AN – Sorry about the delay in posting, I had what should have been a simple fall but actually managed to break a rib! Much better now thanks to modern medicine.

Many thanks to everyone who corrected my transposition of the figures regarding John's high temperature which I have now amended as to the anon review which pointed out pneumonia was more likely to be bacterial than viral, I hope this begins to answer that – wouldn't want to give too much away!

Set between Study in Pink and the Blind Banker


The bathroom floor was covered with garish yellow and white tiles which dated them precisely to the mid nineteen seventies. They were cold and hard and from this close up indescribably ugly. Feeling his flatmate shiver involuntarily in his arms, Sherlock frowned and turned his attention to the matter in hand.

"Can you stand?"

John didn't speak but the way he reached out to grab the edge of the bath and began to lever himself to his feet was an answer in itself. His face was set with determination however each slow and careful movement bore witness to how badly he was really feeling. By the time he eventually stood up, his brow was clammy with sweat and his face completely ashen. Even so, when Sherlock rose smoothly to his own feet and reached out to steady him, his assistance was politely but firmly rejected.

"I can manage."

Sherlock's brow furrowed slightly. It was perfectly obvious to him that John could not manage. However, allowing him to stagger unaided to his room simply in order to prove his hypothesis would only risk further injury. On the other hand, Sherlock already had sufficient experience of John Watson's stubbornness to realise that simply pointing that self evident truth would not have the slightest effect.


For once Sherlock had been content to pass the evening sitting in the grey leather armchair, one long leg crossed over another, the only movement in the room the flicker of the gas fire and the occasional turn of a page as he read, his expression a study in concentration as he allowed himself to be utterly absorbed. He didn't even bother to look up as familiar footsteps sounded on the stairs.

"That would be\ nice." He drawled.

"Sorry, what?" John Watson stopped in the middle of the living room.

"Some tea," Sherlock continued reading. "You were thinking of making some. I thought I would save you the trouble of asking."

"Right," John sighed "That was good of you."

The unexpectedly defeated sound made Sherlock frown slightly, even as his flatmate toed off his shoes and headed towards the kettle. Peering over the top of his book, Sherlock noted that his usually tolerant flatmate's shoulders were unnaturally tense, his jaw clenched and his mouth set in a thin, unhappy, line. Eyes narrowing fractionally, Sherlock's brain began analysing the available data.

1. John had been absent for almost five hours

2. Given the way he had left the beans simmering on the hob and shrugged into his jacket with nothing more than a warning not to let the place actually burn down during his absence the departure had been urgent but unplanned.

3. His expression of resignation rather than anxiety suggested that whatever the 'emergency' was it was something that John was sure he could handle – or had handled before.

4. However, his uncharacteristically defeated air upon his return indicated that things had not gone as well as he expected.

5. The fact that the Doctor appeared not to have noticed the fresh bright red blood staining his right shirt sleeve suggested a lack of professional detachment. Not a patient, something personal.

6. John's parent's was both dead. He wasn't presently dating. So, either a close friend (unlikely – if John Watson had a close friend not presently deployed abroad he would be sharing a flat with him rather than Sherlock Holmes) which left his only surviving relative.

7. Taking all the factors into consideration it was clear that John had been summoned to attend to Harry, because she was drunk, and she had not exactly welcomed his intervention.

Sherlock bided his time, waiting until John, looking pale and drawn, had padded over in his stocking feet to deposit a mug of tea by his side. Curling his long white fingers around the still tanned wrist, he held his flat mate in place, noting that John didn't protest the contact, nor voice any objection as he pushed up his sleeve to reveal the still bleeding crescent shaped imprint on his arm. Refraining from stating the extremely obvious Sherlock let the warmth of his fingers on John's pulse point and his intensity of his regard ask the unspoken question.

"Harry bit me." John admitted, averting his gaze uncomfortably.

The quiet words were spoken without any real emotion. Except perhaps a touch of weary resignation, certainly not any of the shock and outrage which might be expected from a man in his thirties whose older sister his just sank her teeth into his arm hard enough to draw blood.

Not the first time this had happened then.

