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Chapter Text

It was only a matter of time. John knew that from the start. Now, he stared at the read-out on the thermometer before examining his reflection in the bathroom mirror. A glassy blue gaze stared back at him from beneath the dishevelled nest of his hair. Dark shadows smeared their warpaint beneath his eyes and his skin had an unhealthy, greyish tinge.

He'd felt all right yesterday. He'd come home from work, braving the blustery late-March weather, and hopped straight in the shower, the better to disinfect himself as best he could. A decent home-cooked curry and a pint of beer while watching good telly had helped him unwind. He'd gone to bed, and then woken up feeling like shit.

Stumbling towards the bathroom door, he pushed his way out into the flat and stood in the corridor, trying to marshal his scattered thoughts. He needed to call the surgery. Let them know he wouldn't be in. He should clean things. Try and stop it spreading more than it already had, but he was so tired...

'John?'

'No.' He threw up his hands, taking an instinctive step back and colliding with the wall as he tried to halt Sherlock's approach. 'I've got a fever. You need to keep away.'

Sherlock tilted his head, those silver eyes raking John's frame in a cursory assessment. 'That's not going to be possible. The flat's too small for that and we only have one bathroom. We had this discussion when the pandemic first hit, if you recall?'

John did. He was a GP, not front-line staff, but that still meant he was more likely to be exposed to the wretched virus than the average person on the street. His chances of bringing Covid-19 back to the flat were considerable. Now, here he stood, sweating and shivering and not sure what to do with himself. Sherlock had ignored his feeble attempts to keep his distance then, and it seemed that was not about to change.

'What hurts?' Strong hands rested on his shoulders, and John peeled his eyes open to give Sherlock a half-hearted glare. In truth, he'd not even noticed he'd shut them. Now, Sherlock had got too close, the casual intimacy of it all the more jarring after having the message of "six feet apart" drummed into them for bloody weeks.

Not that they'd managed that, either, though they'd at least tried at John's insistence. There had been no nudging shoulders, no fingers brushing as they passed on another cups of tea... He'd missed that more than the cases: the easy nearness they'd cultivated.

'John?'

He blinked, wetting his lips and squinting as he tried to remember the question. 'My head,' he managed at last, 'and my legs. Joints. Just...' He sighed, knowing he was giving Sherlock nothing more to go on than general malaise. 'I think I'm going back to bed.'

'Wait. Can you sit for a bit?' Sherlock guided him towards the living room, easing him down into the familiar nest of his armchair. A blanket surrounded his shoulders, and he clutched it gratefully. 'I'll get you some water and some paracetamol.'

'I need to call work,' John added, lifting one arm to reach for his phone only to find it too heavy. It dropped back to his side, limp and useless, as Sherlock grabbed John's mobile from the coffee table and set it beside him.

'While you're doing that, I'll put fresh sheets on my bed. My room's closer to the bathroom, and I can keep a better eye on you.'

'I should be isolated!' John protested, knowing it fell on deaf ears. 'Upstairs at least I'm out of the way!'

'And I will have to traipse up a flight of stairs to check on you multiple times a day.' Sherlock's icy logic left little room for argument, not when John felt like this, anyway. 'My room is better. It won't be for long. You'll recover in no time.'

John didn't have the heart to argue with that. He'd been trying not to think about it: how bad this could get. As far as the scientists knew, the lucky ones felt nothing. They remained symptomless, going to work and whatnot and spreading it around.

From John's personal experience, the actual expression of symptoms varied hugely. That was assuming it was even Covid-19, of course. It could just be 'flu. There'd be no way to know for sure unless he got a test, and John wasn't holding his breath for access to one of those any time soon.

With a sigh of surrender, he picked up his phone, dialling the surgery's number with fingers that felt like sausages. He bypassed the appointment line and pecked in the three-digit number that would put him straight through to Sarah.

'John, are you all right?' Concern laced her voice. He could picture her sat at her desk, all of her work forgotten. Even after the mess of their failed relationship she considered him a friend, and he allowed that kindness to wash over him like a balm.

'Sorry, Sarah, I've got... something. I need to isolate.'

'Oh, John. What are your symptoms?' She listened as he rambled through the same thing he'd described to Sherlock, making appropriate noises of sympathy. 'Do you have everything you need? Food? Medication?'

'Yeah. Yeah. We've been stocking up, me and Sherlock. Helping out Mrs Hudson, too, since she's not meant to go outside.'

'Well, none of you are now. Do you have someone who can drop stuff off at your door if you need it?'

'Yeah. Thanks, Sarah. There's plenty who can help out, as long as they've not got it too.'

'And is there anyone to keep an eye on you? I know Sherlock can get... distracted.'

John glanced over his shoulder, peering through the thin seam of the doorway to Sherlock's bedroom. The occasional flap of fabric and shadow moving on the wall suggested he was doing just as he said. In fact, now he thought about, where he'd expected dismissal from Sherlock, the attentiveness came as a pleasant surprise. 'Mrs Hudson's downstairs if it comes to the worst, but I think I'll be okay.'

'All right. Make sure my phone number's written down. I'm more than happy to reassure or give advice if you or Sherlock need it.'

'Thanks. What about testing?' A sympathetic smile tweaked his mouth as Sarah made a rough, growling noise. 'I take it that's a no?'

'I'm working on it, John, I swear, but you know how it is. The government's full of liars and they're prioritising what tests we do have to ICUs.'

'As they should. It's a pity they don't have enough for the rest of us.'

'Yes, well, you know my thoughts on that,' Sarah grumbled, pulling a weak laugh from him. 'You've heard me rant about it in the breakroom enough times.'

'I have. Let me know if it becomes a possibility. Until then, I'll assume I’ve got it.'

'Smart man,' she praised. 'Do you have an oximeter, just in case?'

'Yeah, I've got a thumb-clip. I bought one back in December.'

'Good. I'm sure Sherlock already knows a low O2 saturation threshold, but make sure, yeah?'

'Will do.’

'And John? Stay in touch.' A hint of a tremor tilted her voice as she said goodbye, and John disconnected the call before huddling further into his blanket. Her worry concerned him. Logically, he knew the chances of needing hospitalisation were low, but when you saw the horror stories every day, it was hard to shake the sinking feeling of dread and doom.

He had no trouble compartmentalising. When you were in the army, you had to, or you'd spend your whole time deployed catatonic with fear. Still, at least then you could keep busy – distract yourself. This? He barely had the strength to lift his arms, let alone get to his feet. His mind was a helpless, anxious prisoner in a body fit for fuck all.

'Here.' Sherlock held out a glass of water and a blister pack of paracetamol. 'The bed's ready if you need it, though if you can stay sat up for half an hour it might help you digest those.' He perched on the edge of the coffee table, bringing himself down to John's level and tilting his head, as if he could see John better from an angle. 'Do you want any food?'

John pulled a face. His stomach sat like a rock of granite beneath his ribs, heavy and dead. The thought of breakfast held no appeal, but he knew all too well that it would be better to eat while he could. His body needed fuel to fight off whatever he had, and though nausea wasn't a given, it could still rob him of the ability to eat. 'Maybe toast. Just a bit.'

Sherlock nodded and padded through to the kitchen, wiping down surfaces and washing his hands before he started putting together the simple fare. At least he didn't have to remind Sherlock about that, John thought as he swallowed back the tablets and sipped his water. Sherlock may have a bit of a blind spot when it came to human remains in the fridge, but he had a strong understanding of good hygiene and the spread of disease.

One of the first things he'd done, back in January when John came back to the flat fretting about hand-washing, had been to procure them a tube each of very good hand cream. At John's baffled expression, he'd explained about dry hands chapping from being so clean, and the risk of infection getting in through broken skin.

They did not use each other's to avoid cross-contamination, and they had a pump to prevent either of them touching the cream not being used. It seemed like such a small thing, but John had found himself grateful more than once when he saw the state of his colleagues’ poor fingers and palms, sore from constant rounds of hand sanitiser and soap and latex.

'Jam?'

'Ugh, no thanks. Just butter.'

'Cup of tea?'

John considered it, wincing as a delicate shiver trickled down his spine. 'Yeah, all right.' If nothing else it might help the cold that seemed to press itself against the inside of his skin. In contrast, his eyes felt like hot coals in their sockets, burning every time he blinked, and an odd headache grumbled around inside his skull. 'Thanks.'

He listened to Sherlock bustling about, smiling his gratitude as his flatmate wiped down the little table at the side of his armchair. He suspected the religious cleanliness had probably been more effective at easing their anxieties than stopping germs from spreading, but every little bit helped.

Before he knew it, a cup of tea steamed at his side and a piece of toast awaited him, gleaming gold with a suitable layer of butter upon its surface. John picked at the snack and sipped his drink, raising an eyebrow as Sherlock sat down in his armchair with a pen and notebook in his hands. 'What are you doing?'

'Taking notes. What was your temperature?'

'38.3 centigrade. What notes? Sherlock, please tell me you're not studying this?'

'Not precisely.' Sherlock looked up, meeting John's gaze without a hint of remorse. 'Tracking the progress of the disease means I can provide any medical staff with all the information they should require. It should also help us to ascertain whether you're recovering or getting worse. Data, John. Data.' He tapped his pen against the page. 'What about loss of smell? Sense of taste?'

'No, they're both fine. No rashes, either, before you ask.' John surveyed Sherlock over the rim of his cup. He should have known that Sherlock's compassion, when it made an appearance, would look something like this: practical, analytical, and devoid of all physical sentiment. He offered John no sympathy, treating his illness as a problem to document and solve above all else.

Mind you, he suspected if Sherlock started acting all aghast now, it would only send John into a panic. No. This was good. This was what he needed. Sherlock behaving like himself, the same as always. And if that meant John was little more to him than one of his experiments? Well, it would have to do.

'Any cough or difficulty breathing?'

'Not yet. That doesn't show up until later. It's – it's just a headache. Muscle aches. I'm tired and I've got no appetite. A bit of sleep will sort me out, I'm sure.' John tried to smile, but it felt more like a wound on his face than anything else, so he let it fall away. ‘So far, it's not so bad. I've had 'flu worse.'

'Hmmm.' Sherlock clicked the pen, retracting the nib and putting the book aside. 'Are you all right with me cleaning your room? Normally, I wouldn't intrude...'

'You intrude all the bloody time!' John scoffed, shaking his head as Sherlock pouted. 'It's fine. That'd be good actually. I don't think I've got the strength to do it myself. Just, wear gloves, yeah? I don't suppose there's much chance of sparing you from it, but you should still do what you can.'

'You never know. Perhaps I'm an asymptomatic carrier,' Sherlock replied with a shrug, holding up a hand to stem John's protests. 'I'll be careful. I promise.'

'There are some Dettol wipes under the sink. They might help. I'm more worried about communal spaces, like the hallway, if I'm honest. I tried not to touch too much when I came back from work, but...'

