A/N: Thanks to all who are still reading this! I'm grateful to any reviews/PM messages from anyone about anything to do with this! Enjoy!
'Oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God.' John kept repeating over and over inside his mind from the moment that he sat in the chair next to Sherlock's bed. It was a frantic repetition of the knowledge that he was way out of his depth in this situation. Maybe he should have been less snippy to Mycroft, maybe he shouldn't have been so sure that he would be able to cope through whatever Sherlock was going to go through. His stubborn insistence that he was a doctor, and would surely be more than qualified to look after Sherlock, seemed like a mistake now. He had devolved back down into the form he had been while a medical student; a nervous timorous creature, scared of everyone and everything. John was leaning forwards in his chair – towards the edge of Sherlock's bed – with his eyes closed, taking breath in through his nose and out through his mouth. He was the one who should be able to deal with this: he was a doctor for God's sake! This was exactly what doctors did – look after people when they were ill or injured. It's what he would have spent his career doing if he hadn't gone into the army; he would have either tried to set himself up a private practise as a GP, or ended up as a consultant in a hospital department. It was strange thinking about how different his life could have been if he hadn't gone into the army – he could have been earning an awful lot more than he was just now, but he would have had to specialise into an area… What area would he have gone into? Definitely not paediatrics, he had never been much of a person for kids; he wouldn't have gone into psychiatry… That he had always regarded as too much of a "fake" medical student. Maybe he would have gone down the cardiovascular route, looking at the heart and lungs; or maybe neuroscience; or maybe he would have gone for an A&E specialist post… so many maybes, so many choices! It seemed like going into the army had made his decision simpler, he hadn't had to choose to specialise in any particular subject. He had been trained in emergency battlefield medicine and aid in his army tutelage, and that was all he had needed. So really, he had become a doctor yet not had an awful lot of hands on contact with the general public, he had been used to helping other soldiers in moments of great pain and agony. He had seen grown men, strong soldiers who weren't scared of anything, cry out for their mothers while in pain; people were reduced to their most human state while in pain, illness or distress… And suddenly John Watson, who was sitting by his best friend's bedside, felt incredibly stupid.
Sherlock was the most stubborn and strong willed of men, both physically and mentally, and just now he was full of pain… The same way that those soldiers used to return to the basal mind-set of all humans, a small scared child unsure of what was going to happen next, was what was happening to Sherlock. But never before in all his time in the army, in being confronted with a patient whose arm or leg had just been blown off, or someone who had been shot, his stomach had never felt so tight inside him and his heart had always ceased beating so rapidly once the first adrenaline rush had passed, but not with Sherlock. His mind and body was on constant red alert as Sherlock was lying unconscious in his bed.
John was nodding in his chair, desperate to stay awake in case his patient woke up and needed him, but so far Sherlock had not even so much as stirred from where he was lying; the most movement he had made was that of his leg twitching. John was beginning to struggle though, although mentally he was alert because of the task in hand, physically his body was flagging.
At twenty past two he had decided that he was going to leave Sherlock sleeping and go and make a cup of tea for himself, perhaps collect his book from the living room, and bring it back up to the room – anything that would keep him awake until Sherlock had woken up again and confirmed that he was feeling better. The movement in the room as he stood up out of his chair obviously registered in Sherlock's subconscious because he moved, scuffling about underneath the blanket that John had put on top of him. John froze at the bottom of the bed, watching to see if Sherlock did anything more than stir… After a long moment in which the silence of the flat seemed to ring in John's ears Sherlock stopped moving and seemed to decide to remain still and settle back to sleep. Once he was sure that Sherlock's subconscious had calmed down again he tiptoed out of the room and into the hallway landing.
Returning with his cup of tea and book, he sat back down into the chair he had been occupying, but Sherlock tossed underneath his blanket again.
"Mmmm…." Sherlock mumbled as he turned over in his sleep, "John…" John's heart leapt to attention as his name was spoken forth from Sherlock's sleeping lips and he moved instantly so he was right beside the bed. Lightly he placed his palm upon Sherlock's forehead again, the intensity of the heat radiating from him had dulled slightly, but it was still warmer than what John knew it should be. "John…" Sherlock breathed.
