Chapter 16
"You seemed to be quite deep into your mind palace this time, "John observed quietly, as he led Sherlock to the kitchen table. "You didn't even notice me entering the room. Care to tell me what that was all about?"
Panic flashed in those deep blue-green eyes and John quickly shook his head reassuringly. "Or not. You don't have to tell me if you don't want to. Come on, sit down. I'll make the tea."
Sherlock moved as if in a daze. He let himself be sat down by John and stared at the empty cup he set in front of him as if it were a complete mystery to him. John was quite worried and tried to distract himself by making the tea.
"There you go, "John said, as he finally sat down and poured the tea into Sherlock's cup. Sherlock seemed entranced by the pouring and John tried to focus on what he was doing instead of outright staring at the dazzling creature right in front of him.
Now that he knew how he felt about him, he could barely refrain from looking at him all the time. His eyes flicked over to Sherlock before he knew what he was doing, and he felt sudden heat rise within the pit of his stomach as he took in the bedazzled frown on the other man's face, his long eyelashes fluttering as he blinked, his alabaster skin looking even paler than usual.
God, he is breathtaking.
John shook his head and barely stopped an annoyed groan escaping his throat, as he barely avoided making the tea in his cup overflow.
"Are you alright, John?"
Pale blue eyes looked at him in wonder and all the muscles in John's body tensed up.
"Y-yes, of course, "he said quickly. "It's just a little strange … to be able to be here right now, you know?"
Awkward silence settled between them. They both had the same thought and quickly lifted their cups, both blowing at it first, to cool it down a little. John stole another quick glance at Sherlock over the rim of his cup and somehow, they immediately focussed on the wonderful cupid's bow of Sherlock's lips as they tentatively sipped at the tea, causing a sudden rush of arousal to spike in his loins.
God, what is wrong with me?
He was angry at himself. How could he sit here, and just ogle Sherlock as if there weren't more important things to do, like comfort him for instance. Tell him that he was here for him now and that he would finally be alright, after all that had happened.
"John?"
John looked up and saw that Sherlock had put his cup back down again. "Yes"?
Sherlock glanced at him, insecurity flitting across his face as he bit his bottom lip and looked back down again. He looked to the side for a few seconds, then back up again, directly at John.
"I'm glad you're back, John."
His words took John unaware, yet they were spoken in such a heartfelt manner, that a warm, fuzzy feeling spread through John's chest immediately. He was stunned into silence for a few seconds, wondering what was behind that sudden acknowledgement of sentiment.
"Oh. Oh, really?" he said at last and he looked up again, seeing Sherlock tilt his head to the side in confusion. "I thought you didn't care that I was in prison. You didn't seem to when I called you last night. What was it you said? You wished me good luck?"
He winced at the acerbic tone in his voice.
What am I doing? I already know why he did that, why am I attacking him like that?
He wanted to say it out loud, but Sherlock was quicker. "I'm sorry I said that John. It was completely rubbish and not true. I … I was scared and didn't know what to say."
He looked up and the barely disguised pain in his glistening blue eyes made John's own heart ache in return. "I apologize, John. It was not okay. I know what you have done for me. You have saved my life. I don't know how I can ever repay you. You would have gone to prison for saving me had it not been for my brother. There are no words that can make this right. You are a true friend, I couldn't wish for a better."
John's heart swelled at the sudden unexpected revelation from Sherlock's lips. He couldn't believe those words, the ones that proved that instead of an analytical cold mind there was a human being behind the hard façade, one that proved that this man cared about him, John, deeply. This man that had hurt at the thought of him away in prison.
High-functioning sociopath, huh? What a load of bollocks.
"Sherlock…." John's voice broke and he looked down at his hands, trembling. He looked back up and saw a gleam in Sherlock 's eyes.
"John, I …. I couldn't have gone on without you ..." Sherlock's voice broke as well. "I ... I could barely bear the thought about you in your cell. Alone. Without comfort or hope. I'm so sorry I made you go through that. You must be so angry with me."
For a moment, John was speechless, and Sherlock seemed to mistake his silence for confirmation of his assumption because he winced slightly and curled into himself. As if he wanted to make himself smaller. Dazed, John shook his head.
"No! No, Sherlock, you've got it all wrong." Sherlock's eyes widened when he saw the agitation in John's face and John almost cursed out loud, frustrated with himself, with his incapability to get his message through to Sherlock.
"You didn't make me go through anything, "he managed to say eventually, swallowing heavily. "Okay? It's not your fault I was arrested. It's not your fault you were almost killed by some madwoman."
Sherlock snorted and he bit his lip as he shook his head frantically. "But it is my fault, John! If I hadn't gone to the agency you wouldn't have had a reason to be there and save me again. I was …. stupid, just like always, reckless, and I should have known better. You were right with what you said to me in the hospital. I am an idiot and I always get us into such terrible dangerous situations. I'm sorry."
"Sherlock ..." John was completely shellshocked by his friend's words. He needed him to stop, it had been so wrong of him to say those words to him in the first place.
"No, John." Sherlock's voice sounded bitter. Resigned. "No, don't take your words back. Because you really were right. But here's the thing."
He looked up at John who was shocked to see tears glimmering in those wide pale eyes – they were sea green now, and there was fear in them, fear of what John was going to say to him now.
"I guess I could promise you to try to change. I would really try, John. I would try not to just run off when we are at crime scenes. I would try to inform you about anything I discover in my mind palace or any information I come across when we're not together. I would try and avoid provoking criminals into hurting me when I'm in some kind of a helpless situation. I would try and take care of myself, so I don't get killed some day."
