Sorry it took a bit longer than I intended, been a busy couple of weeks! Will update again as soon as I can!
Sherlock paid for the taxi as they got out; yet more uncharacteristic behaviour, John thought, though he didn't complain about this instance of it.
John watched Sherlock as he pulled his shoulders back and strode into the morgue, as though he were fine. It was a convincing act he put on; this helped John to forgive himself for not noticing his illness sooner.
"Ah Anderson, how kind of you to try and help by being here, however I can assure you you'll be more helpful anywhere else but here, thank you."
Anderson snarled and huffed his way out of the room.
"Lestrade, what have you done?"
Lestrade rolled his eyes, "Ha ha, very funny Sherlock, it was in fact not I that killed him." He paused, "the real question is, what have you done? You look white as a sheet!"
It was Sherlock's turn to roll the eyes, "I'm fine, let's concentrate on the case; I need details."
Lestrade left after he became tired of watching Sherlock inspect the body and telling everyone to shut up; leaving John and Sherlock alone in the morgue.
"We can go now you know? You've suitably told everyone how thick they are, and you've given Lestrade enough clues to work with."
John looked at Sherlock in dismay as he studied the eyelashes of the corpse.
"Come on, we need to get you home."
"'M fine," came the mumbled reply.
Sherlock often stretched the truth, especially if it was for the sake of the case, but as a wave of solid pain swept through his head, he let a groan slip between his lips.
His facial expressions screamed pain as he took a deep breath. John knew Sherlock couldn't last much longer. He, of course, was right. Sherlock let another wee groan slip as he collapsed to his knees.
John rushed to him, crouching down beside him.
"Alright?" John asked, knowing the answer was a definite no.
"Yeah. Just a bit tired."
John looked down at Sherlock concerned, as he remained in his kneeling position.
John shuffled around to Sherlock's side, where Sherlock leaned into John slightly.
John dared to hold Sherlock a little in his moment of exhaustion, feeling the intense heat through thick clothing. It was not a good sign. Sherlock's fever had obviously risen, to the point where Sherlock had become useless to anyone.
"Looks like we're done here," John murmured, more to himself.
All the way home, Sherlock was silent. This worried John incredibly.
Sherlock's eyes were unfocused, staring at nothing in particular out of the taxi window.
John's eyes were the opposite. Studying Sherlock's every move (not that there were many on the ride back to 221B); darting between the sheen of the sweat coating his forehead, and the rapid rise and fall of his chest as his breathing became more and more ragged.
Sherlock insisted that he could get himself inside, even while slowly climbing the stairs, struggling all the way. He was too damn proud, John thought.
Watching Sherlock endure the stairs, refusing help, made John realise that this would not be easy at all. While Sherlock was not himself at the moment, he was still able to grip on tightly to those independent traits.
Sherlock sat dramatically on the couch, about to flop over on his side to assume his normal position, but was prevented by a cool, but not cold hand.
"Ahhh, no." John pushed Sherlock back up to a sitting position.
Sherlock whimpered slightly. He was exhausted and he felt like his brain was on fire; in fact his whole body was cooking.
"I refuse to let you sleep here Sherlock, I'll help you get to bed, then I'll just need to check you over before you sleep."
"Don't be ridiculous" Sherlock croaked.
"Sherlock, you're really unwell. It could be something serious. It's just for my peace of mind ok?"
John started to pull Sherlock up off the couch, but Sherlock shook him off, determined to walk there himself.
"See John, there really is no need to worry."
Sherlock wobbled a bit, but managed to keep his balance. He looked as though he didn't notice this stumble. John was very concerned by this.
John followed behind, looking at Sherlock with sad and worried eyes. If only he would accept help. His words before they left for the morgue seemed forgotten.
As soon as Sherlock got to his room he shed his jacket and pulled at his shirt, throwing both on to the floor.
Hot, too hot; were his only racing thoughts.
John, seeing Sherlock was undressing, left to fetch his medical bag from his own room.
When John returned he expected to see Sherlock near unconscious in bed. He obviously expected too much. He reminded himself that this was not going to pleasant for either of them.
John heard the shower running.
"Sherlock? Please be quick, you can barely stand and I have no desire to come in there and rescue you from the shower."
Sherlock sighed as the freezing water ran down his body. He could've sworn the water was evaporating as it touching his scolding skin.
Just as he was starting to relax a bit under the water, he heard a whisper.
"Sherlock, hey, Sherlock, why haven't you caught me? Why aren't you clever enough to catch me?"
Sherlock looked up to the reflection in the glass shower door, seeing the face behind the whisper; Moriarty.