Sherlock sighed heavily, listening to John snore quietly.
This was... not fun.
How did he convince John that, even though his best friend was dead, the doctor still had something to live for? How...
Sherlock didn't understand sentiment. He never had and he didn't think that he ever would. However, he did understand it a little bit better than he used to... even if he was still confused on most points.
He knew that John... cared for him. That much was painfully obvious. Sherlock had taken that for granted, he realized now. But that didn't matter. What did matter was that John had cared for him so much that it was almost like Sherlock had become an extension of John himself. Their bond had been unbreakable... but it had been broken.
And the damage was rather irreparable, wasn't it?
John thought that Sherlock was a hallucination right now. It couldn't be more perfect. Sherlock would be able to leave and John would just think it had all been part of his mind.
But the fact that John thought he was a hallucination at all meant he was holding onto his memory, far too tightly, and Sherlock wasn't sure if he could walk away again.
He had to, though. He had to.
It took approximately three hours for John's fever to drop a degree. That was good, because it was now out of the forty range. That was good.
It took another six hours for John to wake up.
Sherlock didn't want to wake John up. The worry and the pain completely left his face, leaving him looking peaceful, albeit vulnerable.
Sherlock hated the vulnerability almost as much as he enjoyed seeing John looking peaceful.
"Sh'lock..." John mumbled, prying his eyes open.
Sherlock didn't move from his seat across the room. He'd gotten a chair from the kitchen and moved it into John's room, and he had sat there, perfectly still, watching John as he slept. He had, occasionally, moved to check John's temperature, to replace a cold compress, or to find a new bag of something frozen from the freezer. Otherwise, he hadn't moved, and he had only been thinking about John's predicament.
"Over here," Sherlock murmured.
John propped himself up, squinting towards Sherlock.
"How are you feeling?" Sherlock asked, pushing himself away from the chair. "You fever dropped awhile ago, but I haven't checked it recently."
John watched him warily. Sherlock could still see the fever-haze in the doctor's eyes.
"John?"
"I'm still dreaming..."
Sherlock didn't comment on that, forcing back a pang of what seemed to be sadness. "How are you feeling?" he repeated instead.
"Better... I guess... I don't really know," John muttered, sitting up slightly.
"So, how long has this been going on?" Sherlock asked, deciding to take the plunge and tackle the topic, even though he was pretty sure that he knew the answer.
"What...?"
Sherlock gestured at him.
"What?" John repeated, sounding a bit annoyed now.
"Being sick."
"Oh..." John shrugged slightly. "I don't know... awhile..."
"Since June." It wasn't a question.
Sherlock didn't miss the flinch, but he didn't comment.
John fumbled with the blankets, pulling them close. He was studiously not looking at Sherlock, the detective noticed, and his voice was layered with reluctance when he spoke.
"... No... I don't think it was June... I mean, it's been awhile, but..."
"Since June, then," Sherlock said.
John glanced up, briefly meeting Sherlock's gaze before looking over his shoulder. "I just said-"
"And you're not meeting my gaze, you're toying with the blankets, and you're choosing your words ridiculously carefully, so I know you're lying to me."
John didn't reply.
"John," Sherlock started, but the doctor cut him off by pressing his hands against his ears.
"I don't wanna hear it," John breathed. "I don't want to hear you talk about it. For- Can't we just act like everything's normal?"
"It's not."
"I don't-"
"It could be normal, if you actually tried," Sherlock continued.
John opened his eyes again, looking once again at Sherlock.
Sherlock stared back at him, unyielding.
"... It can't be normal..." John mumbled.
"It can. It will."
"No."
"Yes."
"You don't understand-"
"Yes, I do!" Sherlock interrupted. "Well, as much as I can. I know you... you..." Sherlock stopped, trying to find the word that could explain their relationship. There wasn't one. "Friends, John, we're friends. And I saved you from yourself, or some other drivel like that. The limp and the tremor and the adrenalin rushes- I'm not an idiot, I can see. I just never realized..." He took a breath. "Look. I know this hurts. I... I don't really understand the logic behind it, but it's obvious that it does, somehow. But you need to forget about it. About me."
"What don't you understand? I need you! I can't-"
"You can."
Sherlock watched the stubbornness leave John's eyes, watched the vacant look return before tears replaced them.
John exhaled quietly, looking away.
Sherlock resisted the urge to sigh as well.
And, in the next moment, Sherlock found arms around his waist and John was quick to bury his face against his shirt.
Sherlock froze, staring down at the doctor. Hugs... Hugging, okay. A symbol of affection or a meaning of comfort. Okay.
Sherlock hesitantly sank into a sitting position on the edge of the bed. John only responded by locking his arms around Sherlock's back and hiding his face against his shoulder.
Sherlock could never remember a time where he had been so tense. He wasn't entirely sure why- people hugged people all the time- but with John sobbing against his chest and John's arms like vices around him, Sherlock was utterly unsure of what to do.
He settled on what seemed to be the most proper response; he tentatively snaked his arms around John and held him close in an embrace.
It seemed like ages that they sat like that, with their arms around each other (albeit if Sherlock was so awkward that he barely dared to breathe deeply). Sherlock stayed utterly still. John was shaking, but his sobbing had stopped.
John sniffed, resting his forehead against Sherlock's shoulder. He sighed shakily. "So pathetic... crying... sorry..."
Sherlock unfroze, slightly, after John had spoke. He glanced down at the doctor still clinging to him, as though he was a lifeline, unhappiness flowing through his veins.
"Even soldiers cry..." Sherlock murmured, closing his own eyes.