John's fever had escalated far quicker than Sherlock had anticipated. The doctor had remained on the sofa, drifting in and out of unconsciousness whilst Sherlock did his best to keep him cool, but it didn't seem to help at all. The detective was beginning to panic.
"Really, dear, you need to keep a glass of water nearby for whenever he wakes up." Thank God for Mrs Hudson, "The poor boy is far too dehydrated for my liking, but there's nothing you can do about it. Have you taken his temperature?"
"Yes, it read 39.2°C." Sherlock answered, moving from one window to the other, opening them as he did so to get some cool air inside.
"Hmm, you'll have to watch him closely, that temperature goes any higher and he'll have to go to a hospital."
"Yes, thank you, Mrs Hudson. I am fully aware of the dangers of a fever." Sherlock snapped as he dragged his armchair closer to the sofa and sat down in it.
His landlady sighed, but didn't reply. She patted the young detective on the shoulder before taking her leave, sighing as she left.
Sherlock huffed in frustration, running a hand through his hair. John had been sleeping for three hours, even if it had been a fitful sleep. His temperature had continued to creep up, and Sherlock had tried to do all he could to bring it back down. Placing a hand against the doctor's forehead, he noted that John wasn't any warmer, though he wasn't any cooler, either. Not good. Every now and then John would stir, muttering incoherently and trying to draw a blanket close to him to stop the tremors wracking his body, only to have the blanket snatched away by Sherlock, knowing that added heat wasn't going to improve matters.
"Come on, John." Sherlock muttered, absentmindedly tracing his thumb across his flatmate's forehead. "Fight it."
"His condition has not improved, I take it?"
Sherlock jumped at the sound of Mycroft's voice, and he turned to see his big brother leaning casually against the doorframe, his umbrella hanging from one of his arms. He mentally cursed himself for not hearing Mycroft sooner – so caught up was he looking after John – for he could have shut the door in his face.
"What can I do for you now, Mycroft?" the detective said sardonically.
Mycroft shrugged, "Merely came to check up on the two of you."
Sherlock scoffed. "Nice try, brother dear, but that's the biggest lie I've ever heard from you."
"Believe what you will, Sherlock, but I assure you that's why I'm here."
"So why the change of heart, then? You're never usually this concerned, especially for John." he growled.
Mycroft frowned, "I hold a greater respect for John than you think, Sherlock. I know he is essential to your work, and it's never pleasant for me – or anyone, I'm sure – to know that the good doctor is in danger."
"Nice t'know you care... so much, Mycroft." John croaked from the sofa.
The two brothers switched their gaze to the ex-soldier, who was struggling to sit up against the couch.
"How are you feeling?" Sherlock asked, helping John upright.
"M'fine." he answered with a yawn.
Both Holmeses raised their eyebrows at him.
John stared at them, "What? I mean it. I am –"
"– Perfectly fine, yes we know." Mycroft finished. "Though it is surprising, considering the ordeal your captors have put you through." he said
John nodded slowly, "Yes, well. It wasn't so bad."
Sherlock's brow furrowed. "You've been beaten, starved and picked up a dangerous fever."
"I know, but the men themselves were nice enough. I'm sure Campbell helped convince his employer."
Mycroft nodded absentmindedly, "Yes, he was very persuasi–" He froze suddenly, closing his eyes when he realised what he'd said.
Sherlock's frown deepened as he turned to John. "You've never mentioned a 'Campbell'."
John grimaced, watching Mycroft. "Exactly." he replied.
"But then how–?" He too stopped midsentence as the realisation hit him like an oncoming bus. Slowly, he turned to his brother.
"Mycroft." he growled, "A word?"
The government official took a breath before nodding, following his younger brother through to the detective's room. Sherlock slammed the door shut.
"What the hell did you think you were doing?" he seethed.
Mycroft watched him steadily. "It was the only way I could make you see–"
"Make me see? What on earth do you mean by that?"
"It means that taking John was the only way for you to notice–"
"Notice what? I notice everything."
"Apparently not your flatmate, though. You were–"
"I was what? Don't try and–"
"Will you stop interrupting me?" Mycroft shouted. He sighed and quickly regained his composure. Sherlock remained silent.
"Taking John," the elder Holmes said gently, "was the only way to make you realise he wasn't actually there. Admittedly, that wasn't the best plan, especially as you didn't notice–"
"I was–"
"No, don't make excuses. It took you four days for you to finally figure it out, and you didn't even do it. I was the one who had to come round and wave the file in your face. You are as much to blame for this as I am, Sherlock."
"Yes, but kidnapping John, was extremely dangerous of you. If you had killed him–"
"Under no circumstances would I have allowed Doctor Watson to die. He was being monitored constantly, and there was never any real danger–"
"You had him beaten half to death, and you didn't even feed him. How can you stand there and tell me that he was in no real danger? And apparently, it was only because of this Campbell person that you even decided to tell me where he wa – oh." Sherlock said, staring off into space, pressing his steepled fingertips to his chin.
