Chapter 21

Time to Talk

"Right, mate, let's get you out of those clothes and horizontal". John gently manoeuvred Sherlock into the flat. The usually indefatigable detective had needed help climbing the seventeen steps into their living room, and his breathes were coming in rattling gasps.

"Thought... you'd never... ask". John smiled in fond exasperation. Trust Sherlock to be unable to resist an easy quip, even when it had to be delivered in a staccato croak.

"One of the most important signs of severe respiratory distress is the inability to talk in full sentences. If you don't want me to chicken out of looking after you at home, give yourself a moment to get your breath back before you start proselytising at me."

Sherlock's mouth twisted slightly in disapproval - John suspected he had somehow misused "proselytising" - but he obeyed, settling for pursing his lips and rolling his eyes.

John helped him perch on the arm of the sofa.

"Here or bedroom?"

"Here."

"Right. Greg, would you mind making sure he doesn't collapse in a heap while I go and get his pyjamas? Shut up, Sherlock."

As John helped his reluctantly helpless flatmate change out of the impractical sharp suit, his medical mind noted the hot, shivering gooseflesh.

"You're still roasting. You must be really uncomfortable".

"Mm. Cold."

"Right. Snuggle up under your duvet cover. I've taken the duvet out so it's not too thick; it'll feel warm without cooking you, 'cos remember you're really too hot. I'll get you a cold gel pack for your head, and it's less than an hour til you can have another round of Paracetamol and Brufen."

"You're fussing", said Sherlock, but he was smiling slightly.

"Really? So you don't want me to bring you hot lemon and honey? With fresh lemons?"

"I didn't say... I didn't like it."

John grinned, then turned to Lestrade, still hovering solicitously.

"Drink?"

"Coffee would be great, thanks. Want a hand?"

"Sure. You can check there's no biohazards in any of the mugs."

"Oh God. You're not serious?"

"Not really. He's actually pretty meticulous with anything too toxic; he just thinks this mad scientist thing is a good image."

The banter was important. They both kept it up almost as a ritual, to banish the spectre of the conversation they had already had, and the one yet to come.

John diluted the steaming liquid to drinking temperature, fetched a cool gel pack from the fridge, and carried both back into the living room. Sherlock just about managed to sit up without help, and blew into the mug, closing his eyes gratefully as soothing steam curled into them. John sat on the recently vacated sofa arm and pressed the gel pack to his forehead; the detective leaned cat-like into the touch with an involuntary whimper.

"My hair itches."

"It's the fever."

"I hate it. Being ill. Makes me behave like an idiot. Didn't want you to know all the sordid details."

"You can tell me in your own time, remember." John began absent-mindedly scoring his fingernails through the slightly sweaty dark curls, prompting Sherlock to moan in relief and drop his head back to lean against his flatmate. For a moment, his face smoothed out in relaxation, then the skin at the bridge of his nose crinkled, and a scowl followed.

"Anderson's an idiot."

"Yes, he is", cut in Lestrade, grimly. "And I'll kick his arse from here to the bloody Elephant and Castle when he's back at work, then he's up in front of the board."

"No, no. He can't help being an idiot at the best of times, and he's ill too. If he feels anywhere near as ghastly as I do, I wouldn't have been surprised if he'd run through the streets proclaiming it in the nude. He didn't think it through, just assumed he'd embarrass me. He obviously didn't realise..."

His words trailed off, and he turned to glower out of the window. There was an awkward silence in the room, then he turned back suddenly and turned his glare back upon Lestrade. It was still surprisingly effective, despite the red-rimmed hollow eyes.

"Look, you tell John about it. You know the details, after all. Start at the beginning; before things started to go wrong, and try to make some kind of cohesive, unemotional narrative out of it. I don't think I could stand listening to one of your rambling down-the-pub type stories, where you skip around in time and place, and imbue the whole with noxious sentiment. Imagine you're a competent police officer compiling a report for court."

His acerbic tone was robbed of its bite by the long, nervous fingers clutching convulsively at the duvet cover, and the muscles twitching in his jaw. He looked braced for an ordeal.

Lestrade was quiet for a moment, staring into space. John was suddenly conscious of the old clock ticking on the mantelpiece. God, that was really annoying - how had he never noticed before?

Then Lestrade cleared his throat, nodded, and began to talk.

-oOo-

Yep, I've disappeared again, but I tend to come back eventually. Disappearances are never deliberate!

Hope the little hint of hurt-comfort kept you going. Don't worry, more to come! There's an ENORMOUSLY long kid-Sherlock chapter pretty much written, which is partly why all this has taken so long - it all had to fit together.

Please read and review!