**Sometimes, conversations are a mite lopsided...**
"Well, I warned you, didn't I?" Arms crossed, looming at the bedside.
The dark curls, splayed on a build-up of fat pillows, swish as the head turns toward its accuser.
"Oh, but the genius detective knew better. 'Get into his element,' you said. 'Catch him unguarded.' Such a wonderful idea, that. Proud of yourself?"
"Quite." A strangled hiss.
"Shut up. You shouldn't be talking." A hand rakes through rumpled silver locks. "I told you not to continue that stake out—three nights, half in the river, dressed like a shoeless bum? I begged you. What the hell did you think was going to happen?"
"Fine." Another hiss, too thin to carry the weight intended by the dark glare in the eyes.
"No, you are NOT fine! Stalking around all night in that bilge water—who knows what kind of communicable disease fair those urchins were inviting you to."
Lips purse, the jaw clenches, as the glower follows the pacing form.
Arms extend to the heavens, shaking. "And it's freezing, barely above zero most nights! Of course, why would you have bothered to plan for that? Christ, you could have ended up—"
The mouth opens to retort, but it is lost in a fit of thick, wracking coughs. It is several minutes before the the tousled head settles back, its pallid tone momentarily overtaken by a fierce red. Sweat speckles the forehead, droplets rolling down the temples and disappearing into the frenetic mass of hair.
The arms recross and click together as his hands wrap around both biceps. His head tilts forward, efficient eyes scan in increments. "And there it is. You've an acute respiratory infection and severe laryngitis. You mustn't speak. At all. Your throat lining looks like raw hamburger."
Eye roll.
"I mean it, Sherlock. You need to heal. Don't be such an idiot, or I'll tell Lestrade to come back and keep you company. He's got plenty to say since you stomped all over his six-month sting operation with your little jaunt at playing hobo. He damn near cuffed you."
A surge up, fueled by indignation. Blankets fall away. He sucks an intake of air for a heated reply, emitting only a faint whine before the coughs crumple him once again. The strained chaos of hacking forms fat tears in the periphery. He flops back, wasted.
He eases down onto the edge of the mattress with an exasperated sigh. "Sherlock, I am a doctor. It is perfectly reasonable to listen to me every now and then, at least when it comes to health matters."
A long blink.
He raises his hand to absorb the tear streaks, smooth the matted hair from the perfect brow. His fire dissipates entirely, and he cradles his hand around the cheek. "I just worry about you. Far too much." Nostrils flare, and he blinks hard. "You're not invincible, Sherlock, and I can't stand the thought of…" His head drops and it's a beat before he can raise it again to speak. "I don't want to see you hurt is all. I hate when you take unnecessary risks. Does that make sense to you?"
A barely perceptible nod. Eyes search the face, reading every detail.
A slight grimace appears. "Actually, I should probably confess something: Lestrade did try to cuff you." A pause. "But I told him that if he so much as touched you, I'd break his arms." Teeth chew at the inner cheek. "Then he threatened to cuff me." Throat clears. "But since it took two of his officers to pull me off the killer after the bastard shoved you under the water, Scotland Yard gave me a pass."
Eyebrows spring up.
A wave of the hand, forcing levity. "Oh, don't look so surprised. I was a bad-ass army bloke, remember? I wore fatigues and rode in a tank and ate stuff out of a can." A comic eye roll. Then, he grows still and, almost imperceptibly, the pools of blue focus inward for a moment as he pinches his bottom lip between his index finger and thumb. "But I don't think you realize how much…" He sucks in a sudden breath. "I want to take it all on, you know—all the grief, every punch thrown at you and every bullet fired…if it would mean that you'd be ok, if somehow, by some miracle, I could keep you safe. And I keep trying to because I act as if that's actually going to happen. So I keep running around like the daft kid in the story who tries to catch a rainstorm in his little pot. It's pointless, yeah? But every time it rains, he's out there. It's utterly impossible, but he refuses to ever give up." He returns his gaze to the pale face, tense but open, without accusation or guile. "Every time, Sherlock. No question. Every single time." A shrug, nearly a shudder. "That's all."
Watery eyes edge with wonder, the pale cupid's bow of his mouth slightly ajar.
He glances around, soft mumbling from the television in the other room filling the silence. "Well, I suppose I should let you rest." A tender squeeze to the blanketed forearm. "Now, keep the vaporizer on, and no talking. Not a word. Text me if you need anything. I'll be right in the sitting room. Got it? Do NOT talk at all, not unless it is essential, like an absolute, extreme, desperate need. Understand?"
A brief nod, but the eyes still follow intently.
He clicks off the light, then tucks the blankets up around the broad shoulders, brushing a kiss to the soft flesh of the cheek, and moves to the door.
In the darkness, a husky whisper: "John?"
A hand freezes on the door knob.
"I love you, too."