He had found himself dozing while leaning back against the bedpost on Sherlock's bed. It had been just past seven in the morning. He'd been kipping at the end of Sherlock's bed, on and off, without much thought of it. There was no one to see them, and on top of that, John's body was konking off without his own mental processing to tell it to do so. He was too tired.
After a few hours of rough sleep, and a backache, John was roused awake by a series of terrible sounding coughs.
"Sherlock? Sherlock, you okay?"
"I'll be-" more coughing- "f-fine, John."
"I'll get you some more tea, hang on," he muttered, sliding out of bed.
"W-What..." Sherlock trailed off, doubling over in his sitting position. John watched, although he was supposed to be getting tea for his sick friend, somewhat miserably. Once a coughing fit started, there was little that he could do to stop it.
"Crackers," he stated on a whim, walking quickly out of his flat and down to ask Mrs. Hudson if she had happened to pick up some salt crackers when she went to the store on Monday. She had. She was a saint.
He took the crackers back to Sherlock, prompting that he nibble on them. Crackers would sometimes help a cough and John couldn't see where Sherlock had anything to lose.
It ended sometime thereafter, with John making more tea and Sherlock clinging to crackers and his blankets like they were the only two things that were keeping him breathing.
"Let me take your temperature again, Sherlock... If you think that you're not going to cough for a few seconds, okay?" He was talking to him like a child, but Sherlock didn't seem to notice. Sherlock didn't seem to be notice much past the spot on the wall that he was staring at. It was making John nervous.
He stood to go retrieve the thermometer when Sherlock caught his sleeve. John looked back at him, bewildered. "Sherlock," he started, but the latter cut him off.
"Don't leave."
Two words had never brought such panic into John, not even throughout his days in the war. There was nothing... nothing that he wouldn't do to never hear those words coming from Sherlock's mouth again.
"Sherlock, I'm not leaving..." he replied carefully, frowning. Sherlock's eyes were glazed and distant, the edgings of panic and distress creeping into them. There was a flush on his cheeks, sweat on his forehead but goosebumps on his arms, and his grip on John's arm was demanding but John was sure it was not strong. Sherlock did not look well.
"Don't go..." was the whispered response.
"Right. Of course..."
Sherlock muttered something under his breath before his fingers suddenly slipped off of John's sleeve. John caught his hand instinctively, noting the lack of tension.
"Sherlock?"
The rest of Sherlock's body went slack moments later, slumping forward.
"Oh, oh, okay, Sherlock. Sherlock? Come back to me." John caught him before he could slump entirely, settling him back against the pillows. "Sherlock, can you hear me?" he demanded, finger testing Sherlock's temperature. His forehead was sweltering.
John had gotten nervous when Sherlock had done the stare-off-into-space routine because that wasn't something that Sherlock did. Not with that glazed look in his eyes. When he stared off into space, there was usually a light of something, a thought or an idea, in those ever clear eyes. But it hadn't been that way at that moment and John should have known that something was up. He just ignored it, didn't he? And then Sherlock had gone into an almost pleading mode and the hairs on the back of John's neck had really stood up before the finale had taken place: Sherlock passing out.
Now John was rushing around the flat, thermometer, ice water, blankets in hand. He was muttering several different types of curses under his breath, most of them directed at Sherlock himself, as he battled the fever that was raging Sherlock's body.
A small part of himself was saying get him to a hospital! while another part was rationalizing that, even if he tried, Sherlock would sneak out somehow. He'd give it a little bit longer and if Sherlock didn't resurface from his now forty celsius fever, he'd take him to the hospital. John was a doctor- he could handle this. Sherlock was his friend and he wasn't going to let anything happen to him.
It was... unexplainable. That was the only word that Sherlock could conjure and he was aware that it didn't explain what he was dealing with, but he deemed it the most suitable for the situation.
One minute he was thoroughly conscious of what was happening and the next he was swallowed by darkness. Not having time to blink off the confusion, he was semi-conscious again. It was like a drugged state... John! Had John drugged him?
The prickle of uneasiness started through him. It wasn't like John was totally trustworthy. He had even thought that John had been the bomber at one point. He'd mentally accused John. They were not friends. He felt no guilt in thinking he would do something like that.
But then another second later, he'd dismissed the thought. John had been too worried about him to actually do something like that. He had shot a guy for him. He had given Sherlock the go-ahead to blow up a building that they had little chance of getting out of alive. He had followed Sherlock through the city, chasing a killer. He would come if Sherlock said "dangerous"; he had come to look at a flat at him without knowing him; he would tackle an eight-foot man to protect him; he had refused to take money to spy on him from someone who had turned out to be his brother... John wouldn't do anything that would be bad for Sherlock. That much he was sure of, and Sherlock was rarely wrong.