"It's okay Sherlock, I'm here." John responded soothingly, without even thinking of his words. Sherlock drew in a huge deep breath and exhaled heavily as John, rather absent mindedly, stroked the side of Sherlock's face. Then he came to his senses and withdrew his hand; Sherlock was still asleep – his habit of talking in his sleep was becoming vastly increased. His fever was decreasing – that had to be a good sign for John, maybe if it came down to a normal temperature then he would be able to take a nap also.
'I'll check his temperature again in half an hour.' John thought to himself, clocking the alarm lying on the table; it was now 02:53am. The less that John thought about the time the less tired he felt, so he opened his book and found the page at which he had last left it – this attempt would keep his mind busy while he waited for half an hour to check upon Sherlock's temperature.
John's head snapped up and his eyes opened very suddenly, he had fallen asleep in his chair and only woken once his grip had loosened on his book and it had slipped to the floor, making a thump which woke him. The clock now read 04:39am; he must have been asleep for quite a while.
Sherlock himself had been awake for just over quarter of an hour. He had come to consciousness dimly aware that his feet felt cold, but also that he was longer being wracked by horrible cramps and spasms. Weakly he had pushed himself upright against the headboard of the bed, mentally noting that his feet were stuck out the end of a blanket, and that he was virtually naked; the only thing he was still wearing was his boxer shorts. His memories of earlier on tonight were fuzzy, there had been too much pain to fully register all that had been going on around him – but then he spotted John sitting in a chair pulled up to the left side of Sherlock's bed, head resting down on his chest and a book held loosely in his hand. His slow breathing evidently indicated that John was asleep – but Sherlock realised that John must have sat himself here as a vigil for Sherlock, to make sure that he was alright… Despite the shaky feeling that was coursing through him, Sherlock was very thankful that John was what he was, that he cared enough to make sure that Sherlock wasn't quietly (or probably not so quietly) dying in his room. Sherlock drew his knees up so that the flats of his feet were upon the mattress of the bed and laid his head almost upon his knee caps. The intense pain that had set upon him earlier had all but evaporated, leaving behind a weakness that made him feel like he was recovering from a bout of the flu, or recovering from just being run over by a steam roller being driven by an elephant. The pain was gone, but in its place was a kind of unsettling queasiness… Sherlock vaguely heard a thump from somewhere inside the room, out the corner of his eye he detected movement from the chair next to his bed.
"Sherlock? Are you aware?" John's voice floated into Sherlock's consciousness so he raised his head off his knees, but the light in the room was swimming in front of his eyes in an unpleasant rippling formation that did nothing to decrease the nausea that he was feeling. John moved from his chair and sat down on the side of the bed that he was nearest to, Sherlock could feel the mattress descending a few inches with the increased weight. John had scooped up his thermometer and proceeded to gently take Sherlock's temperature now he was awake, however unresponsive he was: 37.9 degrees – well at least his fever was coming down, even just gradually. "Sherlock, how are you feeling?"
Stupid question; why did John always have to ask stupid questions? Sherlock tried to engage his brain to create a response to John's question, but the only sound his currently fevered, delirious brain could produce was: "Mmmffmmm."
"Your temperature has come down a bit, are you thirsty?" John was peering into Sherlock's face in a manner which slightly frustrated the detective, now only if his brain would start working in counterpart with his mouth. In the time being he managed an inarticulate shrug, which could have meant yes or no, but John took it as a yes, raising the glass of water that he had filled for Sherlock to the younger man's lips. Sherlock took a great gulp of water and nearly choked upon it – after spluttering for a few seconds he calmed down, leant back against the headboard of the bed and closed his eyes. There was a long silence as Sherlock inhaled and exhaled in a steady fashion, trying to calm down the whirling feeling that was present even when he had his eyes closed.
"Have…" Sherlock started very slowly, the words quiet and hoarse; he coughed to clear his throat. "Have you been sat in here since…?" He coughed again and John presented him with the glass of water once more.
