Sherlock flipped through the contents of the file one final time, and as he set it down on the table, he felt his surroundings beginning to fade back in around him. The noise of afternoon traffic from the street outside, the telly blaring in the sitting room, the bin overflowing with crumpled tissues, sounds of respiratory distress from the direction of the couch.

He rose to a standing position from his crouch on the hard kitchen chair, perching like a sea captain at the bow of his ship. He could see John collapsed on the sofa, wallowing in the nonsense on the telly, the traitorous weakness of his own immune system. Sherlock found there to be many benefits to sharing his living space with a doctor, not the least of which was a sneak preview of the latest flu or virus before it spread to the rest of London. In past cases, the insight this had afforded him had been invaluable, but John never seemed to appreciate being treated as patient zero when he complained of a tickle in his throat (people did say that doctors make the worst patients; possible subject for further study). He had been particularly uncooperative the previous night, so Sherlock had assumed that he must be regaining his strength, but this morning had found John looking worse than ever.

He jumped down from his chair, bare feet slapping the cold floor, dressing gown swishing around his knees. "John," he said expectantly.

John looked up from his programme, "C'n see me again, can you?" Congestion rendered his speech thick, his nasal phonemes into Bs and Ds. He was holding a hot water bottle to his forehead, and Sherlock could hear a lozenge clicking against his teeth.

Teasing, affection. Irrelevant. "Any news?"

"Didn't hear me an hour ago, then." John's eyes were on the telly again. It showed two men – one tall and lanky, one short with a shock of dark hair – walking briskly down an alley, clearly fleeing someone. "Lestrade's out. Says he's done with it, he's not putting his career on the line for something that's not even police business. Says the ring escapade nearly gave him an ulcer."

Disappointing. It wasn't as if Sherlock had coerced Lestrade into providing cover for them; it hadn't even been one of Sherlock's cases from the blog. If Lestrade was feeling ill-used, then he could confront Mycroft about it himself. There was no reason to punish Sherlock just because his self-important, preening prat of a brother couldn't come up with a better way to return a bit of jewelry to its original owner without causing an international incident.

"Plan B, then," said Sherlock, checking his mobile to re-confirm the time and venue. Things would be a little tight given the adjustments they'd have to make, but they should be able to pull it off nonetheless.

"Good luck," John said absently, and raised his mug to his lips. From the telly there came the wail of police sirens, and after an instant of panic, the dark-haired man pushed the other against the wall and began snogging him furiously. His companion flailed his long limbs, struggling valiantly for great comic effect. The two characters did not appear to be in a romantic relationship, and there was no particular tension between the actors, one of whom had been spending his spare time looking for a nicer flat but had enjoyed little luck so far. The other had asked a woman out that very morning and been rejected.

John clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "I can't taste this at all," he complained. Whinging about such mild, pedestrian symptoms was unbecoming of a doctor, particularly an army doctor. It irritated Sherlock, who knew John to be made of stronger stuff.

"Dump it out, then," he said. "We only have a few minutes before we have to leave."

"We?" repeated John incredulously.

"What about those bins over there?" demanded the tall man, waving his hands angrily. Irish accent. Former goalkeeper. The wail of sirens began again and then they were locked in another embrace against the wall as a parade of police cars hurtled by them one after another.

"Semi-formal will be appropriate. Can you be ready in fifteen minutes? I'll call a cab."

"Sherlock, I'm not going out like this." John gestured at the blankets strewn across the couch, his prone posture, the crumpled pile of tissues on the side table. "I'm ill."

Any idiot could see that; pointing out the fact hardly constituted a logical argument. "It should be a simple enough operation, John. Little risk. I don't imagine it will take more than half an hour."

"I'm sorry, but I'm just not up to it. I need to rest." It would help John's cause to look more pathetic and less angry. If he was well enough to raise his voice, he was well enough for the simple mission Sherlock had in mind.

"I only need you for back-up, in case it goes pear-shaped," Sherlock said. "And as I've already told you, that's entirely unlikely; all we need to do is get her to eat one little bite, one canapé, then we can pick up and leave."

