Okay…so I'm incredibly sorry for anyone who wanted more of this story a lot earlier. I feel terrible for not updating or even letting you guys know what was happening. Obviously, if you have read both chapters of this, you can quite possibly just guess why I haven't wrote any more. Anyway, I am sorry and I'll be trying to update at least once a week, though it may be more or less. Thank you for following and for all your lovely reviews, I don't think you get how much that means to me. I'm not sure where I'm really going with this story and all suggestions are entirely welcome. I was thinking about going down the root of possible suicide attempt, Mycroft getting involved, or maybe a trip down Sherlock's past. This chapter is a little boring, just a filler until Sherlock is better. Sorry about that. Please let me know what you think, reviews are like gold.

Now on with the story!

John sat in the chair beside Sherlock's bed for god knows how long, just thinking. He felt a little like he was in shock, scarcely able to comprehend what the hell was going on. It hurt, physically hurt to imagine that brilliant mind of Sherlock's simultaneously saving so many people and destroying itself. Sending Sherlock into an incredibly dangerous path that could quite easily be the death of him. And John didn't understand. He didn't even pretend to. He had never done anything of the sort. When he was upset, or he was angry, he went to the pub and had a joke with his mates, drinking until he had forgotten what was wrong.

But Sherlock…John's mind supplied images, little clips that he couldn't shake. Those long limbs curled up, face hidden against his knees, blood dripping down pale skin until it formed a puddle on the floor. He tried to think about how many times he had come home to find Sherlock sprawled on the sofa or bent over an experiment, and he couldn't stop thinking about things he should have noticed.

Had Sherlock been a little too calm that day? Had Sherlock changed shirts, maybe flinched when John touched his arm? Or had been just like normal, arrogant and smart and brilliant, had there ever been any visible signs?

Visible signs or no, John was adamant that he should have damn well noticed. This was his best friend, virtually his only friend and he was hurting so badly. How long had it been going on? What started it? Would Sherlock even talk to him? Should he get Mycroft involved? John Watson felt useless, and he hated it. Detested it. Because this could quite possibly be life and death. Sherlock's life in his hands, based entirely on how he chose to use this information. Ignoring it was out of the question. Mycroft would not be contacted unless absolutely necessary. He would try to talk to Sherlock, but he would wait until the illness cleared up. Now he had to decide whether to be gentle and calm or come straight out with it.

Groaning, the doctor lowered his head to rest in his hands, rubbing his temples. He stayed like that for a while before a hoarse cough pulled him from his musings. Blinking, he looked up, standing and adjusting the IV so it wouldn't tug on Sherlock's arm. He changed the wet cloth, pulled the blankets up and just generally fretted around his friend.

"John, stop." Sherlock cracked an eyelid open to peer up at him, licking his cracked lips.

John faltered, briefly tugging at his lower lip before shrugging, "I'm just making sure you're not dying." He said dryly, silently pressing the thermometer to his ear. Something about the doctors tone miraculously stopped Sherlock's childish squirming in its tracks. The thermometer beeper and John peered at the numbers; 39.2.

"Okay, so your fever's looking a little better." He handed Sherlock the nest round of tablets with a cup of water, busying himself with inserting another needle into the IV so maybe he wouldn't stare at Sherlock's arm. Because then Mr. detective was bound to say something and he had adamantly told himself that he would not start something whilst Sherlock was ill.

But of course, Sherlock was Sherlock and ill or not, he knew something was wrong.

"You're upset." The detective raised an eyebrow, voice quiet but not quite as hoarse as it had been.

"I'm not upset, Sherlock. I'm a little disappointed, yeah." He glanced up. "You should have told me you were ill instead of pushing yourself this much. And before you say anything," John warned as Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, "I know you wanted to get the job done but your health is important." He said firmly, completely skipping the obviously bigger reason he was upset about.

"Forget it. Just bloody tell me next time." He briefly brushed a few fingers over Sherlock's forehead, pushing black curls off his forehead. Sherlock tutted but didn't pull away, so John took that as consent to keep it up. He gently ran his fingers through his hair, massaging his scalp. He told himself that it was just to help Sherlock with the headache he would have, but if he was being honest, it was to ground himself. He was here with Sherlock and Sherlock was alive, not well, but alive and getting better. He had found something out, and he would sort it. He would figure this out.

Slowly, Sherlock's eyelids fluttered shut again but not before he mumbled out a few sentences. "Sons girlfriend. Not him. Get 'Strade to check…her house. Nail varnish." The last couple of words were slurred and his friend was fast asleep.

Even ill, he was amazing. He text Lestrade the information, telling him that Sherlock would be fine, but he wasn't to come with any jobs for at least a week.

After that, John began to feel the horrible feeling creeping up on him. Uselessness. What could he do other than nurse Sherlock back to health? Nothing.

Needing something to do, he made tea, deciding to clear up the flat. And after about ten minutes, it stopped being just cleaning and became a search. He tried to kid himself that he was just making the flat neater for when Sherlock was better. That looking through his experiments was just something he had to do to make sure nothing would explode etc. That searching the bathroom cupboards was just him looking for medicine he might need. The one place he wouldn't touch was Sherlock's bedroom.

Needless to say, he found nothing, Sherlock wasn't stupid. Not at all. Sinking down in a chair in the living room, he sipped his cold tea and stared at the TV. He needed a plan, and he needed one now.