"Nasty," Sherlock observed dispassionately. "The human mouth is a breeding ground for bacteria, even more so than dogs."

"Maybe I should get a rabies shot then." His flat mate's tone was scathing.

"Don't be ridiculous, John. As a doctor I'm sure your tetanus is up to date. That will be quite sufficient."

"Well good, that's good, isn't it?"

John pulled his hand free, his body language making it clear that he thought this situation was actually anything but good. Stalking over to the kitchen he pulled out the First Aid Kit and sat down in one of the kitchen chairs as he bared his arm and methodically began cleaning the red raw wound, his tight shuttered expression the only clue to the emotional turmoil boiling below.

Not remotely acceptable.

Sherlock set aside his book and strode across the room to sit at the kitchen table opposite his friend. His eyes tracked the doctor's hands as they cleaned out the wound with antiseptic then deftly cut gauze to size before wrapping a long thin bandage around his arm. As he worked John occasionally glanced curiously across at Sherlock, as if wondering what he was doing, which was odd, because the consulting detective thought it should have been obvious that his silent vigil was intended to be comforting.

"I'm fine." John spoke up suddenly,

No you're not," Sherlock corrected. "You're a doctor. You've spent your life helping people. Yet you have had to stand by as your sister destroys her marriage and her life with her drinking. You've made a real difference to total stranger's lives naturally you're blaming yourself for being unable to reach your own flesh and blood."

"You're analysing my sibling relationship? That's a bit rich, don't you think?" But John's lips quirked slightly, as some of the tension leaked out of him.

Sherlock grinned back at his flatmate. The man's willingness to stand his ground and not be cowed either by Sherlock's acerbic attitude or his arrogant demeanour was refreshing. More significantly, John Watson had already proved a sufficiently staunch ally to save Sherlock's life. The consulting detective was determined to repay that favour even if he had to save John Watson one piece at a time.

"As annoying as I find my brother's interference I am well aware that he believes he only has my best interests at heart," Sherlock admitted with unusual candour."Your relationship witb Harry is rather more complex."

"That's one way of describing it." John sighed again.

As he finished wrapping the gauze around his arm, he split the ends into two, preparing to take one strand into his mouth in order to awkwardly tie off the knot.

"Let me." Sherlock offered.

"It's okay," John gave him a warm smile, even as he rejected his assistance. "I've got it."


It never ceased to amaze Sherlock how people would look but they never saw.

They looked at Sherlock Holmes with his sharp intellect and even sharper tongue and regarded him as a cold, calculating man, devoid of empathy or warmth. And Sherlock knew he was all those things and far worse. They looked at John Watson and recognised a man who had devoted his life to caring for others, saving others, whose gentle humour and remarkable tolerance could be relied upon. And John was all of those things and far more.

What they failed to see was Sherlock was a man of extremes. He could be cutting. But he would hug and kiss Mrs Hudson with unmitigated delight. Within days of meeting John Watson he was manhandling the man into his coat and out the door. Even total strangers could elicit a genuinely warm smile given the right circumstances. In contrast, John was polite but reserved, expressing his affection for Mrs Watson with words rather than touch, keeping his distance from others both physically and emotionally, especially, when it came to accepting help.

"You have a brother who's worried about you but you won't go to him for help."

Sherlock might have been wrong about Harry being John's brother but he had been spot on about the former soldier's stubborn streak. John helped others, but he was fiercely independent in addressing his own needs. Asking for help simply wasn't in his nature and, even when it was freely offered he was resistant, far preferring to take matters into his own hands, regardless of the discomfort or inconvenience it might cause him. Lucky for him then that Sherlock knew exactly which buttons to press.

"That's quite the double standard you have Doctor. You can shoot a man to save my life but I can't help you back to bed?" He challenged.

"We'd only know each other a day or so. If I'd had any idea what an idiot you were going to be I would never have bothered." John retorted.

"It was an experiment!" Sherlock defended his latest transgression.

"And why exactly did it have to involve my jumper? Couldn't you have used one of your own?

"Mine are all cashmere. I needed a wool polyester mix to duplicate the fibres found at the murder scene." Sherlock retorted, as if that should be obvious.