"If it's that simple, I'd rather just stay here." John took another sip of his tea and flopped back dramatically. Sherlock glowered at him, something tightening in his throat.

That was exactly the problem: it wasn't that simple. It never was anymore, because Sherlock had allowed John to become indispensable. He could work alone, yes, it would be a lie to say otherwise, but it made him helpless and weak. It was like being without his skeleton. Somehow his muscles and his organs and his skin would remember the shapes they were supposed to maintain, so they could keep him together and no one else would be the wiser, but it took all Sherlock's energy just to go through the motions with a nauseating fear, knowing how readily he would crumble at the slightest blow. John was his armour, his source of light. Alone, he was distracted, vulnerable, nursing blind spots – which was unacceptable because Sherlock was supposed to be the only one who could see, really see. And simply knowing that he wasn't his best self made him more prone to slip-ups, to misses and stumbles, because if he couldn't be the cleverest, why was he even there in the first place? What use could he possibly be?

And of course John was a sentimental man, and he placed great value on emotions (particularly, whatever varieties thereof were dogged enough to plague Sherlock), so obviously things would change if John only understood. If Sherlock could tell John how his acting fell flat when he couldn't look at the only face he could really read, or how key details could slip through his grasp when he couldn't hear the hum of John's voice chatting with Lestrade or Dimmock, then John would be there, John would come. It was as simple as that. But it wasn't the kind of thing one could just admit, was it? Even before, those words would have been beyond Sherlock, but now, remembering how he had returned to London to find that John had picked himself up and moved on, moved in with a woman, settled down for a normal life? That had left as he was, married to his work, but the Work barely got off the ground without John. It wasn't fair. It wasn't simple. He gritted his teeth.

"John," he said, and he wasn't pleading, and his voice didn't exactly crack (and no one could have said otherwise because it would have been a lie), but something in the way he sounded made John look up. John studied him expectantly for a second and Sherlock felt something in his jaw twitch (should he say please? And then I need you?) but then John was nodding, sighing thinly, setting his tea aside.

"All right," he said. "I'll find my suit."

xxx xxx xxx xxx

Not more than fifteen minutes could have passed since they arrived, but Sherlock's tolerance for their suspect was already wearing thin. It seemed almost like Amelia Reedus existed solely to flaunt her new-earned wealth. Everything about her was expensive and ostentatious, and she dominated her conversations, demanding the full attention of whoever was speaking. She was absolutely exhausting (not to mention almost certainly guilty), and it took not inconsiderable effort for Sherlock to keep up his end of their chat with one eye still on the trays of canapes being circulated. There were a few different options that could serve in a pinch – grilled prawns on sugarcane skewers, seared scallops with a balsamic glaze – but reassuring as it was to have a back-up, Sherlock was comfortable with his plan and he was going to stick to it.

He had called the party planner as the caterer, explaining that the caviar was ruined but don't worry, they would replace it with crab and salmon toasts – gratis, of course. Those, he'd had made up by a local bistro whose owner owed him a favour, and although they'd sat in the freezer overnight (he'd had to move his bag of lungs downstairs to Mrs Hudson's for lack of space, but he was sure he could get it back before she noticed), they'd thawed out without showing any wear whatsoever.

Amelia was no gourmand; she'd not notice the difference if she was told it was only salmon. Or at least not until she had already taken a bite, at which point Sherlock's theory would be proven – unless she did happen to have the serious shellfish allergy that she claimed, that was. And Sherlock felt very certain that she did not (and even if she did, someone with such severe reactions would be sure to carry her EpiPen at all times – and if that particular accessory had been sacrificed to the gods of cocktail party fashion, there was always John). He had been sure she was lying since he had first reviewed her file, and over the course of their conversation, he had only become more so; with regard to the few appetisers that had come their way so far, the only thing that seemed to concern her was gluten content. So the question lay elsewhere: was she fastidious enough in her falsehood to maintain it in front of an unrelated stranger? Sherlock suspected she was not – most people simply lacked the foresight – but as he could not discount the possibility entirely, he had determined the most effective plan of attack to be a small plate, a lie, and a gushing, "Oh Amelia, you simply must!"