'I'll do that first and let Mrs Hudson know what's going on so she can keep herself safe.'

'Thanks.' John set his half-finished cup of tea to one side, marvelling how even a little bit of chatting could leave him so exhausted. His entire body felt heavy, as if gravity had been dialled up. Even the thought of moving to Sherlock's room seemed like an insurmountable task, and he looked over his shoulder at the door, trying to find the will to get going.

'Maybe I can just sleep on the sofa?'

'I think not. Firstly, it's leather. You'll slip off it every time you move. Secondly, it is far from comfortable. You might be shorter than me, but you still won't fit with ease.'

'Yeah, thanks for that,' he grumbled, knowing Sherlock had a point. Bed was the best place for him, and he gripped the arm of his chair, groaning as he hauled himself to his feet. The blanket spilled from his shoulder like a superhero's cape, and he clutched it in one hand, trying not to limp as his hips and knees set up a raucous mantra of complaint.

'Ow,' he muttered, pressing his hand to his lower back like an old man and shuffling towards the broad dais of Sherlock's king-size bed. 'You sure about this?’ he asked, checking one last time. 'Where will you sleep?'

'I'll figure something out.'

Maybe if John had more energy, he'd argue, but frankly he didn't have the strength left in him to do anything but take it at face value. Yeah, he felt guilty for stealing Sherlock's bed, but the man had offered. Besides, all trace of hesitation fled when he lay down and let the mattress cradle his abused body. 'Oh, God, that's better.'

Sherlock huffed a laugh, prodding and bullying John until he could tug the quilt from under him and drape it over his body. Soft, whispering down hushed its lullaby, and John turned his cheek to the cool sheath of the pillowcase, letting out a gusty sigh.

Sherlock extricated the blanket that had been around his shoulders, folding it and spreading it in a narrow band across his feet, instead. 'I'll get you some more water. Do you need anything else?'

John mumbled a negative, the seam of his eyelashes burning as his eyelids drifted shut. The sheets smelled mostly of detergent, but a trace of the scent he associated with Sherlock lingered: a hint of whatever he used in his hair. It comforted John in ways he did not quite want to define, and he nestled deeper into the quilt, curling his knees up towards his chest as his tortured frame began to relax.

The world took on an ethereal quality, the sounds of the flat turning tinny and distant. The sound of a glass coming to rest against the wood of the bedside table punctuated his doze, but he barely stirred. Even when the sensation of a cool, dry palm against his brow – dreamlike and diaphanous – whispered through his mind, he could not bring himself to emerge from the shallows of slumber.

Sleep claimed him, and John went willingly.

Chapter Text

Sherlock stepped back, tilting his head to admire the sight of John in his bed. Given the circumstances, the subtle warmth in his chest could not be deemed appropriate, but nor could he stifle it.

He had watched, in the weeks since the pandemic exploded across the world stage, how John's stress increased with each passing day. He tried to hide it, of course, concealing his concerns behind smiles that never reached his eyes, but Sherlock was not fooled.

He wanted to help, but how could he? Nothing he could do or say would ease those worries. Besides, all of John's anxiety was with merit. Sherlock had been watching the virus since it emerged in Wuhan, attempting to appease his own fears by consuming every research paper he could find. He had even begged Mycroft's favour, gaining access to some documents which had not yet been made public knowledge. Academically, the pursuit had been satisfying, but now...

Stepping back, he left John to his fitful slumber as dread coiled tight in his gut. It was one thing to know that the pandemic was happening, but another to see it strike so close to home. All those details he had absorbed about cytokine storms and cardiopathy suddenly found a gruesome, crystalline focus.

John had no pre-existing conditions beyond the trauma of an old gunshot wound. He did not suffer reduced lung capacity or any particular systemic issue that would make him more vulnerable than average. The odds were in his favour.

Yet that knowledge did nothing to ease the insidious "what-ifs" that circled Sherlock's head, leaving him tight-lipped and breathless as he rummaged for Dettol and cleaning equipment. There was little he could do; he knew that. Everyone lay helpless in the face of Covid-19. He believed in no god; no higher power held the world in its control. No vagaries of fate charted their paths. It was chaos. Random. A series of factors combining to decide who would suffer and who would survive.

A tight noise caught in his throat: a stifled explosion of anger. Sentiment. Mycroft would be appalled. Still, Sherlock himself could not see it as a weakness. Unpleasant as his fears may be, they were a symptom of the care he had come to feel for John. The soft regard that he could not bring himself to wish undone, no matter how much it may, at times, pain him.

With a sigh, Sherlock trotted down the stairs, focussing on the shared areas of the flat. He ran his gaze around the hall, analysing the surfaces that John might have touched. It took him a solid half an hour to disinfect door-handles and light switches, coat hooks and the bannister rail. His hands grew sweaty in his gloves, but the repetitive, boring task at least helped burn off some of the anxious energy that pressed itself against his skin.

'Sherlock?' Mrs Hudson's timorous question broke into his reverie, and he took a judicious step back, ensuring he was six feet away from where she hovered on the threshold. 'Is everything all right?'

'John's ill.' He pursed his lips, belatedly wondering if he should have tried to break it to her more gently.

'Oh dear!' Mrs Hudson pressed her hand to her throat, her eyes bright with emotion even as she lifted her chin: defiant. 'How bad is it? Do you need anything?'

'He's sleeping. He wanted me to clean down here. I suspect the notion is that, after I'm done, I don't venture downstairs again until the isolation period has passed.'

'Oh, that's very hard for you. Poor dears. Marco from next door said he can keep us supplied, though. He can drop whatever groceries you need down here, and I can bring them up to the flat’s front door.'

'Thank you.' Sherlock felt a twist of annoyance. Up until this point, it had been the other way around. He'd been making sure that Mrs Hudson wanted for nothing, not just with food but with her herbal soothers. 'John filled the cupboards a few days ago.'

'And a good thing too. Some people were poo-pooing everyone, saying it would fizzle out in a week. Bet they're regretting that now.' The smirk on Mrs Hudson's face was not entirely kind, and something in her eyes turned sharp. 'Do you know landlords have been kicking out tenants working in hospitals? Honestly, if it's not wilful ignorance it's cowardly stupidity. Things like this. They bring out the worst in people.'

'But the best, as well.' Sherlock cocked his head, knowing what Mrs Hudson meant. It was easy, in dire times, to focus on those who only knew selfishness. He would never declare himself to be the most altruistic of individuals, but there was no logic to be found in hoarding resources and denying those in need.

'True. What about you? Are you feeling all right?'

'Yes.' He hesitated, a clutch more words getting caught and tangled on his tongue. Social niceties had never been his strong suit. Now, in the midst of all this, it seemed even more challenging to get things right. Not that Mrs Hudson minded.

'Good. You look after yourself. Don't get so focussed on taking care of John that you forget to keep your strength up.' She smiled at him, all warm comfort and knowing fondness, despite the distance that separated them. 'And don't let John brush this off as nothing, either. Doctors make terrible patients.'

With that parting pearl of wisdom, she retreated back into the sanctuary of her flat, leaving Sherlock to trudge up the stairs and through the door of 221b. He told himself that the eerie quiet of the home he shared with John was his imagination. No pall hung in the air. Nothing had changed except the presence of the virus within the sheath of John's skin. Still, he felt jittery, disturbed at some level far deeper than the conscious mind.

The temptation to fret and pace shimmered along his nerves. The violin would soothe him, but he did not wish to disturb John's peace. No, better that he get on with the jobs John had tasked to him. He could do little to ameliorate John's symptoms, but he could shoulder the burdens of responsibility and allow him to rest.

Detouring via the sink, he removed the disposable latex gloves, peeling them free and throwing them away. Washing his hands, he reached for a fresh pair before gathering what he would need to clean John's room.

Contrary to John's belief, he did not venture up the stairs on a regular basis, not since those first few weeks when John had laid down the law on the sanctity of personal space. Grudgingly, Sherlock respected the decree, and he'd not set foot over the threshold again except to ferret out John's gun when needed.

Now, he surveyed the pleasant, messy room with new eyes, taking in all the markers of John's habits in a sweep of his gaze. The high-stress of his job was evident. Clothes, worn but not yet dirty lay over the chair like victims of a shipwreck, arms and legs askew. John threw them non-to-gently when he discarded them: a simple release valve for the pressure of his temper.

One of the wardrobe doors stood open, the hangers within a tangle from where John had pulled garments free from them in a hurry: prone to running late, which was only half Sherlock's fault. Blackout curtains and tousled sheets gave away the fact he slept poorly, even now, and the lack of books on his bedside table suggested the quest for slumber remained his primary concern.

Giving himself a little shake, Sherlock flung aside the cloud of his deductions and got to work. Stripping the bed linen, he piled it in the corner. Current government guidelines had relaxed about fabrics, being more intent as they were on controlling the virus. They would need to be washed at sixty degrees, if not hotter. However, since the washing machine was downstairs, for now they would have to be folded and bagged until it was safe to venture out once more.

Sherlock wiped down door handles and light switches before spending a boring half-hour moving furniture and vacuuming the carpet. He dithered over whether the sound would disturb John, but in the end suspected that attempting to sterilise the infected space would be of more comfort.

He kept an ear out for any sounds of distress from downstairs as he worked. He half-expected John's cry, and with every moment that peace reigned, he found himself growing increasingly tense. By the time he had finished in John's room, he sat on tenterhooks, almost shivering with the need to check that John still slept soundly.

With a sigh, he reached up to rub his hand across his face, only recalling his gloves at the last moment. Before all this started, he had never noticed the tells of his physical self. Normally, he prided himself on his control, but that, like so many other things, was little but a facade of self-comfort. That, or living with John had lowered his walls enough to allow his body the free reign it had not enjoyed since childhood.

Either way, such a thoughtless, absent gesture would render the gloves pointless and potentially leave him infected, if he were not already. Frankly, the chances of him being spared when John lay ill seemed slim to none. All that remained to be seen was whether or not he manifested symptoms.

Swallowing, Sherlock collected up the cleaning supplies and ventured back downstairs. He wiped off all the surfaces and high-contact points of the main flat with disinfectant before deciding that his efforts would suffice. Another trip to the sink to scrub his hands punctuated his movements before, at last, he crept towards his own bedroom door.

John lay in the depths of the quilt, his eyes shut and his breathing steady. The curtains across the window bathed the room in soft twilight, and only a stray sunbeam intruded through a chink in the fabric. It caught in the ashy blonde of John's hair, turning it to gold: precious and rare. Yet there was a pallor to his skin that made Sherlock scowl, emphasised by the flags of ruddy colour on his cheeks: the virus making its presence known.

The temptation to grab the tympanic thermometer and check John's fever twitched through his muscles. Data had always been a balm to the jagged edges of his concerns, a way to quantify the problems that lay before him.