John's mouth and throat felt parched, so he swallowed and licked his lips before he leaned forward a little, trying to make eye contact with Sherlock, get him to look at him.
"Yes?" he whispered. "But that's perfect, Sherlock, that's all I ask. All I ask that you try to be more careful, so what would be so wrong about that?"
Sherlock closed his eyes, his lower lip began to tremble, and he pressed his mouth shut, obviously annoyed with himself. "I would no be able to keep my word, John. I would still, eventually, fail you."
John shook his head in helpless wonder. "But … ?"
"I am a complicated person, John. I would try to change, for you, but …. Eventually, I would forget what I promised you and just ruin everything again by … well, by being me, essentially."
He looked up at John now. "I'm sorry, "he whispered. "I'm sorry I'm such a failure."
He looked back into his lap, where he was fumbling around with his hands. "I guess maybe you should consider moving out."
"What?" John asked, appalled, his voice rising. "Why?"
Sherlock looked at him in disbelief. "I just told you. I won't be able to change. Not completely anyway. But that's what you need me to do, isn't it? You won't be able to …. endure my ways."
"Endure your … Sherlock, what in God's name?" John stopped talking, rendered speechless by the whole matter and Sherlock's head whipped up, his eyes wide with fresh fear.
"I'm sorry, John, if I said something wrong. I just thought that…."
"Well, you thought wrong!"
John banged his fist on the table and jumped out of his chair, causing Sherlock to stare up at him with wide eyes, shocked at John's sudden outburst.
"You have no right to make such assumptions about me! I don't believe how you could think that of me!"
Sherlock rose out of his chair too. "I'm sorry, John, I didn't want to …."
"Just stop it, alright? Stop making assumptions!" John was breathing heavily now, his body leaned forward, his eyes ablaze with barely restrained agitation and Sherlock actually took a step back, confused and maybe even a little bit afraid.
"Aright, "he said slowly, hesitatingly.
"Good!"
He felt the urge to storm off, to flee this conversation, which was getting much too emotional for him, and just disappear into his room for the rest of the day. It would be much safer there.
But he knew it would be a mistake. Sherlock was incredibly fragile right now and to leave him here like that would be terribly wrong.
He was looking at him now, his body in fight-or-flight mode, wary, his eyes flicking over John's tense form as if he expected him to attack any second now. It made John feel ashamed of himself.
"I'm sorry, "he said quietly, and his shoulders slumped down as he forced his body to relax. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to yell at you, Sherlock. I'm getting it all wrong."
Sherlock looked as if he didn't understand and John shook his head, as he looked towards the window, his jaw clenched hard, his blue eyes suddenly tinged with sorrow.
"It was wrong of me to say those things to you at the hospital, Sherlock. It was horribly wrong."
"No, John, you were right, "Sherlock cut in, looking more composed than before.
"Maybe, to an extent, "John admitted. "But I shouldn't have yelled at you like that. You were in the hospital, just a few hours after suffering from a second physical assault on you, you were under an impossible strain and I've added to that, bloody arse that I am. I am so sorry for doing that to you, Sherlock, seriously I can only ask that you forgive me."
Sherlock was staring at him as if he had gone mad. "I …. It's fine, John, really…."
"But it's not, Sherlock! It really isn't!" John was working himself up again and he clenched his hands into fists at his side, as he started pacing the sitting room, trying to keep his temper in check. "I've overstepped the line. Obviously, we should have had a real talk a long time before that conversation. I'm sorry that all of that just burst out of me and at such an impossible time, too. It's unforgivable."
Sherlock inhaled sharply, as if he wanted to say something, but he stopped himself. John wanted to say something more, so many important things that he had only discovered for himself recently, but the words got stuck in his throat and suddenly he was terribly afraid.
"I forgive you, John." Sherlock's words were quiet, and he was looking at him calmly, a little sad but determined.
John opened and closed his mouth again, feeling like a fool. "Y-you do?" he finally asked.
Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically. "Of course, you idiot." The corners of his lips twitched upwards, just a tiny bit and there was the old him back again for a moment, the condescending, arrogant bastard he used to be. They grinned at each other, relieved at the reprieve from the taxing conversation.
Eventually, John grew serious again as he noticed the weariness in Sherlock's posture.
"You look exhausted, "he said quietly, and Sherlock's eyes flitted to the floor. "How do you feel?"
"I feel okay, I guess. Maybe a bit tired, "Sherlock admitted after a while.
"Alright." John was impressed and also a little worried that his friend would admit that he was tired. But he didn't want to overreact, ruining the peaceful truce between them, so he asked casually "Would you eat if I made you something?"
Sherlock made a face but shrugged in defeat. "I guess toast would be alright."
"Okay, and a yoghurt, to get some proteins into you, "John sad quickly, before Sherlock could change his mind again.
Sherlock rolled his eyes, but he let himself be led back to his chair and actually ate the toast and yoghurt John set in front of him. They even drank another cup of tea together while Sherlock complained about Frederic and his inability to make a decent cup of tea or understand that he wasn't interested in listening to his 'juvenile' war stories. He didn't mention his almost-panic attack or the way he had completely shut down afterwards and John didn't see sense in addressing the matter now. Besides, he was enjoying the casual conversation they were having, as opposed to the many heated arguments they had engaged in during the past few days. It almost felt like old times to John and from the way he was smiling into his cup, Sherlock was enjoying it too.
Afterwards, John took a look at Sherlock's shoulder. The wound still looked rather inflamed and he cleansed and changed the dressing with utmost care. Sherlock claimed that it didn't hurt much but he didn't believe him. Sherlock was a master of bearing physical pain, as well as concealing his pain in front of others, especially John.
