John tried to stand up, only to discover his legs were not really cooperating. Neither were his eyes, Or his head. His throat was burning. So was he. All he could focus on was getting to the fridge and the carton of cold orange juice he had placed in there the night before. Yes, thought his inner doctor Vitamin C, a couple of Paracetamol and back to bed. Nice and simple. It was just a bit of a cold. John wasn't the kind of guy who exaggerated. Never said he was dying of man-flu when he had only got a little sniffle. That was all it was. A sniffle. He reached the fridge, grasping the handle in both hands and almost falling backwards as the door opened. He squinted in the bright light from inside the fridge. Looking for the orange juice, vaguely aware that he was now both dripping with sweat and shivering with cold. He reached out to move a severed something out of the way and blacked out.

Sherlock's return to Baker Street, triumphant at yet another solved case, was short lived as he burst through the door of the flat and saw the heap of Watson on the kitchen floor, a carton of orange juice spilled around him and some left over pasta smeared on his pyjamas. Sherlock had spent his day at the mortuary sifting through body parts, Sherlock had a clear, analytical mind that only dealt with facts. Sherlock was always in control. But faced with John, collapsed. Unmoving. Sherlock Holmes panicked. He was reduced to an idiot who didn't even have the sense to check John was breathing. The data his brain had processed was: John. Floor. Not Moving. Dead. And so Sherlock did what he always did in circumstances beyond his considerable control. He called his brother.

When Mycroft arrived, some ten minutes later, having been able to understand nothing of the garbled mess of words his little brother had spluttered and stammered down the phone at him, John was still on the floor. Sherlock was sat in the doorway looking at him. Hugging his knees. Watching John for any sign of life.

"What happened? Sherlock?"

"Found him. Like this."

"Have you checked to see if he's breathing? Have you called an ambulance?" Mycroft took his brother's silence to mean no. He was relieved to see John's chest rising and falling and moved over to check him more thoroughly. He shook him by the shoulders. "John? Doctor Watson? Can you hear me?"

"Eh?" John answered groggily. Mycroft could feel his burning hot skin through his juice soaked pyjamas. He turned to his brother.

"Sherlock. He's not dead. I think he has the flu. Now let's get him cleaned up and into bed. And I will call Doctor Stamford." It took ten minutes for the Homes brothers to strip John of his pyjamas, put him into clean ones and install him in Sherlock's bed. John let them do all of it with barely a murmur of protest other than a feeble "No really I'm fine." Mike Stamford arrived and diagnosed the flu, gave John an injection and advised he drink plenty of fluids and get some rest.

"Now Sherlock. What was this really all about?" Mycroft's Icy Blue eyes looked into his brothers grey ones. Sherlock shuddered under his scrutiny.

"Nothing."

"Really? "

"Really. I panicked for a moment. I thought he was... dead." Sherlock nearly choked on that last word.

"Dead? So why did you call me?" Mycroft already knew the answer. But he wanted to hear Sherlock say it any way.

"You make it sound like John doesn't matter to you." Sherlock temper was rising.

"Of course John matters to me. For God's sake he's single handedly turned you into an almost normal member of society. The man is a saint. But John isn't the only thing matters to me."

"He's all that matters to me. I thought you of all people would understand."

"Of course I understand Sherlock. I wouldn't be here if I didn't. Would I?" Of course Mycroft understood. That heart stopping moment Sherlock must have had when he saw John on the floor. When he thought that the small amount of happiness he had been allowed was over. When he thought he was alone again. Of course Mycroft understood. But having someone who understood what it was like to be a prisoner in the dark was not the same thing as running free with the person who released you from the prison.

Sherlock smiled an apology at his brother. And then went to go and get Frank. He sensed Frank would be more use than him at the present time.