John had asked whether he'd consider feeding her from his hand if that would do the trick. That sounded incredibly unpleasant, not to mention unsanitary... and while Sherlock might have tried it as a last resort under different circumstances, for a really brilliant case, this was only another one of Mycroft's. Not worth it. John had laughed at that, which had sent him into a prolonged coughing fit, but when he finally got his breath back, he told Sherlock that his priorities seemed to be in good order.

Amelia's fingernails were long and red, curling possessively around the stem of her wineglass. She drank white, of course – with a dress that expensive, she could hardly risk a spill when she threw her head back to laugh too loudly, made a swooping hand gesture to show of the sparkle of sapphire on her right ring finger, or nearly overbalanced leaning forward to touch Sherlock's arm (without even the sense to take his pulse, to see if her interest was returned; God, she was so boring).

John was standing at the other side of the room nursing a mineral water, looking miserable. He'd loosened his tie somewhat – it must have been too tight on his sore throat – and there were dark circles under his eyes. Every few minutes, he'd raise his arm and cough politely into the fold of his elbow. And as often as he could manage, he'd turn towards Sherlock and glare. Unsurprisingly, most of the guests seemed to be avoiding him, though Sherlock hardly thought that was something to lament; they would invariably be horrendously boring, and in the unlikely event that even one of them wasn't, Sherlock was not exactly eager for that person to find his John.

"And what else could she have been saying but 'daughter'?" Amelia asked, leaning in conspiratorially, eyes gleaming. "It's so exciting, don't you think?" She touched his arm, dragged her fingertips down his wrist. From the opposite wall, John was staring daggers (though not for the reason Sherlock would have liked). He gestured pointedly at his wristwatch and took another sip of his drink. His cheeks were flushed pink and sweat stood out on his brow. Sherlock shot John a glare of his own and returned to his conversation.

Sherlock sipped his drink and made the minimal response necessary to keep Amelia engaged. His attention was now on John, who had abandoned his post by the window, apparently looking to take matters into his own hands. He watched as John stopped a waiter (aspiring sculptor, hindered by a drug habit and early onset arthritis) and asked him a question, indicating the tray. He shook his head, and John moved on to the next white-shirted, black-trousered staff member (who was preoccupied with the idea that his girlfriend was cheating on him – she wasn't but if he continued badgering her about it, she might start).

Sherlock took a deep breath in through his nose. This could upset his plan entirely. He needed John to be patient. Most of the guests were too self-absorbed to really notice anyone outside their immediate social circle (on the other side of the room, John was on the verge of sneezing but holding it back), but he couldn't count on them ignoring John forever.

But it wasn't long before John managed to find their man – woman, rather. And she was wary of him, understandably, because she didn't want to be sick for her third (fourth?) marathon, which she'd be running over the weekend. She nodded in response to his question and offered him a small plate, and he popped the morsel into his mouth and chewed with gusto. Sherlock almost smirked; John didn't care for crab (and likely couldn't taste it anyway), and his performance was a little overzealous. Now he was gesturing toward Sherlock, probably asking her to bring some round to his friend who just loved crab, and she was all too happy to oblige if it could mean extracting herself from the conversation.

But that was all wrong! It wasn't meant to come to them on a platter; that gave Amelia the chance to ask what was in it. Sherlock had planned to offer to refresh her drink and then come back with a few appetisers on a small plate! John's impatience could have compromised everything. His mind raced, trying to figure out how he could prevent her from finding out. If she asked what it was, could he stare into her eyes, mumble something about living dangerously, and offer to finger-feed her? It sounded utterly repulsive, but her pupils were dark and round, and her chest was thrust toward him – she'd likely be receptive. But how to prevent the waitress from telling her first?

His partner seemed to be reaching the end of her story. "And you knew what he spent for it, you would just die," she gushed.