"Sherlock–"
"That's why the explosion was delayed. You were the one who detonated it. Were you casually sat in your office, watching us all panic as the countdown echoed through the factory on a load of CCTV screens?"
"What, like you did at Baskerville?" Mycroft retorted sharply.
"So that's what this has all been about? My using John in an experiment? You really–"
"No, that's not why I did it, but it certainly contributed to my reasons. John is not a toy to play with, Sherlock. I think he let you off far too easily for what you did to him."
"For what I did to him? What about you? Do you think you'll be forgiven just as easily?"
"No, I don't. But I know that the doctor is a good man, and he will probably forgive me too easily as well."
"This is unacceptable, Mycroft." Sherlock said solemnly. "You have gone too far, this time."
Mycroft raised his eyebrows, "And what do you plan on doing? At least in this way you have finally drawn your eyes away from Miss Adler and onto the person who needs you the most, and who you need the most. If it comes to it, I will not hesitate to do it again."
Sherlock stepped closer, a venomous look in his eyes, "Don't you ever play with John's life again." he snarled.
"Don't give me a reason to." Mycroft shot back, meeting Sherlock's gaze calmly.
"Get the hell out of this flat."
Mycroft smiled condescendingly, before walking out of the bedroom. Sherlock stayed where he was for a moment, trying to block out the cheery "afternoon John," that his brother called as he left.
After a few steadying breaths, he moved back into the living room, but stopped in his tracks when he saw the vacated sofa, the only evidence suggesting there had been a sick man there being the mountain of blankets. He had a fleeting thought of whether Mycroft had managed to drag John down the stairs with him, but he quickly dispelled the idea when the sound of retching came from the bathroom.
Sherlock walked down the hall, and stopped in the doorway, watching as John knelt on the floor and retched into the toilet, though nothing came up. Once his stomach had finished constricting, the doctor slumped backwards against the bath, sweating profusely and panting heavily. Upon seeing Sherlock, he gave a weary smile as he wiped his brow.
"Mycroft confessed, then?" he rasped, eyeing the side of the bath suspiciously.
Sherlock caught onto what he wanted to do, and moved forward. "Yes." he answered, "How did you know it was him?" He bent down and let John latch onto his arms, before hoisting the doctor back to his feet. John swayed for a few moments, but Sherlock's firm grip meant that he wouldn't be meeting the floor anytime soon.
The two of them slowly made their way back to the living room as John spoke, "Percy Campbell." he said. "I could tell he was a soldier, but I couldn't work out why a soldier would suddenly decide to turn to the 'bad side', so to speak. The only explanations I thought of was that he was being blackmailed, or his employer wasn't actually 'bad'."
Sherlock helped lower John back onto the sofa. The doctor lay down, letting out a sigh of satisfaction, his eyes drooping shut.
"John," the detective called, "You haven't finished."
"Hmm? Oh right, sorry. Anyway, it seemed unlikely that Percy was being threatened, seeing as he'd just returned from a war, and so had no reason to be blackmailed, so I turned my thoughts to his employer.
"He would have had to have been someone who knew me or you, and seeing as you'd been working with Adler for the past three weeks, it wouldn't have made sense for them... to take me." John yawned, eyes drifting shut again. Sherlock lightly tapped him on the cheek, curious to know how John had come to his conclusion.
"Yes, yes, alright... So, it was someone who already knew us. If it had been someone from a previous case, then why would they suddenly decide to strike now? And anyhow, this person was meant to be on the 'good side'. It sounds bad, but the only person I could think of who knew us, was in some considerable power, hired ex-soldiers, and was still compassionate was your brother. Then the pieces began to fit, like when I heard you say that the explosion was seventeen seconds late. Your brother wanted to set an example, but not get you harmed as well."
"You're not angry?"
The doctor yawned again. "I'm bloody furious... but s'okay. I can... see why he did it."
Sherlock frowned. "Why did he do it, then?"
John smiled slightly, eyes now definitely closed. "To protect you." he mumbled. "Adler was going to hurt you sooner or later, and he felt the need to step in."
"Though his method was slightly unorthodox." he muttered under his breath, before looking back at John. "That was impressive." he admitted.
John hummed. "'M not as useless as you think." he murmured.
Sherlock frowned. "I don't think you're useless. You're invaluable to my work. I meant it when I said I'd be lost without my blogger. Do you really think I find you useless? John?" he sighed when he saw that John had drifted off to sleep.
"Rude." Sherlock said aloud, turning to head to the kitchen. He stopped when he felt a hand on his wrist.
"I'm kidding, Sherlock. Thank you, by the way. 'S nice to know you're human."
"Of course I'm human, John. I possess all the cells–"
"I meant emotionally." the doctor interrupted, hazel eyes blinking up at him, sparkling with amusement.
"Oh." Sherlock said, looking about the flat for something to do as John's grip slackened and he really did fall asleep. After a few minutes of standing there and not doing anything, he placed a hand against John's forehead, letting it linger there for a while longer before removing it, content (and also surprised) that the doctor's fever was beginning to fall.
"Always the soldier, John." he muttered as he moved to the window, violin in hand, and began to play a soft lullaby.