He gave him his antibiotics which Sherlock took without complaint and then they agreed to go to bed.
"Goodnight Sherlock, "John said with a hesitant smile as Sherlock approached his bedroom. "Sleep well. Please call me if anything's wrong. I'll sleep on the sofa."
Sherlock stopped in his steps and looked back at him, a frown on his pale face. "You really don't need to do that."
John met his gaze steadily. "Oh, but I do."
They looked at each other for a few seconds, trying to gauge the other man's thoughts. After a moment, Sherlock's lips curled into a tight smile. "Alright, suit yourself. Goodnight John."
"Goodnight Sherlock."
/
John found himself in an old warehouse, once again. He was running through the dirty, decaying building, and his mind was focussed on one thing only: he had to find Sherlock. He was in danger again, he just knew it. And he couldn't allow that. Sherlock mustn't be in danger again, ever again.
He couldn't allow it. He wouldn't.
He searched for hours but he couldn't find him. He was hysterical, screaming Sherlock's name until his lungs almost gave out but there still was no sign of him. So John ran out of the warehouse, only to find himself in front of another building. Maybe Sherlock was in there. Again, he searched and searched but again, he couldn't find him. He found more houses to search but never did he find him. It was as if he had disappeared off the face of the earth.
Refusing to give up, John entered the last house from a seemingly endless row of houses he had searched. It seemed to be empty too, but when he finally entered the basement, he found a motionless figure lying face down in the middle of the room. John's heart beat in his chest when he stepped nearer and crouched down next to him. His brain had already registered the noticeable lack of movement in the still body, but he needed to see for himself what was wrong.
He turned the body onto its back. It was Sherlock. His face was deathly pale in the dusky room, a weak light from a tiny window in the back eerily casting shadows onto his rigid features. There was a hole in the middle of his forehead.
He was dead.
Eyes that once had been a myriad of shades of blue and green and grey were now dull and empty as they stared up at him and something shattered within John when he looked into them. There was no light left there, no life, but there was accusation and John could hear the deep familiar baritone inside his head, clear as day.
"You have failed to protect me, John."
"You have failed me."
"No!"
John awoke with a start, springing into a sitting position. He gasped for air, hands clenched into the sheets at his sides, and he needed a few minutes to calm himself down.
It's okay. It's alright. It was just a dream, calm down.
He slumped back against the pillow and ran a shaky hand through his hair. He wrinkled his nose in disgust when it came back clammy, realizing he had broken into a sweat in his sleep. Now fully awake, he got up from the couch and padded into the kitchen, where he grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, and almost drained it in one go. Then he went into the bathroom and washed his face in the sink, after which he felt a bit better.
Afterwards, he lay back down on the couch, but sleep refused to come which really shouldn't have been a surprise. After that dream, it would have been something of a miracle, if he had just fallen into a peaceful slumber. So he found himself staring at the ceiling once again, after tossing and turning for what seemed like hours but in all probability were only minutes.
He listened for sounds from Sherlock's bedroom, but everything was quiet. Apparently, Sherlock was sleeping. Or he was in his mind palace where he wouldn't make any sounds either, sitting statue-like in silent deduction mode. Frozen, but within, his mind would be alive like a whirring hive of bees, working and analysing without pausing to rest.
Suddenly, he needed to make sure he was okay. After everything that had happened the past few days, John was unable to trust the peace and quiet. It felt almost surreal, lying here on the sofa, safe and sound, with no blaring sirens, no interfering Mycroft, no bickering Sherlock.
Just a few hours ago, he had been convinced he would spend the next ten years in prison.
Should it really all be over now?
No. Even if he was truly being acquitted of all charges, even if Sherlock's remaining tormentor was put away, unable to harm him anymore, Sherlock was far from fine. The usually so haughty, condescending detective who had always been able to reduce people to blubbering, stammering messes in the face of his often cruel albeit correct deductions, was now nothing more than a simple human being that had gone through a terrible ordeal.
Because this was a fact that nobody seemed to get about Sherlock. He was a human being. He had feelings just like everyone else. He was breakable. Vulnerable. He was able to feel hurt and remember it, suffer because of it, just like everyone else.
Even he, John Watson, who had been allowed quite a few glimpses into Sherlock's humanity over the last few years, had never known the full extent of his best friend's fragility.
Sherlock himself seemed rather overwhelmed by the emotions flooding through him momentarily.
No wonder, after everything that has happened to him. No one could expect him to behave normally after that.
But this? Sherlock falling off the couch, shocked to see John? Scrambling into his arms, shaking like a leaf, with tears in his eyes, as he was apologizing to John, convinced that he was responsible for John's misery, even if the truth couldn't be further from that.
John was amazed to see this new side of Sherlock. It was terrifying, in a way.
It was also extremely revealing, and he felt as if a piece of a puzzle had slid into its right place. Yet he still didn't have the full picture.
He knew he needed more information, something was still missing. However, right now he just needed to make sure that Sherlock was alright. If he were in his mind palace, he had to rouse him and convince him to get some sleep instead. Sherlock seemed intent on making John happy right now so even if it was a little unfair, he needed to take advantage of his fragile state of mind. He would be doing it in favour of his health, after all.
The light shone through the unveiled windows and cast an eerie shadow throughout their living room. The floor creaked under the soft, hesitant steps of his feet. He was desperate to avoid making any sounds in case Sherlock was unexpectedly asleep, so he tried to step even lighter.
