Sherlock draws his legs against his chest. The sound of his plastic coveralls crinkling resonates in the silent room. One of the nurses turned the sound on all of the machines off and Sherlock almost misses the regular beeps and hums as they worked. He checks them routinely making sure that there are no changes.
There haven't been any deviations since the fever finally broke seven hours ago. John has not been awake either though.
Sherlock wants to reach over and touch John. But hewants to touch John, he doesn't want the latex glove he's wearing to touch John. John might not recognise the touch if there is no skin on skin contact. And there can be no skin on skin contact, not until John is better.
If, pops into his mind, if John gets better. His chest swells with panic at the thought and then he mentally chastises himself and slaps his palm a little too hard against his forehead. That thought is not allowed. Of course John will get better.
John's head turns and he lets out a cough that is wet and shallow, followed by a few gasping breaths.
John is on antibiotics and decongestants for the pneumonia. He had not sounded congested before the drugs, but now, now he sounds like he's dying. The doctor's say it is better though, it's "breaking up."
Sherlock isn't certain he believes that, but the fever is down and he can see that in John's cheeks and colouring, in the machine that is monitoring his temperature.
The image of John covered in the bags of ice, his body shivering so badly that Sherlock was certain that it was a seizure is something he desperately wants to delete. John had been cold, so obviously cold, and they had just kept adding more bags, piling them around his neck.
So cold.
"Talk to him," Hugo had said. And Sherlock had leaned over, placing his lips near John's ear. He'd felt the flood of cool air coming off the ice bags. He'd shivered at the difference in temperature and was furious that they were doing this to John. He'd let the anger go and he'd talked to John.
He tips his head back and looks out the window. He can see the building next door and has watched it for hours. The man working in the office directly across from them is having an affair with the woman in the office next to his. Sherlock had watched them have sex four hours ago. He expects to see it again before the work day is complete.
He finds none of it interesting. He is unable to focus on any thoughts, ideas, anything. He can't even focus on John's condition. He can't move past the fact that he can't touch John. Certainly everything would be better if he could just touch John.
It's too dangerous though. "We don't know what he has. It's for your protection, Mr. Holmes, and his." It was the "and his" that guaranteed Sherlock would follow their instructions. He couldn't care less about becoming ill himself. He would do it gladly. He would take it all, the illness, the chemo, the surgery, the cancer. He would take it happily if John would be better. That realisation is a surprise, he does not like being ill or being in pain, but he loves John more. He loves John so much more.
He reaches a hand out and places it on John's chest. He hopes that the touch will be familiar through the t-shirt and the blankets. He hopes John will recognise that it's him, that he hasn't left. John can only have one visitor and Sherlock decided it will only be him. Harry had tried, asked to come in, but Sherlock had said no. He isn't willing to leave. Harry hadn't pushed him, but Sherlock knows that if John is here too long that she will insist. It will not be a pleasant conversation.
The heartbeat is steady under Sherlock's hand, not quite normal, but strong. He wishes, achingly, that he could slip his hand under the blanket, under the t-shirt, and against the muscles. The steady beat could pound against his hand the way it does most nights. He so desperately wants that.
He can see John, but he needs to feel John. He needs to feel that he's getting better.
John moves, letting out another quiet gasp, and it quickly deteriorates into a series of body shaking coughs. His eyes flutter open as Sherlock brings a tissue up to wipe John's mouth. They focus on Sherlock for just a moment, a flash of recognition crossing them, and John moves his head. He rests it towards Sherlock, shifting closer to his husband. And just as quickly his eyes close again. Sherlock discards the tissue in the super hazardous waste bin and puts his hand back on John's chest. His heart is faster now, the force of the coughing and the moment of being awake increasing the palpitations. Sherlock feels it as his breathing evens back out and his heart calms again.
When it is closer to the normal sleeping rhythm, Sherlock removes his hand and wraps his arms back around his knees. He looks back out of the window and notices that the woman from the office next door as returned. He closes his eyes as she starts to undo her buttons and just a moment later he is asleep.
"The messages," comes the quiet voice and Sherlock looks towards the bed. He'd been studying the pigeons out of the window, realising that he knows surprisingly little about them. He turns his head, relief flooding his body at the sound of John's voice. John opens his mouth to speak again and the coughing begins.
He sits forward, covering his mouth, and the wetness moves upwards from his lungs. Sherlock grabs a tissue and shoves it into John's hand. In a flash of calm John spits into it, and coughs again. Sherlock watches the chest constrict and release with each cough. He listens to the wet sounds as John's lungs try to clear themselves. His eyes move up, settling on John's face, a face turning red with the fluctuating oxygen supply. Sherlock reaches out again, placing his hand on John's chest. The doctor opens his eyes and a moment later the coughing quiets down.
When he is certain that the spell is over he holds up the contaminated waste container and John pushes the tissue inside.
"What happened with the messages?" John asks. He closes his eyes again but Sherlock knows that it is not to sleep.
"I do not know," Sherlock answers as John looks at him again. His eyes go wide, noticing for the first time that Sherlock is wearing a plastic coverall, a face mask, and latex gloves. "My husband became ill with pneumonia and I was forced to abandon my investigation."
