, letting a hand trail down to wrap around John's erection, stroking with too light a grip. His partner shuddered, fingers digging into Sherlock's upper arms, muscles twitching with the urge to thrust. Sherlock smoothed his free hand over John's hip to the small of his back and tightened his grip. John took the unspoken invitation, thrusting into his fist as Sherlock stroked harder.
"Come on, John," he murmured, nuzzling his partner's ear. John dropped his forehead against Sherlock's shoulder, breath coming in hot pants against Sherlock's skin. "Come on."
"Sherlock oh god–" John gasped as he came, body shuddering. Sherlock steadied him with his left hand, easing off when it became too much. John leaned against him, still breathing hard, expression dazed when he managed to look up.
"Better?" Sherlock murmured.
"God yes," John replied, closing his eyes when Sherlock bent to kiss him.
He cleaned his partner slowly with a flannel, smiling as John's fingers laced into his hair, before they climbed out and he patted the doctor dry.
"You need to sleep," Sherlock commented. John's lips stretched into a tired but contented smile.
"Have we switched places?" he asked, closing his eyes when Sherlock towelled his hair vigorously.
"Only for the time being."
"I can live with that," John said, leaning up for another kiss.
They shuffled into pyjamas, crawling under the covers. John settled on his side, an arm around Sherlock's waist, their legs hooked together. Sherlock would have preferred to wrap around John, but lying on his side would only send him into a coughing fit. He contented himself instead with stroking his fingers through John's damp hair.
"What about you?" John murmured, eyes drifting shut, voice thick but with sleep this time.
"I'll be fine," Sherlock promised, kissing his partner lightly. "Just rest."