"And it didn't occur to you to take a sample, rather than setting fire to the whole jumper?"

"Actually," Sherlock's lighting fast features gave him away as he winced. "No."

"Prat." John scoffed fondly, as he settled himself more comfortably on his mattress.

Sherlock grinned down at him unrepentantly, one of his rare, true smiles. He found that he was oddly flattered that under the cover of their amicable bickering John had trusted him enough to help him across the landing, feeling the other man's weight pressed against his side, less as a burden and more as a hard earned and rather particular privilege.

"What me to tuck you in?" He teased now.

The rapid change in John's expression was the only warning he got and even with his lightening fast reflexes it wasn't enough. John barely managed to lean over the side of the bed before he was vomiting sour smelling bile. Sherlock was unable to do anything but watch as John's body efficiently emptied his stomach of its recent contents. Cold tears ran down John's face at the sheer physical effort and he was sheet white by the time he flopped back onto the pillows.

"Sorry." He managed. "Sorry."

It occurred to Sherlock that he should say something, do something, but the sight of his friend looking so utterly spent had him momentarily frozen to the spot. Even the sound of familiar but unwelcome footsteps on the stairs did nothing to stir him. The acrid smell of vomit filled the room, causing his nose to wrinkle, just as John's eyes flicked in his direction and Sherlock knew by the way his friend's expression instantly shuttered that John had jumped to entirely the wrong conclusion.

"Don't worry," John's tone was clipped. "I'll clean it up."

"It seems like I have arrived just in time." Mycroft spoke from the doorway, before Sherlock could respond, a coolly raised brow the only indication that he had even registered the acrid smell.

"Piss off Mycroft," Sherlock snapped. "I don't have time for your spy games right now."

"On the contrary, dear brother, I'm not here to solicit assistance but rather to provide it," Mycroft corrected. A man with an obviously military bearing appeared at his shoulder. "I regret that I wasn't able to second anyone from your former unit John, but since they still have two months of their deployment in Afghanistan to complete I'm afraid my meddling would be rather frowned upon. However, I trust you will find that Lieutenant Williams more than qualified to see your present medical needs."

Sherlock didn't bother to hide his slightly malicious grin as his elder brother's little speech came to an end. He had seen the way John's eyes had narrowed and his hands had clenched in the bedclothes as Mycroft had produced his minion. He knew exactly what was coming next. There was no way the John Watson he knew was going to accept help and assistance of a most personal and intimate kind from a total stranger. Smugly, Sherlock stuffed his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels and as he waited for John's inevitable outburst.

"Thank you, that's very thoughtful of you." John said politely.

Sherlock's face instantly twisted into a scowl, even as Mycroft's split into a magnanimous smile.

"Really, it's the least I could do," He almost purred with satisfaction. "It's not like Sherlock is going to be mopping your fevered brow after all."

"Mycroft, a word," Sherlock snapped. "Downstairs, if you please."

"Certainly," Mycroft agreed smoothly. "Lieutenant Williams here will ensure that Dr Watson is comfortable."

Feeling totally exhausted John listened with half an ear as the two brothers made their way down the stairs and the living room before the door firmly closed, then their muted voices could be heard arguing back and forth. John could just about distinguish between Sherlock's rich tones and Mycroft's lighter timbre before he was distracted.

"Sir?" Lieutenant Williams stood respectfully at attention. "Best to get you under the covers, then I'll clear up and we can see about getting you some fluids, maybe a spot of soup?"

"Of course." John agreed wearily.

He made no further comment as the Lieutenant removed his slippers and lifted his legs around onto the mattress, before pulling the duvet over him. John closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of the Army medic donning a pair of rubber gloves and sprinkling absorption powder on the small pile of vomit, before sweeping up and disposing of the resulting granules and finishing off by applying stain remover foam to the dark spot on the carpet and working it in before he vacuumed it off.

"I'll get you some water now, sir," Williams informed him. "And then something to eat, perhaps? I'm a dab hand at scrambled eggs or your housekeeper has made some nice chicken soup."

