DISCLAIMER : I do not own

Warnings: No warnings really for this chapter. Just that this is a Mpreg fic and that will come to light in future chapters.


John was worried.

It seemed that's all he did with his life now. This may or may not have been because his life had slowly evolved to rotate around Sherlock, and one week after he had fallen ill the detective hadn't improved one little bit. His body was fighting god knows what.

It had started with a small fever and the sickness spell Lestrade had reported. That John had been able to deal with fine, but now he found himself besides himself. He knew that he'd have to face the fact that Sherlock was impossibly sick and that his own medical knowledge and skills weren't good enough in this current situation.

His flatmate was throwing up almost constantly now. Every day without fail Sherlock would be knelt on the bathroom floor chucking his guts up whilst John just stood behind him patting his back gingerly. His temperature dipped low then spiked to be dangerously high, never going away completely.

The worst thing of all was the helplessness that was stirring within John. He was supposed to be a doctor, a man who healed people, but nothing he did made the detective any better. In fact his condition was worsening.

The already terrifyingly thin man had lost weight that he hadn't been able to afford to in the first place and his resemblance to a skeleton rather than an actual living human being was frankly beyond disturbing.

There was once again only silence filling the flat but it wasn't Sherlock's stubbornness or odd moods that were the cause of it. The fact was Sherlock was too weak to speak and was saving all his energy for tasks that he only deemed talking to John wasn't one of them. However unlike before Sherlock was at least communicating with him, not verbally, but he was communicating with him none the less.

It was written in his features, suddenly so childlike, and in his pastel colored eyes, conveying his fear and lack of control on whatever illness was devastating him.

On more than one occasion Sherlock had all but dragged him onto the sofa, begging silently for a cuddle. John had been shocked at first, not knowing where this sudden craving for human contact had come from but the army doctor found himself giving into him each time.

He wasn't quite sure what was going on between them but things were definitely changing. Whether they would stay that was a different matter entirely. It could hardly count as a friendship – there were far too many intimate touches passed between them. Though perhaps that was just the need to comfort each other whilst Sherlock was so ill. It would seem that their relationship could only be labelled as ' complicated.' Except it wasn't complicated at all at the same time. John wanted nothing more than to hug Sherlock's problems away and it was obvious Sherlock wished for the same. They had a mutual understanding.

But it wasn't that simple. Sherlock needed help. He needed to go to a hospital. He needed blood tests done to see what the hell was going on with him.

In other words he needed more than just John, more than a few hugs, more than a hushed promise to never leave his side.

John had tried to get in touch with Mycroft, despite the accusing glares he would receive from Sherlock every time he did. However since the last time John had seen him there had been no sight or sound of the government official. That in itself was very suspicious indeed. The Elder Holmes was frequently trying to impose himself of their lives at 221B, whether it is the man himself or one of his men. Mycroft always seemed to find a way. But now? Now he was gone. It was as though he had dropped off the end of the Earth.

Typical. Just typical. Mycroft Holmes takes a holiday whilst his little brother is sick a dog.

There were still John's manic worries about what he had been told about the break in at Baskerville, and both their lack of memories of breaking in. Could that be connected with Sherlock's illness? What had happened in that time period?

Lestrade had also suspiciously disappeared too. There had been no texts or calls about any new cases, not that Sherlock would have been well enough to take them. Had the criminals of London packed their bags for better offers? John wasn't so sure. Perhaps there was something even bigger that he was missing.

It would seem John would worry himself into an early grave at this rate.

If this went on for much longer John was going to drag Sherlock to hospital himself. Sod the detective's hatred for the places; sod his inability to consult Mycroft. All he knew was Sherlock would die if he continued to throw up what little content he had in his stomach.

John Watson wasn't prepared to lose his friend over something as trivial as an illness. Let him die doing what he does best, chasing down criminals whilst deducing at a hundred miles per hour, and maybe if John was really lucky that wasn't the way Sherlock would go at all. Maybe if he was really lucky he and Sherlock would retire at old age and spend what was left of their lives together.

He smiled for the first time in what felt like years as he pictured an old version of Sherlock, graying curls, laugh lines dotting his eyes, rocking back and forth in a rocking chair whilst exclaiming his boredom to the whole of Baker Street.

A retired Sherlock was a most amusing image indeed and a far better one than he was faced with now.

Sherlock was looking at him with sunken eyes, his lips were trembling, and he had fallen sideways on the sofa with the inability to get himself back up.

He sighed heavily and moved to right Sherlock on the sofa. "We're going to have to talk about this sooner or later, Sherlock." He whispered softly, sitting beside him. Sherlock gave him an exasperated look. "Hospital, Sherlock. If this continues for much longer, that's where you'll be going. I'm sorry but I can't do this for much longer and neither can you."

The sickly creature that had replaced his friend simply whimpered and buried his face in John's chest.


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