"When I was told that you were sick, I retorted that you could take care of yourself. And then I happen to drop by the flat, just to check on you and not to visit, because I can't visit anyone right now, I find you passed out in a pile of glass in your own cluttered kitchen. For a military man, you're living a sloppy lifestyle."
John heard a voice talking to him. He recognized the voice. He didn't believe that the voice was really there, though, because it was Sherlock's voice.
"You're a genuine idiot, John. I thought you were smarter than this."
John found himself being hauled off his feet. There was a brief moment where it seemed like he was falling- falling, like Sherlock, Sherlock had fallen...
John fell onto his bed with a slight groan.
"You're burning up. I don't know how long you've had this fever, but as a doctor, you should be taking better care of yourself."
John fumbled for the duvet, drawing it over his head.
This wasn't the first time that he had dealt with hallucinations. They had become a normal occurence for John, especially during the first month. He'd seen Sherlock sprawled out on the couch, spotted him in a crowd, heard him working on an experiment, heard his insults, spotted his eyes looking back at him in a reflection... Hallucinations were normal. They had been painful at first, so, so painful, but he had gotten used to them.
He had expected them to go away.
They hadn't.
Except now it was worse... He was actually hearing Sherlock's voice, and Sherlock was griping at him because he was sick. Sherlock didn't gripe at him because he was sick; he griped because he was stupid. So John knew this was a hallucination.
Sherlock would never care so much.
The blanket was suddenly wrenched away.
Oh, this was really an intricate hallucination.
"Stop it," said Sherlock's voice. "Stop being stupid; it's tedious and dull."
John mumbled something in response, but even he didn't know what he had been trying to say. Nothing constructive, he reckoned; he rarely said anything constructive nowadays.
There was something cold and wet on his forehead just then. John wanted to protest, but he couldn't find the strength to.
"I'm not even supposed to be here, John. I'm supposed to be on a flight to Johannesburg," Sherlock's voice conversationally.
"Why are you going to Johannesburg...?"
John had always thought that, if he heard voices, he was fine... as long as he didn't reply to them. However, with Sherlock sounding so close, so nearby...
If he was insane... at least he'd get to have a conversation with Sherlock.
"It doesn't matter."
"Wanna know..." John murmured. He pried his eyes open. He felt sick. He had been feeling sick. He didn't know if he was still sick. Or if he had been sick...
"There are people I need to meet."
"People... people more important than me?" John muttered, staring up at Sherlock.
The consulting detective looked so normal. So like how John had seen him... before he had jumped off the rooftop of St. Barts. Pale skin, dark hair, piercing eyes, long coat... So very like the Sherlock Holmes that John had known.
"Don't be ridiculous, John," Sherlock replied, before John's world was suddenly dark. John realized that Sherlock had moved what seemed to be a cold compass over his eyes. He sighed heavily and closed his eyes. He didn't want to close his eyes. He didn't want to fall asleep. He didn't want Sherlock to leave him... He didn't want to open his eyes again and find that Sherlock was gone. That Sherlock was dead. Because Sherlock really was dead.
John had to rely on hallucinations. And he didn't want his hallucination to leave him now.
Sherlock, with a sigh, sank heavily onto the edge of the bed, staring at the sleeping figure of John Watson.
How did it come to this? How did it come to Sherlock taking care of John? How did it come to Sherlock revealing to John that he was still alive? Not that John understood that, anyway...
Sherlock hesitantly picked up the cold washcloth and folded it over again, pressing the cool side to John's forehead again.
The doctor was burning up. Sherlock wasn't sure how John had managed to get a fever so high, not when he was a doctor and he sort of... should have noticed it. He knew how to take care of himself, so... why didn't he?
Was John really depressed...?
Sherlock had expected John to be upset. He had expected John to be angry. He hadn't expected John to get depressed. John wouldn't let himself give into the depression, if it was there, would he? He wouldn't. He couldn't. He just...
John was strong. Sherlock had always admired him for that. (He wouldn't admit it to John, of course.) John always stuck around him, always followed him wherever he needed him to, always helped him with what he needed help with. And he barely even complained. And that was amazing, because no one ever put up with Sherlock without complaining.
Sherlock sighed and stood, walking to the bathroom. He had figured out the layout of John's flat the moment he had walked in, but it still felt weird to be walking around a flat, that he and John were both in, that wasn't Baker Street. This flat just didn't feel... well, it didn't feel like home.
Sherlock wouldn't tell John that, though, although he wasn't sure why. Why shouldn't he be his normal, blunt self? It would make John feel better, wouldn't it? But something was preventing Sherlock from saying anything that might be too... delicate.
Why?
Sherlock grabbed a few bags of frozen vegetables from the freezer. He noted the lack of food in the fridge, grabbing himself a packet of crisps from the cupboard, before walking back to John's bedroom.
He popped the packet of crisps open, munching on one absently. He placed the packet on the bed, dusting salt off of his hands. He took two of the bags of frozen veggies and placed them on John's arms; the other he wrapped in the compress and placed back on John's forehead.
He wasn't well versed on how to deal with a fever. He never got sick, so there was no point to hang onto the useless information about it.
However... a fever was the core temperature being higher than normal. To help fight off infection, the body temperature rose. So, to get rid of a fever, the body would have to get cooler. Ice packs could help with that. Drinking something cold would probably help, too.
Sherlock eyed John for a moment as he returned to his crisps. The doctor was unconscious, or had just fallen asleep; the point was the same: he couldn't drink anything right now.
So, ice packs it was and that was all Sherlock could do right now... right?
If John's internal temperature was high, he would be feeling cold. That was just a strange phenomenon that happened with high temperatures. The mind played tricks on you. (That's why Sherlock hated illness.) That asides, if John was cold, he would immediately burrow towards the warmth that was the blankets. Sherlock had wrenched it away once, but John would snuggle close again.
Sherlock sighed and pulled the duvet and cover off the bed, letting it fall heavily onto the hardwood floor. He left the sheet for John, although he didn't place it over him. It was better for John to shiver than to have his temperature rise, right?
Sherlock returned to his spot on the bed, leaning against the bedpost slightly. Eating his crisps methodically, he analyzed John.
He certainly looked a lot different.
It didn't make much sense. Sherlock had only been 'dead' for slightly over a half year. Seven months was hardly enough time for someone to physically change, not in the way that it seemed like John had.
His hair seemed more grey and he had lost weight. At least five pounds if Sherlock was correct, and he was sure that he was. His eyes were hazed with fever, but they lacked the interest that they had when Sherlock had lived with him. He was pale and he seemed more drawn up and just... John-less. It was like John wasn't even there anymore.
The empty shell that was left behind unsettled Sherlock more than he cared to let on.
Oh well, Sherlock thought as he crunched on another crisp, John'll be back to normal as soon as the illness fades.
He never paused to consider that a fever wasn't the only illness John was sick with.
He never imagined that the word psychosomatic would refer to John's state of health once again.