"So, why do you want to help me?" John asked, frowning at Mycroft. Sipping at his cup of tea, he curled up in his chair and rubbed at his head, a dull ache already growing in his temple. They had stopped him from making his snack of toast, and he was growing more and more hungry as time went on. Alcohol was still readily pumping through his veins; it was outwardly obvious and yet the brothers still wanted to have the conversation.
"As I said, Doctor Watson, we cannot have you leaving Sherlock all on his lonesome," Mycroft repeated, rolling his eyes as he gently tapped his umbrella against the floor. "Surely you realise you are of grave importance to my brother. He called me himself, and asked for my assistance." John just frowned, slowly mugging his way through the information. Sherlock had not only bypassed texting, but he had called his arch-nemesis, and asked for a favor, none-the-less. He felt as if he was dreaming. Perhaps he had already died. Did cancer kill that quickly?
"Don't be foolish and sentimental, Mycroft. I requested your aid in finding proper care for him, that's all. You were the one to appear on the doorstep to interfere with our lives." Sherlock muttered, crossing his arms over his chest and huffing. He might have asked a favor of the Minor British Government Official, but there was no need for him to pretend to enjoy it. Or act as if he was thankful in the least. The amount of times they had owed each other was beyond bothering to count; it was the least Mycroft could do.
John and Sherlock sat in relative silence while Mycroft explained his plans. Everything from finding him the best doctors to covering his medical expenses down to the last penny, he seemed to have planned out everything and every possible outcome. Though, knowing the Holmes', that was probably true. John would receive the finest team with the finest equipment at their hands. Down to the car that would drive him, his entire future was being planned for him. Without his permission. And when John realised that, he realised that wasn't what he wanted.
"Wait," He began, shaking his sore skull and setting down his tea. "Wait a mo', don't I get any say in this?" John frowned, glancing between his flatmate and his flatmate's brother, narrowing his eyes a little.
"What do you mean, John?" Sherlock asked, raising a single eyebrow.
"You're plannin' my whole life!" John said, a little loudly than was strictly needed. "I don't get to pick my own doctors or where I get it all done at or what treatment I want, if any, and I don't even get to catch my own cab? I'm not a pet! I can do things on my own! We don't even know how bad it is yet, or how long I've got, and you're already etching out my gravestone."
"Well then, Doctor, you have made your feelings quite clear. Do sleep on it, though." Mycroft swept to his feet, throwing a significant look towards Sherlock before nodding in John's direction and leaving the flat. John sat in silence again, floored that his small outburst had done the trick of getting rid of the British Government. Now if only it had worked on Sherlock. The detective just watched him, carefully calculating each move as John finally got to his feet and made his way back into the kitchen. Still craving that toast, he was getting wearier by the second, and waiting any longer would have been a bad choice. Sherlock didn't say a word or even get up as his friend stumbled around the flat, making a mess with the jam and crumbs. It was only when John made it upstairs and had loudly clambered into bed did he take to his feet and begin tidying up the dishes from Mycroft's visit.
Upstairs, John bustled around, barely getting himself out of his shoes and jeans without tripping over his own two feet. The breadcrumbs were all over his shirt, and there were smears of red jam mingled along with it. As he pealed off the buttons, he realised he had forgotten a jumper all day. It was a wonder that he hadn't been freezing on his entire trip out to the pub and back. John lay out in his pants, staring up at the ceiling and thinking over the conversation they had just finished having. He could easily take the offer and let Mycroft pay for all the medical expenses that were looming in his future. Hell, he probably should considering all the hell he put up with for Sherlock's sake.
John fell asleep without meaning to. Fatigue took him over and threw him into a strange dream-filled sleep. At first, all he saw were odd blank faces, floating hands, people laughing at him and pointing. Mocking him for his limited lifespan. When the scenes moved on, the faces and hands changed to full-fledged bodies, familiar faces. Men he had known during the army, police officers from the Yard, and the cute girl from the grocery store. This time, they weren't laughing. They were staring at him, looking at him as if he were the most disgusting thing on Earth. John suspected that if he looked at himself in a mirror, he'd be covered in boils and wounds.
The last parts of his dreams were the worst.
