On this day, John woke up on the couch sitting up, a sick detective laying facing down in his lap.
"Shit, what time is it?" He holds up his wrist to his squinting eyes, reading his invisible watch. Sherlock groans, making it apparent to the Doctor that a puddle of spit sat between his legs. Hopefully it was spit.
"How about we get you up, eh?" John groaned, rubbing on Sherlock's back, remembering how hard last night was for both of them. The chills got the genius this time, no matter how many times John pleaded that telling him would make it easier, Sherlock won out with persistence.
The pale skinny man coughed painfully, then shoved his hands underneath himself, lifting his body up slow.
"Yep, that is one-hundred percent last night's dinner." John referred to the mess Sherlock left behind, thinking of ways he should clean it up. "I shouldn't have done that, but I couldn't get up in time last night, then I just... fell asleep." Sherlock apologized from the corner he seemed to always be talking from, that dark place in the room that found him.
"No, nope, no, you don't apologize for getting sick. You tried that last week, and it didn't suit you." John gave a stern look over to the other, then stood squatting. "Doesn't mean I don't owe you an apology, John." Sherlock said in his best laugh, but both knew it wasn't a joke.
...
John spent more of his days forgetting about work and more watching Sherlock go crazy with Greg refusing him on a case that desperately needed him. It seemed Sherlock was going more mentally insane than anything.
Until Mycroft found him a case.
"John, i'm off, don't wait up for me." Sherlock was dressed, fully, coat washed and everything, hair done to the last curl. John spat his coffee across the table, kicking his chair back in attempt to stop the man. "Wait up for you? I'm stopping you! You are not leaving." Foot down, John blocked the path through the door.
"Don't be daft, John. Just because I've been experiencing some health stuns, doesn't mean I can't have a rowe with a case!" It was old Sherlock, despite the thinner face and deeper eyes, the same man spoke his enthusiasm for solving mysteries.
"Health stuns? No, finding you passed out naked in the shower was a health stun! This? Cleaning up after you expell every meal? Seeing you sweat buckets and still be frozen to the bone? Not knowing if this is one of your good days or bad? No, those were beyond health stuns." John licked at the sore in his mouth, not giving Sherlock eye contact.
A good minute passed of Sherlock's loud breathing. Then, he sheds his coat, dropping it to the ground. "I've scared you. John, you know I don't want to. But I'm not sure I can help if it hurts you or not."
John sighed, loud, then rolled his eyes. "Because god knows you try. If there has been one unspoken promise between us, it's if you and I keep no secrets. And I know you have one now."
What was it? Terminal? Just a vaccine away? Did he need treatment? What?
"I'm going through with the case. If that means I no longer have your help, then i'm fine with it. You've wasted enough of your time." Sherlock didn't take his coat. He left it on the floor as he nudged passed.
John couldn't reply. He tried as his friend squeazed passed him, smelling of cologne and haste. He bit his tongue thinking up a retort watching him stride down each step.
He went, though, and a day passed without John knowing what happened or who got what. Up until his cell rang from Mycroft's number could he breath.
"What did you set him up to?" John was none too happy. "God forgive me, John." Mycroft whispered on the other end. "Forgive you for what?! What did you do to him?" John fought his yell coming out, "The Holmes brothers seeem to have a thing for keeping secrets, am I right? I've spent months seeing Sherlock deteriorate without knowing what he's got, and you've probably known all along. Am. I. Right?!"
Mycroft wheezes in and out, the ruffling of a tissue being heard. "There's a ride outside waiting for you. I've brought the family doctor to mummy's. He's safer here." The oddest thing to hear was Mycroft cry, because that was something nobody should witness.
John hung up and made way to the Holmes' mansion. He knew they had some money, but nothing compared to what the driveway read. The gates were encrusted, the driveway was soundless, and every hedge was cut to perfection. "Damn." John had to admire.
But that was only a piece of a few good notes he would derive.