"How long has he been out?" John couldn't place the voice, but it didn't sound too far away from him.
"Eighty-seven minutes." Another voice replied, sounding far more irritated than the other.
"And yob rot em ir?" He hoped he was dozing off, because otherwise there was something seriously wrong with his hearing.
Soon enough the sounds dulled enough for him to fall back asleep, but not before he placed names on the two and everyone's current location. Sherlock and Lestrade were in the chairs by the fireplace, and he was splayed out on the couch up against the wall. Odd, the last thing John could recall is making idle conversation with Sherlock as he got another dosage of his chemotherapy. Huh, maybe the talking was all a dream. That would make more sense than being back at Baker Street already.
By the time he woke up again, the talking had gone, but there was still a sound from the same general direction. Rubbing at his eyes and groaning, John looked over his shoulder to see his flatmate curled up in his chair, watching some rubbish late night American talk show. He frowned, wincing as he pushed himself into a sitting position. At the same time, Sherlock's head snapped away from the telly and towards him, a curious look gracing the detective's face.
"John, you're awake." Sherlock simply stated, nodding to himself and assessing the doctor from across the room.
Nodding and rubbing at his eyes again, John groaned. His body ached like that time he had jogged half of London just to throw himself on top of the criminal until Lestrade showed up. He tried to stand up, but his legs felt heavy, like his feet were made of bricks. Wavering in his seat, John looked at Sherlock with utter confusion written all over his face. He could swear he had last been in that plush office chair with the IV in his arm and Sherlock at his side, commenting on the degeneration of the various patients he had seen in each of his visits to the hospital.
"W-what happened?" He moaned, leaning his entire weight back against the couch, his eyes dropping closed. How could John be exhausted after having slept for... Well, until fairly late at night, it seemed.
"Halfway through your chemotherapy treatment, your body gave out under the stress and you fainted. Once your treatment was completed for the day, and you had not woken, I retrieved you and brought you back here," Sherlock answered, standing and bringing a cup of tea to John. "Mrs. Hudson made it." He reassured, knowing John wouldn't trust him after the last time, when he had added a laxative for an experiment.
John frowned when he struggled to reach out for the tea, but was saved the energy by it being placed in his hand. Sighing and sipping at the still warm tea, he was already starting to feel better.
"Wait, you brought me back? You carried me or something?" He asked, wide-eyed and gaping at his friend.
"Of course not," Sherlock rolled his eyes, motioning towards the new addition to Baker Street, over by the door. "The hospital allowed me to use one of their wheelchairs." John just nodded along, his ears buzzing a little around the edges. As the tea cooled, he started realising more accurately the vague memories from earlier. He really had heard Sherlock and Lestrade talking, but it didn't make any more sense now than it did earlier.
Once he got his bearings, he slowly got to his feet and shuffled to the kitchen with the intentions to make another cuppa. He could feel Sherlock's eyes on his back, but he didn't comment on the odd feeling of being watched by his flatmate. Leaning heavily on the counter after setting the water to boil, John coughed into his fist and winced at the clench it brought to his chest.
"Cup?" He asked over his shoulder, holding back another cough as he stretched to grab a mug for Sherlock, knowing the answer would be a yes before he even asked. John gasped to catch his breath, chewing on the inside of his cheek to hide the pain. Reaching up like that definitely was too much activity for his tired body. A sound from behind him caught his attention, and he turned in time to see Sherlock take the milk out of the fridge. Blinking, surprised, John raised a curious eyebrow that Sherlock promptly ignored.
A few minutes later, tea made and seats taken, John let his chin drop to his chest, exhaustion still rocking through his body. Sherlock had left the telly on and was paying very little attention to it, his eyes flickering constantly to his flatmate. The two if them sat in silence, surreptitiously watching each other.
"You should sleep." Sherlock spoke up after watching the sick man yawn for a long moment into his nearly empty mug. John just grunted, curling down into his seat and huffing, far too comfortable in the warm seat to take the energy to hobble up to his cold bed. He was awfully tired though, and keeping his eyes open seemed to be a chore. He gave in as soon as his tea was gone, though, and after struggling to push himself off the chair, he was on edge, considering sleeping on the couch just so he wouldn't have to struggle up the stairs.
