Well, folks, here's the last part of this little story!
Disclaimer: Hey, if Sherlock is ever listed for auction on Craigslist, i guarantee that obsessedwithstabler and i will purchase it. Until then, not ours!
John stayed by Sherlock's side through the night and into the morning. When Sherlock's physician came in to give a report, John informed him that Sherlock would be discharging himself and John would be taking him home where he would recover in peace. His physician was furious and doubted John's ability to care for Sherlock properly, something John took great offense at. Of course he could take care of his best friend! He gave the physician a stern tongue-lashing that left the man's ears smarting and finally the physician backed down and left the room, muttering about stubborn fools. Only when he was gone did John's shoulders slump. Maybe this was a bad idea. John had no concerns about his abilities as a doctor, but would it really be worth it to give into Sherlock's demands only to rush him back here when he collapsed at the flat?
Sherlock, on the other hand, had no problem with the fact that he was leaving the hospital. He would much rather allow John to mother hen him in the comfort of their own flat rather than be in the care of (in his opinion) empty-headed idiots he didn't even know.
Leaving the hospital was no easy or comfortable task. His left side flared with pain with every moment, but the thought of his own bed helped to divert his concentration away from the burning sensation.
After a seemingly long and rough cab ride, Sherlock found himself standing in the foyer of beloved 221B Baker Street, leaving heavily against the shorter man as they trudged slowly up the wooden staircase.
John took slow, measured steps as he guided Sherlock up the stairs. His muscled arm went around Sherlock, mindful of the wound in his friend's side. By the time they reached the top of the stairs, he was completely supporting Sherlock's weight. John reached into his pocket and retrieved the keys.
"John? What are you doing, love?"
Mrs. Hudson... John turned his head in the direction of the older woman's voice. "Hello, Mrs. Hudson. How are you?"
"I'm well, dear." Her eyes widened when she caught a glimpse of Sherlock tucked into John's side. "Oh, my! Is-"
"He's fine, Mrs. Hudson." John fumbled with the keys and finally located the right one. "I just need to get him inside."
"O-Okay, sweetheart, if you're sure..."
Shoving the key into the lock, John gave Mrs. Hudson a measured smile. "I'm sure. Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."
"I'll bring you boys dinner later."
"That would be lovely." He pushed the door open. "See you then." Gripping Sherlock firmly, John guided him into the flat and closed the door with his foot. Sherlock groaned sleepily and nuzzled his face into John's chest, causing John's heart to skip a beat. "We're home, Sherlock."
With John half-carrying him, Sherlock stumbled towards his bedroom, letting out a groan of discomfort.
John kept Sherlock steady as he took the younger man into his bedroom. "Easy..." he murmured as he pulled the covers back and eased Sherlock back against the pillows. Sherlock's skin was covered in a thin sheen of sweat and John absently brushed his hand over the younger man's forehead. Grabbing one of the pillows, he propped it against Sherlock's wounded side.
Sherlock wouldn't admit it, but in the cab he had momentarily considered that perhaps he had been wrong in his insisting to leave the hospital. However, the negative thought vanished once John pulled the soft sheets over him.
"Side hurts," he mumbled, reaching a hand towards the injury.
Although the ride home had caused the wound to burn with pain, Sherlock felt much more comfortable than he had in the bland hospital.
"I know it does," John tutted softly. "Here..." With gentle hands, John guided Sherlock's body until he was curled protectively around the injured site. He knew this would alleviate some of the pressure and allow Sherlock to sleep so he could slip out of the flat and procure a few things they would need.
Sherlock closed his eyes and burrowed deeper under the covers, resting his dark head against the pillow. John squeezed his shoulder gently, and the last thing Sherlock heard before he gave into sleep was the sound of his friend's retreating footsteps and the door creaking shut as he left the room.
John returned to the flat a few hours later, his arms full of groceries and assorted medical supplies. He tried to be as quiet as possible as he entered the flat and closed the door behind himself. It was dark and quiet; he assumed Sherlock was still sleeping. Relieved, he quickly put away the groceries before quietly slipping into Sherlock's bedroom.
Despite the darkness, John could see a Sherlock-shaped lump in the middle of the big bed. Despite his worry, he smiled. Damn stubborn man...