Sherlock echoed her laugh (what was one meant to say to that?), and half-choked on his wine as he looked up to see the waitress already in front of them. He wanted to speak up, say anything, anything at all – These look lovely, thank you, now be on your way! – but he couldn't have spoken without spitting out his mouthful of Bordeaux, ruining his shirt and Amelia's silvery cocktail dress. He cursed John and his ridiculous cold and his needy patients who took his time from Sherlock and made him sick and rendered him useless.

"Crab and salmon mousse," the waitress said pleasantly, holding out the tray.

The suspect made a small noise of pleasure. "Oh, that sounds delightful," she said, taking two. Sherlock watched, hardly believing his luck, as she popped the first in her mouth and chewed luxuriantly, eyes falling closed. He cleared his throat and found he was able to breathe again. "I just adore crab," she said in a low, husky voice. "Mmm, you must try one."

She pinched the little toast between her thumb and forefinger, holding it a few inches from Sherlock's lips. Her eyes were half closed, her eyelids heavy. Sherlock panicked. His skin crawled and he fought to un-grit his teeth, to put a pleasant smile on his face, and before he knew what he was doing, he was dipping his head to take it from her fingers. Didn't she know the kinds of thing people touched, the germs their hands picked up? Not to mention the human mouth! And what kind of person would initiate such a bizarre pseudo-sexual, nearly oedipal ritual with an unwilling stranger?

He closed his lips around it and bit, but the feeling of her eyes on him was so strong that he barely tasted anything. For a second, he fretted that his body might betray his discomfort, but his throat cooperated and he swallowed it down without gagging.

"Mmm," he agreed weakly.

Immediately, he felt heat in his cheeks and a cold weight in his stomach. Why had he done that? He and John had discussed an almost identical scenario (albeit with some sarcasm), giving him the opportunity to establish his distaste for the whole song and dance, and yet he had responded almost reflexively and caved to her request. Could he have been so relieved not to have his plan ruined, his efforts wasted that he had acquiesced, unthinkingly, out of simple gratitude? Absurd.

Footsteps approaching from his right side. John's. This was a cocktail party; no one marched that quickly, that purposefully across a room without attracting attention. What was he thinking? Was he thinking at all?

Sherlock turned to face him, allowing his anger to flash in his eyes for an instant, but John looked unfazed, staring back at him with an expression of blank exhaustion.

"I'm sorry," he said, and there was an edge to his voice, "but do you think we could get going now? It looks like you're about done here, and I'm well-knackered." As he spoke, he reached out to take Sherlock's hand gently in his own, running his thumb gently over Sherlock's knuckles.

Holding hands? That wasn't the plan! Sherlock had not asked, would not ask John to play this role again. Why improvise? What on earth did he think he was doing? And the woman had noticed it; out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock had seen her go tense for a moment, staring at their joined fingers. He could have killed John.

Thought there was hardly any reason to stick around now, was there? He took a deep breath in through his nose and exhaled softly. Might as well play along so he could get John out of here and give him a piece of his mind.

"You want to go home?" he asked, sounding surprised. He traced a slow line across John's palm, digging his sharp thumbnail into the sensitive skin. "Already?"

"I have things to take care of today, in case you've forgotten." John, who gave as good as he got, should have retaliated by squeezing tighter, crushing Sherlock's fingers together painfully, but he didn't react at all. Was it because he was too sick to care, or did he plan to take his revenge in another way? He was nearly swaying on his feet, so Sherlock was inclined to assume the former, but John was one of the few people who was capable of surprising him. He'd better keep on his guard. Best to get out of here quickly and avoid it affecting the case.

"Oh, of course," he said. "Just give me a moment to say goodbye, would you?"

