"My apologies, Lestrade," said Sherlock Holmes, "but I have a prior obligation. You will have to solve this yourself."

The little Scotland Yard Inspector frowned at that answer. "But Mr. Holmes, this is exactly the kind of case that interests you! I don't understand!"

Holmes waved his hand dismissively. "I will inform you when I am free again, Inspector, but the problem I have at the moment trumps all other concerns."

Lestrade was on the verge of protesting again, but then there came a series of sharp coughs from the downstairs bedroom. Startled, Lestrade turned to see Watson in the doorway. Despite it being mid-afternoon, the doctor was in a nightgown and robe and was leaning against the door frame as if he was exhausted and without it he was going to collapse. He looked pale and drawn and it didn't take any amount of deductive powers to tell he was ill and had been for some time.

"Holmes?" he croaked. "I…" it was only then he took any notice of Lestrade. "My apologies, Inspector," he said, his voice weak. "I did not know you were here."

Holmes was already on his feet. "Watson? What do you need?"

"More water?" Watson requested softly. He presented his empty pitcher, and Holmes quickly took it.

"Back to bed, old man. You look exhausted," Holmes chided him in a way that vaguely reminded Lestrade of how his own wife treated their children. "I'll be back in a tic," he promised, and headed downstairs.

"Don't be angry with him," Watson told Lestrade softly. "He gets upset when I'm ill, though he won't say so. Overprotective, you know." Watson started coughing again, and Lestrade came to support him as he doubled over with the force of it. Watson groaned as Lestrade helped him back to bed.

"I do know," Lestrade assured him. "Everyone in our line of work tends to be a bit over-watchful of their mates. I didn't know you were ill, else I would not have come. I'm sorry."

Holmes came back with the water, then, and Watson accepted it gratefully as Lestrade made his retreat back into the sitting room.

"Next time call for me, don't get up," Holmes gently chastised his friend after seeing to it he was alright.

"I'm already feeling better," said Watson, smiling slightly. "I'm sure Mrs. Hudson will see to it I am well cared for if you go with the good Inspector," he continued.

Holmes frowned, glancing out the door to where Lestrade very politely ignored them. "You'll have to forgive me for not believing you quite yet." He grasped Watson's hand briefly, gave him a half-smile, and then went back to speak again with Lestrade and bid him goodbye.

"I must be gone," said Lestrade. "Please give my best wishes to the doctor for a speedy recovery."

Holmes nodded and saw Lestrade out, immediately afterwards going straight back to the doctor's side where Watson groaned in pain.

"Watson?" Holmes questioned, not having expected that.

"A bin…"

Holmes had just enough time to grab one before Watson retched.

"I thought you said you were getting better," he chided as he wiped his friend's mouth. Then he froze. There was blood on the cloth. "Watson!"

"Don't be frightened," groaned Watson. I think... my coughing burst a blood vessel. The accumulation of blood is what made me retch. It will heal." He wheezed for breath.

Holmes frowned and continued cleaning.

"You would tell me, Watson, if it were very serious. Wouldn't you?" he asked quietly once there was nothing else to clean.

"Yes, Holmes," said Watson, equally quietly. "I would tell you. Holmes?"

"Yes, dear fellow?"

"If it were… if I was very ill… would you still be helping me?"

Holmes tilted his head and looked at Watson oddly. "Of course I would be. What kind of a question is that?"

"I know you don't like seeing me ill," replied his friend. "And I know you detest… long goodbyes. I wonder if I'd be justified keeping you with me if I ever was that sick. I am a doctor, I'm... used to it. I've seen it before. You're the detective, that's not your purview."

Holmes sat beside him, frowning deeply. "What would be worse than a long goodbye," he said, his voice steady and serious, "would be saying goodbye without knowing I'd been with you. But you would tell me, wouldn't you?"

"Yes," said Watson weakly. "I would. Especially now. But fear not, I am not dying. I have been close to death before, I know what it feels like. All will be well barring the worst case scenario."

"What is it you mean, old friend?" Holmes questioned, brows crinkling.

"A relapse into typhoid," Watson whispered, his eyes sliding shut, "but don't be worried, I don't feel that bad. I would tell you. I promised I would."

Holmes felt Watson's forehead for the seemed to be hundredth time that day to ensure himself the fever, which had broken the previous night, had stayed on the decline. Watson was asleep again before he removed it.

Holmes sighed, wondering if Watson was telling the truth despite his words. He hadn't even been considering the possibility that Watson could relapse into the symptoms of typhoid, but he hoped he would tell him immediately if he was. Watson had laid insensible for months after catching it the first time, and had once admitted to Holmes that, ever since, he hated feeling like a burden to others. He felt he should have been helping tend to the wounded, but instead was helpless. More than helpless: also taking up space and supplies that could have been given to another soldier.

Holmes knew he wasn't the easiest person to live with and certainly wasn't always the best friend he could be, but he and Watson were as close as any true friends were capable of, and Watson knew he could tell him anything. At least, Holmes hoped so. It had taken much effort to convince Watson he was not a burden, especially not to Holmes. But, Holmes knew more than Watson's shoulder had been shattered in Afghanistan; his his self-confidence had been as well. It may take more time yet for Watson to actually believe it.

Holmes wondered why Lestrade had reacted so well to seeing him refuse a case just because his friend was ill. He had expected to be teased: after all, he was supposed to be a brain without a heart. Perhaps, Lestrade understood a little bit more than Holmes had thought. Watson friend groaned in his sleep and Holmes gently soothed him, feeling his forehead once more before departing. He supposed he could help Lestrade for just a little bit.

Please note:

This was one of many stories I drafted with the same overall plot (Lestrade/Gregson/someone from Scotland Yard sees Holmes being caring/affectionate/kind because Watson is ill/depressed/injured, but instead of mocking him they understand because friendship is cool and Holmes having a heart isn't something to ridicule him for, all leading to a better understanding between the characters, hip hip hooray (for everyone besides poor Watson who I have to harm for it to work)). Anyway, I settled on the story I eventually called "Harmless Vices" as my favorite and put the others in the rubbish bin. So, if this story seemed familiar, that's probably why.