Nonetheless, there was something weird going on and it was driving Sherlock crazy. There were so many things that he wasn't grasping at the time being, what with the constant in and outage of darkness and light. And those entrances into the worlds of darkness and then a reappearance into the world of light were topics of confusion in themselves.
Now? Right now? He was in the darkness. He thought. Maybe he was in the light and he just couldn't see, but that was the same difference, wasn't it?
It was all darkness, all around him. There was nothing else except that nagging suspicion that John should be there, even if he wasn't.
He tried to open his mouth to voice his flatmate's name, but there was nothing that came out. He was so tired. The oppression of the darkness was something terrible by itself, but the exhaustion on top of the illness didn't make things any better.
His ears were ringing in an odd way, his legs were too heavy to move and he couldn't find his arms. Maybe that wasn't such a surprise, considering all of the other stuff that was happening to him right now. Not a surprise...
Just unsettling.
John hadn't left Sherlock's side since he went under, except for the bustling around the flat trying to get what he needed; to place the wet rags on Sherlock's face or to remove the blankets. He needed Sherlock awake, so he could drink, so he could get his internal temperature down because John couldn't do much unless Sherlock was awake to take medicine.
He'd placed in a call to the hospital to get some antibiotics. He was fairly sure that Sherlock had an acute case of the flu, maybe a touch of pneumonia. Hopefully the last part wasn't true, but John was making the worst assumptions, just in case.
He had been fine until Sherlock started dreaming, really.
He hadn't ever seen the detective dream. Actually, he had never really seen the detective sleep so much, but that was something that John would never bring up in so many words. There were things that needed to be mentioned, and that was not one of them. To the matter at hand: Sherlock dreaming. He looked uncomfortable, unpleasant thoughts probably racing through his head. His fingers were curled into loose fists, in a way that John was fairly sure that Sherlock did not sleep. Sherlock was a naturally relaxed person when he slept, lounging across whatever he happened to be passed out upon like there wasn't a care in the world. But now he was tense, body stiff even in sleep, eyelids flickering like he was on the verge of waking.
But he didn't and John watched his dreaming companion in a state of semi-sadness.
Sherlock whimpered. Actually whimpered. It was too much. John jolted across the room and shook the detective's shoulder roughly.
"Sherlock!" he hissed. He maybe shouldn't be trying to wake up someone who needed sleep, but he just couldn't... handle it. "Sherlock, wake up! It's just a nightmare!"
Sherlock awoke with a half strangled gasp, almost jumping out of bed. John caught him in an awkward hug. Sherlock didn't pull away.
"Sherl-" John's voice died in his throat. He couldn't bring himself to say anything, partially because he didn't know what to say. This was a new Sherlock, a very delicate Sherlock that he wasn't sure how to deal with.
He aways complained about Sherlock's self-centered attitude and general lack of care for the human race, but now he knew just one thing for sure.
He didn't like this new Sherlock.
"Sherlock... it's okay..." he started numbly, fingers tightening reflexively around the consulting detective. Those things that didn't need to be mentioned? This was one of them. Hopefully, due to his sickness hazed state, Sherlock wouldn't remember this. John didn't want to think about what he would do if he did.
"I need you to drink some water for me, alright?"
Sherlock mumbled something unintelligible, his hair tickling John's ear. John shivered. Sherlock was so far out there.
He managed to get Sherlock to drink some of the water, with some help, which got John a little more relaxed than he had been. As long as he could get Sherlock's internal temperature down... if he could do that... It would all be fine.
He upped the dosage of Sherlock's medicine to the strongest, safe amount before letting the detective fall back asleep. He'd just wait a half hour and check his temperature again. It would be fine...
If someone (namely Sherlock) was able to look past John's careful composure, they would be able to see the very irrational, the very paranoid, and the very worrisome part of mind. Thankfully, John didn't listen to that part of his mind. Much.
But. It was still there, still nagging in the background.
He's too sick, John! You need to take him to the hospital!
What good was that going to do? Sherlock would pitch a fit the moment that he realized that he was in there, which, with Sherlock Holmes, would not take very long.
He's out of it now! How could he possibly know?
He didn't expect for the fever to be numbing Sherlock's mind for long. When someone went under like that, they usually came back sooner rather than later, especially if they were pumped full of medicine, like Sherlock was. Especially Sherlock.
He could die, John! You are a doctor but sometimes you have to accept that you can't save everybody! Listen to Sherlock, for once in your life: there are no heroes in real life! You can't save someone who needs more help!
That had been the point where John had stopped listening to his mental arguement. He refused to believe that he couldn't save Sherlock, because John was a doctor and he was a damn good one at that. If he couldn't save his friend, no one could. He didn't trust Sherlock in the hands of anyone else.
Crackers help me when I have a terrible cough. That might just be me, though.
Sensitive Sherlock and Doctor John. Sherlock's not surprised and John's arguing with himself. Goodness, a sick Sherlock makes everything difficult.
Reviews are loved! Thanks so much! Still a few more chapters to go!