"Sure, cheers." John nodded amicably and took one small step forward into Sherlock's space (alarm bells were ringing), then another, so close Sherlock could smell him – first, the familiar scents of his shampoo, cologne, his skin – but then something stronger, more overpowering: the sickly sweet smell of his fever, the virus, a racial memory ingrained in his consciousness for the purpose of self-preservation. Fascinating, Sherlock had time to think as John went up on his toes to press their bodies together, to what degree would I be able to distinguish –

And then John tugged his head down, hands sweat-sticky and rough on the back of his neck, and crushed Sherlock's mouth to his. There was just enough time to register how unbelievably hot his lips were before John, wasting no time, angled his neck to slide his tongue into Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock wasn't even trying to stop him; paralysed, his hands rested limply by his sides, caught in between knowing that this farce was all he could have – no matter how badly he wanted, and God, how he wanted – and the risk of compromising the investigation. The wracking cough he had heard keeping John awake all last night was all but forgotten as Sherlock, senseless, let John kiss him hot and wet and dirty. John's skin was hot against his cheek, burning. His goal seemed to be to imprint himself onto Sherlock's mouth as much as he could, one hand gripping Sherlock's curls for leverage to press closer.

They hadn't planned this and Sherlock didn't know how to react: would it be more natural, better for the case for him to (give in to what he so desperately wanted and) reciprocate like a willing participant, or for him to curtail this all-too-public display as fast as possible? Both seemed like the right answer but neither would give him what he wanted in the end (John, Christ Jesus, John) and his heart was pounding, so he took in a little gasp of breath and tried to focus, to think. But then John's tongue pulled back, John's lips moved lightly against his, and Sherlock's eyes opened to see John pulling away, wiping his mouth discreetly, pointedly ignoring the stares they had attracted.

"I'll just collect my coat," John told him with perfect calm. "You can meet me out in front."

Sherlock may have nodded – he wasn't sure – but John turned on his heel and was gone. He could feel expectant eyes on him and he heard someone clearing their throat, and he turned back to find Amelia grinning at him from behind her hand.

"The jealous type?" she asked, eyes gleaming. "I'm so sorry, by the way; if I'd have guessed –"

"No, no," said Sherlock, blinking. And then, because it was all he could really manage, "No."

She just nodded, seeming to find this a perfectly acceptable response. "I can hardly blame him, though – just look at you!" She grinned predatorily, and Sherlock should have responded with a smile, even a weak one, but he couldn't. Amelia tilted her head and she peered up at him inquisitively. "He did look a little bit peaky, though, didn't he? You ought to stock up on Vitamin C. It's that time of year."

xxx xxx xxx xxx

His skin was too hot and someone had stretched it too tight over his bones. When he sneezed, he could almost feel his brain striking against the walls of his skull. The whisper of water boiling itched intolerably, and his head ached just anticipating the noise of the kettle. When it did come, it sent a wave of nausea through him before it was lifted from the range, its shriek cut off in a vaporous sigh. Sherlock pressed his face deeper into the sofa cushions and curled in on himself, trying to concentrate his discomfort into the smallest space possible.

There was the gentle tap of a mug being placed carefully on the side table, followed by a shift of weight on the couch beside him. "Budge your feet," came John's voice, and Sherlock groaned but obliged. John settled in comfortably, and when Sherlock felt him lean forward to pick something up, he steeled himself for the merciless racket of the telly. But John was kind and apparently John felt badly because he left the remote where it was and picked up a book, and Sherlock could withstand the husking of paperback pages turning.

Sherlock shifted his weight to align the soles of his feet against the muscleof John's outer thigh. The denim was rough against his bare skin but the straight, flush line they formed was orderly, comforting. He coughed into the pillow, back arching, and saw a flash of stars.

"A productive cough," John observed. "Good sign, that."

Sherlock sat up, noting the progression of ache in each muscle he moved. He picked up the mug of tea John had brought him and held the warm porcelain against his chin, breathing deeply, allowing the steam to seep into the deepest pockets of his lungs. He coughed once, dryly, to clear the airway. He could feel John's eyes on him, examining, cataloguing symptoms, but he didn't want to be doctored or questioned; he just wanted to sink into the sofa and sleep until this was all over. He took a deep draught of his tea and it burned all the way down.

