Author's Note:
So, it looks like only six chapters are left in this story. However, there is going to be a direct sequel to this one. There will be more about it in the final chapter in an ending note. Thank you for all the reviews!
Mycroft kept his eyes locked on Amy, smiling at her as she let out a loud squeal and smiled at him. His phone went off and he reached for it blindly, glancing at the text. Oh. Shit. He quickly dialed a number and made all of the necessary arrangements. "Mum! I think it might be high time to cancel the honeymoon. Something happened."
John had fallen asleep almost instantly, waking up to a loud noise and...voices. "Captain Watson?" He let his eyes open and was face to face with a young woman.
"Anthea?" He narrowed his eyes.
"Good, you are awake." She stood up and motioned for the doctor to pick him up. The car was rocking a bit too much and he wretched up the small amount of water he had managed to keep down. He vaguely remembered being moved into the house, and set up in a new bed. The doctor moved to pick up Sherlock, putting him on the other side. He had passed out on his way here.
"All right, Captain Watson." The doctor smiled a bit and looked at him. "You have been coughing up some blood so we have reason to believe you've got a bacterial infection." John smirked. Of course Sherlock was right. "And we are going to get you some medicine for it. Your husband is just exhausted so we are going to keep him on bed rest. He has a sunburn, but it doesn't seem to be that bad." And with that the doctor left, into the living room, and he overheard the man and Anthea talking.
"Sherlock?" John turned slightly, coughing some more and ignoring the blood as he rested his head on his husband's shoulder.
Despite the rest Sherlock had gotten, he had done three physically exhausting things while already in a weakened state. He groaned, John's voice barely registering. In his sleepy state he turned away from his husband with an incomprehensible mutter before drifting back into his much needed slumber.
The moment Sherlock turned away a coughing fit took over John's body, the doctor rushing in and forcing him to sit up. He groaned, taking gasping breaths each time he could manage before more blood started to stain his hands. He couldn't wake Sherlock up, his husband needed to sleep. His eyes moved desperately to the doctor who pulled him from the bed and forced him out of the bedroom and on to the pull-out bed on the couch. John whimpered and curled into the blankets he was offered, shivering despite the rising temperature of his body.
Anthea glanced at the doctor and moved into the bedroom, sitting beside the bed and studying Sherlock. At least the man was sleeping, he needed it.
Sherlock's peaceful slumber didn't last long because a nightmare shocked him into wakefulness. Perspiration covered his face as he jolted upright. John. Where was John? Where was he? The beach house. When had they gotten a new bed? What was going on? His vision finally focused on…Anthea? What the hell was she doing here? "John, tell me where he is now!" He growled out. The dream had obviously left him in a bad mood.
Anthea jumped, eyes wide as she studied Sherlock. "He is in the living room. He was coughing and wanted to make sure you kept sleeping," she stated calmly, glancing at the door. "He was coughing up blood and the doctor is trying to see what he can do about it." She stood up slowly and cleared her throat. "Something is wrong, all right? Mycroft is thinking about bringing you two back to London."
"No! Tell Mycroft he can go to hell." Sherlock stumbled out of the bed, and moved out to the living room. He needed to see John. Reassure himself that his husband was okay. Anthea had said blood was being coughed up. That wasn't good at all, but a doctor was here. Things would get better and they could continue their honeymoon. He walked over to the pull out bed, and crawled into to cuddle up against John.
John groaned slightly. The warmth from Sherlock's body was uncomfortable but he needed the comfort, needed to know Sherlock was there. The doctor crouched in front of John and took his temperature. Too high. "Sherlock." The man took a deep breath and glanced at John, who was flushed to the point that he looked like he had been out in the sun too long. "I need to get him into a cold bath. He is getting a bit too warm." He didn't make any motion to move John until Sherlock said something. "Can we move him?"