A sudden thought hit him, and his head shot to the front door, a knot of fear twisting in his stomach.
Has he gone out again? Left me again?
He relaxed immediately when he saw the familiar Belstaff hanging on the rack, Sherlock's favourite blue scarf wrapped around its collar. It was all good.
His eyes flicked over to Sherlock's closed bedroom door.
I should make sure he's okay. Just a quick peek and then I'll leave again.
Do you really think that's a good idea?
There was that other voice again and John sighed internally, annoyed by his own inner ambiguity.
I'm his doctor, too, he told himself. It is my duty to make sure he's getting the rest he needs.
But before he could voice more doubts and dissuade himself from entering Sherlock's room, a sound came from within the room and John moved without hesitation, because there was hurt in Sherlock's voice and his body reacted to that sound like a moth to a flame, he couldn't have stayed put if his own life depended on it.
He bolted inside and stood still as he took in the picture in front of him: there lay Sherlock on his back, clad in one old T-shirt and loose sweatpants, the sheets kicked to the floor beside the bed. He was muttering in his sleep, sweat glistening on his forehead as he tossed from right to left, his hands curled helplessly into the fitted sheet beneath him.
"No, "he moaned softly as his head jerked to the side, his eyes still closed, "get away from me." He bit his lip in his sleep, little gasps of air leaving his slightly parted lips as he shivered and curled into himself. "Please, no."
Without thinking, John rushed forward to lean over Sherlock's restless form. "Oh, Sherlock, "he muttered as he laid his hand on the man's hot forehead. "Oh no." John held his hand against both of Sherlock's clammy cheeks and found the same burning skin there.
Sherlock, however, was shivering, trembling all over his thin body. He tried to make himself warm by curling into himself and when John touched his arm, Sherlock pulled at it, trying to pull him towards his body, seeking his warmth although he was still asleep.
Gently, John disentangled himself from his friend's arm and then slipped outside to get the thermometer from the bathroom. His heart was beating in his chest as he frantically searched through his medical kit to find it, nearly throwing it all on the ground in his anxiousness when he couldn't find it immediately.
He finally found it and quickly returned to Sherlock's side.
"Hey, "he said softly, as he sat down beside Sherlock lying on his side and tried to pull him towards him, onto his back. "Come here, love. I need to take your temperature." He managed to position Sherlock so that he lay with his head on John's thigh.
Sherlock moaned softly but didn't protest when John cautiously slipped the thermometer between his lips.
"That's good, love, keep still for me, "John whispered as he gently stroked through Sherlock's sweaty curls. "Just a few seconds more, alright?"
The thermometer beeped and John deftly pulled it out of Sherlock's mouth.
Dammit. 39.2°. Dammit!
So the wound had gotten infected after all.
He sighed and ran his hand over his mouth as he looked at the man lying beside him.
"Sherlock, "he said softly as he shook his shoulder. "We need to get you back the hospital." Sherlock whined and shrugged John's hand off, curling even more into himself.
"Sherlock." John sighed again. "I'm sorry, please wake up." He shook him a little more firmly and Sherlock's eyes finally fluttered open, blinking in confusion as he looked up into John's face.
"There you are, "John said, and he cupped Sherlock's jaw with his hand, stroking the side of his face with his thumb, a sad smile on his face. "we need to go to the hospital now."
But as soon as he had said the words, Sherlock's eyes widened in panic and he started to shake his head.
"No, "he whispered desperately, "no, not the hospital."
"I'm sorry, Sherlock, but your temperature is over 39 degrees. You're burning up. You were released only under the condition that you'd return if you developed a fever. So come on, get up."
But Sherlock struggled free and scrambled backwards on the mattress, away from John.
"I said no, "he said, a little louder, his eyes a littler clearer than before. "Please, John, I don't want to go!"
John forced himself to sit still, lest he frightened the other man further away. "I know you don't want to go, "he said softly as he slowly placed his arms into his lap, opening his palms upwards in a what he hoped calming, peace-offering gesture. "But we need to get you into medical care. Please understand. You need help."
"Can't you do it, John?" Sherlock's eyes were glistening with unshed tears and John found himself mesmerized, unable to speak for a second. Then he recovered. He blinked and slowly shook his head.
"I'm sorry, Sherlock, I don't…"
"Please, John, please!" Sherlock's whole body was trembling, and he was breathing heavily as he wearily laid his head onto the mattress while keeping John in his vision. As if he was expecting him to pounce on him to drag him away. In his weakened state, he wasn't strong enough to fight John off and they both knew it, but that didn't mean he couldn't plead with him to stave off the unavoidable.
"Please, "he repeated, closing his eyes for a moment as he tried to get some oxygen into his lungs with obvious effort. "I cannot bear being in a hospital again. I'd go crazy. Please, please, please." Something that almost sounded like a sob left Sherlock's throat and he buried his face in his arms as he curled into himself again, still repeatedly pleading with him - "please, John, please", his restless body shifting back and forth as it fought the unrelenting fever burning within.
John stared at him, distressed at the sight of Sherlock in this unusual state – upset, unsettled. Almost uninhibited. This was a man in pain, a man scared out of his wits, and he needed someone to take care of him, desperately.
Slowly, he scooted closer and he raised a hand over Sherlock's head where it hovered in the air, hesitatingly. Sherlock didn't seem to notice him.
"Please, John."
Sherlock's words were nothing more than a whisper now and John's heart was breaking when he still heard the desperation in those two words. Sherlock was slowly slipping away, and he needed to make a decision. Now.
I cannot fail him now. Not again.
