A/N: This is what I came up with. -csf


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Sherlock Holmes has never known himself to be a quiet, patient man. Such benign person will never gravitate towards crime, murder and gore. They will have weekdays slippers after predictable workdays, and weekend slippers made to lounge about indoors or go out to the backyard fence for a chat with the neighbour. Sherlock would have abhorred being such placid type of person and would much prefer to plot the neighbour's death a handful of different inventive ways. In fact, he has never had any attraction for a peaceful stance in life; that is, not until he met John.

Now John is a conundrum. All woolly jumpers, cups of tea and always popping down to have a chat with Mrs Hudson; yet, he can kill someone – justifiably – with a simple, effortless gunshot.

Army soldier John is a graceful, fluid line of gunpowder and deadly marksmanship, wrapped in the most modest and unassuming exterior. A mix of domestic placidness and family doctor to all his friends. Sherlock often doubts any of them actually knows they meet up for a pint a man who could kill them – for a reason – without breaking a sweat. Brewing himself a cuppa right afterwards, with the good tea he stashes away for special occasions.

John is also a stubborn doctor who diligently saves lives through a global catastrophe. He's got a sense of duty and never demands the glory he's due from the world.

Sherlock would be lying to himself if he claimed not to enjoy the company of the complex layered John with the simple, smiley façade. Of course he does, John is intertwined with Sherlock as an intoxicating need. The Yang to Sherlock's Ying, a complementing piece of the detective's puzzle.

Where Sherlock is loud and shocking, John is quiet and placating. Without his faithful blogger, Sherlock would have been punched in the nose far more often than he actually gets – which is still a surprisingly high number of times.

And so Sherlock has learnt to lean on his friend to make sense in his own ways, like a strident melody made whole by a steady beat.

Maybe that was why he misses John so much, when John is off at work. And, really, Sherlock could hardly blame the compact small doctor for trying to save lives during a global pandemic.

But where does that leave Sherlock, the consulting detective? On a meagre diet of cold cases and teaspoon sized mysteries.

Where John keeps being a hero, Sherlock is a non-entity, a suspended mass of potential energy going to waste, or, worse, consuming itself in his own fabricated dark matter.

Sherlock is intent on not taking it out on the brave, overworked doctor. He is better than that. Still, seeping slowly into his consciousness is some bitterness over John's impact on the world and Sherlock's own uselessness. For he feels useless, alright. Bitterly useless, every time he sees John head out to work, his NHS lanyard and badge hanging from his neck, a decisive jaw lock as the short doctor is about to face a rapidly multiplying enemy.

Sherlock would fight those blasted viruses with his bare hands to keep John safe and get the world back to normal. He can't. John will never know he'd do that.

John will still go to work. Risk it.

Sherlock's incredible knowledge of human anatomy and failing organ systems is limited, alas, to the dead.

Saving lives once people are dead; again, that's John's field, if the person has just lost their heartbeat and John can still fight through cardiac massages and adrenaline shots and crash carts...

The kind of dead Sherlock comes across are quite well established dead. Usually anyone can tell that from a glance.

John always refuses to tell Sherlock how many lives he has saved that day, that week; through too much professional decorum. Sherlock suspects John keeps a tally on only those he loses, because it's ingrained in the doctor's psyche to blame himself.

Sherlock actively tries to explain to the doctor he's not a deity with power of life and death, that he can only do so much.

He suspects John only nods to make him happy. Every day John carries new shadows under his cobalt blue eyes.

And so, as useless as he may be in the current situation, Sherlock finds himself a temporary life mission; to help John. It's a simple directive, and a constant one that carries from simpler times before. John has always protected Sherlock, and Sherlock will always protect John.

There is a different, insidious and invisible enemy now, that will not target Sherlock personally, only threatens the destruction of humankind – like any good criminal mastermind – and that calls for patience instead of ingenuity, sensibility as opposed to dastardly wild explosions, and steadiness in lieu of grand risks.

Sherlock has got to admit this pandemic calls for John Watson.

And so Sherlock keeps himself one step back, guarding John, giving him all his support. It's the least he can do.

.

Dishevelled in a well-worn pyjama, I come downstairs to find Sherlock potting around in the kitchen, doing scientific experiments (of sorts). Lately he's been using soap bubbles from various household detergents, to test their tensile strength, and measuring an estimated surface area. By association of ideas, I assume, Sherlock is also eating a slice of pie, while calculating the spherical volumes of those soap bubbles.

'Sherlock', I start, tired and dragging my feet. I stop on the landing, leaning on the banister, looking at the detective, domestically engaged in soap bubbles experiments on the kitchen table.

At least this will be a nice smelling one, and so easy to clean.

'Yes, John?' he retorts, without looking up.

'I need you to do something for me.'

'Not now, John! I'm busy.'

'Sherlock...'