When he looked up from the mug, John was trying to appear absorbed in his book, though surely he knew he wasn't fooling Sherlock, probably wouldn't even fool Anderson. Eyes still tracking across the page, John said, "You could let me take your temperature, though."

Sherlock coughed again and fixed his eyes straight ahead. "High," he sniffed. "No need."

John sighed. "Of course not."

Sherlock took another sip of his tea. His clothes were damp and heavy with sweat, and he wanted to kick off the blanket, but he was starting to get chills again. It was a cruel curse to be hot and cold at the same time. His feet, at least, were free of the blanket, shocked by the cool air, but they still remembered how dry and steady John had felt, how grounding the human contact had been. If he was going sleep his way through this torture, then John was his best bet.

He set his full mug down on the table and worked his long legs back, leaning sideways until his head (feverish, over-ripe, ready to split) rested on the cool fabric of John's jeans. John didn't startle or protest, just sat still and let him get comfortable. Sherlock closed his eyes and listened to the traffic patterns outside. Usually, they were so distinct, so eloquent in what they had to tell him, but today, he was too exhausted and his head too heavy, and they blurred and jumbled together unintelligibly so as to present him no useful insight whatsoever. Was this what ordinary people heard all the time? Pitiful, really.

Sherlock felt pressure against his damp forehead, John's hand cool and firm against his clammy skin. It rested there a few seconds longer than strictly necessary (his temperature must have been as high as he'd thought, then) before moving to brush Sherlock's hair back into place. Oh, that felt good. He sighed involuntarily and John did it again, this time just running his hand over the locks he had already tamed. Then once more, fingers through combing through curls, nails trailing along his scalp.

"I'm sorry, you know," he said, and hearing John's voice from this angle was novel. "I feel really badly." Sherlock just breathed, focusing on the feather-light touch, the balm, the distraction. He stretched out his legs in pleasure and John chuckled, low and deep. He began to massage Sherlock's scalp with his fingertips, and Sherlock felt the bones of his neck, shoulders, hips shifting to open to John's touch.

"I'm more of a bastard than you are," John whispered. "You should be careful."

It was dark behind Sherlock's eyelids, finally. The noises of the street outside, the buzz of the fridge, the muffled hum of Mrs Hudson's radio downstairs all faded away and his world shrank down to two small points: John's fingers rubbing slow circles against his temples. Peace spread warmly through him. He stifled a cough.

"People say the pressure can help," said John's voice. Both hands, it was. He had put down his book. "Is it all right?"

Sherlock tried to reply, but just made a noise deep in his throat. He'd intended it to be a more coherent response, but the sound was just dragged from him. His head… the relief was so great that he could almost think again. Or he could have, if the gentle pressure of John's fingertips wasn't slowly lulling him senseless.

John's movements felt well-practised. Given his medical background, it was natural that he would have an intimate understanding of anatomy, of pressure points and tension and relief, but this was hardly the kind of thing most doctors did for their patients. Had he done this for Mary, then? Surely he had. Sherlock would not have been there to see it – his brief relationship with John's wife had been strained enough, and seeing John like that would have been too much for him to bear – but there must have been days when she had found the world too brash, unbearably loud and bright, or when her medication had left her too weak and nauseated to function. And obviously John would have been there to comfort her, in whatever ways he could, would have done anything to make it a little easier for her. That was who John was, what he did. It couldn't have gone any other way

"You'd be more comfortable if you took something," John said softly.

Sherlock began to shake his head and immediately regretted the small motion. "Takes longer," he said, and the hoarseness of his unused voice surprised him.

"Yes, I'm aware… I am a doctor, you know." John's thumbs dipped briefly to his cheekbones and rubbed a path back up to his temples. "When the fever breaks. Will you take something then?"

So John wasn't thinking of Mary. Regardless of how he might have taken care of her towards the end, now, in this moment, he was present, he was focused on Sherlock. Though, upon second thought, how could Sherlock have ever expected him to confuse the two? Sick as Sherlock may have felt, it was rather easy to differentiate this scene from a deathbed, especially considering that John had just got over the same cold himself.