Grim determination settled around the corners of his mouth as he pulled Sherlock up and into his arms, frowning when he realized once again how hot he was. Beads of sweat had collected in the back of his neck and John cradled Sherlocks head in his arms as he gently patted his cheeks, trying to rouse him again so that he would listen.
"Okay, Sherlock, listen to me, "he said firmly, and Sherlock's eyes opened again, heavy lids at half-mast because he was apparently just moments away from falling asleep again. "We'll stay here for now, alright? I'll take care of you. But we'll go straight to the hospital if the fever keeps rising or if your overall state worsens. Alright?"
Sherlock's eyes fluttered shut and John shook him, worry spiking up again. "Sherlock?"
The green-blue eyes opened, just barely and there was an almost indiscernible nod of the head. "Y-yes."
"Yes?"
Sherlock nodded again, his eyes squeezing shut as the tiny movement seemed to cause him pain. John nodded, more to himself than to the man in his arms, then he carefully laid Sherlock down onto the sheet, disentangling him from his arms.
"Alright. Okay." He leaned over Sherlock and stroked the side of his face, frowning at the feel of burning skin. "I'll just get some things, alright, Sherlock?"
Sherlock just hummed and John scooted back up to the edge of the bed but when he got up there was a weak tug at his arm, and he turned to see Sherlock's thin wrist encircling his upper arm. He looked up and was met with Sherlock looking at him through heavy-lidded eyes, exhaustion seeping out of every single pore.
"Thank you, John, "he whispered, and John's heart stopped in his throat at the sight of him.
Tenderly, he took Sherlock's wrist from his arm and held it in both his hands, slowly stroking him reassuringly. "Of course, "he said quietly. "Always, for you."
A tiny quiver at the corner of Sherlock's lips told him his message had been received. Then the eyes closed again, and Sherlock's head lolled to the side as he groaned in open discomfort.
"Right, "John said quickly and after one last reassuring squeeze, John let go of his hand and hurried out of the bedroom to get the things he needed.
First, he got a glass and a bottle of fresh water out of the fridge, thankful not for the first time for Mycroft's interfering ways. He got a package of ibuprofen out of his medical bag and the antibiotics, too. It wasn't time yet for the next dose of medicine, but he knew he would need to administer it at some point in the night. He filled another small bowl with tepid water and got a clean cloth out of the bathroom cabinet.
He brought all that into Sherlock's bedroom and dropped it on the bedside cabinet. One quick look at Sherlock's motionless form told him that the man had nodded off again, but he was also tossing and turning again, shivering almost violently.
"Hold on love, I'll be right back, "John murmured, before he darted off again to retrieve some more blankets and pillows from the cupboard in his own bedroom. He detested having to leave Sherlock alone for even a second more, but it needed to get done and he concentrated on moving quickly and efficiently, because it would certainly not be helpful if he fell down the stairs in his hurry to get back to Sherlock and broke his legs now.
His arms full of heavy blankets, he returned to Sherlock, threw the blankets on the chair in the corner and quickly sat beside his friend, slightly out of breath.
"Sherlock?" he asked as he patted his cheek again. "Hey, Sherlock. I need you to wake up for me, love, just for a minute to drink some water and take your medicine, then you can go back to sleep again. Come on."
Sherlock groaned but refused to wake and John propped up a large pillow against the bedhead. Gently, he pulled Sherlock's body upwards and hoisted him so that he lay with his upper body against the pillow. Sherlock groaned some more, and John winced in sympathy.
"I know it hurts, love, just bear with me, alright?" he said softly. He poured some water into the glass and raised it to Sherlock's lips, together with the tablet of Ibuprofen.
"Here." He gently grabbed Sherlock's chin and pulled a little, so that his lips parted. He laid the pill onto Sherlock's tongue and pressed the glass to his lips. "Drink this." Sherlock's head turned, away from the glass but John cupped his jaw and pulled him back towards him with gentle force. "Please, Sherlock. It'll only take a second."
Without resisting further, Sherlock allowed John to dip the glass forward and he swallowed the tablet down with just a couple of quick sips. When John tried to get him to drink the rest of the glass Sherlock closed his mouth and shook his head.
John hesitated. He didn't want to push Sherlock, but he needed to stay hydrated.
"Please, "he asked again as he pressed the glass to the tight line of Sherlock's lips. "Please drink this, you need to stay hydrated. Please. For me."
Sherlock nodded weakly then, and he drained the rest of the glass, turning his head away in exhaustion as soon as he had finished.
"So hot, John, "he croaked as he edged closer to him, angling his lean body towards him. "I- I can't …. John …." He was breathing heavily again, shifting anxiously, and John quickly pushed him back against the pillow, stroking his curls reassuringly.
"Hey, hey … it's alright. Just lay down."
He drenched the cloth in the tepid water and laid it on Sherlock's forehead, tiny droplets of water dripping down the side of his face. It seemed to help immediately as Sherlock sighed, his body's frantic movements slowing down as he settled against the pillow behind him.
"That's perfect, Sherlock, feels better now, doesn't it? Just go back to sleep, love."
It was difficult but John managed not to give in to the urgent desire to press Sherlock to his own body into a comforting embrace, because he really didn't need the additional body warmth right now. Instead, he lay down across from him, their bodies turned toward each other, and continued to soothingly stroke Sherlock's head.
It seemed to help his friend calm down as his face relaxed underneath John's careful touches and after a few minutes, Sherlock was sound asleep again, for once breathing peacefully. John found himself staring at the face of the man across from him, deathly still and pale, a shine of sweat at his hairline, unruly curls falling down into his face from the sides.
