DISCLAIMER: I do not own.

A/N: Thanks for all the lovely reviews so far guys! I hope you enjoy this chapter. We start to scratch the surface of what's really going on here.

Warning: This fic will contain mentions of Mpreg in the future. If you don't like that sort of thing I suggest you turn away now.

The silky material was starting the ruffle in on itself. The purple waves were getting larger as the fabric tightened on its owner. And if you were to really listen close you could probably hear the buttons holding that were just about holding the material together screaming as they went through the everyday torture that had been bestowed upon them.

Maybe Sherlock's deductions of himself were a little over dramatic but he was beyond bored. Being ill, he decided, was no fun at all. Deducing himself was the least he could do. It was quite an interesting deduction to make. His shirt was far too tight on him despite having lost weight rapidly everywhere else, thanks to the constant bile production his useless body was producing. It was irritating beyond belief. The only good thing that had come from all of this was John's sudden affection towards him.

They would cuddle up to each other for practically the whole day. There was no such thing as personal space between them anymore (something John had been most insistent on before he had fallen gravely ill) There were the light feathery touches and the looks that they would give each other. It was something far more beautiful than friendship and yet there was nothing remotely romantic about it. They were just comforting each other. That is all. Or at least that's what the detective kept on telling himself.

That however was becoming increasingly hard as even now he practically melded into his flatmate. John Watson and Sherlock Holmes were becoming one man. This was slightly ironic and laughable now that Sherlock came to think about it. After all before their lives had crossed neither of them had been completely whole. They had both been half empty. And even as they became flatmates, and then later on friends, and there had been that undeniable spark of connection between them, they had still been missing something. Sherlock knew what that was now. Perhaps he had known all along and he hadn't wanted to bring himself to even think about such a strange and alien idea. He and John needed each other. They both had fought being this close to each other but now that they were, things were exceptionally peaceful and righteous.

Sherlock had been too worried about the cold and heartless reputation he had. Without that the criminals of London wouldn't fear him, and people would stop taking him so seriously. John had been anxious that people would see him as gay, which of course was a simply ridiculous notion. Why the ex-army doctor continued to worry about his sexuality was a mystery to him. He may not be all that experienced in areas of showing care and affection, or even love to another human being, but one thing he does know is you either care for someone or you don't. So why did it have to be so difficult?

All of that had washed away now, like dirty water making its journey down the drain. Of course it had taken a drastic illness within him to wash it away.

He had been reduced to a sweating, shivering, stick of bones and sharp jagged angles that jutted out in the most uncomfortable of places. He could barely think. His thoughts had been reduced to one simple and meaningful word.

Mine.

John was his, all his. As soon as he was better he would make sure the other man knew and understood that.

Something was ruffling through his curls. It was small and delicate and gentle. It took him awhile but he eventually realized what it was. John's hand.

John liked to stroke his hair it seemed as he had started doing it on a regular basis and his body replied annoyingly by creating soft purring noises in the back of his throat. It would seem that he liked it too. He liked it a lot.

Moments like these made him forget that his body temperature was sky rocketing, made him forget the unsettling feeling in the pit of his stomach, blocked out John's threats to drag him to hospital. These moments were peaceful and for once the consulting detective didn't mind the peace. Yes, he was bored out of his mind, but by this point he would usually be scratching his eyes out. At least John's presence stopped him from that.

As John's fingers continued to thread through his wild curls there was a sudden and startling bang. The stroking motion stopped and he could feel John's smaller form freezing against him. The first yell was enough to make Sherlock use the effort to open up his heavy eyelids.

He was aware that there were several men clad in expensive suits. His eyes swept over them and he groaned as he realized who the men were. They were Mycroft's men – nothing but monkeys in smart clothing.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" John had stood to his feet now, walking over to one of the more shady characters stood in the flat with caution. He straightened to his full height but he looked impossibly small compared to the man he was walking over to.

"We've come to take away Mr Holmes." The man grunted in reply, sounding just as idiotic as he looked.

"Take me away?" Sherlock scoffed, his voice cracking from misuse but still holding the bite he had intended it to.

"Where are you taking him? Hmm?" John was puffing out his chest and looking increasingly more annoyed. He was protective of him. How …Utterly sweet. Sherlock hadn't had anyone who was this protective of him for a long while.

Mycroft had once been and to an extent he still was, but work always came first for the Elder Holmes and too many things had changed between them. It wasn't the same. No. John's protectiveness was definitely more powerful and more meaningful. The full meaning was lost on the detective. Why would John even feel the need to protect him?

But then that's the way it had always been with them. John had saved his life within only a short space of time knowing him. Perhaps it was the soldier within him coming out of his shell. Yes, that could possibly be it.

"I'm afraid that's classified. Boss said that we have to take him somewhere. Just following the orders."

"And who is this boss of yours?" John practically hissed, his muscles were taught and he looked akin to a cat begging for a fight.

"Mycroft Holmes."

That was the last thing Sherlock heard. He'd been too busy watching John and the monkey in a suit having what seemed to be a cowboy style showdown that he had ignored the other men, and apparently so had John. This of course led to a needle slicing into his skin and his eyes sliding shut within seconds of the sharp prick.

A sedative.

Even in a deep sleep he craved only one thing.

A cuddle from John Watson.

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