"Give me a hand?" He asked weakly, his eyes on the ground by his bare feet instead of towards his flatmate. After three weeks of chemo, there really wasn't much he should feel uncomfortable with, but John was still uncomfortable about letting Sherlock see how weak he really was. Though, if he saw himself in the mirror, he'd realise that Sherlock knew exactly how frail his body was.
When he turned to look at Sherlock, he frowned. John eyed his reflection in the mirror above the fireplace, wincing at the look of his pale skin and sunken cheeks. He looked like walking death, and yet Sherlock hadn't pointed it out to him. That was kind of him, he supposed, no matter the reason behind it.
"You can stay in my room, John, I won't be using it." Sherlock told him, standing and setting away his mug nonetheless. The detective took John's arm and pulled it up and over his shoulder, grabbing him around his chest to help him walk up the stairs. John grunted, holding his breath every other step only to let it out in an unfortunate huff in the next.
"Wait, wait." John stopped halfway up the stairs, clutching the railing with his free hand and closing his eyes. Nausea welled up in his throat, throwing his head into a spin. He closed his eyes, the doctor inside him reminding him to take deep breaths in through his nose and out through his mouth. Shaking his head slowly and reopening his eyes, he simply nodded and slowly started his way back upstairs.
Sherlock had been good dealing with John's problems and reactions to the hard-hitting therapy, helping him around the house and even being patient with him at the handful of crime scenes the doctor made it to. He had reverted back to his cane, which made him slower, but it made him a lot more self-sufficient than he would have been otherwise. The chemo left him constantly tired and sick, and it was hell for him to do much of anything. John's days at the surgery were cut away completely, Sarah insisting that he needed all of his time and focus to getting himself better and back to full capacity. As for his days at the Yard and around crime scenes and working other cases, John refused to give them up so easily. He had limped into Lestrade's office the week before, ashamed to be back to using his cane, afraid that he was looking as gray as the clouds lingering outside, but pleased with himself for having left the house at all. Sherlock had complimented him with hardly any sarcasm, after that.
By the time they made it upstairs, John was coughing and out of breath, a hand clinging to Sherlock's shirt while the other grappled for purchase on the wall.
Without a word from Sherlock, the two of them stood there until he was able to collect himself enough to stumble towards his bed. The detective stood in the doorway once John managed to take his shoes off, watching his every move with a concerned look furrowed between his eyes.
"I'm fine," He muttered, peeling off his jumper and avoiding his friend's eyes. It ended like this every night that John had therapy, and he always hated it. Sherlock would stand there for half an hour, keeping an eye on him as if he was breakable from the slightest movements. "Sherlock just go do an experiment or something, I'm fine."
John sighed, studiously ignoring Sherlock as he stripped to his pants and shambled under his bed sheets. Twisting up onto his side, he winced as another cough came, causing him to bend in half and clutch at the pillow for support. Frowning, John stared at the hand he had coughed into for a moment before grabbing a tissue and wiping away the blood that he had spewed. The detective didn't make a sound, but he went to the adjoined bathroom to get John a glass of water for his nightstand before hesitating at the door for another three minutes. It was shorter than his normal, but that was only because John had fallen asleep before the glass was even set on his side table.
If the doctor wanted Sherlock to experiment, than that was exactly his plan. With a quick trip to Mrs. Hudson's (bless her and her five pin tumbler lock system), he had all of the materials needed, and with the use of his laptop, he had all of the information needed to continue his little project.
It was much simpler than he initially assumed, though his first trial effort suggested otherwise.
Seven hours later and three successful attempts on this new craft, Sherlock heard his partner moving around upstairs. With only a short amount of time left before the doctor would make an appearance downstairs, Sherlock grabbed the remaining supplies and went downstairs to secretly return the items to the landlady. And retrieve some already made tea and muffins, while he was at it. Dealing with John would be much easier if there was a properly made breakfast without possibility of poisoning.
"Did you get any sleep at all?" John asked when he eventually scuttled his way down the stairs, far less groggy and nauseas than the night before. Though he held onto the railing and braced himself against the wall almost at all times, he wasn't using his old cane, which was a pleasant change. He was always in a much worse mood when it was used.