What have you done to me, you impossible, beautiful, brilliant man?
He guarded Sherlock's sleep for a long time. When Sherlock began to fidget again, he took the cloth off his skin and refreshed it with more water. A quick check of the temperature told him that the fever had barely dropped. He sighed although he had already anticipated that this would not be over that quickly. The fever had been kept in check when it had been first inflicted, it had only been very light. But after that second assault, different bacteria would have settled within the laceration, making it difficult for the antibiotics to fight the various heterogenous attacks. The fever was raging in earnest now and it would not be easy to get it down.
Have I been right to let him stay here?
John bit his lip as he watched the rise and fall of Sherlock's body, now facing away from him after tossing and turning for a while.
What if I'm wrong? What if it's too dangerous to not keep him monitored? He has been through so much stress lately, at some point his body could just give up.
He shook his head, frustrated, refusing to let his worries overwhelm him. It just had felt right to allow Sherlock to stay here with him. He was a doctor, wasn't he? They wouldn't do much more in the hospital than he could do here. They would give Sherlock his medicine, watch his temperature, just as he was doing here. He had looked at the wound, kept it clean, had changed the dressing. He had kept him hydrated.
There was nothing else he could do now but wait.
Oh Sherlock. I just wish you could finally get some peace after all that's' happened to you. I just wish we could … get some time to figure out how to continue ….
He groaned at his own ridiculousness. Sherlock's health was his priority now, nothing else mattered until he was okay again. He could think about the complicated nature of their relationship after Sherlock had recovered from … well from everything. Not only from his physical injuries but also from the mental stress he had had to endure for the past few weeks.
And even though John knew he had only wanted the best for Sherlock, he knew he had not always handled matters in the best manner. He had hurt Sherlock by belittling him, calling him vulnerable for being unexperienced in sexual matters. He had pitied him.
God, how dumb of me.
He bit into his thumb's cuticle as he swore to make it up to Sherlock. He would not belittle him anymore. He was a grown man and he was a strong, independent person. If he needed John to give him space that's what John would do. Even if it meant he would go crazy worrying about Sherlock all over again.
It seemed there was little else his mind could focus on nowadays.
His eyelids were getting heavy despite his best efforts to keep them open. Although he couldn't sleep directly next to Sherlock, he needed some connection between them to reassure himself. He also needed to stay alert to some extent in case something was wrong with his best friend. It was a good thing he still had the light sleep of a soldier, ready to jerk awake at the slightest sound of danger.
He reached out and cautiously laid an arm around Sherlock's waist. The urge to pull Sherlock flush against his chest was overwhelming. The concept of them sleeping together with him protectively spooning Sherlock from behind seemed awfully enticing to him, but he kept himself in check and maintained the open space between them, their bodies only connected by John's arm around Sherlock's middle.
He could feel the other man's chest rise and down underneath his hand and it lulled him into a peaceful slumber.
/
He woke up a little later when he felt a body next to his, its radiating heat stifling and merging into him. He opened his eyes to find that Sherlock had scooted over and was now clinging to him like a koala. He was still lying on his side, one leg thrown over John's hip, his face buried in John's shoulder and he was shivering violently against him.
"Sherlock?"
Worried, John pushed Sherlock a little away so that he could get a good look at him, but Sherlock whimpered and tried to push himself back against John's body again.
"S-s-s-so c-c-c-cold, J-John, "he said through chattering teeth, "p-please, I-I n-n-n-need you."
John's heart stuttered in his chest at those words and he froze for a second, uncertain what to do. But Sherlock had no such inhibitions and he pressed further against John's side, almost as if he wanted to melt into him, so desperate was he for the warmth of the other man's body.
"P-please, John, I- I can't …." His pleas were a helpless stream of distraught whines, there was nothing left of the calculated, controlled persona the detective usually projected onto the outside, only raw, unveiled desperation, from a man seeking out the comfort he so frantically needed. His long thin fingers clawed against John's back as he tried to push John against his own body and John was almost sure that Sherlock was not really lucid because he couldn't imagine Sherlock loosing his cool like that intentionally. He was clearly not his usual self right now.
"Okay, "he breathed, his mind whirling with the surrealism of the situation, "alright, Sherlock, let me get up and get you some blankets …."
"No!" Sharp nails dove into his back, stopping John's movement mid-way. "No, p-please, I-I don't need any s-stupid blankets, I just need you …." And Sherlock emphasized his words by burying himself further against John's chest, a sob leaving his throat as his body continued to shiver violently.
"Okay, okay, calm down, love, I'll stay." He stroked Sherlock's curly head and sighed in relief when Sherlock indeed seemed to calm down underneath him. Without disentangling from the man, John extended his arm backwards and fumbled beneath the edge of the bed. Luckily, he had lain just at the right place and he managed to grab the discarded bed sheets and pull them over the two of them.
Once they were tucked in tightly underneath the sheets, he pressed Sherlock against himself and started to stroke his back soothingly, muttering stupid little nothings directly into Sherlock's ear where the man was curled underneath his chin, praising him for how good he was and how well he was letting John take care of him.
Sherlock's tremors decreased until they were suddenly gone completely. Sherlock sighed in content and nuzzled into the collar of John's shirt as he finally relaxed and once again fell asleep. A wave of tenderness washed over John as he held the sleeping feverish man in his arms, and he felt as if nothing in the world could persuade him to let go of him now. He was holding the most precious thing in his arms and he would protect him from whatever wanted to harm him. Or whoever.
Nobody would ever hurt Sherlock again. Not if he had any say in it.