Those looking in his direction weren't afraid of him or mocking him. They were crying. So contorted with despair that he didn't instantly recognize them: Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson. Harry and Dad. Greg and Mycroft. Oddly enough, it didn't seem like they were looking at him. They were looking down. And that's when he realised it. He wasn't a 'he'.
John was nothing but a headstone in the dirt.
Waking with a start, John jumped to his feet and held his head between his hands, gasping to catch his breath. He shook his head, wincing at the sharp pain it left. Apparently (with a glance towards the clock), six hours of sleep was enough to make him forget that he had gotten drunk the night before.
"Bloody hell," John groaned when he realised he hadn't set out any paracetamol or water. "Oh, Christ." He whimpered, bumping his knee on his side table. Muttering swears the entire time he pulled on proper clothes and made his way down to the kitchen, John was sounding worse than a sailor by the time he was sipping his tea.
Sherlock had left the flat without him. John was supposed to be working at the surgery by this hour, seeing as it was half nine, but Sarah had told him to take the day off. Didn't even give him a choice. She thought he needed the time to cope with his new life, and at first, he disagreed wholeheartedly. But now, he wasn't so sure. People weren't looking at him differently (although, Sherlock was probably assessing him for his usefulness), even though he felt like an entirely new being. John, before, had always been nervous of being killed while working with Sherlock, either being stabbed by an angry robber or executed by a nemesis like Moriarty. This new John, though... He was nervous, but more so that he would never get that chance. If this thing killed him, there was no chance of him being killed by Moriarty, and there was even less a chance of him seeing the end of the man who thought it was fun to strap people to explosives.
Sitting around the flat for an hour was driving him stir crazy, and at the end of his rope, John decided to text Sherlock to see if he could help with whatever case he was probably on. Thankfully for his sanity, the reply came quickly. He rushed himself out of Baker Street, glad to know that Sherlock was still willing to accept his help on cases. While he was still able to do it, at least.
Giving the directions to the cab driver, John sat back and tugged at his dark red jumper, wishing he had gone for one that wasn't so noticeable. A nice tan jumper would let him blend in with any crowd, all nice and subtle in the background of things. He didn't guess himself lucky enough to have kept this a secret, but he was gladly surprised when he showed up at the scene. Sally and Anderson didn't send him pitying looks, and Lestrade even managed to keep his face nice and welcoming.
"Come, John, take a look for yourself." Sherlock's voice commanded from the opening of the small alleyway nearby. Sighing at the welcome normality of it all, John obliged and kneeled beside the grotesque body, wincing at the smell. It looked like the body had been submerged in water for at least two or three days, with a single slit across the poor bloke's throat. The body was completely dry, save the swelling leftover from the soaking. He had no clue how it had ended up on the streets. Sharing his findings with Sherlock, the detective only nodded impatiently, rolling his eyes to signal that he already knew all of that information.
"What else am I supposed to see?" John groaned, rubbing at his temple and looking around the scene with a frown. His flatmate huffed with impatience, sending him the well known 'you're-an-idiot' look. The second time he looked around, the doctor took his time and tried to collect every detail possible. That's when he noticed the half-dried shoeprints leading down the alleyway to the other side of a bin. "There, Sherlock, the prints."
"Ah!" Sherlock nodded proudly, throwing a momentary look towards the waiting officers before grabbing John's sleeve and dragging him down the long pathway far faster than needed. They didn't even make it to the bin before the tall scruffy man jumped up from his hiding place and lunged at them with a long kitchen knife. Sherlock easily sidestepped the stab, but John wasn't as lucky. He was half out of breath from the sprint, bent over and coughing when the murderer managed to slice at his side with the blade. Luckily, before a second cut was made, Lestrade had shot him in the shoulder to stop him in his tracks.
John was on his knees when Sherlock got to his side, his coughing worse than before. The shock from being injured was irritating the invisible catch in his throat.
"Fuck," The hardly uttered swear from the doctor sent a fraction of an astonished expression across Sherlock's features, until John was back to muttering proper company swears under his breath. "I need to get back to the flat."