Yet his need for reassurance could not take precedent over John's requirement for rest. Sleep allowed his body to divert maximum resources to fighting off the invader that had wormed its way past John's defences.

Sherlock could not bring himself to disturb him. Instead, he eased back across the threshold and faced the living room, tired from cleaning but still restless. A hoary energy thrummed beneath his skin, fuelled by concern that he could not set to one side, no matter how hard he tried.

It did not matter what logical reassurances his mind could conjure, they did nothing to appease the constant, edgy fear that coalesced into a tense knot in his stomach. He caught himself fidgeting, unable to settle to anything.

He ended up tidying in a vague, haphazard way. The research papers on the pandemic he had perused with such interest went into the recycling, too abhorrent to consider. He washed up the few pieces of crockery in water so hot it turned his skin pink and wiped down the kitchen surfaces again, his actions absent-minded at best.

Part of him itched to flee the flat, to stretch his legs and race London's streets, but even that avenue lay shut to him. He could only prowl each room, tense and miserable.

Sherlock did not notice the changing quality of the light, the way mid-morning melted into early afternoon. Like John, the notion of food held little appeal. Not because of some illness, but because a bramble of worry had taken up all the space in his belly, hollowing it out only to fill it with thorns.

He'd caught himself chewing the side of his thumb more than once – Mummy would be appalled – and every drawn breath felt tight and thin. Even the realm of his mind palace – a haven he rarely acknowledged – lay closed to him, inaccessible in this wretched, fretful state.

At the first, timorous cry of John's voice, Sherlock jolted, sparked into action as if touched by a live wire. His heart surged in his throat, its beat frantic as he strode across the floor to his own bedroom door, easing it aside and taking in the man on the bed.

Gone were the peaceful depths of John's slumber. The quilt, which had once cocooned him tenderly, now wrapped in manacles of cloth around his legs. Sweat glistened on that wrinkled brow, and a fearful snarl twisted that thin mouth without mercy. One hand flailed, a thrashing, aimless fist, and Sherlock stepped forward, catching John's wrist before he could hurt himself.

He did not allow his grip to tighten, as he longed to do. He would not let himself become another restraint against which John fought. Instead, he rubbed his thumb over John’s hammering pulse, keeping his strokes slow and steady as he hunkered down beside the bed.

His voice, low and far calmer than he felt, spilled from his lips, issuing every reassurance he could offer. He could not be certain where John's dreams had taken him, but back to Afghanistan's bloodshed was a distinct possibility. John's PTSD remained a very real prospect, one that the virus could exacerbate with hallucinations.

'You're in Baker Street,' he murmured, resisting the desire to instil any kind of urgency in his voice. It would only make the situation worse. Rousing John was not his aim. He would awaken him if he must, but it would be better for them both if he could ease the twist of his subconscious into safer territory. 'In London. There is nothing here that will hurt you.' His treacherous mind pointed out that the virus racing through John's blood was bringing plenty of harm in its wake, but he shoved the thought to one side. 'You're here, John, with me, and you're perfectly safe.'

He repeated it like a mantra, keeping the cadence of his voice steady and timing it to the sweep of his thumb over John's wrist. Moments dragged out into minutes as John's struggles slowed, growing less fretful. The tense arm in Sherlock's grasp wilted once more. A shuddering sigh escaped John's lips, rattling over a shiver as he once again curled tight in on himself, trapping the heat next to his skin.

This time, he faced not the centre of the bed, but outwards, half his face obscured by the swell of the pillow. His body curved into a cove of flesh, his knees a bare handspan away from Sherlock's shoulders. John’s hand shifted, freeing his wrist from Sherlock’s grasp only to entwine their fingers.

Sherlock blinked. He had been about to withdraw, to give John his space and his peace. Instead, he eased himself awkwardly from his crouch and sat on the carpet. John’s hand lay cradled in his own, resting atop the mattress. There was no squeeze of brief thanks, no glimmer of that blue gaze, no acknowledgement...

John slept on, clinging to Sherlock as if he were the only thing that mattered in all the world.

Chapter Text

Sleep washed over him in waves: never a deep, abyssal slumber, but shallow, wretched expanses. He could never quite breach the surface, but nor could he find the respite he sorely needed. The headache grumbling around John's skull felt like a constant presence, and pain lingered on his mental horizon, shaping the blank canvas of his unconscious mind into phantasms.

Sometimes it was the war that daubed his dreams, all sandy tones and startling green, towering mountains and loud gunshots. Sometimes it was Sherlock's body, broken and bloody at the bottom of Bart's. Sometimes it was Mary's sad smile as she'd ended their engagement, her single accusation – I could never compete – echoing in John's mind.

They mixed and merged, pressing in at him from all sides, their clarity edged with other, monstrous images that had no place in the real world: nameless, chasing dread and the vice of fear at John's throat. Something, somewhere, hunted him. Heat and cold in equal measure. Glass skin that split and bled and dropped his insides at his feet, awful in every way.

At last, he erupted into wakefulness, his aching eyes snapping open as his mind scrambled to take stock. Yet his brief panic abated a moment later, not reassured by his surroundings, but by the man whose head rested on the mattress at his side, his slender, pale hand trapped in John's grip.

His fingers had clenched upon waking, but Sherlock didn't stir. Those dark curls scribbled over the white sheets, and the nape of his neck lay exposed at the top of his collar. The twisted wreck of the duvet hid his face from view, and for one, awful minute, John wondered if Sherlock, too, had fallen ill.

A muffled, grumpy noise escaped Sherlock’s lips, and he lifted his head, squinting in John's direction with bleary eyes. It took no more than a moment for that mighty brain of his to get back up to speed. John watched, weary but fascinated, as awareness flared in Sherlock's gaze.

'Are you all right?' Sherlock asked, lifting up his spare hand and pressing it to John's brow, no doubt sensing the unnatural heat that burned there. 'How long have you been awake?'

'Not long,' he rasped, wincing as he did so. God, he felt worse. Cold and hot and aching something fierce.

'You slept badly,' Sherlock informed him, that full mouth twisting in a grimace. 'I tried to calm you, but it happened more than once.'

John grunted an acknowledgement, hoping Sherlock wouldn't notice their hands were still linked. If he did, John was certain he would pull away, and that notion left him broken. He already felt strung out and weak, vulnerable and hating it. To have Sherlock withdraw and leave him on his own? He didn't think he could bear it.

''s a symptom,' he slurred, wrinkling his nose as he tried to get his tongue to work. 'Not a symptom. An effect. Vivid, weird dreams. Been reported a fair bit.'

'And you have more traumatic things to dream about than most,' Sherlock finished, tilting his head and raising an eyebrow. A flicker of something – regret, maybe? – arced across his face, but it was gone before John could focus on it. 'I should take your temperature again.' He tilted his wrist to check his watch. 'You can also have some more paracetamol, if you like?'

John tightened his fingers over Sherlock's: a brief, panicked spasm. 'Stay?' The word tore itself out of him, tight and nervous. 'Just for a bit?'

He winced, not wanting to witness Sherlock's inevitable disdain, but none emerged. Sherlock merely nodded as if John's request were the most natural thing, setting up an absent-minded rhythm as he stroked one of John's knuckles with his thumb.

'Sorry. I – I don't feel right.' He wet his lips, not quite knowing how to put it into words. It was like he existed on an unknown edge where nothing seemed real. Like he couldn’t be sure that this, too, wasn't just a dream. Part of him struggled to believe he was lying here, rather than back in a tent in Kandahar, while another could not fathom that his dead friend sat and breathed and lived right beside him, even though Sherlock had returned more than six months ago.

'Tell me how you feel. Any new symptoms?' Sherlock asked. He had no pen and notepad nearby this time, but John suspected he'd remember it and write it down later.

'The same. Headache. Muscle ache. Fatigue.' He screwed his eyes up and opened them again. 'Like I've not slept.'

'You've been out for almost seven hours,' Sherlock confided, reaching out to flick on the bedside lamp, compensating for the gloom created by the curtains pulled across the window. 'Though I admit it did not seem restful. So far, your reaction to this is rather generic.'

'It's rather a generic virus, really. Well, type of virus, anyway.' John wrinkled his nose. Covid-19 may be novel to humanity, but there were plenty of others in the coronavirus family that had plagued people for centuries.

'Feels like 'flu. Not even the worse 'flu I've ever had, either. At least I'm awake.'

He'd lost whole days to some illness when training in the army. He couldn't remember anything but the vague wash of white sanatorium walls and a raging fever. Delirium. This wasn't that, though he wouldn't count his blessings just yet. It could still end up that way... or worse.

John bit his lip, wresting his mind away from that dark avenue of thought. Fretting wouldn't do him any good. 'Have you ever been ill?'

It seemed a stupid thing to ask, but there were huge swathes of Sherlock's life he had no real knowledge of. He'd never seen him unwell, not really. A cold now and then, which Sherlock pretty much ignored. Other than that, he'd only ever seen Sherlock injured, which wasn't quite the same.

Still, there was something nice about the way Sherlock narrowed his eyes in thought, giving the question serious consideration. 'When I was much younger, yes. Chickenpox. That kind of thing. The last time I was properly ill, rather than suffering from something self-inflicted, I was fourteen. I remember being stuck in bed, miserable and bored.'

John huffed, nuzzling at the pillow that cradled his head. 'Sounds about right. Too ill to get up, too ill to sleep. All you can do is stare at the ceiling.' He sighed. The prospect was grim enough for him. He couldn't imagine Sherlock, with that mighty mind of his, bearing the weakness of his transport with anything like grace.

'We'll have to see what we can do to keep you entertained.'

John blinked, knowing that Sherlock hadn't intended that to sound flirtatious. He was being practical, that was all, so why had John's reckless heart picked up its pace, practically hammering against his ribs. 'What – what did you have in mind?'

'I can at least move the telly in for you. The cables are long enough to bear it. I always buy extra.'

That was an understatement. Their TV may be small, but there was a mare's nest of cables stuffed down behind it for use in experiments which Sherlock had yet to schedule. They might as well be used for their intended purpose before being sacrificed at the altar of knowledge. 'That'd be brilliant.'

Sherlock smiled in response to John's gratitude, giving his hand a quick pat before withdrawing from his grip. 'I'll be back in a minute,' he promised, waiting for John's permission to go before he slipped out of the room. John could hear him moving through the flat, his presence a constant balm as he considered his current state.

He wished he felt more rested. Sherlock had said he'd been asleep for hours, but he felt as if he'd barely had the chance to shut his eyes. His head ached and grumbled, a constant drone between his ears and pressure behind his sinuses. Swallowing caused a sharp discomfort: swollen lymph nodes in his neck and jaw, probably, and his eyes prickled every time he blinked.