"I slept the night before last, I'm fine." Came Sherlock's response as he returned to the living space with a tray of breakfast goodies. He could hear the doctor's complaints about that, but ignored them in favor for setting the tea tray beside John's chair. He watched as his flatmate slowly moved across the room to his chair, waiting on bated breath if he was needed. Once it was obvious that John could make it on his own, he took his own mug and began drinking it eagerly, ignoring the scolding heat in favor for the flavor. With a glare from the sick doctor, Sherlock rolled his eyes and grabbed one of the blueberry muffins from the tray, picking at it just to please his friend.
"What are those?" John's voice broke through the silence before he even got to his tea. Pretending to ignore him and the finger that was pointing to the desk beside Sherlock, the detective took a rather large bite of his muffin to avoid answering. "Sherlock, what in the world are they?"
"Hats," He eventually grunted, huffing and setting down the remains of his breakfast, grudgingly looking at the material next to him. "Knitted hats." Without another word, he sprung to his feet and hurried into the kitchen, ignoring the questions that followed. Pressing his face into his microscope, Sherlock didn't notice the way John's face changed from utterly confused to almost understanding.
"Ow," John groaned, leaning over and grabbing the hat on the top of the small pile. Turning the dark blue beanie between his fingers, a little smile lingered on his lips as he pulled it over his head. It was tightly knitted, the perfect size and shape for his head. "How did you know it would fit?" He asked, wincing as he stood to look at his reflection. His pale skin nearly clashed against the dark of the hat, but it fit him well. If he could manage it, he'd run over and give Sherlock a hug.
"Easy," Sherlock mumbled, waving off the issue. He glanced up for a moment to look at John, eying the way his creation looked on him. "Your military issue beret was a good enough base for the start, and with the assist of Mrs. Hudson's supplies, I was able to create a handful of hats. For you," He hesitated for a good few minutes, looking cautiously at John. "That match my scarf."
John blinked, surprised, glancing from his reflection to Sherlock in the kitchen to the scarf on the coat rack over his shoulder. He smiled again, the weak, sick smile that had overtaken his normal broad one, but he smiled nonetheless.
"Thanks, Sherlock, they're great." He told him, patting himself on the head for a moment before sitting back down and drinking his tea. John looked at the beanies on the desk, glanced back up at the mirror where he was just looking, and sighed. As welcome as the enormously thoughtful gift was, he knew what it meant, as well. The chemo had gotten to him all the way, now. He had noticed it, slowly over the past week, in the shower mostly. His hair was starting to fall out. He had commented the other day, when they were walking up to the Yard, that his head was cold. Apparently that sent Sherlock to pick up knitting.
He felt warm inside, from the tea and the feeling the little gifts. There was nothing to worry about, he could tell from that morning especially. Sure, Sherlock was willing to sit with him during his appointments (he had made it to every single one, John noted) and even help him get around the house when he was gray as a ghost and feeling too weak to breath, but this was different. Sherlock had gone out of his way to make sure that John was comfortable. He would be warmer with the hat on, and he would be less self-conscious. After getting quiet after a rude comment Sally made about Sherlock being the cause for his sick pallor and his balding head, it seemed that Sherlock understood what John was thinking and decided to fix it himself.
Even if Sally and Anderson and the other officers kept commenting about his hollowing cheeks and deteriorating body, at least he knew he had a few friends that knew the truth. Lestrade always stood up for the detective and the doctor whenever a rude comment was made, and Mrs. Hudson had turned from a sobbing mess to a mothering mess. But it was a relief knowing tea would still be made and shopping would still get done.
It was even more of a relief to know that his best friend was really his best friend, through thick and thin, sickness and health.
A/N - Oops, I've gotten caught up actually leaving the house, sorry for the delay. Please favorite/alert/review, I'll give you cupcakes!
To Mark, the reviewer: No I don't think I'm writing John that OOC. Sure, Sherlock cares about him, but there's a difference between not being up to par mentally and not being able to do anything physical. John's been good on the physical the whole time, racing London and shooting with a keen eye. If he were not able to do that, hell, if he couldn't even bring up the energy to make tea, how would he be able to assist Sherlock? That's what he's worried about. Plus, it's a fic, it's bound to be OOC compared to BBC canon.