John sneezed and wrapped the two blankets tighter around him. In the end, he had managed to catch the flu, which was currently cursing through London. His patients were all a snivelling mess and now John's body seemed to be very eager to copy them.
So despite the rather mild October temperatures, the lit fireplace and two thick blankets he was freezing. Everywhere in the dark room lay tissues scattered and his head was throbbing with the pain of a headache.
He had caught himself a full-blown cold.
"You look awful", a voice from his right side remarked.
"I know, thank you very much", John snapped back, the snappish tone losing its effect due to his stuffed nose and the resulting nasal voice.
"I'll go and fetch you some blankets", the voice replied, not at the least intrigued by John's snippy retort. A chair creaked and the raps of bare feet soles on wood could be heard, followed by the sound of an opening door.
John shivered as a wave of cold air flooded into the room. Grumbling, he cuddled himself deeper into the blankets.
Sherlock returned with two blankets and draped them carefully around John. Slowly, the coldness faded from his limps and the trembling ceased. "Thank you", he croaked, his wound throat protesting against the use of his voice. The hallucination eyed him carefully for a moment, then responded: "You're welcome, John."
John frowned. Something about the sentence was not right. He observed the facial expression for a few seconds, trying to find out what was different. The mimics of the fake Sherlock did not give anything away. Not even death had changed something about that, though John prided himself to be one of the few people who were able to see something more than the mask of cold indifference Sherlock usually wore.
The few moments passed and he realized that it had not been Sherlock's demeanour which had put him so off, but the words.
"You… called me by my first name", he whispered, as realization hit him with the force of a medium heavy truck at full speed.
Sherlock inclined his head slightly.
John started to giggle. At first it was weak and faint, but soon developed into a fit of breathless laughter.
Very hysterical sounding breathless laughter.
The hallucination seemed to be a bit confused.
"You know, it's just-", the doctor tried o say but could not through the laughter which bubbled up his throat, at much as he tried to suppress it.
Tears were running down his cheeks and he did not know if the cause was the hysteria or the grief.
Slowly, the laughter ceased, but the tears kept running.
"It's just", he tried again, panting, "that I am going insane – you know, imaging my dead best friend bringing me blankets. And I just could not care any less."
He buried his aching head in his hands. "One day, this is going to cost me my life. Or worse, someone else's life." He chuckled. "I really am a selfish person."
He looked up to find Sherlock watching him intensely.
"You're exhausted", he finally said. "You need some sleep."
A weak smile formed on John's lips. "Funny, hearing that from you of all people", he murmured and drifted into the welcoming blackness.
When he woke up, he felt considerably better. The headache had decreased and it was comfortable warm under the blankets. For a moment, he just enjoyed the warmth, and then pushed the blankets aside to get his body something to eat.
Just that instead of two, four blankets scattered across the linen bed sheets.
John froze.
'Impossible', he thought.
He felt, how his the rate of his heart beat sped up dangerously fast, the shortening of his breath and the adrenaline being pumped in his veins and knew, that he was just short before having a panic attack.
'Calm down', he told himself. 'Calm down.'
Using every ounce of his remaining self-control, he slowed his breathing and forced his body to go back into the normal modus.
He did his best to stop the thoughts in his head, which were wandering in every possible direction, suppressed the desperate blossom of hope that had found a place in his mind and just let his body work like he had learned in the army training.
He safely made it to Ms. Hudson's door and knocked with a trembling hand.
The landlady opened the door, her friendly expression changing to one of shock as she saw him. "Doctor Watson, you really look awful."
For the second time this day he was thankful for his training, allowing him to hide the wince that flashed through his body as he heard the sentence again.
"I know", he replied, his voice hoarse.
Ms. Hudson looked at him worried. "I'm going to make you some tea", she said decisively, turning her back on him and tripling to the kitchen door which was just near the entrance.
John was thankful for this turn of events. Not because of the tea, for which he could not care any less at the moment, but because Ms. Hudson would not see his face when she was in the kitchen.
"What is it, that you wanted, John?", Ms Hudson called over the noise of the clattering tea kettle.
"Tonight", the doctor said, "did you hear something? Like someone coming into the flat?"
"No, why do you ask?"
John cursed silently. Of course she had not heard anything. Given the late time and the quietness of the movement of any intruder, it was highly unlikely to even begin with.
"I just thought, I've heard something", he lied.
"Ah, that must have been me then", Ms. Hudson said. "I was so free and looked after you, could not leave a sick man alone. Don't worry, I did not do anything special, just dropped some blankets on you, since you were shivering so much."
Foolish.
"Must have been that than", John managed to bring out.
Foolish.
"I'm going to leave you then. Have to catch some sleep."
Foolish.
He did not wait for her answer but climbed the stairs up as fast as he could without making a sound.
Foolish.
The door locked with a faint clicking noise.
Foolish.
He collapsed before he could make another step.
Foolish.