Fighting the weight of the quilt seemed a gargantuan effort, but he did his best, shifting his leaden body so he could slump against the headboard, dizzy and shivering. John pulled a face, wishing he didn't feel like something the cat had thrown up. His body didn't seem to know whether to sweat buckets or shiver itself into oblivion, and there was no way to be comfortable. Even sitting motionless hurt, and by the time Sherlock returned with the TV in his arms, John was scowling out of the window, petulant and sulky.

Sherlock didn't bother him with stupid questions or pointless platitudes. Instead, he set the TV down on the floor and turned his attention to the dressing table. With a heave, he dragged it to the foot of the bed before plonking the telly on its scarred surface. 'I'll connect the rest of it a minute. Let's see what we can do to make you more comfortable.'

John resisted the temptation to snap at Sherlock. It wouldn't do either of them any good. He was grumpy because he was ill, not because of his flatmate, and losing his temper would only make everything worse.

Instead, he scowled at his reflection in the blind eye of the telly's screen, noting that his hair stuck up in a dozen different directions. Dragging the duvet up to his chin, he sighed, his exhale catching on a pathetic little cough as his throat twinged. 'Ugh,' John groaned, shaking his head and regretting the movement. 'Fucking crap.'

'Here.' Sherlock held out the tympanic thermometer. 'If we do this now, we can get an idea how high it is without the influence of paracetamol.'

'Great,' John muttered, putting the sheathed tip in his ear and pressing the button. A moment later, the device uttered its verdict, the rapid triple beat indicating a measurement outside of normal range. '39.2 centigrade. High, but not too awful.'

'As long as it responds to medication,' Sherlock pointed out, offering John the blister pack of paracetamol for the second time that day. 'There's a glass of water on your bedside table. What else do you need?'

John shook his head in slow misery. 'I don't know.' He reached up a heavy hand, cuffing at his eyes. It was hard to think like a doctor when he felt like this: hard to put the needs of his body first when his mood turned childish and stubborn. Mostly, he just wanted to hide under the pillow until the whole wretched situation was over.

'All right. I'll get you some tea and a hot water bottle.' At John's puzzled look he raised an eyebrow. 'You've been shivering since you woke up. While the paracetamol will help with that, there's no need for you to be miserable in the meantime. Here.' He held out John's phone, now fully charged. 'You might as well check emails or whatever it is you do on there sometimes. I'd recommend against the news, though. I doubt it will improve your temper.'

'Thanks.'

John watched Sherlock pad back out of the door before turning his attention to the screen of his device. More than passive consumption felt like too much effort, and he dicked about on the Internet, glancing at the headlines only to realise Sherlock was right.

He checked the weather out of habit – pointless, as neither he nor Sherlock could go out –then lost himself on Facebook for a bit, staring at other people bemoaning the lockdown. With every moment, his irritation worsened and his headache intensified. By the time Sherlock came back, it took all John's fortitude not to bite his head off in helpless fury.

Sherlock took it all in with a sweep of his gaze and politely said nothing as he divested himself of his burdens. A steaming cup of tea found its place on the bedside table, and he settled the hot water bottle with John's reach, refraining from comment when John all but pounced on it.

Lastly, he placed the TV remote at John's side and set about plugging in various cables. It was not state of the art, their little telly, but it was better than nothing. Besides, Mrs Hudson had hooked the whole property up to Freesat, which at least meant a good number of channels to choose from, even if it was mostly reruns. The screen flickered to life, and John began his search for something he could watch: something that required no concentration and, with any luck, would take his mind off how damn wretched he felt.

'Here, lean forward.'

John blinked. He'd not noticed Sherlock go, but it seemed like he'd marshalled every pillow and cushion in the entire flat for John's use. There was barely a moment to protest before Sherlock set to work, building him a luxurious bank of comfort that let him sit half-reclined.

Now he could watch the telly and drink his tea without sitting bolt upright, and could also fall asleep without moving should the mood take him. A wave of gratitude flooded John's chest, wearing smooth the jagged edges of his temper and leaving him to smile at Sherlock's practical care.

'Thanks.'

'May I?' Sherlock gestured to the vacant half of the bed, and only the ache in John's head stopped his nod from being too enthusiastic. He didn't know if Sherlock had picked up on his continuing unease, or if he was acting in response to his own desire to remain close. Either way, John was not about to argue.

A logical, doctorly voice may still be whispering in his mind about Sherlock keeping his distance, but John could not bring himself to protest. Some small part of him needed Sherlock here, within easy reach, and he could not deprive himself of his friend's company when everything else felt so bloody wretched.

'What do you want to watch?' John asked, smiling into his cup of tea as Sherlock shook his head.

'Your choice. You're the one who's ill.'

'All right, but no commentary from you. I don't need you telling me I'm watching crap.'

A smug smile curved Sherlock's lips, and he tilted his head: a mute promise.

It was good, sitting there, his shoulder pressed to Sherlock's, that lean body a seam of warmth down his side. He was under the duvet while Sherlock remained on top, his long legs stretched out along the mattress. His presence became an anchor: something John could lean against as the garish light from the television flickered over the walls.

It was a slice of silent, unquestioning companionship, the rare kind that he'd missed so much when Sherlock was away. Now, despite the fever ravaging him, John found himself grateful for another stolen moment. A memory he could preserve in the amber of his mind.

If this was how Sherlock would care for him, with diligent concern and quiet fortitude, then maybe this illness wouldn't be so bad after all.

Chapter Text

The days bled together, passing in a kaleidoscope of daylight and darkness. Once, back in his youth, Sherlock would have resented another relying on him so thoroughly. He would have loathed being needed, but when it came to John, everything changed.

His suffering compelled Sherlock to do whatever he could to set things right. Not that he could offer much. There was no cure he could slip between John's lips, no panacea to bring him back to health. He could only bear witness to John's misery and do his best to alleviate the symptoms as they arose.

Frustration and anxiety were Sherlock's constant companions, and by the fifth day, those two emotions had replaced the bastions of his bones. He felt like a man made of nothing but sentiment, rubbed raw by the relentless waves of concern and the veils of helplessness that cocooned his every moment.

The only small blessing that either of them could claim was that he had not developed any symptoms. John may be a wretched heap of malaise, but Sherlock remained healthy, much to John's contradictory delight and disgust.

'How come I'm ill and you're not?' he grumbled from his armchair. 'Not that it's a bad thing, it's just...' He folded his arms, and Sherlock refused to acknowledge the charm in his pouting. 'It's not fair.'

'The virus has variable penetrance, and as a GP you've been subjected to a far higher viral load than I,' he pointed out, unable to stop himself. John wasn't looking for answers, not really. He already knew the facts. His protests were more at the universe in general, and the fact that he sat there, weak and tired, barely able to stir himself from bed for more than an hour at a time. In contrast, Sherlock's good health felt obscene. Still, it was just as well. If both of them were in John's shoes, it would be a thousand times worse.

More than once, Sherlock had considered taking matters into his own hands and cultivating a test. At least verifying what John had would perhaps offer them some comfort. However, he did not have the equipment and chemicals on hand for a polymerase chain reaction analysis, and nor could he get a sample to the lab. Not even Mycroft could offer his assistance. A framework could not be manipulated if one did not exist in the first place, and the UK’s testing response was laughable at best.

So it was they continued as they were, working on assumptions and hoping for the best.

A cough scraped up John's throat, dry and useless. He caught it in his elbow, grimacing in annoyance. 'Sounds like I'm faking it,' he grumbled. 'I thought it would be something a bit more dramatic.'

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. Sadly, John was right. He sounded like someone imitating a cough, rather than anything more serious. Still, it was yet another expected symptom, and one that had turned up on schedule. 'How about your breathing?'

'Clear. Fine. I mean, I get a bit breathless walking back to bed, but I think that's just because I'm tired. My oxygen levels are all right.' John shrugged, looking at Sherlock with dull, lifeless eyes. The shadows beneath them had darkened under paper-thin skin, etched deeper into his face by hour upon hour of shattered, worthless sleep.

He moved like a man in his eighties, stiff and hobbling. That was when he could bring himself to move at all. It hurt Sherlock to see what the simplest activities cost John. Basic self-care, such as taking a shower, was completely out of the question. Even getting him to eat and drink was an act of coercion. He'd already lost weight, and it was all Sherlock could do to tempt him with tea and whatever food might appeal.

He tried to cling to the positives, to acknowledge that the alternative – John being hospitalised because of this illness – was far worse, but their current situation felt so passive that it frayed Sherlock's nerves, leaving him edgy and tired. He'd taken to sleeping on the floor of his own bedroom, allowing John all the space and comfort the bed could offer while still being able to respond should John need him.

They'd argued over that more than once. John said there were plenty of other places for Sherlock to rest in the flat, ones more comfortable and conducive to slumber, but Sherlock remained unrelenting. He would not sleep on the sofa, or worse, up in John's room. Should he give in to either prospect, he would lie awake, worrying and wondering, only to succumb to the urge to return to John's side within the hour.

No, better this, that he be here, constantly in John's orbit to offer whatever small assistance he could.

'I'm going back to bed,' John murmured, his statement of surrender pitched low and weary. 'I can barely sit upright.'

He was not wrong in that respect. Even now, he listed in the bowl of his armchair, supported by its shape and nothing more. Yet even as he went to get to his feet, Sherlock knew the journey to the bedroom would not be one he could make alone. John's weakness, as painful as it was to witness, chafed against his friend's nature, cutting him to the quick. The fact John had not even the strength to rail against it spoke volumes for the state of his health.

'Come on, then.' Sherlock stepped forward, stooping to loop John's arm around his shoulder before cradling the line of his waist – more slender than it had been a week ago – in his lopsided embrace. He didn't give John a chance to argue, nor did he allow himself a moment to question whether this was too much, too intimate. Helping one another in the first flush of injury came all too easily, and though illness occupied a different arena, the same requirements lay at the core of the situation.

John needed him, and Sherlock would not be found wanting.

The shallow flutter of John's breathing sped up as they shuffled towards the bedroom, and Sherlock nudged aside the door before guiding him to the swell of the mattress, all but spilling John into its waiting depths.

A groan of misery-cum-relief trembled in the air, and Sherlock swallowed. He had no data to go on, of course, but he couldn't help but wonder how John's cries of passion might sound. Would similar noises escape him as he came apart beneath Sherlock's hands? Would they be deeper, higher, more or less breathless?

He blinked, shaking the thought away before it could take more solid root. Such fantasies had become more common since his return to Baker Street, but that was all they were: fantasies. There was no element of reality, no data of deduction that allowed him to believe anything more, and Sherlock stifled a sigh.

'I hate this,' John groaned into the pillow, one hand flapping weakly at his side before he managed to roll onto his back. His dressing gown tangled around him like some lecherous vine, and Sherlock stepped forward to tug it free from John's body, revealing the well-worn white t-shirt beneath. That cotton-clad chest heaved with each breath, and another cough surged up John's throat, stifled with a cupped hand. 'Ugh.'