"I will move him," Sherlock snapped at the doctor. He got back out of the bed and picked John up. It was a little difficult since he was still weak but he should be the one taking care of his husband right now. If he hadn't been an idiot and gotten lost at sea, none of this would have happened. This was his responsibility. He stumbled over to the bathroom. "The Jacuzzi can double as a tub, just make sure the heat and juts are off."
The doctor followed after Sherlock as John groaned, pressing his face into his husband's bare skin. After he was set down he coughed again, letting out a small shout as the doctor turned on the cold water. "Ice," he muttered as he left for a few moments, returning and dumping two large cups of ice into the tub. John scrambled to get away from it the best he could, panting as his cheeks turned an even deeper shade of red.
"Sherlo'," John looked up at his husband desperately, trying to get out of the frigid water.
"Ssshhh. Doctor's orders. You will be fine John." Sherlock sat down on the edge of the over sized tub. He reached over and began to run his hand through his husband's hair soothingly. "They are trying to break your fever." He leaned down and began placing small kisses along John's shoulder. "Do you want me to get in with you?" Probably not a good idea, since his temperature was normal but he wanted to comfort his husband as much as he could.
John groaned and let his head fall back, pressing up into Sherlock's hand. Calm? Fine? He was shivering still and cold and they wanted him to sit here in the ice water? Bloody ridiculous. The cold water made his breaths come in short spurts, his chest and stomach muscles contracted as he continued to shake. "N-No, 's fine," he whispered. The last thing he wanted to do was subject Sherlock to this torture.
It couldn't be a pleasant feeling that John was experiencing. Sherlock continued to place gentle kisses on his husband's neck, while his hand continued its soothing strokes through the hair. He thought about what Anthea said. Should they cut their honeymoon short? Would John want to? Later. They could talk about it another time. Right now his husband just needed to concentrate on getting better.
After ten minutes the doctor pulled the plug and let the water drain. John had the decency to curl into himself and hide his body the best he could. God, it was freezing. He coughed several times and groaned. All he wanted to do was sleep and stop shivering and coughing. Not too much to ask, really. Whatever he got certainly hadn't agree with him in the slightest. He coughed again and pulled away from Sherlock, spitting up some stomach acid as he leaned forward. He gagged several times, spitting out whatever came into his mouth.
The doctor moved forward slightly. "When he is done we can move him back to the bed."
Sherlock waited for John's coughing fit to end before he picked his husband back up. He took John over to the new bed, vaguely wondering what had happened to the one they had broken. He set John down gently and then curled in next to his husband, pulling the covers over them both. They should both be resting, but how was he supposed to sleep when John was so sick? He would sleep later he told himself.
Warm. The blankets and Sherlock were warm and John managed a soft smile as he forced his body to go limp. If he didn't rest there was no way he was going to get better. "G-Going to shag you sometime," he whispered brokenly, small tremors forcing his body to press again his husband's wildly. "Slow. O-On a blanket." His eyes closed slowly and his breathing finally evened out as soft snores pushed past his lips.
"We might have broken the fever but I am worried about his coughing," the doctor said softly, looking at Sherlock with a worried expression.
Sherlock couldn't help but smirk into John's skin, hugging his husband closer to him. He turned slightly so he could look at the doctor but still stay close to John. "Can't you give him anything? An antibiotic maybe? Cough syrup? Something?" There had to be something the doctor could do, wasn't there? That was the physician's job after all…
"We have given him an antibiotic," the man explained softly. "This is a combination of exhausted, inhaling too much salt water, and something that must have been in the water he swallowed." John shifted on the bed with a small mumble, the doctor studying him for a moment. "The problem with the coughing is that there is blood. It could be because his throat is a bit raw but I am worried something might be in his lungs, which is why he is coughing. Nothing is going to fix that."
"What about taking him to a hospital? You could get a chest X-ray there, couldn't you? If the cough is so worrisome, why are we still here? He should be in a medical facility getting treatment." Sherlock was becoming agitated with this doctor. Didn't this man know anything? Mycroft would end up sending someone incompetent.