He pressed a soft kiss onto the top of Sherlock's head without really thinking about it and frowned when he realized that Sherlock was still radiating heat as if he were on fire. The fever was still tormenting him, and he would soon have to wake him to check his temperature and get him to drink some more water.
But for now he would let him get some more much-needed rest.
He sighed and closed his eyes. Soon he was drifting off again.
/
It was summer. The sun was shining, and Sherlock was perfectly well and uninjured. There were no bruises on his perfect, alabaster skin, no bandages on his shoulder. He was laughing as he walked beside John in the park. They had just solved another case, had chased after some low-level burglar and apprehended him together, handing him off to a smiling Greg on their way out of the grubby backside alley. They were running high on adrenaline and endorphins, Sherlock praising John how well he had brought the criminal down with just one well-directed punch to his face. Suddenly they were holding hands, looking at each other with surprise on both their faces, quickly changing into unveiled desire.
His heart beating in his throat, John pulled Sherlock towards him. He was standing on a step above him, so they were at eyelevel and his gaze was dropping to Sherlock's lips. Something in Sherlock's bright blue eyes shifted, his pupils dilated and then he was leaning forward, his face hesitating just a few inches away from John's.
Taking the last remaining step that they both needed so much John cupped the back of Sherlock's head and pushed while he moved forward at the same time. Their mouths met in a startingly sweet and tender kiss until Sherlock moaned, parting his lips, inviting John in. John responded at once and pressed Sherlock flat against his body as his tongue flicked forward to lick into the other man's mouth. He ran his hands subconsciously through Sherlock's unruly curls as he tilted the man's head to the side to try out another angle
and God, it felt amazing.
"John, "Sherlock whispered, as they broke the kiss to gasp for air, pressing their foreheads against each other. "John…."
"I know…" John answered, and he laughed quietly as he gently cupped Sherlock's face and pressed another kiss to Sherlock's lips. Sherlock groaned and they started kissing again, lost in each other as sudden heat invaded John's body, making him want to just grab Sherlock and….
"No! No, please don't touch me!"
John's eyes flew open as the desperate cries next to him finally registered with him. With a start, he raised himself, all his senses on high alert, his body ready to attack any unwelcome intruders. Then he realized what had happened.
"Oh no, Sherlock, no." Sherlock was still right next to him, his body hot and flush against John's but now he wasn't clinging to him anymore. Instead, he was trying to get away from John, his hands pushing at John's chest, his legs kicking frantically against John's. His eyes were wide open, but he didn't seem to know where he was as he was desperately trying to get away and John suspected that he had just opened his eyes and wasn't really awake yet.
"Hey. Hey, "he said as he clasped Sherlock's hands into his, trying to get him to stop thrashing about. "It's okay, Sherlock, it's just me. We're home, in your bedroom, just you and me. Calm down!"
Sherlock's wide eyes focussed on his and there maybe was a spark of recognition, but he still kept on thrashing and John reached out and grabbed him by the shoulder.
"I said stop it, Sherlock, calm down!" he ordered loudly, using his Captain Watson voice, surprising even himself. Sherlock's eyes widened further, and he froze at once. After a few seconds he finally relaxed and rested his head wearily against the mattress. "John?" he asked, and he sounded so tired and exhausted that John choked back a sound of distress in the back of his throat.
"Yeah, it's me, you daft git, "he murmured as he scooted nearer to Sherlock and pulled him into a tight embrace. "Calm down, it's just me." Sherlock trembled against him and he closed his eyes again. They lay there for a considerate amount of time, in which they both seemed comfortable drawing comfort from being near each other.
John's brain eventually started to ask mean questions, forcing his bad conscience to the surface. He had allowed himself to sleep next to Sherlock, possibly traumatizing him even more. Just when he was about to really work himself up into hating himself, John realized his friend was feeling a lot hotter than before. And he was completely limp in his arms. Something wasn't right.
"Sherlock, "he said, and he tried not to let panic creep into his voice, but he knew he was failing. "Sherlock, look at me."
He cupped Sherlock's face and tilted it upwards, frowning when Sherlock didn't react, his head lolling to the side in John's hand, eyes closed.
"God, you're burning up."
His heart raced as he tried to get his thoughts into order.
Temperature. I need to check his temperature.
He lifted himself up and carefully pressed his fingertips to Sherlock's carotid artery, closing his eyes for a moment when he found his pulse, as expected, racing. He kept on counting as if that would somehow make the number change into something slower, while he fumbled for the thermometer from the bedside table. Sherlock didn't react at all when the thermometer was shoved into his mouth and John immediately knew that was a bad sign.
40.5°. Fuck.
"Okay, "he said, more for his own benefit than Sherlock's. "Alright, I'm calling an ambulance."
He pulled a slack Sherlock into his lap and not too gently patted his cheek. "Sherlock! Sherlock, wake up."
Sherlock didn't and John tried to push down the panic rising within him.
He shifted and grabbed the phone from the table which he luckily had left there along with all the other stuff he had brought. He quickly unlocked the screen with trembling fingers.
But just as he was about to press the call button after dialling 999, he stopped himself. Sherlock had begged him not to admit him to the hospital again. Thoughts of Sherlock having a panic attack at the sight of paramedics entered his mind. Images of Sherlock in a hospital bed, crying and lashing out in frustration or even fear, maybe even having to be restrained to the bed, appeared before his inner eye, and his fingers shifted away from his phone.
Am I insane? What's there to think about? If the fever rises even higher, it could cause brain damage, for God's sake. He needs medical attention right now, tough luck if he doesn't like it. He isn't even conscious and wouldn't notice if they took him away now.