"I've been, observing you… I wanted to make sure I didn't need to call an ambulance for you, you were really burning up." John explained with a sheepish expression on his face. "You were this close to me taking you to hospital." John held up his fingers in an indication of how close it was, but Sherlock was struggling to focus upon John's hand. A wave of heat swept down from the top of Sherlock's head right the way down through his arms and legs, accompanied by a shiver. John was right next to Sherlock on the bed, he had been looking away from Sherlock at the cold dregs of his tea and feeling a little embarrassed about having been sat there for so long. He felt the shudder that ran through Sherlock's body, and then very suddenly he felt the heaviness of Sherlock's head drop onto his shoulder. This tiny little action startled John as it was so completely out with the normal character which Sherlock displayed. "Sherlock?" John asked suddenly, "Sherlock, what's wrong?" John turned as best as he could, bringing his hands up to cup the bottom of Sherlock's face. His skin was clammy to John's touch and his eyes were still closed. "You have to speak to me Sherlock; I need to know what's wrong so I can help you." John tapped lightly upon Sherlock's cheek, "Sherlock?"
"Mmmm…. Oh… god…" Sherlock maundered, his head was lolling about in John's hands, as though he was the only thing holding it upright. "Oh my god… John?"
"Yes Sherlock?" John asked quickly, embracing the new consciousness that Sherlock seemed to be displaying.
"John?" Sherlock susurrated as another shudder extrapolated the whole of his body. "John… John, I don't feel so good…"
"Not good in what way?" John inquired, looking Sherlock up and down much more intently now, taking in every single sign that could be a symptom – but at the moment the whole of Sherlock was one big symptom. "Sherlock, open your eyes – look at me."
Why was he so demanding? Why now, when Sherlock felt like his brain was about to implode in on itself, did John have to ask him to do things that were impossibilities? Sherlock groaned in objection to what he was being asked of him.
"No, come on Sherlock." John said firmly. Very slowly, with his blood pounding in his ears, Sherlock opened his eyes and tried to bring John into focus while the rest of the world around him gyrated like a never ending merry-go-round. "Is it your head? Or do you feel sick?"
"Both." The word was more mouthed than spoken, but John picked it up perfectly. Sherlock was furiously resisting the overcoming blackness coaxing him towards passing out, leaning towards John in exactly the same way that a small child leans towards their parent when looking for comfort. Not typical Sherlock behaviour in any respect… He was so close that John could hear him breathing heavily, then a small whimper escaped from between his lips – and as it did, John's heart rate doubled in speed. This was wrong, this was not Sherlock.
"Come on Sherlock; use that magnificent cerebral cortex of yours." John willed him, "I need you to describe how you're feeling."
"The room… spinning…" Sherlock mumbled, forcing the words out with some difficulty, John noted that one of Sherlock's hands had moved to his stomach.
"It's alright Sherlock. Do you think you're going to be sick? Do you want to go to the bathroom?" John was trying his best to remain calm, but he couldn't stop from feeling that Sherlock was shaking; Sherlock suddenly looked like a young child and he shook his head slightly.
"John?" Sherlock's voice was barely above a whisper and now definitely sounded as though it was that of a six or seven year old, rather than a thirty-something year old. "I'm sorry…"
"No, don't apologize." John commanded, "You don't have anything to apologize for." Sherlock had closed his eyes again, he was still leaning against John for support and was swallowing rapidly repeatedly. "Sherlock? Are you sure-" John cut his sentence as at that moment Sherlock's body convulsed and he gagged. "Okay Sherlock, come on." John snapped instantly into action, leaping to his feet and pulling Sherlock off the bed, taking the full weight of his friend. He could feel Sherlock's body shaking so severely, that John marvelled at how he was managing to remain upright at all. John thanked God in this moment that the bedrooms were en suite and that he didn't have to venture to the toilet down the stairs with Sherlock in tow.