"Your brother informed me you both hated hospitals," the doctor replied calmly, keeping his eyes trained on Sherlock. "At some point we will just hope he coughs it up, which is exactly what would be happening at a hospital. With the fever we just have to hope for the best, pray we broke it" He moved to sit in a chair across the room.
John shifted and coughed, mumbling something in his sleep before falling limp again.
Sherlock grumbled darkly and turned back into John, pressing tightly against his husband. "You will be fine my dear doctor. No worries. Rest easy." His arms were wrapped around John, and his head pressed into his husband's upper back. Hopefully this way they could both relax. Despite his restlessness, he ended up falling asleep.
John slept for an hour and a half before his eyes cracked open. He wasn't shivering which was good, right? Did they break his fever? God, they better have. He refused to take another cold bath like that. He felt Sherlock behind him, breathing evenly so obviously asleep. And he hadn't coughed yet so he wasn't going to complain too much. He hardly moved, taking a deep breath but trying to keep himself as relaxed as possible so Sherlock would continue to sleep. A sudden scratch in his throat made him cough and, damn it, that wasn't supposed to happen.
Sherlock groaned as he slowly woke up. John was awake and in a coughing fit. Damn it. How could he have fallen asleep like that? He hadn't meant to, but apparently his body had needed it. He was feeling rather helpless at the moment because really, what could he do? Nothing. There was nothing he could do for John except offer words of encouragement and snuggling.
It took several rough coughs before John's body relaxed against the mattress and back against Sherlock. He remembered being this sick once when he was a teenager and he had constantly just begged his Mum to shoot him, take him out back like some horse. Maybe he could convince Sherlock because, shit, he didn't want to stay like this. "Can you just kill me now?" He begged softly with a groan.
Even though John was kidding, Sherlock grimaced at the question. God, he hoped his husband was joking at least. He curled into his partner as much as he could. "You will be fine, you hear me?" John had to be okay. He wouldn't be able to live with himself otherwise. He needed to think about something else. "When you get better, we are going to shag under the stars. Don't think because you get sick means you get to wiggle out of it." He smirked faintly against his husband's neck and then began kissing it gently. "I love you."
John laughed softly, a soft sigh escaping his lips at the feeling of the kisses from his husband. "I love you, too," he said softly. "And I am sorry we fought. So sorry. I don't want that to be my last thought about our relationship," he admitted with a small cough. Think about something positive. Shagging under the stars. "At this rate it will be you shagging me, might cough up blood all over you...not very romantic." He smiled the best he could. "I never want to fight with you again."
Yes. Good keep John distracted. "The fight was my fault, I shouldn't have been so…insensitive. Harry can be little Sandi, our daughter's, nanny. And we can work late at the office together. Whatever you want to do." Sherlock continued the soft kisses. No fighting again sounded like a brilliant idea to him. He hated it when they did. They were both juts so damn stubborn and strong willed. And he had a temper and was a stupid child. God, why did John put up with him?
"My fault, too," John murmured with a soft sigh of content. "Should have listened to your side but I was just too determined to get my way." He hiccuped and laughed slightly at the sound. Damn, he sounded horrible and he was starting to shiver again. "We should get another kid," he muttered in the haze of his fever, his words starting to slur together. "One that is yours. H-Have Irene help." He giggled at the thought.
Another kid? One was more than enough for Sherlock. He had a cat and a daughter, that was more than enough for him. He didn't say anything. No more fighting. Their disagreements had a tendency of spiraling out of control. Like yesterday. He just continued his gentle kisses, wrapping John in a tighter hug for some comfort.
John laughed again and yawned, pulling the blanket over their heads and grinned when he heard Anthea sigh from across the room. "Shag me," he said with a flushed grin, pressing his hips back against Sherlock. It was clear that the fever was starting to get to him, change his judgment. "Please. Want you," he mumbled, his words slurring together.
