Some things are easier said than done. It's not even the thing of being fair to the other, acting as if you cared more than you are ready to admit. It is easier to shelter yourself with cheap sounding excuses, burrow all the hurt beneath pages written neatly on the topic of biochemistry or radiology. You like to think you are the brightest crayon in the whole box but there are many kinds of intelligence, my poor child. You lack some aspects of those socially oriented ones but still, it doesn't hurt as much as the books say it should. After all, who cares if something cuts right trough your flesh into the bone instead of coming down like it should. Everyone is interested in getting to know the details, the facts, even if they are surrounded by bunch of useless emotional gibberish. Gossiping is useful, on the other hand. It helps clear some things up rather quickly, much more efficiently than doing all the needed finding and cataloging yourself. Mycroft might be lazy but there is indeed undeniable wisdom in his doings, no matter how grudgingly you may admit it...

'Sherl... up... finally-' The sound seems disjointed, flowing like water all around you. Is someone trying to talk to you? It's a pleasant, familiar voice and in the right circumstances it could be welcome but now it feels as if a fly was buzzing in your ear. 'We have- talk, Sher-"

You try to take into your surroundings when the person starts to shake you. At first it's gentle but then grows rougher and frustration creeps into its bearer's voice. 'Sherlo-, I don't have- day, you better-'

You want to tell the man, for the logical part of your brain instantly recognised the voice as masculine, to leave you alone and come back later. He should just let you rest and not try to do something unimaginable for you this exact moment. "Wa-ke up?" What does that even mean? And "Sher-lock"? Is it you?

'Fine. Just lay here who-, I'm going- the groce-' There is some shuffling, the voice growing fainter with each step and finally there's a distant "click!" and everything grows peacefully silent once again. It's then that you try to open your lead heavy eyelids and you need a couple of seconds to focus your sight to see a fragment of the wall in front of you.

Your whole silhouette is set askew on the bed, covers laying crumpled on the floor, an opened the previous evening window letting Antarctic breeze into you room. You haven't had the energy to undress yourself and so you tremble in your yesterday's clothing. Eyes roll uncontrollably underneath the lids and your throat feels itchy and too dry to even complain about the whole situation when first rays of sunlight come through the curtains. Your head feels as if it weighed a hundred pounds. All the running around, bad weather conditions and the lack of sleep seem to have finally gotten to you.

The cough is sickly dry and painful, coming from the depth of your chest. You feel like dying.

'Sherlock, for the last time, wake-' You didn't notice the moment the man came back, too busy trying to bring the covers closer round yourself. You crack an eye open and there's no else but John hunching over you with keys and a wallet clasped firmly in each of his hands, his expression changing from irritation to surprise.

'I am not-' You sneeze loudly mid-sentence, right between your palms and the movement sends a wave of dizziness through your head. You do not get the joke yet just like you never get a cold, the flu or whatever else there might be. Such things are highly bothersome and they cannot happen to you, it's an old stated fact. 'Just give me ten minutes, I will-'

Another sneeze that leaves you dazed for a moment.

Although John seems to be irritated about the fact the two of you are sharing the same breathing space for the time being, his face loses its sharpness for a moment. He closes the window while looking at you from the still small distance. He starts gesturing with both of his hands, while gathering the covers in his arms to bring them onto the bed once again, 'Sherlock, I think you should lie down for a bit, I can do the groceries and later bring some meds, I and Sarah-'

'I don't need your help' The sentence leaves your mouth sooner than you have completed thinking the whole phrase containing it. There is venom in your tone, an indescribable amounts of it but the throbbing in your head only triggers the irrational hurt you feel gnawing at your insides. Dry cough shakes your whole ribcage painfully while John observes you from under furrowed brows, his silhouette tensing once again. You do not notice it happening straight away, but the tone of your voice raises , 'I don't want you to occupy your precious time-"

'Occupy? Just say straight away that you do not need my pity, Sherlock.' John's voice is strained and knuckles whiten on the material he is grasping. 'I am starting to bore you, am I not?'

You sit speechless for a few seconds, not really grasping the importance of the whole conversation. The atmosphere grew suffocatingly serious over just a few words and the dizziness in your head doesn't help much to understand something you aren't able to do right in much more normal state of mind and body. 'Pardon me, I-'

'I wanted to talk to you about Sarah, help you around a bit but now I see it's pointless once again. What exactly isn't pointless to do in front of you?" John's breathing becomes shallower as he comes closer, covers still in his hands. You don't know what would be a better idea to act upon if you weren't this pitifully weakened. Running or rather staying put?

'John, you know that what I meant was-' Your eyelids grow heavier with each syllable leaving the lips and it's way too hard to keep up the façade any more.

'Do things your way then, it's all fine by me. I have errands to run and as you once said, about yourself, I am no babysitter.' He flickers his eyes to the side, licking his lips nervously, a hard glint appearing in his eyes as he throws the covers over you carelessly.

You neither ask him when he will be back , nor does he honor you with such a piece of information.

'John, I...' You want to grab his shirt, do something but each limb feels far too weighty, grogginess encircling all of your senses and so he leaves before your fully outstretch arm can get hold and stop him from walking away. You don't know why, but the moment the outside door clicks, the whole flat grows big and intimidating all of the sudden. You tremble under the thick covers while looking down at your fingers, words frozen on the tip of your tongue just a minute ago slowly regaining their freedom, 'I am sorry for everything I said so far.'

The empty flat is a patient and understanding listener to all of your litanies of apologies which will never come true.