Sherlock moves a gloved hand to rest on John's arm. John frowns, eyes looking about the room. After a moment his gaze turns inward, focusing on how he feels and on what is wrong.
"Pneumonia?" he asks taking a few deep breaths, the wheezing noise apparent to both of them. "I don't remember. I, where was I?" The brow furrows and Sherlock wants to reach up and run his thumb between the eyebrows. He wants to place a kiss there and ease the worry.
"Blood work," Sherlock answers. "You spiked a fever and they called an ambulance. Hugo accompanied you."
John shakes his head, the memory not coming to him. Sherlock closes the covered fingers over his bicep. John focuses on him, eyes glassy and exhausted. He'll be asleep again soon.
"You are doing better," Sherlock says. "Fighting it." A sudden wave of pride rushes over him. John is fighting, he's fighting every step of the way. Even the parts of him that he has no control over are working as hard as they can to keep him alive. Sherlock straightens, admiration joining the pride. John Watson is the strongest man he's ever known.
Sherlock takes a deep breath, "You almost di-," his voice catches and he shakes his head, pushing that idea away. "The fever was very serious, they initially could not bring it under control."
John mouth tightens and he covers Sherlock's hand with one of his. "I'm sorry." Sherlock smiles and knows that John can see it, despite the mask covering his mouth and nose.
"Don't be an idiot, John. You could not prevent this." A gloved finger brushes over a cheek, the stubble an odd texture against the latex. "Your temperature was lowered and you are being treated for the infection. The initial panic is over." Sherlock lies, the only emotion he has felt at all is panic. John does not need to hear that. He does not need to worry about anything other than continuing to improve.
They look at each other for several moments and the hazel eyes begin to drift closed again. John is fighting it though, wanting to stay awake. Sherlock smiles again. "Sleep," he says. "I will be here when you awake."
John nods as his eyes close. He is asleep almost instantly. His breathing evens out and Sherlock monitors his heartbeat again, satisfied that all is once again as it should be.
He studies his husband as he sleeps. His frame so much smaller than it should be, dark circles under the eyes because of the exhaustion. The image of those bags brings back the memory of walking into that room and being certain that John was dying, being certain that he was about to watch the last breath, the last beat of his heart, the last moment that his husband would be on the Earth. The cancer was intangible, a vague grouping of cells that he couldn't actually see. This, he saw, this, he felt. John had almost died of this.
Sherlock removes his clothes and puts them into the plastic bag. He closes it, tying it in several knots before placing it into another plastic bag and tying that. He sets the bags by the front door and moves towards the bathroom.
He showers, turning the water so hot that his skin becomes red and starts to tingle. He uses a flannel and starts at his toes. He scrubs his feet, up his legs, and across his torso. He doesn't miss a millimeter. He uses a massive amount of shampoo scrubbing through his hair and using his nails to scratch against every single hair. He rinses it and repeats the whole process again then gets out and cleans his teeth with the same concentration and detail.
He moves to his bedrooms and slips into freshly laundered clothing and new shoes. He grabs a latex glove from his box in the spare bedroom and picks up the plastic bag before heading down the stairs. He tosses it in the dumpster, adding it to the collection of bags containing the rest of the clothing he had worn while sitting with John this week. He will not risk it contaminating him again.
He head towards the street and hails a cab.
John has been moved to the regular room when he arrives. There will be no more coveralls, no more masks, no more gloves. He had hoped this would be the case. He did not wish to dispose of another set of clothes.
"Hi," John says, offering Sherlock a smile as he walks in. Sherlock returns it, relieved to see that Harry has not arrived yet. Now that John is allowed regular visitation she will be here daily. Generally her presence doesn't bother Sherlock, but he knows that she is not as meticulous in her cleanliness as he has been. She might contaminate John again. But that will be dealt with when she arrives.
Sherlock does not speak as he closes the distance between the door and the bed. He sits on the bed next to John and watches as the smile changes from welcoming to curious. John's colouring is better, his breathing no longer strained and wet. He is expected to be released in three days. Sherlock is anxious to get him home, and get him away from all the illness contained within the walls of the hospital. But that is also not an immediate concern.
Sherlock is anxious for something else now. He takes a breath and holds it, bringing his hand up, his index finger shaking slightly as he places it into the middle of John's forehead. Hazel eyes close as the finger trails down, moving over the nose and brushing across the lips, to the chin and up the jaw line. John shivers as the finger moves over his ear and over his eyebrow.
Sherlock's chest tightens as John's eyes open again. He swallows past a lump in his throat and rests his hand on John's chest. The cotton is cool under his hand, but there is warmth radiating up from the body underneath. His eyes burn and he tries to shake it away. He stops when a hand settles over his. The touch is achingly familiar as fingers push through Sherlock's curling inward and pressing into the palm.
"Sherlock," the voice brings the grey eyes up. Sherlock holds his breath, leans over and buries his face into John's neck. The doctor's body is warm against him, but not too warm, just normal John warm.
Normal John, still sick, still very sick, but John.
Sherlock feels the wetness on his cheek, it surprises him. He buries his face deeper against John. He feels fingers release his hand and a second later they mix into his hair. There is a light tug before those fingers start their gentle massage.
"I'm right here," comes the familiar voice. "It's okay, I'm right here." Sherlock gasps and lets go completely.