'Here.' Sherlock chucked him a precious bottle of sanitiser, watching as John cleaned his hands with the efficient movements of habit. As soon as he was done, he clipped the digital oximeter to John's finger, allowing it time to settle as he took John's temperature again.

It had become an hourly ritual when John did not lie in sleep's shallow waters. Excessive, perhaps, but John did not call him out on it. No doubt he understood the information gave Sherlock the illusion of control, and besides, the data had its uses. The frequent readings were joined by the output from the oximeter: O2 saturation and pulse rate.

'96 percent and 102 beats per minute,' he read out, scribbling in his notepad. 'No dramatic change since this morning.'

'That's all right,' John replied squinting at the gloomy afternoon sunlight that ghosted in through Sherlock's bedroom window. 'High heart rate's just because I'm ill, and 96 percent's still within acceptable levels. They wouldn't give me oxygen or anything until it's 94 or below.'

'We'll keep an eye on it. Pulse oximetry is known for having a two percent margin of error.' Sherlock tapped his pen against the notepad before setting it aside. 'Let's get you comfortable. Did you want to sleep or watch telly?'

'Sleep, I think. You need it, too.' A weak smile toyed at John's lips, spreading to a grin as Sherlock glared. 'You look like you've been punched in both eyes.'

Sherlock harrumphed as he spread the quilt over John's limp frame, trying not to feel the answering pull of leaden exhaustion that dragged at his muscles and clotted his head with vaporous, nonsensical thoughts. 'I've been busy looking after you.'

'And I'm grateful.' John's mirth vanished, replaced by an earnest expression that brought light to his eyes for the first time in days. 'I mean it, Sherlock. You didn't have to do this. Any of it.'

Sherlock managed a weak glare in John's direction, one that was no doubt rather ruined by the fondness that filled his chest with its soft touch. 'Yes, I did,' he corrected him. 'I could not have left you on your own to suffer any more than you would have neglected me if our situations were reversed.'

John sighed, his eyelids already drooping as he slumped back into his pillow. 'Yeah, well. It's no good if you make yourself ill in the process. There's space here for you too.' He waved one hand towards the unoccupied half of the bed. 'Just get your head down for a bit.'

'What happened to me keeping my distance?'

'Like you give a shit about that,' John huffed. 'Besides isn't there a saying about horses and stable doors?'

'Closing the door after the horse has bolted?'

'That's the one. You've not got it from me so far, and you've not exactly been obeying social distancing. Not by a long shot.' He opened one eye again to give Sherlock a baleful, bleary glare. 'Rest, please? Here or somewhere else?'

'In a bit,' Sherlock promised, resting his hand against John's feverish brow before pulling away. 'Go to sleep. My body's used to going without. Yours, however, needs all the help it can get.'

He smiled as John's inarticulate protest followed him out of the door, ghosting along in his footsteps as he set about washing up crockery and glasses. He wiped down surfaces anew. Next, he got John a fresh glass of water, tiptoeing across the plush carpet so as not to disturb the snores that escaped those thin lips.

Though fever and illness left their mark, John at least looked more peaceful that he had that first night. Lines of tension that marred his face during his waking hours fled, leaving him relaxed in sleep's respite. His hair, dishevelled and lank, clung to his temples, and those blunt, capable hands curled in the depths of the quilt. He did not sprawl as he slept, but rested on his side, leaving a vast expanse of empty mattress at his back.

Sherlock thought of his makeshift resting place on the floor, uncomfortable but for its proximity to John. It had been tolerable the first couple of nights, but as the virus settled in for a longer stay, Sherlock knew he would find his breaking point.

Now, John had offered the perfect compromise: a sharing of Sherlock's king-size bed, easily big enough for two grown men. It was a practical suggestion, and Sherlock pushed away the small voice that uttered hopeful whispers of John's care into his ear. How easy it was to read meaning in gestures where none existed. They were flatmates and friends, forced into closer proximity by their circumstances. That was all.

With a firm nod to himself, Sherlock retrieved his pyjamas, retreating into the bathroom to change. Nightfall was hours away, but any normal schedule had long ago fallen by the wayside. The both of them were at the mercy of John's body and its whims. Need awoke them and need lay them both to rest. He would not doubt get better sleep if dressed for the endeavour.

A glance at his reflection over the mirror made him grimace, realising how right John had been in his assessment of Sherlock's appearance. He had not shaved for a couple of days, and stubble shadowed the line of his jaw. Shades of blue and purple made their home beneath his eyes, dragging at his face with their weight. Lines of concern pinched his lips in their brackets, and he let out a gusty sigh. Such signs would not vanish, not until John was hale and hearty once more. All Sherlock could do in the meantime was keep his own strength up for when John needed him.

The quilt whispered its promises as he slipped into bed, rigid at John's side. It felt odd, having another right there, within arm’s reach. Though there had been some lovers in his past, sleeping had rarely been part of the relationship.

Yet there was nothing intrusive or uncomfortable about John's familiar presence. In fact, it would have been positively comforting if not for the raw-edged heat that seemed to blast itself from John's skin like he was some kind of human furnace. Sherlock could almost believe that if he flicked water on him it would evaporate in a burst of steam.

As it was, he clung to the edge of the mattress: a stranger in his own bed, giving John as much space as possible. His body felt like a live wire, vibrating with awareness, and Sherlock wondered if he would find sleep here after all. Perhaps he would lie awake, just as he had on the floor, constantly half-aware and alert for any sign of distress.

Yet there was an ache behind his eyes that could not be ignored. It dragged at his eyelids and flowed through his body. The twist of his fingers in the quilt eased, falling slack as the tension in his shoulders melted away. Inch-by-inch, he slipped down into the same darkness that held John in its embrace, losing himself in sleep's shadows.

For one, small moment, he and John, side-by-side, found the peace they both so desperately craved.

Chapter Text

'No. Sherlock!'

The scream scrapes up John's throat, so vicious he's sure he can taste blood, but he can't spare it a moment's thought. Not when Sherlock's there, crashing down from the rooftop of Bart's, his coat catching around his body like the broken wings of a bird that will never find flight again.

John's heart feels like it's going to burst through his ribs, ripping itself to shreds on shards of bone as it flings itself forward. That would be its choice. Death, over this: over a life without Sherlock. A life John hadn't thought precious until the moment fate ripped it from him.

There are shadows everywhere, racing across the familiar street, swallowing motorists and pedestrians, streaming inwards like a vengeful tide of ink. The monolith of Bart's is lit by the afternoon sun, a beacon of damning white amid the darkening world, and Sherlock still falls, his body tumbling before the sound of his impact slams into John's ears.

'SHERLOCK!'

John lunges forward, but he gets nowhere, his body locked in place. The cyclist flashes past, missing him by a hair's breadth, but it's as if he's been struck all the same, reeling and dazed, barely able to breathe around the pain that claws its way up his throat.

Around him, London trembles, gargantuan cracks cleaving through the street and racing up the masonry, dripping tar-like blood from open wounds. All the while Sherlock lies on the pavement, broken against the dark backdrop of a dying city, and there's nothing John can do about it.

His best friend is gone.

He is alone.

'John!'

Air flooded his lungs, making him cough and heave as he scrabbled fitfully, trying to anchor himself in reality. His fists clenched in the cotton bedsheets. The oppressive weight of the quilt pinned him down, holding him captive.

Shadows flickered at the corner of his vision.

John snarled, his voice ripping free from him as if he were some kind of wild animal, but there was nothing here to fight. A hand on his shoulder made him flinch, shying away from the presence at his side as he blinked back angry, frightened tears.

'You're dead,' he whispered, shaking his head at the phantasm of the friend who meant so much to him. 'You're dead. I saw you fall.'

In the gloom, Sherlock's pale face seemed translucent, his eyes shards of starlight. A frown pleated his brow as those full lips parted in horror. He looked so real, and John's heart broke apart all over again, oozing raw, fresh grief into the cavern of his ribs.

Tears tumbled from his lashes, hot against his burning cheeks. Sweat prickled down his spine as he sagged into the pillows. He lifted his hands to his face, scrubbing at his eyes until he saw stars.

'I'm not dead.' Sherlock's resonant words washed over him, beautiful and bitter-sweet. How long had he missed that voice? Ached for it? Now, it hurt to hear it. 'I came back, John. Remember? It was a trick. All a trick.'

Strong fingers banded John's wrists, easing his hands away from his face. He screwed up his eyes, trying to deny the vision in front of him, but it was no use. Like someone caught under a spell, he could not help but part his lashes to look on that face once more. So what if it was a dream? Did that matter? Couldn't he enjoy the illusion, just for a little while? Didn't he deserve some small piece of comfort after so much grief?

Sherlock looked so perfect. So whole. There was no trace of the injuries that had stolen his life away. No hint of the wounds that had taken him from John's side. He longed to reach out and clutch him close, to hold him tight and never, ever let him go again, but a leaden weight dragged at his arms. Instead, he could only drink in the sight of him, trying to remember every detail so that his memory, at least, could never fade.

'John, I need you to listen to me.' Tension underpinned Sherlock's words, thrumming beneath them in a way that made John's skin prickle with awareness. 'Your temperature's risen. You're delirious. Do you understand?'

John shook his head: an aborted denial as his mind curled in on itself, twisting along blank avenues where recollection had once stood. The room over Sherlock's shoulder looked hazy, as if seen through a cascade of veils. Even the bed beneath him felt less than solid: an irrelevant detail.

Sherlock sighed, a tight noise that John could not parse. Something flickered over his face, a spasm of concern and reluctance, maybe? He couldn't read it. Couldn't bring himself to care. For once, this wasn't about Sherlock. It was about John, and finding his best friend once more, even though some distant part of his brain kept shrieking about grief and grave-sides.

At last, Sherlock seemed to reach some kind of decision, and the twisting emotions vanished from his expression, replaced with something oh-so-soft to John's eyes. Had his Sherlock ever been this kind? Yes, yes of course, but not often. They were rare, those times when Sherlock's eyes glowed and that sharp tongue of his fell silent. Now, though, Sherlock eased his grip around John's wrists, reaching instead with a trembling hand to touch the side of John's face. 'Don't worry. I'm right here, and I'm not going anywhere.'

Another sob caught in John's throat. He'd longed to hear that time and again, only for death's silence to be his only response. This was not real. It wasn't. He knew that, but for now, just for a little while, it was real enough for him.

'Sherlock. I've missed you.'

'I know.' A subtle hitch in Sherlock's voice caught John's ear, and he turned his face into Sherlock's palm. 'I know. I'm here now.'

A shivering rush of air, Sherlock's shaking exhale, and maybe in better days John would have wondered at the tension lingering in his friend's body, as if Sherlock were afraid of something huge and unseen. 'I'll look after you. I'm just going to reach for the thermometer on the bedside table.'