"Not my housekeeper," John managed as he cracked an eye open. "Let's just start with the water."

"Yes sir. Whatever you say, sir."

John huffed out a small breath and turned his head towards the window. If he had been feeling better he might even have raised a smile. Part of his brain wondered exactly what Mycroft had said to the young lad to make him quite so eager to please. He supposed he should be grateful that the elder Holmes had taken his welfare under his wing. Remembering the look of detachment on Sherlock's face as he had puked his guts up he knew he had little choice but to rely on strangers for his personal care. But it reminded him far too much of being ripped from his family for a second time and shipped to the rehabilitation centre like he didn't matter.

Damn it, he was not going to cry.

Closing his eyes tight again the burn of tears and clenching his fists tightly under the bedclothes, he didn't react as confident footsteps strode across the floorboards and, with a soft clink, deposited a glass of water on the bedside cabinet. However, the scent of chicken soup tickling his nostrils had his eyes snapping open in an instant.

"My orders were just water." He rasped.

"Then it's a good thing I don't take orders from you," Sherlock's smooth tones rebuked him. "You need to eat something John and it will hurt Mrs Hudson's feelings if you reject her culinary efforts."

Casting his flatmate a dark look, John nevertheless, pulled himself sufficiently upright to accept bowl and spoon. They both knew that there was no way that either of them would deliberately hurt Mrs Hudson's feelings, if it was in their power to avoid it. Steeling himself, John took a cautious mouthful, pleasantly surprised by the rich, flavours, even as the warm liquid soothed his aching throat, eased his sore esophagus and filled his traitorous stomach.

"What happened to Lieutenant Williams?" He asked after a few mouthfuls.

"Mycroft took him with him when he left." Sherlock smile held an immense amount of satisfaction as he recalled their argument. "Good riddance."

"And you're okay with that?" John paused in his eating to look pointedly at his flatmate, who had settled himself on his bed, his hip a comforting warm pressure against John's leg. "Really?"

"Of course," Sherlock looked surprised that he even felt the need to ask. "I was the one who insisted. Of course, it helped that I could remind my brother that anybody who keeps human eyeballs in the kitchen microwave is hardly going to feel remotely squeamish at the elimination of a few bodily fluids."

"Right," John smothered his grin around another mouthful of soup. The fact that Sherlock had so summarily despatched Mycroft's man was probably at least partly due to their ongoing sibling rivalry as anything else. But it was also a testament to their growing friendship that, in spite of some initial misunderstandings they had both ultimately arrived at the same place. "Why didn't I think of that?"

"I would say it was because you were an idiot," Sherlock fixed him with a knowing look. "But that wouldn't be entirely accurate, would it?"

John put his spoon down. "How long have you known?"

He supposed he should have known better than to think he could manage to keep a secret from the redoubtable Sherlock Holmes. Still, the man had already managed to surprise him with his willingness to play nursemaid, despite all that would entail, just maybe the consulting detective would also have enough tact to understand that the loss of his surgical ambitions, due to the intermittent tremor in his left hand was a serious blow.

"Long enough to wonder what on earth you were thinking, doctor," Sherlock fixed him with a stern look, before he pulled open the top drawer of John's bedside cabinet. Sure enough, nestled amongst the myriad of small personal items was a flat white box of antibiotics prescribed the day before in the name of J H Watson. "Bacterial, not viral I believe."

"Ah," John looked sheepish "About that .."

"You haven't been taking your pills," Sherlock was busy checking the dosage against the number of remaining pills (one dose missed). He liberated two of the capsules from their blister packet and picked up a glass of water, part of Sherlock's brain registered with some surprise that John had chosen to visit an exclusive private practice right on the other side of town, a strange decision for a man who had numerous contacts throughout the NHS and who was presently more than a little unemployed. "No more skipping your medication."

"Right," John agreed quickly. "No, of course, not."

A little too quickly, Sherlock surmised, even as he watched his flat mate obediently swallow down the two pills, because underneath that ready compliance was a hint of something else, possibly relief, perhaps even a touch of disappointment. Whatever it was, it meant there was something more, something else.

Something that Sherlock had missed.