"John…" Sherlock's voice was quivering almost as much as his physical form. "I think I'm going to be sick…"
"Just a few more steps, Sherlock…" John basically lifted the younger man over the threshold of the bathroom, conscious that Sherlock's body was shuddering in a uniform manner. Sherlock collapsed to his knees in front of the toilet, one hand holding tightly on to the edge of the bath to keep himself in a sitting position; his breathing sounded incredibly erratic, scared even. "It's alright Sherlock, you're alright." John had to force his mind to the present, as flashbacks of him sitting with Harry after she had drunk too much presented themselves in his mind. Sherlock seemed to be fighting fiercely against how he was feeling; he retched loudly, then paused to draw in a deep breath. He looked up at John with a forlorn expression, his eyes were moist and he genuinely looked terrified – it was a look that John had never seen on Sherlock's face.
"John!" He whined in a high pitch tone. "I don't want to be sick… please help me!" He gagged again, and the tears that had been forming in Sherlock's eyes split over onto his pale face. John crouched down beside Sherlock, trying to portray calmness, even though he had never felt more unnerved at this behaviour.
"Take a few deep breaths." John told him, "It's not nice, or pleasant Sherlock… but by the way you look, and I guess feel, at this moment – it will make you feel better." Sherlock whimpered at this reply, his body still making frequent shuddering movements. "Trust me." John said quietly; Sherlock held gaze with John for a few seconds, before deciding that it was easier to succumb.
He turned his head away from John and, with a violent jerk, vomited profusely. John rubbed Sherlock's bare back, painfully aware of the rib cage he could feel, and the acute convulsions which were wracking through his body. After two bouts of sickness Sherlock let out a strangled noise which sounded somewhat like a sob, drawing great gasps of air into his lungs over and over. Very cautiously Sherlock drew back from his position of hugging the toilet and rested his back against the edge of the bath, he looked decidedly worse than he had done before – his skin was now a grey colour, tinged with a certain amount of green just to highlight exactly how he was feeling. John dived back into Sherlock's bedroom and returned a moment later carrying a glass of water; crouching down before Sherlock and pushing the glass into Sherlock's quivering hand.
"Drink this." He said, Sherlock raised the glass to his lips and took a tentative sip. For a few long moments there was complete silence apart from the sound of Sherlock's breathing. "Are you feeling any better now?" Sherlock shook his head, placing the glass onto the floor and resuming his placed in front of the toilet. The sound of retching filled the room as Sherlock's body was rejecting everything that he had consumed in the past day in a desperate attempt to blackmail him into supplying it with the drug that it was missing. After a few more minutes Sherlock rest back and brought his hands up to wipe his mouth and rub his face; from behind Sherlock's long thin digits John definitely heard a sob. John was generally well adapted to looking after patients, his bedside manner was normally impeccable, but he felt decidedly awkward – he didn't know how to react in the best way. He was kneeling down beside his friend and finally stretched out his hand and placed it on Sherlock's shoulder, he was still shivering and his arms were covered in goose bumps as he uncovered his face. "Do you want to go back to bed?" Sherlock gave a tiny jerk of the head as a reply; John weaved his arm around the back of Sherlock and hoisted him upright onto his feet. Sherlock wobbled dangerously; his feet never left the floor, they dragged along the floorboards until they got to the edge of the bed. John helped Sherlock onto the bed, and he promptly rolled over onto his back with his eyes closed, trembling. "No Sherlock – turn onto your side." John put his hand onto Sherlock's shoulder and pulled him over so he was lying on his left side, he made a soft noise of protest but didn't roll back. "I'm going to stay here Sherlock. I'm just going to be in that chair, if you need anything or feel that something's wrong, tell me Sherlock."
"Mmm…" Sherlock hummed in a semi responsive way, his breathing becoming slower and more steady as he lay. "John…?" Sherlock's voice was muffled as his face was pressed against the sheet of his bed.
"Yes?" John responded, sitting down into his chair and sighing quietly.
"Thank you…"
"You're welcome Sherlock, it's no trouble." John replied, "Try and sleep."
The daylight was beginning to come through the window as the sun rose and the city began to wake up, it was nearly 5 am in the morning now – John had been awake nearly all night. Awake purely to look after his friend, and he was glad he had been, he had been worried for a time… but it was clear in his mind that at this time, in his pain and suffering, Sherlock was the most human he ever could be.