John grimaced as something plastic settled in his ear, but he was too tired to bat it away. Such a minor discomfort: more than a fair price for Sherlock’s company once more. Peripherally, he felt pressure cinch his finger, but his eyelashes were already fluttering closed, dragged down by some inexplicable exhaustion.

Desperately, he reached out, clutching the sleeve of Sherlock's pyjamas. Fine fabric creased in the curl of his fist as his voice slurred, low and urgent. 'Don't go,' he begged, wishing he could fight off the pull of sleep. Yet it swamped him, as inexorable as any tide. 'Please don't go.'

He would awake, and the phantom of his friend would be gone. He knew that. Knew it well. It had happened enough times since Sherlock's fall, but he could not hold back his prayers. He would shout them to an uncaring universe if it made this real – made Sherlock alive and well once more. He would yell it from the rooftops, baring himself and his soul for the world to see if it would bring Sherlock back for good.

'I promise.'

Something ghosted against his brow, a fleeting pressure like the softest butterfly of a kiss.

John let himself fall into oblivion once more.

Darkness and light swirled across his vision, daubed with smears of colour. Snatches of sound rang in his ears as time stretched away from him, pulled thin only to clot anew. He skimmed the interface between sleep and wakefulness, locked in dreamlike confusion, but through it all he sensed Sherlock right there, within arm's reach. Just like he'd promised.

There were conversations, or perhaps merely memories of them: something about Moriarty and gunmen. Fear and helplessness. More than once John thought he was awake only to open his eyes to the blank ceiling above him. A moment later, he would be pulled under once more.

'John?'

Sherlock's voice unfurled in his ear, like dawn breaking over the far horizon. He emerged into the waking day of Baker Street, sweat-drenched and exhausted in the nest of the bed.

Blinking, he issued a parched groan of misery. A cool glass kissed his lips, and he drank from it greedily, too busy slaking his thirst to focus on his surroundings. Only when the water was gone did he take heed of the room around him, his vision clear for the first time in what felt like years.

Sunlight poured through the window, its beam shifting as the curtains fluttered in the breeze. He’d kicked the quilt off at some point, pitching it to the floor. His t-shirt and pyjama trousers were gone too, leaving him in nothing but his underwear. A delicate shiver, so different from the feverish ones that had wracked him for days, whispered across his skin.

'John, are you all right?'

He blinked as Sherlock's voice resonated through him. The warmth at his back resolved into Sherlock's long, lean frame. He sat behind John, supporting his slumped body against the wall of his chest. John lay in the vee of Sherlock's legs, Sherlock's thighs bracketing his hips as he sagged against him.

Weak wings of panic fluttered across his mind. He had no recollection of ending up like this, and now his hands twitched against his own bare chest as he tried to map out the faceless hours of the night. 'Yeah,' he managed, another dry cough hitching in his throat. 'Yeah, I'm –' He raised a hand to his brow, grimacing at the salty patina of dried sweat that seemed to cover every inch of him. 'What happened?'

'Your fever rose, then broke. You were delirious. You – you didn't seem to recognise where you were,' Sherlock explained, his voice void of all judgement. Only a tiny shiver beneath his words suggested he was anything other than composed, and John forced himself to untangle the knotted mass of his recent memories.

Very little came back to him: shadow and fear, mostly, but he did remember pleading with Sherlock – no, with Sherlock's ghost. He recalled that now: the absolute conviction that Sherlock was dead – that he had never returned from his fall at Bart's and John remained alone. His breath hissed between his lips as an echo of grief, and his body shuddered anew under the roil of emotion.

Sherlock shifted behind him, guiding John more upright so that he could reach down beside the bed and haul the quilt across them both once more. Fluffy down sheathed in cotton settled over John's frame, and he clutched it close.

It should feel awkward, being like this. Oh, he and Sherlock had touched before, quick flutters of companionship or a swift embrace of relief. This was different. Sherlock held him as though he were something precious to be treasured, and John felt guilty for relishing the gentle warmth of him and the hard planes of that body against his own.

Maybe if he were healthier, he would have pulled away, stammering his excuses. As it was, he could not bring himself to seek out an escape. He felt too weak to consider it, needing Sherlock's support in body as much as in spirit.

'Sorry,' he murmured, not knowing quite what he was apologising for. Getting ill in the first place? Being a clingy, feverish wreck, so miserable that Sherlock felt compelled to stay with him, not merely at his bedside but in the actual bed? His pointless grief and his awful dreams? All of it? 'Thank you for staying.'

A sense of movement behind him – Sherlock shaking his head maybe – caught his attention, and when he spoke, Sherlock's voice was deep and rasping. 'There is no need to apologise. I am the one who's sorry. I should not have left you then, and I will not leave you now.'

John's throat caught around a knot of emotion, pulling so tight he thought he might choke on it. Tears bit at the corners of his eyes, but he blinked them back. It was ridiculous, to feel this way. They'd already been through all this. The anger and apologies, the explanations and the excuses. It was old news, but this stupid virus had dragged it all into the present day, dumping it between them like a rotting carcass: impossible to ignore.

'Was there another way to save us?' John leaned back against Sherlock's chest, letting that broad expanse support his weary body. 'Another way to get past Moriarty and his shooters?'

Sherlock sighed, not a sound of impatience, but regret. John wondered how many times Sherlock had asked himself the same question while he was gone. How many times had he sat alone in far-off lands, debating everything that had led them to that point?

'I don't know. There must have been, but even now I cannot see it. Moriarty was so thorough. So absolute. Every time I saw a glimmer of possibility in a different choice, he snuffed it out.' A sardonic huff of laughter escaped his chest. 'I stand by what I said back then: he was brilliant.'

'Fucking madman more like,' John groused, too tired to put more ire into his words. If he was honest, he could understand Sherlock's respect. It wasn't every day he came across someone who could keep up with him, intellectually speaking. 'What I'm trying to say is, I don't like what you did – I don't like the trick you played, but I know you didn't do it to hurt me. That wasn't your intention.'

'Does that really make it better?' Sherlock asked, doubt thick in his words.

John paused, considering Sherlock's question in the glassy, strange clarity that the fever had left in its wake. Back when Sherlock returned, the "why" hadn't made a blind bit of difference. He'd been so angry: furious at how he had suffered for nothing – grieved for nothing. That eclipsed any joy he might have felt in seeing Sherlock alive and well after all.

It had been an all-consuming rage, rooted in pain and anguish and all the stronger for having been nurtured through so many long months of deception. Yet looking back, he could see it mattered.

There was a huge discrepancy between Sherlock playing dead to save John's life and doing it just to get one up on Moriarty. At first glance, the nuance didn't excuse the end result, but John could admit to himself it made a difference.

'It does.' He reached up, resting his palm over the back of Sherlock's hand. Those strong arms still banded his chest, supporting his body and offering their comfort. Now he tried to press his reassurances into Sherlock's skin. Wrecked he may be in the ebbing tide of this wretched illness, but he had strength enough for this.

'I forgive you.'

Chapter Text

'I forgive you.'

Sherlock sucked in a breath. Emotion suffused his chest, like hot silk brushing against flesh, bone and his beating, bloody heart. How often had he told himself since his return that he did not need absolution? For how long had he believed that lie? Only now that he had it did he realise its importance.

After months back in London, it felt as if he had truly come home.

Caution whispered in his ear. A few hours ago, John had still been delirious, locked within the clammy cage of a fever and lost to the real world. Now, he sprawled against Sherlock's chest like a survivor, drained and limp. Just because he sounded as if his head was clear, it didn't mean that John had escaped the clutches of his delusions. He could not take such a gift at face-value.

'Sherlock?'

'I – Will you say so again, when you're not ill? Not relying on me for your care?'

John breathed out, a great shuddering sigh as if he were exhaling a year’s worth of emotion in a single moment. Yet when he answered it was with a tightening grip and a certainty that shook Sherlock to his core.

'Yes. I'll tell you every day until you believe it, if that's what you need. I mean it. I should've said something a long time ago.'

'No. No. It's fine. I'm just...' Sherlock swallowed, his throat clicking. Normally, he would already be running from this kind of sentiment, shielding himself behind walls of disdain and the clinical barrier of his deductions. He could not do that now, not here, as he bore John's weight without complaint and felt the thud of that heart so near his own. 'Thank you.'

John squeezed his hand again, his head lolling back against Sherlock's chest. Shadows stamped themselves under his eyes and dragged at his skin. Already, his breathing was deepening, turning slower and steadier as sleep tried to claim him. Not, Sherlock suspected, the same shattered, terrifying, dream-riddled slumber of the past twenty-four hours, but something restful and restorative.

'Here,' he whispered, his voice catching on the tenderness that spilt from his lips. 'Lie back.' As gently as he could, he manhandled John down to the mattress, easing himself out from under that lax body before re-arranging the bedding, making sure the pillows cradled John's head and the quilt draped over his frame.

John managed a sleepy murmur, though whether it was of gratitude or complaint, Sherlock couldn't ascertain. Either way, he was too far gone to clarify, slipping back down into darkness and leaving Sherlock once more to his vigil.

A brush of fingers to John's forehead confirmed the worst of the unnatural heat had ebbed, scattering the gritty residue of dried sweat in its wake. Sherlock nodded to himself, content, and backed away. How long had he spent cradling John through the worst of it, easing him from the deepest clutches of his torment? He couldn't be sure. All he knew was that his back twinged from being in the same position for hours, and his eyes ached with his own need for rest.

He could put that to one side – would, in a moment, if John required it – but perhaps now, while John was asleep, he should take the time to look after himself. After all, he wanted to be at full strength to help John through his recovery.

And a recovery it would be. He'd make sure of it. Already, throughout John's delirium, he'd not simply watched and offered comfort. He had monitored every little iota of data John's body could offer, allowing its fluctuations to verify his conclusions.

The breaking fever was a positive step, indicating a victory won within the bloody bastions of John's body. Though the threat of complications had not yet passed, the possibility diminished with every passing hour, and for the first time Sherlock felt the burden of his anxieties ease.

Leaving the bedroom door open, Sherlock padded out into the flat, rescuing some leftovers from the fridge. Cooking was not one of his passions, but he knew enough to feed himself, and John for that matter. It helped that John had stocked up on meat and canned soup, making simple stews and other nourishing fare a straightforward endeavour.

Sherlock fed himself with single-minded focus, putting away each mouthful with perfunctory neatness before heading for the bathroom. The drum of hot water from the shower erased the patina of sweat and staleness that seemed to linger on his skin. Clean pyjamas brought him comfort, and a cup of tea offered a touch of calm.

He felt... odd. Invigorated yet enervated. The closest parallel he could bring to mind was that of jet lag, where everything took on an odd, crystal clarity. His brain was exhausted, yet awake, his body weary yet energised: a distasteful contradiction, but one he could not deny. Yet it was not merely that which left him light-headed. No, that was more emotional – a giddy, swooping uncertainty-cum-hope that had its root in more than mere relief.