But something held him back.
And then he had an idea.
Without thinking, he got off the bed, leaned forward and scooped Sherlock up into his arms. His bad shoulder protested a little, but John ignored it. Sherlock was lighter than John had expected, and he frowned as he was reminded of the fact that his friend had barely eaten in the past few weeks. He was a dead weight in his arms and his head lolled against John's chest as he stood up, his precious cargo in his arms.
Without further ado, John rushed to the bathroom. Inside, he cautiously laid Sherlock onto the ground, and then proceeded to turn on the shower. He quickly stripped down to his pants and held out his hand to test the water's temperature. It needed to be tepid, anything else wouldn't do.
When it had finally reached the required temperature, John crouched down in front of Sherlock and tried to rouse him again. Unfortunately, Sherlock still did not react to his desperate pleas to wake up.
"Okay, love, it's alright, "John said nevertheless, and he took a deep breath before he reached out to pull the sleeves of Sherlock's t-shirt from his slender arms.
It felt wrong doing this, without Sherlock's consent, without him being conscious even, but it couldn't be helped. He just hoped he wouldn't wake in the middle of John undressing him and freak out because it possibly reminded him of previous situations in which he had been undressed against his will.
God. This is all so wrong.
He carefully pulled the shirt over Sherlock's head and discarded it to the side. Sherlock did not react then, nor did he stir when John efficiently pulled the sweatpants down his narrow waist and off his long legs, leaving him lying there only in black pants. He refused to look at Sherlock now in the state that he was in, almost completely naked and unconscious in front of him, and he tried to rouse him once again, without success.
Alright, here goes nothing.
Softly, and with his heart hammering in his chest, John hooked his arms around Sherlock's back and under his knees and lifted him up once more. Sherlock moaned very quietly and pressed his face into the base of John's throat, but he didn't wake up. John swallowed and raised one leg very carefully, stepping over the edge of the bathtub. When he was sure of his balance, he put the other leg over, pulling Sherlock with him in his arms and stepping underneath the spray of the shower.
Sherlock's body jerked violently as soon as it got in contact with the water.
"Shhh, it's okay, "John tried to soothe him, as he lowered them down to the bottom of the tub and laid back against the tiles, positioning Sherlock between his legs, "it's just water, calm down. We need to get your fever down."
Sherlock began to shiver violently in his arm and John thought with dread that this had been a terrible idea, that he should have called an ambulance hours ago and that any decrease in Sherlock's health would be his fault.
"Come on, Sherlock, "he said as he pressed him against his chest with his face down, strong arms still wrapped protectively around the man in his arms, shielding him from the water pouring down on them, "wake up. Come on."
At long last, Sherlock opened his eyes.
"John?" he whispered hoarsely, and he blinked as water fell onto his face. John laughed in relief and squeezed Sherlock's shoulders.
"Sherlock, God, there you are."
Sherlock's eyes widened a little as he took in their surroundings. "John? What's going on?"
"It's okay. We're in the shower, I was trying to cool you down. Seems it worked."
"Hmmm."
Sherlock's eyes fell shut again and John closed his eyes, too, his entire body tingling with relief. Sherlock felt frail and thin in his arms, his nakedness increasing his vulnerability and John swallowed as he was overcome with an almost unbearable tenderness for the man in his arms.
But he would be okay now, John felt.
"I've got you, love, "he whispered almost inaudibly into the crook of Sherlock's shoulder and tears welled up in his eyes as Sherlock raised his head to look at him with weary eyes, something of a surprise in them and maybe something else, John couldn't tell.
"John, it's cold, "Sherlock finally said against his chest and John nodded. He turned off the shower and positioned Sherlock against the edge of the bathtub, asking him to wait a second. Then he got out and held open the huge fluffy towel he had laid out beforehand. With a trembling hand on John's good shoulder, Sherlock managed to get out of the tub by himself and he closed his eyes gratefully, when John gently wrapped the towel around his pale, shivering body.
"Come on, let's get you back to bed, "John said, and Sherlock nodded. He looked dead tired and ill, but his eyes were clear now and he was lucid.
He got him back into bed. Sherlock almost fell asleep again while John gingerly moved him to get him into fresh shirt and sweatpants. The thermometer announced a temperature of 38.7° and a chick check of his pulse told him that his heart rate was close to normal. John sighed in relief. He would still have to monitor Sherlock closely which meant that he would not sleep again tonight, but he had a good feeling that they were out of the wood now. He managed to get Sherlock to drink half a glass of water and then he settled him back down against the pillow.
"Go to sleep, "he said gently as he clasped Sherlock's shoulder. Now that Sherlock was awake and lucid, it was much harder to maintain the physical intimacy they had shared tonight until now. John knew that Sherlock had not really been awake and the had only sought physical comfort because of his weakened state. But he tried to stick to the illusion that it was John's comfort in particular that Sherlock had needed. His body warmth, his strong arms, his careful embrace – no one else's would have been good enough.
But just as Sherlock's eyes fluttered shut once again, the deep baritone John loved so much piped up quietly. "John? Would you hold me until I fall asleep?"
Their eyes met for a moment and a jolt of electricity shot through John's body.
"Of course, "he said hoarsely, and he lay down next to Sherlock, after very quickly putting his clothes back on. To his surprise, Sherlock shifted even nearer and then laid his head down on John's chest. Instinctively, John laid his arm around Sherlock, pulling him closer to his body.
"Goodnight, "he whispered, but Sherlock was already fast asleep against him, leaving John alone with his thoughts once again.