Sherlock simply nodded, even helping the man to his feet before hollering for a cab. Bypassing Lestrade's calls, the two were shuffling their way to the taxi. Still coughing, John managed to cover the bleeding would with a hand and the luck of his red jumper. The ache drove through John, but frustration drove through Sherlock. By the look of things, running was quickly going to have to be cut completely out of the picture for the two of them. That meant less chases around London, which would make it a bit more difficult for him to track down criminals. Surely the doctor could cave and take his brothers money for the treatment? Didn't the man want to be back to his old self already? Even though John was slowing down operations and causing trouble that didn't need to be caused, Sherlock knew that he wasn't going to hesitate inviting him to another crime scene. That was the whole point of offering him the service of Mycroft, was it not? It was all being done to keep John at his side. There would be no abandoning him this early on, though there was a ninety-eight point three percent chance that he was going to get worse before he was going to get better.
When they arrived at 221B, John made a beeline for where he stored his medical kit. Sherlock, feeling an odd sense of helpfulness, went to heat up the kettle. The doctor made quick work of the small wound, lacing it up with the few stitches needed before bandaging it up nice and neat. Sherlock watched as his friend winced and pressed at the cut, making sure it was clean and ready to heal up. After finishing and putting away the kit, John was surprised to see that Sherlock had done half the work with preparing tea for the two of them. The teabags were already waiting in two mugs, the water hot and the milk already sitting on the counter.
"Thanks." John said, flashing a small smile in the detective's direction before finishing off their drinks and scuffing his wait to his chair. Sighing as he sat, he shook his head and closed his eyes, enjoying the heat that was radiating from between his hands. John didn't hear Sherlock sit across from him, but he could feel the eyes staring at him. The silence dragged on, neither of them knowing how to break it. They might have had the same things on their mind, but it was hardly a similar situation. Sherlock cleared his throat, preparing to speak when John opened his eyes and shook his head slowly.
"Sherlock, thank you for contacting Mycroft," The detective made a face at the name, still carrying on the ridiculous pretense that he hated the man. "And for letting me come to the crime scene. I know what's on your mind. I know you're wondering how much longer you can keep me around like this, when the past few times we've gone out I've been either a coughing mess or ending up wheezing for breath for ten minutes. I really, well, I guess I still haven't come to terms with it all. It's hard for me. Y'know? Well, no, you can't know. I've already been strong John Watson, fast and sturdy John. I was the best surgeon on base in Afghanistan, that's why I was sent to do the difficult fieldwork. Failed me only that once, when I got shot in the bloody shoulder. I even came back from that. You came along, fixed my psycho-whatever limp and got me fighting this crazy war around London with you. And here I am, messing up again, just like last time. Things got too good. I had everyone bandaged up nice and good, transport was on their way and we were heading back to base when the sniper was aiming for us. Got Thomas right in the skull after I had patched up his broken leg. Hit me in the shoulder while I was trying to get the gun from his belt," John sighed, subconsciously rubbing at his shoulder. "It's like that all over again. Here we are, having a nice life battling the villains of the streets. You're my Thomas this time, I think. Patched you up, made you a bit like a person, got you a couple friends rather than just co-workers. Nearly got you shot in the head at that pool even," He let out a dry laugh that turned into a short cough. "And now I'm broken again. Shoved into the dirt with a bleeding wound, 'cept this time I'll be stuck in the bleeding flat with damaged lungs."
They sat in silence after John's little speech, both of them wondering what it all meant. He got better from the shoulder wound, so of course, he could bounce back from this, yeah?
"John," Sherlock started fifteen minutes later, dropping his empty mug on the desk beside him before leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. "Let Mycroft help you. It's like you've got your limp all over again, and he's the one with the mad plan to reunite you with the insane lifestyle. You don't have to take his cars or doctors or any of that, but let us help you keep you alive."
John took his time to think about it. All he ever considered himself to have was his pride, and here he was, about to give it up. Sure, Sherlock helped him get rid of the limp, but that was because he was looking for adventure. This wasn't even in the same realm as that. This was a deadly clump of things in his lungs and he was looking for a way to just cut it out.
"All right, fine," He conceded, dropping his head and staring at his hands. John would not look into Sherlock's eyes as he turned himself over to the hands of the British Government and the Consulting Detective. "I'll let him do whatever he wants. I want to live."
A/N - Kind of a boring chapter, sorry. The next one might take a couple days, I want to do some research for what's coming up. I'm very excited for what's coming with this story. Please keep favoriting and reviewing and alerting, I have mini-heart attacks every time I open my email after posting one of these chapters.