Delirious he may have been, but in the midst of his nightmares, John had been honest. Brutally so. Oh, how he had ranted at Sherlock, eyes glazed and breathless words stumbling. Gone was the clipped, curt anger of when he first returned: its strong walls crumbling to reveal the pain within.

That sight in itself was not one Sherlock enjoyed, but such emotion did not exist in isolation. Along with the rage and pain blazed the light of John's need. Not a thing of sexual desire, but something far deeper and more integral. John spoke to him, pleaded with him as if he might with some phantom: his fear that Sherlock would leave once more a palpable thing within the walls of Baker Street.

And painful as it was to see John in such torment, a small, guilty part of Sherlock relished it. John needed him, and all of Sherlock's doubts that what they shared was a matter of convenience melted away. John wanted him in a manner so multifaceted that it denied all analysis.

In those moments, when the virus eradicated all of John's filters and masks, Sherlock had seen what he had done: the agony his actions had caused. Yet he had also seen the depths of John's forgiveness, and the first, honest indication that John valued him still, just as much as he had when they had parted.

Perhaps even more.

Sherlock paused by his armchair, staring at the smooth leather as he ran a hand over his mouth. His heart lurched high in his throat, its beat a frantic mess as he considered the possibilities.

Before Moriarty pushed the button and blew Sherlock's entire life to smithereens, he had begun to see John as.... more. Not just a friend and confidante, a companion and brother-in-arms, but a man with the potential to become his lover. Back then, he had not spoken of it. To do so seemed like too great a risk: there was too much at stake that he could lose if John did not feel the same way.

Now, after all they had been through, all that John suffered in his absence, Sherlock had found the evidence he needed. In the unguarded moments of the past few days, John had exposed his feelings to Sherlock. Unintentional it may have been, but that did not make the revelations any less valuable in Sherlock's eyes. If anything, it made them more precious. All possibility of guile was stripped away to leave nothing but the naked truth.

Did he not owe John the same courtesy? The same honesty?

Yes, but not yet. Soon, perhaps, but now there were higher priorities to consider. Maybe when John was better, stronger, and once they were not both trapped within Baker Street's confines he would make his confessions. If he was wrong – if John did not want more than friendship – then being stuck together in the four walls of the flat would be nothing short of miserable.

Sherlock sighed, trying not to feel as though he were making excuses. It was a logical decision, based on sound reasoning, so why did it feel as if he were taking the coward's way out?

Shaking his head, he crept back into the bedroom, pausing to admire the peacefulness of John's respite. He slept well, even he could see that: a deep, restorative slumber that beckoned Sherlock to respond in kind.

John had yet to rescind his offer of sharing Sherlock's bed, and Sherlock made sure the curtains were drawn before easing himself down to the mattress, taking care not to disturb him. Not that he needed to cling to his concerns. He suspected the number 66 bus could crash through the wall and John would not so much as stir. He was completely oblivious, and Sherlock turned on his side, surveying that face as he allowed his thoughts to wander.

His gaze caressed the faint creases that age etched upon John's skin. Some were familiar, old friends. Others were newer, more born of stress and sadness than of joy. Sherlock could never claim to have made John's life an easy one. Even before the fall, he held no illusions about his personality, which could, at best, be considered challenging. It spoke volumes of John's own temper that he had been drawn ever-inward, rather than pushed away.

There had been such a slow inevitability to it all, their friendship evolving into something that refused the neat labels that others tried to pin upon them. They were not lovers, despite the suspicions of almost everyone they met. Friendship felt like too pale a word for it, insipid at best. No, even Sherlock himself, who spent his life categorising everything that passed his field of view, would struggle to name what he and John had. A bond that had survived more than most marriages could weather.

The closest thing he could conjure was the notion of soul-mates: a ridiculous, romanticised idea that he had always believed to be ludicrously saccharine. Yet taken at its face-value, stripped of its romantic trappings, it made the most sense.

He and John were compatible in ways that defined logic or reason. Yes, they both made sacrifices for it – to say otherwise would be nothing but a lie – yet they were sacrifices both were happy to make. Neither expected the other to change, yet surprisingly neither one resented the need for minor adjustments to the way they lived.

The end result was not some idiotic notion of completion. Some utter fallacy of "He makes me whole." Rather, he and John were each other's catalyst, allowing one another to reach their full potential.

A heady thing, and perhaps that explained why, under the rush of exhilaration, a healthy dose of trepidation festered in Sherlock's gut.

That was what they had, what they shared, and what they both stood to lose if he had read the situation incorrectly. Oh, a romantic relationship had been on John's mind when they first met, despite his ineffectual denials. It had lingered, well-hidden, through the years since, surviving even when, in John's view at least, Sherlock himself had not.

Yet would John consider it now, after all that they had been through? Would he still be open to the risk, or would he have the sense to retreat and chase his vision of a normal life? That had been what Mary represented, after all. A steady, sensible prospect: an opportunity for everything John thought he needed. Yet John did not seem to resent the disintegration of the relationship. At the time, the only thing that Sherlock had managed to deduce was a sort of wistful relief.

Sherlock huffed, readjusting the quilt around himself and burying his nose in its depths. Sentiment. Not his area. It never had been. People were confusing, messy creatures who rarely acted out of logic: any crime scene demonstrated as much. Yet there, at least, there was evidence, things he could pick out and use to build a foundation for his deductions. When it came to John, he had only the flimsiest of facts upon which to construct his assumptions, and the fear of being wrong tightened like a noose around his throat.

A quiet sound from John broke his reverie: not a cry of alarm, for once, but a soft, contented snore that brought a smile to Sherlock's lips. It was enough to subdue the tormented whirl of his thoughts and take the sharpest edge off his uncertainties. What mattered most, at this moment, was that John was getting better. He was healing, despite the best efforts of the virus to bring him low. Everything else – his questions and declarations – could wait.

They had all the time in the world.

Chapter Text

Better was relative, John told himself. Just because he was no longer lost in fever's pit, it didn't mean he was healthy, either. That was why he was lying here, trying to summon the strength to at least brush his teeth.

In theory, it sounded simple enough. All he needed to do was peel himself out of the sweat-salted nest of the bed, stagger to the bathroom, and get on with it. In practice, he couldn't find the energy to even swing his legs down off the mattress.

He could ask Sherlock for help, but his pride offered tremulous snarls at the thought. Besides, he kept wondering if this was where Sherlock's care found its limits. Would he lose interest, now that John couldn't offer more in the way of useful data?

Perhaps he was not being fair to Sherlock. After all, he'd gone above and beyond, these past however-many days. Still, asking for more felt too much to John like pushing his luck. So he lay there in bed, staring at the ceiling and feeling sorry for himself.

'I need to change those bedsheets.'

John rolled his head on the pillow, turning to look at where Sherlock stood in the doorway with fresh linen in his arms: the image of health and strength. It would be sickening if John weren't still so tired. He'd slept for hours after his fever broke, but had yet to wake up feeling refreshed. It would take time. He was a doctor; he knew that, but it didn't make it any easier to bear.

'Are you kicking me out?' he asked, a weak smile taking the bite out of his words.

'Temporarily. You've been sweating and ill in there for the better part of a week. I've told Mrs Hudson to stay in her flat today while I do some laundry.' Sherlock shook his head before John could protest. 'We have already discussed it, and she doesn't need to use the washing machine for a few days yet. After I'm done, I'll put it on a hot, empty rinse and scrub the hallway again. She'll be safe, but I'm running out of clean underwear.'

John grinned at the disgruntled expression on Sherlock's face. It shouldn't have worked, but it made him feel better. The way Sherlock phrased it suggested it wasn't John and his gross sheets that were the problem, but Sherlock's fancy pants instead. 'So, you need me out of bed?'

'I do.' No trace of apology graced Sherlock's gaze, but there was a touch of sympathy. 'I can help you to the armchair while I'm doing it, and you can get straight back in afterwards, if that's what you want.'

Oh, how he longed to make it there under his own steam, but right now John didn't trust his legs to keep him upright. The aches might be gone, but what remained in their wake was a weakness that seemed to delve into the core of his bones. He still had his pride, but he also knew when he was beaten. 'Yes, please. I don't think I can get there by myself.'

Sherlock nodded, dumping his burden on the bedroom floor as John eased himself upright before pivoting to put his feet down. The carpet kissed his skin, grounding him, but the whole process of standing up felt like a gargantuan task. His entire body seemed locked in some kind of inertia, and the more he fought against it the more leaden he became.

'Come on, up you get.' Sherlock's warm hand clasped his own, pulling him upright before looping an arm around his waist. He didn't bully John along, as most people would, but merely presented himself for John to lean on as he saw fit. He permitted him to set the pace, and a fresh flash of gratitude raced through John's frame.

The first few steps were the hardest, his muscles stiff and tense from disuse. His joints clicked their harmonising protests, and he could feel a quiver taking root in his thighs. Still, by the time he reached the bedroom door, he realised he wasn't relying on Sherlock as much as he first feared.

It felt good to have Sherlock next to him again. In truth, it had become one of John's guilty pleasures - this essential proximity. The warmth of that body pressed against him eased the tattered, rough edges of himself. It had become something he craved – that nearness – and he did not want to think of how the distance would yawn anew once he was healthy again.

'Are you all right?'

John realised that a grimace had twisted his lips, and he eased it away, nodding his head as he sank into the waiting embrace of his armchair. 'Yeah, yeah. Just thinking is all. I... what's all this?' He blinked, realising that not only did a still-steaming cup of tea await him on his little side-table, but an array of cereal and fresh milk, fruit, cheese and bread lay before him on the coffee table.

'Sarah suggested I try and tempt you,' Sherlock explained. His gaze shot up, and there was a shared moment of something before Sherlock glanced away, a faint blush staining his cheeks. 'With food, I mean. You've lost weight, and your strength has faded with it. She instructed me to tell you to try and go for protein over sugar, but that anything will do. Even if it's just an entire packet of Jammie Dodgers. She also wishes you a speedy recovery.'

John bit back a smile as he ducked his head. Sarah knew him well. She realised he'd struggle between what his body wanted – high energy food – and what his training suggested was best for him: actual nutrition. More to the point, it seemed Sherlock had taken her advice with all the seriousness it warranted, and John reached for his tea, cocking an eyebrow in Sherlock's direction.

'Did she call you?'

'No.' Sherlock lifted one shoulder in a shrug. 'I reached out to her, as well as Mrs Hudson. Cooking is more your forte than mine, but I thought some recipes might help.'

John pulled a face. His cooking was basic squaddy stuff. Sausages and mash. Baked beans on toast. He could cobble together a stew if he had to, and pasta offered no challenge, but it wasn't as if he were plating up gourmet food every night. Not that Sherlock complained. He assumed the mad bugger knew how to cook, but he'd never seen him do it. The fact he was making an effort in the name of John regaining his strength was... Well, it was brilliant, actually.

