AN: A huge thank you to my reviewers and anyone who made a story/favourite alert, you make me smile :).

I figured it might get annoying and bland if the stories consisted of villains coming after Sherlock all the time, so I thought I might spice it up a bit. I realise that number 4 is a bit longer than number 3, but I couldn't bring myself to cut parts out.

10 points to the people who know what story number 4 is based on! :P Enjoy and drop a review!

3

'No Sherlock, no!' John fumed. 'I need you to promise me that you'll stop taking them. For good this time!'

John and Sherlock had just finished a particularly intriguing and demanding case that required them to travel to Manchester. The days immediately following these type of cases had always been a source of worry for John. With a suitable task no longer available for Sherlock, these periods were usually the worst for his tempers and black moods. This was when Sherlock's boredom was at its highest. After accustoming himself to having something to do, Sherlock had to look to extremes to satisfy himself. This time was no exception.

John knew that Sherlock had taken drugs before they met. His embarrassing encounter with DI Lestrade in the apartment that night during the Study in Pink would forever be etched in his memory. John also knew that the cravings of a former addict never truly went away. Being in the army had shown him how easily a man could destroy himself by using these substances. Which is why when he saw that Sherlock had slipped up, it gave him more of a shock than he would care to admit.

John had come home from the clinic shortly after they arrived back in London, to find Sherlock sitting in the living room with a syringe poised over his arm. John instantly saw other fresh needle marks, blemishing the detective's pale skin. It wasn't his first injection that night. He claimed that he was keeping himself occupied until the next case arose. Sherlock's apathetic attitude was almost what hurt John the most, his total ignorance of how much this was upsetting him to see. John had said nothing at the time, preferring to wait until he was positive that Sherlock was lucid. His fury carried over through the night, until he confronted the consulting detective the next morning.

Sherlock looked at him with a bored expression. 'John, I understand that your concern stems from being a doctor, but my habits as you refer to them, really will have no impact on your reputation as a doctor.'

'God damn it Sherlock, I don't care about my reputation!'

Sherlock scrunched his eyebrows together, confusion etched on his face.

'I am concerned because you're my friend, and I don't want to come home some day and find that you've overdosed on the couch or Christ knows what else! I don't - I don't know what I'd do if you weren't here.'

John hadn't intended to say that last sentence, and he felt the heat rise in his cheeks. How the hell had that slipped out? The carpet suddenly seemed to be extremely interesting...

A blush had also shown on Sherlock's cheeks, but he disregarded it, not really understanding why it had occurred. 'John, you know why I do it. It's what I require to keep my brain active and tuned. And I can promise you that I won't overdose, I know my limitations.'

John made eye contact again, shaking his head. 'I need a better promise than that. I get so worried about you, you really have no idea. It's one thing to come home and find that some crook has come after you and hurt you. That hurts me to see. But to come home and find you hurting yourself... That's infinitely worse. And to know that I'm living with you and letting you do it... You said that you know your limits, but I would never forgive myself if you overestimated them. Never.'

John turned away feeling abashed, not used to being so candid around Sherlock. After a short silence, he sighed and decided that he would leave and come back later to argue it over again. It was only when his hand reached the door knob that Sherlock spoke.

'Alright,' he said softly.

John spun on his heel, and looked at him earnestly. 'What?'

'I promise. If it means that much to you.'

John treated Sherlock to his best lopsided smile. 'It does. Thank you Sherlock.'

4

It was about a month later when John decided to attend a medical conference in Belfast. It was an unusually quiet period for Sherlock, so he felt more hesitant about leaving than he otherwise would have done. What if Sherlock broke his promise? What if a big case came up? On top of that, Sherlock seemed to be (for the first time ever) feeling ill. John knew that without his presence, Sherlock wouldn't bother to take proper care of himself. But Sherlock insisted that he went. And Sherlock was very commanding when he needed to be.

So John had found himself with a week to spend in Belfast. However, he had told Mrs Hudson to keep a look out for his flatmate, and made her promise to call if his condition became serious. There was a lingering worry at the back of his mind throughout the conferences, but he tried to avoid thinking about it. 'Sherlock's an adult,' he told himself. And in some ways, he was almost happy to be away from Sherlock for a while. Every time he saw him, he felt something that he couldn't quite place. He had never felt it with anyone else. Not Sarah, nor Harry, no one. He needed this week to clear his head and distract himself from the criminal world that had come to define his day to day life.

He was interrupted by a phone call four days into his journey. When he realised that it was Mrs. Hudson on the other end of the line, he knew that the trip was over. Half an hour later he had run back to his hotel room and was hectically throwing everything into his suitcase. Mrs. Hudson's words kept reverberating around his head. 'I think he's dying John dear. When you left, he got so sick, he wouldn't eat or drink. He wouldn't let me get a doctor, you know what he's like. He doesn't even know that I'm calling you. But I don't care what he says. Please come back dear.' John had never heard her sound so close to swore and kicked his bed, earning himself a sore toe. Of course, he leaves and Sherlock becomes gravely ill! Why was he always in the wrong place at the wrong time?

