A/N: Feeling better. Basically, immediately after school, I plopped onto my bed, burrowed under my covers, and hibernated there until... an hour ago. It was great. So here's two chapters.
RN: This isn't really very Christmas-y anymore, now is it? Remind me to fix that.

25 Days of Christmas

Chapter 17

17 December, 2013

"Your fever's back," John said as soon as he stepped foot in the sitting room the next morning. Sherlock looked up from his chair, eyes wide and attentive. He looked normal in his white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up and his black trousers, but bright red blotches stood out on his ivory cheeks.
"I'm fine," Sherlock said. "It's just warm in here." He averted his gaze back to John's laptop. When he looked back up, John was suddenly before him, stooped over in order to meet his eyes. Sherlock stared back steadily, never blinking. He was rewarded with a palm on his forehead.
"No... it's more than that," John said slowly, suspiciously, and for a moment Sherlock wondered if he had been found out. The next he spend wondering why he cared.
Sherlock didn't say anything in response, only tried to make his expression as innocent as possible. For some reason, that only made John more suspicious, but he couldn't prove anything. John didn't even know exactly what needed to be proved, only that his friend was in a worse state than he was yesterday.
Eventually, John just sighed and lowered his hand. "Alright," he consented, and turned on his heel. Sherlock watched him make his coffee and pull on his coat, and continued to stare at the empty doorway after John had left. He felt a strange tightness in his stomach. Then a buzz in his pocket.

There's been another one. Lonsdale Ave E6.

Sherlock felt the odd feeling melt away from the prospect of a case, though once it was gone he didn't delete the memory of it like he normally would have. Strangely, he felt he deserved it somehow, that he was required to suffer through the prickly, mildly sick sensations it gave him. When he stood to go, something in his mind told him to stop, that perhaps he shouldn't, maybe he should stay instead. John got terribly irritated about these kinds of things. Then again, was he supposed to leave a serial murderer running about London? He thought not.
Besides, the thought of Mycroft solving this one made his hackles rise.

A good time later, he had looked over the body, exchanged some banter with Anderson, shot a few wittily stinging remarks at Donovan, and, by some stroke of luck, had spotted one of the suspects lingering in the shadows near the scene. Oh, how he loved the smart ones.
He hated to admit it, but Mycroft was right to have that man on their suspect list. Two possible perpetrators... he thought idly, just staring at the man, who happened to be known only as "Mean Nick". Sherlock didn't even put forth the effort to roll his eyes when he remembered that little tidbit of information. Eventually, his scornful musing came to a stop, and he watched in amusement when Nick's eyes widened with the realisation that he had been spotted. Sherlock didn't make a move however, just followed him with his eyes as Nick slipped away. After a moment, Sherlock himself disappeared into the crowd after him.

Five minutes later, Sherlock was in a state of near bliss, running through the London streets and alleyways after a suspected murderer. It was lovely, the wind on his face, the thrill of the chase, the slap of shoes on pavement. This was almost as good as the puzzle itself. But not quite. Ahead of him, Nick was running madly. Sherlock could almost hear the heavy pants that left him, though he showed no signs of slowing down. That was all fine to Sherlock.
Suddenly, Nick found a sudden burst of speed. As Sherlock lengthened his stride to keep up, he felt a slipping sensation around his throat. His scarf had come undone, and before he could do anything about it, it billowed away from him. He looked back after it for a moment, but didn't slow his pace.
Sherlock finally decided enough was enough. His lungs were starting to burn, but with a couple of huffs, he closed the small distance between himself and the suspect and lept onto his back, tackling him to the ground. There was a small struggle, during which Sherlock took an elbow to his cheekbone, before he satisfactorily subdued Nick enough to pull out his mobile. He texted his location to Lestrade and waited patiently for the detective inspector to show up.

After Greg had taken Nick away, Sherlock retraced his steps to retrieve his scarf, and found that it was nowhere in sight. He searched for maybe a half hour before he stood in an empty back street, just looking about.

"Shit," he said.

Sherlock sighed with relief as he stood under a stream of blissfully hot water. His limbs seemed heavier than yesterday, his muscles more stone-like, from the impromptu exertion, but it had felt good to chase after something again. He managed to step out of the shower as soon as he heard John's heavy footsteps trudge up the stairs. Long day, he inferred, drying his hair. He completely forgot about the state of his face. He finally remembered when John visibly jumped when he caught sight of him.

"What the hell happened to you?" he asked, rushing over immediately, not even pausing to shrug off his jacket. His hand was cupping Sherlock's face too fast it seemed, thumb gliding lightly over the purple blotch forming there.
"It's nothing," Sherlock said. He would have shrugged John off there, severed contact, but he didn't. Probably because he sensed what was coming.
John stared at him for a long moment, searching for something. It didn't take long for him to find it. His eyes widened in realisation, withdrawing his hand as if it had been burned.
"Sherlock you didn't," he groaned, and Sherlock couldn't meet his eyes. Instead, the consulting detective focused on the brightly lit tree across the room. It seemed cold and distant to him. He waited in anticipation for more, but more never came. John simply rubbed his face, suddenly seeming so much older, and turned on his heel, left the flat. Somehow, that was so much worse than a row.
Sherlock stood there, trying to process the situation. He waited and waited for an arguement to come forward, one that justified his choices, for the sense of guilt to go away, as it always did. But there it stayed, like a stone in his belly and ice in his chest. Silently, he drifted towards his bedroom, lied down on his bed, though he didn't remember doing so. He didn't dare move until the next morning.

Woah, that got really... woah. Woah.