Sherlock frowned a bit at John's request. His husband wanted to shag, now? He wasn't in the mood. Fuck, was the fever not gone? He reached a hand up and pressed it against John's head. Yep. They hadn't broken it after all. "John, maybe later okay. But right now, you are going to have to take another ice bath I think. I am sorry." He called for the doctor to get a professional opinion.
No. John tried to pushed the doctor away with a small whine. There was no way he was going to take another ice bath. The doctor started it up, dumping some more ice into it this time. "Sherlock, no," John begged to his husband. "J-Just shag me, yeah? 'S better." He looked up at the doctor and pressed back into Sherlock nervously, the heat radiating off of his body despite the fact that he was shivering.
"I'm sorry," Sherlock whispered into John's neck before picking up his husband and walked him back to the bathroom and set him down into the icy water. "This will help you get better and then we can shag anywhere you want, however you want." He was doing his best to try and calm John down. "Everything will work out fine, you will see." He reached up a hand to run through his husband's hair lightly.
The moment John's skin touched the frigid water he screamed, clutching at Sherlock desperately. He was shivering, damn it. He didn't need to be in freezing water. It felt like he couldn't move and his chest struggled to take normal breaths. Everything was short and tight and his eyes were wide as he studied his husband. This was horrid and he couldn't take much more but the doctor was timing everything and he had no idea how much time he had left "'S cold," he said through chattering teeth as he tugged his legs up to his chest and curled into himself tightly.
"I know." Sherlock leaned down to kiss John on the head. "Just awhile longer, okay? And then we will go back to the bed and snuggle. I can tell you another story if you want or you can sleep." He didn't know what else to say to keep his husband distracted, so he leaned back down and gave John another kiss. He kept telling his husband everything was going to be okay, but he really didn't know. It was something he needed to believe though.
The doctor nodded and moved to pull the drain but John didn't move. He sat back against the tub, eyes locked forward as he continued to shiver. The flush was gone from his face and he glanced at Sherlock blankly. "Bed?" He asked softly, still not moving. He was exhausted and all he wanted to do was sleep. Maybe when he woke up everything would better, everything would be fixed. "Please, 'm cold. Bed." He let his legs stretch out and stood slowly, swaying before he walked to the bed and collapsed on it.
"John!" But his husband had already stumbled to the bed before Sherlock could stop him. He had planned on carrying John but that wasn't needed now he supposed. He sighed quietly, shifting his husband so he could pull covers over them and they could snuggle together. Seeing John like this was horrible. Almost as bad as when they had been kidnapped. The memory sent a chill down his spine and he forced it away. He pressed against his husband tightly, hopefully providing comfort for them both.
John took a deep breath the moment he felt Sherlock, his body slowly relaxing. "Sorry. Just wanted the blankets," he muttered with another small shiver. He hadn't even thought about waiting for his husband to carry him. "When I give you your blow job," he said weakly, "You are going to love it."
Sherlock smiled softly at John. "It is fine my dear doctor." He snuggled in closer to his husband and began the soft kisses again. He smirked against John's neck. "I am sure it will be the most wonderful blow job ever." He resisted the urge to not nibble on his husband's ear. He didn't want to encourage John, at least not right now.
John exhaled shakily and pressed back into the warmth of Sherlock's body. He felt a bit better after that ice bath but he would never admit that. It had been horrid and he was never going to do it again. "Yeah. Bes' one ever," he muttered as he finally fell asleep.
Anthea moved toward the bed, looking at Sherlock with a bit of a smile as she held her mobile out. "It is your brother."
Sherlock rolled his eyes but took the phone anyway. What could Mycroft possibly want? To tell him what to do? Demand they come home? Just 'checking up?' He sighed and turned a bit so he wouldn't be talking right in John's ear. "What do you want?" He probably shouldn't sound so irritated but this whole situation had made him rather grumpy.