Sherlock groaned and without thought John hurried to his best friend's side. "Sherlock?" he whispered into the darkness. He eased himself down onto the edge of the bed.
Sherlock stirred, opening his eyes slightly. Through the dimness of the bedroom, he could see a familiar figure sitting on the bed, silhouetted against the dark. "John..."
"I'm here." John placed the back of his hand against Sherlock's forehead. He was warm to the touch, warmer than he should have been but not quite feverish.
The dark haired man murmured something and shivered, fumbling to pull the covers further over his body.
Moving quickly, John set up an IV with a saline solution to prevent dehydration, then injected a powerful painkiller into the tubing. Once he had done all he could, he settled a hand on the top of Sherlock's head, the only body part visible to him.
Within several moments, the pain began to subside enough for Sherlock to peek up at John, peering up at him as an animal would while hiding in a den.
"Are there any cases?" he murmured, his voice muffled by the blankets piled on top of him.
"I agreed to take you home, Sherlock. Not to let you work on any cases right now," John said firmly. "You're going to rest, even if I have to stay right here and make sure you do so."
"But I'm bored, Jawwwnn," he whined, unintentionally drawling his friend's name once more.
"I know," the older man soothed. "I know you're bored. But I know you're tired, too." His fingers feathered slowly through Sherlock's dark curls. "I'll bring you something to read later."
"Case files," Sherlock insisted decidedly, burying himself back under the covers. "New ones. With pictures."
"Yes, your majesty," John chuckled. "Later."
Sherlock seemed to take that as an answer and directed his scowl toward the covers, which were doing nothing to keep him warm. Shivering, he pressed his face into the pillow. "I'm cold."
Frowning, John moved his hand to Sherlock's forehead. He was warmer than he had been the last time John checked. "You may be developing a fever. If it becomes any higher, I'll have to take you back to the hospital."
"No." Sherlock glared at John. "I'm not going back to that god-awful place. It's full of people with tiny useless minds." He shivered and attempted to wrap his arms around himself.
John was quiet for a long time as he grappled with what his mind told him and what his heart was screaming. "You're a stubborn man," he finally declared, startling Sherlock. He grasped the blanket and began tugging it away from Sherlock's vice-like grip.
"What are you doing?" Sherlock groaned, his teeth chattering exaggeratedly when John moved the covers.
"You're cold," he replied simply. Finally he managed to wiggle beneath the mountain of covers. Sherlock was lying on his injured side, and with only a little hesitation on his own part, John scooted up behind Sherlock until his chest was pressed firmly against the younger man's back.
Under normal circumstances, Sherlock would have denied such a situation. But he supposed that this wasn't a normal circumstance. And he had to admit, John was rather warm.
Sherlock continued to shiver, so John placed a hand on Sherlock's arm and began rubbing it slowly, almost methodically. "I'll give it tonight," he murmured, his nose brushing against the back of Sherlock's neck. "If your temperature doesn't come down, I'll drag you back to the hospital no matter what you say."
"No." Sherlock gave into John's gentle grasp, settling back against him. A teasing smirk flashed briefly across his face. "People would talk about this."
"You've never cared what people think," John pointed out as his hand moved from Sherlock's arm to hold him gently. "People are idiots."
Sherlock nodded in agreement and closed his eyes, struggling to hide a yawn as he turned slightly to relieve the pressure on his side. John's hand rested on his arm, rubbing comfortingly.
Sensing he was too tired to continue talking, John held Sherlock more tightly, mindful of his injury. Sherlock emitted a content groan and sighed. "Sleep, Sherlock. I'll stay here."
John lay there for hours afterward, simply listening to each breath Sherlock drew. By the time morning arrived, the fever was gone and Sherlock was back to his cantankerous self. John continued to take care of him for the rest of the week, and though he didn't invite himself back into Sherlock's bed, Sherlock awoke each morning with the scent of John on the pillow next to him.
ENJOY THE FLUFF BECAUSE SOONER OR LATER WE HAVE EVIL STORIES TO COME YAY EVIL.
But as i said, this little fic has reached it own. REVIEW LOVELIES!