John was soon on the next flight home. All the way back, he kept going over and over what Sherlock's symptoms had been, trying to think of a way to help the ailing detective. He didn't even bother collecting his luggage when the plane landed, instead running to the first cab he could find. After an agonising forty minutes, he found himself falling through the door to 221 Baker Street. Mrs Hudson met him on the stairs and pointed him towards the living room.

John slowed his approach, not wanting to startle Sherlock in his current condition. He opened the door to find the detective lying on the couch. He gasped in shock. Sherlock's skin was deathly pale, like paper. He seemed so fragile lying there, like his bones were threatening to break through his skin. His breathing was laboured, coming in short sharp gasps. Despite his quiet entry, Sherlock's eyes flickered open when he came into the room. A ghost of a smile passed Sherlock's lips.

'Sherlock, why didn't you call me sooner,' John replied gently, approaching the sofa.

'Stay away John,' he cried out suddenly in a raspy voice. 'Or I'll make you leave the house altogether!'

John halted his progress, hurt briefly crossing his features.

'You are angry with me,' choked out Sherlock.

John sighed. 'No, I'm not angry. Please, just let me help you.'

Sherlock shook his head fervently. 'No. I know what I'm suffering from, and it's highly contagious. It's for your own good.'

John looked at him incredulously. 'You think I care about that? Damn my health, I came back to help you!'

Sherlock looked at him ferociously, stopping John again as he tried to come near him.

'Not another step! If I had wanted a doctor like you to look after me, I would have called.'

John couldn't hide the real hurt that he felt when Sherlock uttered that in such a poisonous tone. John shook his head, refusing to let it get to him. 'Sherlock is sick, he doesn't mean it,' he repeated to himself.

'Do you know what EHF is?' whispered Sherlock after a short pause.

He nodded. 'Sherlock,' he said, voice breaking slightly. 'There's no treatment for EHF. Is... Is that what you have?'

His heart was hammering in his chest, chaotic thoughts pouring through John's head. 90% of those afflicted died. But how did he contract it? The only known cases were in Africa. Sherlock couldn't die! Not like this!

Sherlock's voice cut through his thoughts.

'My doctor is about to arrive. Go into the kitchen and for god's sake don't make any noise. I don't want him to know that you're here. And no matter what you hear, don't come out.'

John nodded helplessly, not knowing what to do.

'Promise me John. Promise that you'll do as I ask,' Sherlock asked him imploringly.

John nodded once more, not trusting his voice. He retreated into the dark confines of the kitchen, noticing for the first time how dark it was. Not a minute after he had left, the door bell rang and a middle-aged man entered the room.

'Well Sherlock, it certainly is pleasant to see you again. Especially in your current condition. Do you recognise me?' the man asked, as he made his way over to Sherlock's limp form.

'Charles Smith,' Sherlock rasped. 'Help me, please. Only you can.'

A shiver ran through John's spine, and it went against all his instincts to allow Sherlock to beg from this stranger.

'You hardly expected me to cure you I hope? I only came to see you suffer. Don't you know how you fell ill in the first place?' the man gloated.

'I- I can't remember. Please!'

'Did anything special come in the post? A box perhaps?'

Sherlock's breathing was growing more ragged with each passing second. 'I - yes. There - there was a spring - drew blood.'

'Very good! And I'll be taking that box back with me now. Good-bye Sherlock. I can see even now that you won't last much longer. You condemned my brother to prison. I now condemn you to death. We're even.'

John was beginning to piece together what had happened, but his promise to Sherlock held and he didn't move. Well, John most certainly hadn't promised not to kill any bastards that tried to get to Sherlock, and that was a promise he would never make.

But a sound caught John's attention before he could plan just how to murder this Charles Smith. Initially, it sounded like a hacking cough, but then John realised what it was morphing into. Laughter. His brow creased in confusion. What the -

He peeked around the corner into the sitting room and saw that Sherlock was now standing up, facing the middle-aged man, who was now at the door.

'You can come out John,' Sherlock called. 'It's quite alright. Mr Smith has merely mistaken me for a fool, that's all. And he evidently has a fondness for clichéd speech too.'

Realisation crossed Smith's features and he opened the door intending to bolt, only to be met by Lestrade outside. As the DI handcuffed him, John turned to Sherlock for answers.

'You weren't actually sick.'

'No John.'

'Then why wouldn't you let me come closer? Or at least tell me! And frankly, you look bloody terrible,' he said irritably.

Sherlock chuckled once more. 'You hardly think that I meant what I said before? As I heard you say once, you are a very good doctor. You would have seen through my acting in a moment if I had let you examine me. I hadn't anticipated on you running back to be by my deathbed so quickly however. I thought it would be safer if you didn't know of my plans.'

John shook his head incredulously. 'You still look like crap,' he reiterated, rather childishly.

'Apparently fasting and insomnia does that to a person. How about you make us some tea and I'll explain everything? I haven't had a decent cup since you left.'

'Bloody wanker,' John muttered under his breath as he went back into the kitchen.

Had he turned around to see Sherlock's reaction (yes, he does have excellent hearing, thank you very much), he would have seen one of Sherlock's rare, fond smiles, that were only ever directed towards John.