There was a long pause on the other end of the phone before Mycroft finally spoke. "How is John?" He asked calmly, a small squeal echoing in the background followed by a short, high-pitched laugh. "Greg," the laughing moved away and the room was silent again. "What happened?"
Sherlock took a deep breath and to his surprise, he told Mycroft everything. The fight, getting lost, John finding him, the storm, finding the light house, the fire pit, how he came to text his brother, what the doctor had said, the ice baths, even that John thought they should have another that included having Irene as the mother. He told it with uncanny total recall, with a slight skewed perspective on it all. Mainly that this had all been his fault. "He should have just let me drown out there...and he would have been fine..." He mumbled the last part and then fell silent.
Oh. Well, Sherlock didn't spare any details. "This is John we're talking about, Sherlock. He wasn't going to let you drown," Mycroft said softly, and it was clear there was a smile on his face. "I am not forcing you to do anything, Sherlock, but there are two plane tickets waiting for you at the end of next week. It is a few days early, I am aware, but after everything has happened it is the least I can do." He paused as soon as he heard John coughing in the background. "Do you want to take them?"
Sherlock nodded, even though his older brother couldn't see it. "We will see how John is doing then and I'll talk to him about it. Nothing definitive yet." A pause, "And Mycroft...thanks..." He fell quiet for moment, pensive. "Do you think it would be a good idea to have Harry as a Nanny? What about Irene being a surrogate mother? God, I don't think we are ready to try and take care of another child." He had all these doubts and worries gnawing at him and he wasn't sure if he should talk to his husband about them for fear of starting another fight.
Irene? Harry? Mycroft glanced around the room for a moment and cleared his throat. "Harry would make a good Nanny, Sherlock. She has been sober for almost six months now, the longest amount of time since she started drinking." He paused. The next question was a bit harder to tackle. "Do you both really want another child? By the time you get back Amy will only be about four months old. Did John suggest it? Was this before or after the ice baths? Hell, would Irene even want to get pregnant? She would probably demand that you actually shag her," he added as an afterthought.
"The mention of Irene being a surrogate was when he was feverish, so I am not really sure how serious he was about it. I know I'm not ready for it." Sherlock sighed, in frustration. Change the topic. "I take it things are well between you and Lestrade then?" He had heard his older brother dismiss the Detective Inspector at the beginning of the conversation.
"Hmm? Oh, yes, quite," Mycroft answered quickly. This wasn't about his relationship with Greg, this was about Sherlock and John...and apparently Irene. "Just fine. Still getting married," he muttered. There was a long pause before he spoke again and he made sure to pick his words carefully. "How do you and John do it? Gregory and I haven't been through half of what you two have. I have never saved his life, he has never saved mine, and I just...how, Sherlock?"
Ah. Trouble in paradise still then. Sherlock shrugged. "I don't know, we just do. We work really hard at it. Just talk about whatever needs talked about. And yeah, there will probably be fight…several even. And you will tell each other no more fighting ever again, but it happens anyway. Sometimes communication just breaks down and a fight breaks out. Eventually you will come to an understanding, at least hopefully. With any luck, you won't have a fight about the same thing more than once. Because that's how you learn. Also, make up sex. That always helps." He couldn't help but smirk.
"And you say you don't understand relationships," Mycroft muttered with an obvious smile. "I have got to go, Sherlock. Amy is fussy and refusing to go down for her nap. You have John's mobile so text me if you plan on taking those tickets." He ended the call.
"Want make-up sex," John said weakly, clearly still half-asleep. "Can we have make-up sex?" He yawned and pressed back against his husband with a small cough, deep from his chest and echoing through the room for a moment. "Sex," he repeated, his voice lower this time before he went limp again and his breathing evened out.
Sherlock placed the mobile on the night stand, figuring Anthea would get it whenever. He rolled back into John with a smirk at his husband's words. Even though his partner was asleep he whispered into John's ear, "Later my Love." He had never called his husband that before and a small smile touched his lips. He nuzzled his nose into John's neck, eyes closing as sleep found him once more.