John had given up waiting for a response and his hands were back in Sherlock's hair again, slower and gentler now, surely aiming to put him to sleep. Surprisingly, Sherlock did feel like he might be able to rest. It was dark and cool, he was cradled and cushioned from harm, and his head was no longer throbbing so persistently. He was all too content to drift away like this, to slip into a fever dream, trusting his body to John until he could be more present, until he was strong enough. And John should know, Sherlock thought foggily. John was far from stupid, but who knew what he actually could see? John should know that he was trusted and treasured and loved. John may have been the one to do this to him, to trick him into succumbing to the gross physical limitations of his flesh, but John was also the only one who could make it bearable. John was essential to Sherlock, and it would be absurd to allow their partnership to fall apart due to his not knowing. Now that he realised it, it was almost painfully simple: love John, tell John, keep John.

He fought up against the fog of sleep and fever to find his voice. "John," he said. Should he open his eyes? He made an effort and caught a glimpse of John looking down at him, face lined with concern, but the edges of the picture were too bright and his eyes stung, so he closed them again.

"John," he repeated. His tongue felt thick and oddly fuzzy. "John, you're esseminal." He coughed. Wrong, try again. "Seminal." No, not quite. "Central?" Not exactly, but close somehow.

"Is that so?" John's thumb stroked a broad line across Sherlock's forehead.

Of course it was; why would he have bothered saying it otherwise? Who would waste their strength telling lies when speaking was already such a battle?

"John," he insisted, and John's fingers trailed a path down the bridge of his nose and back up. "John, you're a treasure."

"Shh," whispered John, and warm fingertips smoothed over his eyebrows.

This wasn't going right at all. Sherlock blinked up at John against the stinging light and – oh. John was smiling at him. Maybe he did understand.

"Go to sleep, Spock," said John, and Sherlock's eyes fell shut. "We can talk when you're feeling better. Get some rest."

That didn't sound like a bad idea, to be honest. John could be very insightful from time to time. But there was one more thing Sherlock had to clarify.

"John," he said.

"What is it, Sherlock?" There was a faintly amused note to John's voice, like he was about to start laughing. Absurd. Inappropriate. This was a serious discussion.

"You can't leave," Sherlock told him, and for a brief second, John's fingers stopped entirely, then began moving counterclockwise, as if all he had intended to do was reverse direction. "I've said it and so now you can't leave."

Sherlock felt much lighter. He was glad to have taken care of that. He could hear John's breathing. John was no doubt very impressed; despite his fever, Sherlock's head was clear enough to see through their problem and find the solution. But John was still just breathing, not saying anything, and so Sherlock reached up blindly to touch his arm.

John caught Sherlock's hand in his and held it for a moment, running his thumb over the knuckles. Sherlock heard him lick his lips and open his mouth to speak. His voice was hoarse, and very soft.

"No… I can't. You're right. You idiot." John set Sherlock's hand gently on his chest, gave it a perfunctory pat, and resumed his massage. He cleared his throat. "I'm not going anywhere, you great, daft wanker."

So it was settled, then. Sherlock wanted to speak up, to tell John what a relief it was, how happy it made him to hear that, but he was so small and far away, and so he let himself drift, falling asleep with John's hands in his hair, listening to John's breathing even out and deepen.

NOTES
・As I was writing this story, I started to come down with John's symptoms one by one. It was absurd. You'd think someone who reads as much Stephen King that I do would have been freaked out but really, I was just annoyed because I had it all figured out in my head but was too exhausted and sick to get it down on paper. Feeling better now, though!

・There's a reference to my favorite episode of The IT Crowd. I wanted to do that for one of the chapters but ended up going with the camera thing instead, so I thought I'd throw it in.

・The next chapter (probably the next two, to be honest) might be a little bit slow because there's a lot I want to work in. If anyone has the time or the inclination to do a little bit of betaing, I can't even describe how grateful I'd be.

・Thank you for reading!