'Just drop it, John. I'm not interested. Also, I'm terribly busy. You never know when the size and shape of soap bubbles might be the key to saving the world!'

'When will you be free?'

'That will depend on his much your request will annoy me, of course...' he answers, wisely. He's still not looking up. I let go of the banister and take those few steps towards the kitchen, stopping just near him enough.

'Sherlock... please.'

He snaps frightened green eyes straight at me. Like a little kid who is facing his monsters in one swoop of bravery.

He's scared I'm trying to tell him I got it, the virus. In a childlike logic, if he won't hear me say it, it's not a real thing.

I realise I'm taking too long to answer. Questions drift in turmoil across his face; he looks... a bit terrified.

I take the opportunity to get a thermometer in his mouth. 'Don't chew.'

'John, what the—?'

'Also, don't talk. It will alter the readings. Now listen. I woke up really exhausted, but that's all. I've got no symptoms. I just came down to check up on you. If you're in the clear too – and you should be, because I'm really proud of how much you've been secluding yourself in order to keep me safe and working – then I'm spending a full day in bed, sleeping it off. Sherlock, repeat after me, I shouldn't have the virus.'

He blinks, removes the thermometer from his mouth (my bad, I asked him to talk, not clever), and says after me:

'John, you have been exposed to a deadly virus from a number of patients who you doctored at the hospital.'

'Your short term memory is failing you, mate. That is not what I said.'

'That's 100% of what I hear every day. I'm a genius, remember?'

I smirk. I'll grant him that. 'I'm just tired, with a bad headache, and I'm not doing anything for a day. Doctor's orders. I'll be upstairs in my room, call me on my phone if you need— no, if the house is on fire. Just want to check your temperature before I get back to bed.' My words are calm and decisive, as I reign in Sherlock's worry. Or I try.

'You're not going to be left alone on your sick bed!' he reacts, springing up from his chair, so much so that I find myself stepping back and hitting the sink with my lower back, painfully. It throbs in tandem with my head.

'Please don't talk so loudly', I say, after a flinch.

Oh, damn. I've just set him off, haven't I?

Do I get a do-over?

'John', he just about growls my name. 'If a patient infected you, I'm going after them. Do not worry, the Crown will never have a case, I know a few good ways of disposing of the corpse.'

'Woah there, mate! I'm a doctor, not a superhero. I'm not infallible. Personal protective equipment is not infallible either. But I'm just a bit tired today, after a few long shifts.'

Sherlock takes a step forward, narrowing the distance between us.

'You are never returning to work.'

'Don't be silly, Sherlock.'

'How else am I to keep you safe?' he protests, arms flailing as he steps back and gives me space.

Oh, this is an admittance right here. I smile and save the memory to explore later.

'It's not your job, Sherlock!'

'I've made it my job, John!'

I blink, surprised. Sherlock rants on: 'You never catch a thing from the spree of infectious patients who visit you at the clinic!'

'Yes. Yes, that's right. Keep remembering that and stop panicking.' I beat him in his own logic. He death-glares at me, grudgingly. 'Now, the thermometer, please?'

Resentfully, the detective puts the thermometer back and stares me down silently. He's sulking big time now. Soon the device beeps. He removes the instrument and reads the numbers.

'Worthy of a perfectly functioning human, John.'

I'll frame that and just put it on the wall, shall I?

'Also, John', he adds, 'you can take the sofa. I will procure your duvet from upstairs for you.'

'Why would I need the sofa?'

'You rest better when I'm in the room, and I will be comforted – and honoured – to keep an eye on you while you recover from your extreme exhaustion. You also rest better when you are facing the main entrance to the room, hence why you reconfigured Mrs Hudson's room upstairs, when you moved in, you can lay on the sofa with your feet to the door, knowing I've got the improbable means of entry, such as the windows behind you, covered. Sometimes, when you are too tired you get restless dreams, and I can sooth your sleep by playing some Bach on my violin. Lastly, at eleven the morning sun will cause a reflection on the Watson's family picture on your desk upstairs, that shines straight to your face, often rousing you from your sleep on the occasions our cases prolong themselves till rather late. Lest you are sleeping facing away, which is rare given that living in a constant war scenario has trained you to sleep on your back, ready to wake if trouble arises.'

I blink. That's definitely thorough. I'll move the picture frame.

Right. Why am I arguing back?

'You won't blow up things while I'm trying to sleep?' I still check.

'Not today, John. I lack the potassium iodide and hydrogen peroxide. I'll just carry on with plain old soap bubbles.'

I can't fight an escaping yawn. 'Sounds great, mate. When can I read the blog about it?'

'It will be done once you have rested, John.' He places strong but gentle hands on my shoulders and guides and to the living room's sofa, blatantly ignoring as I almost trip on my own steps.

'Thanks, Sherlock.'

'Not at all. I'm very glad to be of use, John. Just playing my part.'

.