'Thanks,' he murmured, his voice rough in his throat. 'I - yeah. Thanks, Sherlock. I'll see what I can eat.'

Sherlock nodded, leaving John to peruse the offerings in peace. In truth, his appetite remained sullenly absent, but he fed himself anyway, bolstering himself with sips of milky tea before attempting some cereal. The first few mouthfuls sat heavy in his belly, but after a while the uncomfortable aches turned to hunger, and he set about assuaging it with morsels of fruit before finishing with a slice of bread and butter.

The sounds of Sherlock bustling around in the bedroom tweaked at his hearing, and he listened with half an ear as he peered around the flat. The cleanness of the place was what hit him first. The lives he and Sherlock shared were comfortably cluttered, but now some of that mess had an organised look about it.

Every surface gleamed. Even the floorboards seemed to have been scrubbed at some point. Had Sherlock been attempting to stave off the abyssal misery that boredom brought in its wake, or was there something more sinister at the root of it?

Compulsive behaviour in a situation where one felt out of control was common, and he doubted Sherlock could claim any immunity. Unfortunately, his patchy memory could offer little in the way of clues. He hadn't noticed any distress, but then he'd been in no fit state to look for it.

Biting his lip, John shifted in his armchair. He drew his knees up to his chest, wrinkling his nose as a waft of fragrance from his unwashed body assailed him. The bitter perfume made his skin crawl, and he clenched his jaw.

First things first, he needed to take care of himself. He'd keep an eye on Sherlock and worry about him later. He couldn't assuage any of Sherlock's concern if he relapsed. It felt wrong to make himself a priority, but it was the only logical choice. He had to regain normality as soon as possible.

Going too fast now would set him back days. Still, if he could manage to stay upright and drip feed himself some decent energy, then perhaps he could get clean and start to feel more like himself by the day's end. Already, the food was doing the trick, providing his body with what it needed to heal and the fuel it required to keep going.

The bed remained a temptation, but not the inevitability it had been only a short while ago. Some paracetamol would help chase off the lingering aches, and while he knew it was still a journey to recover his health, it felt good to be taking the first step.

'The bed's ready if you want it,' Sherlock called, poking his head around the bedroom door. 'Or would you rather stay there?'

'Here's all right. Do you mind bringing the telly through?' That seemed like a step in the right direction; if he wanted to stare blankly at the screen, he could slump in his armchair and do it. He had energy enough for that.

He watched as Sherlock obliged him, hooking it up with practiced ease and leaving the remote at John's side. He also delivered the paracetamol without prompting, his actions so casually thoughtful that John's heart swelled to see it.

For the first time in days, he looked more closely at the man who shared his life, taking in the lingering signs of strain that bracketed his mouth. Perhaps John's illness had not claimed him, the lucky bastard, but it was clear that the past week or so had taken its toll. It demanded more of Sherlock than John had ever imagined he'd be willing to give.

Yet Sherlock had not once uttered a word of complaint or made John feel as if he were a burden. He had not only answered John's needs, but anticipated many of them, from basic medical care to emotional comfort.

John blew out a breath, taking another sip of his dwindling tea as his heart fluttered fretfully in his chest. It reminded him of things, right back at the beginning, when Sherlock had whirled into his life and shaken up everything John thought he knew.

Back then he'd been more than a bit infatuated, not with Sherlock himself, but with the idea of him: A man who lived outside the rules in a way John never dared. A man who was so unapologetically himself, regardless of what other people thought of him.

This – what he felt now – was tempered and honed by the fact he knew Sherlock. All his foibles and insecurities, his virtues and his faults.

He'd been calling it friendship, shoving it in a box where it didn't fit in the hopes that, somehow, that's what it would become. That would be the limits of it, and all the messiness would be cleaved away.

Not that his efforts worked. When Sherlock came back from the dead, John hated him almost as much as he hated his own stupid heart for leaping with joy. His dearest, most desperate dream had come true. Sherlock had returned, and the bleak prospect of an ordinary future no longer loomed.

God, he'd resented it – his own damn happiness – and resented Sherlock along with it. He'd turned a blind eye to the notion of anything more – had barely been able to get his head around being friends again, let alone nurture that stupid, bashful fantasy of becoming lovers.

Passing time had healed a lot of that, but he'd still not allowed himself to consider adding his heart to the equation, no matter how much he’d wanted to.

Yet the more he fought against it – against loving Sherlock – the worse it became. He had never, in all his life, been so aware of another person. After Sherlock’s return, that jagged presence felt as if it rubbed John raw. His heart thrummed and ached and squeezed until he could barely breathe, and still he resisted.

His anger remained, and he continued to keep Sherlock at arm's length.

He was a fucking idiot.

Who had he been punishing? Sherlock, for going away? Himself for still caring one way or the other? In the end it was just resentment, and it took this – a bloody stupid virus and Sherlock's quiet ministrations – to finally kill it once and for all.

John meant what he said. He forgave Sherlock, and what remained in the wake of that was a breath-taking, terrifying hope. He had spent months thinking they could never go back to how they had once been. Now, for the first time in bloody years, he found himself acknowledging that those feelings had never truly died. They lingered still, banked embers, just waiting to blaze to life once more.

John tightened his grasp around his empty mug, groping for the TV remote as he tried to stop the whirl of his thoughts. He didn't feel strong enough for this, not yet, but now it seemed there was no stopping the flourish of his hopes.

The news flickered into being, so much background noise, and he stared at the screen without seeing the presenter's face. His mind dwelt elsewhere, lost in the dizzying pull of possibility as his heart pulsed out its longing rhythm.

'Are you all right?'

John twitched, turning to stare at Sherlock in surprise and wincing as his pulse thudded hard against his ribs. He'd not noticed his approach, nor the way the quality of the light shifted around him as time crept ever onwards. The news report he had been watching had turned into a half-hearted film review by some obsequious idiot, and John hit the mute button to block out his nasal tones.

For one brief, impossible moment he considered blurting it out there and then. Letting the truth escape his lips in a rush of "I love you", but reason held sway. He wasn't strong enough for the conversation and all the possible ways it could go, not yet.

'I was just thinking.'

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but didn't question him as he set another cup of tea down at his side. 'I'll get you some more food,' he murmured, a hint of amusement lilting his voice. 'Toast?'

John looked around at the decimated breakfast, little more than crumbs and fruit peel, now. He'd been eating without thinking, helping himself to morsels as his brain dithered over what to do about him and Sherlock. 'Um, yeah, just one slice.' John lifted his chin, seizing the sole certainty he felt capable of mustering. 'I'm trying to build up enough strength to take a quick shower.'

'I thought you would say that. Mrs Hudson gave me a spare shower chair. It's pink, but it will do the trick. She has another one for her hip. We can keep it, apparently.'

John grimaced, reminded of when he'd been shot and his damn leg refused to bear his weight for more than a few minutes. Yet despite the bad memories, he suspected he'd be grateful for it later. 'That's nice of her. I might not need it.'

Sherlock gave him a doubtful look, and John forced back a sigh. He knew it was wishful thinking, especially when lifting his hands above his head for more than a few seconds left him shattered, but he'd hang onto his illusions, thanks very much. 'Is she doing all right?'

'Better now I've told her you're up and about. I've been keeping her apprised of your well-being by text. She was worried about you.' Sherlock swallowed. 'As was I.'

He shifted as if about to hurry away, no doubt under the guise of making John's toast. Before he could move, John reached out, snagging his cuff and halting his retreat.

Words caught in his throat, dying before he could give them voice as he struggled to choose just what to say. More gratitude, heartfelt as it was, seemed redundant. Instead, he could only offer a weary smile. 'I'll be all right,' he promised at last. 'I think the worst of it is over.'

'Don't tempt fate,' Sherlock warned, remarkably serious for a man who denied the existence of such a thing as destiny.

John shook his head. 'I'm not saying it will be a quick recovery, or that there's no chance of complications, but the fever breaking is a sign that the inflammatory response is over.'

'And if it comes back?'

John shifted his hand, moving over the bare skin at Sherlock's wrist to give his fingers a reassuring squeeze. 'Then we'll be ready. Mild fevers tend to return in the evening anyway; it's a natural part of recovery, but think about how much better I am already. Compared to yesterday, or two days ago?'

Some of the subtle tension humming through Sherlock's body eased away, telegraphing itself through the slump of his shoulders and the tilt of his head: a silent acknowledgement of John's point.

He was not the only one who could use some time to recover. Sherlock would never say as much, but John could see it had been hard on him, too. Perhaps that was why his hope burned brighter with each passing moment: because Sherlock was unashamed of putting his feelings on display, at least when it came to John. That honesty was not something he realised he needed, but now it only steeled his resolve.

They'd take the time to get better, the two of them together: John tending his weakened body while Sherlock slowly eased his own uncertainties and banished his lingering fears.

After that? John’s heart fluttered in his chest at the notion. After that, John intended to find out just what the future might hold for him and Sherlock.

One way or the other.

Chapter Text

Over the next few days, everything changed.

At first, it was subtle. John's gaze would linger a little longer when their eyes met. He seemed more willing to share his smiles. The edges of his personal space – broadened by anger, enforced by the pandemic and then eroded to nothing by his illness – did not return, at least when it came to Sherlock's presence.

He found himself pulled into John's orbit: sitting next to him on the sofa watching rubbish telly or perching on the arm of his chair. They would sit on opposite sides of the narrow dining table, their knees knocking as the conversation flowed, as comfortable and easy as it had been in the months before Sherlock’s fall.

Every moment of every day he expected John to retreat, to put up his walls and step back, but it had yet to happen.

More than once, he had wondered if he should say something. If not about their daily interactions, then about the bed. They had not spoken another word of it since the height of John's illness, but he did not leave Sherlock's room, nor cast Sherlock out to sleep on the floor.

They shared the broad expanse of the mattress, solemn and chaste but breathless all the same. Sherlock could not decide if it was a blessing or pure, unadulterated torture. To have John close, to know he was safe and happy, sleeping and recovering, put him at ease in ways he'd never thought possible. Yet his receding concern left space for other, brighter things to flourish.

They had been there for years, those frail, spidery shoots of deeper sentiment. Now they bloomed, and Sherlock found himself lying awake at night, trying and failing to tear his mind from the man at his side.

John's heat drew him like a flame tempted a moth, dangerous and enticing. He wanted to touch, to trace the lines of John's body and ease away any lingering hints of pain, be they physical or emotional. He wanted to wrap himself close, to hold John in his arms and take comfort in his presence. He wanted to be there, right at his side, day and night, for however long John allowed it.

For the first time in his life, Sherlock yearned.

Yet the courage to speak of it always failed him. How many times had he parted his lips to utter... what? What could he say that would make John understand the strength and breadth of his emotion?

How could he convince him that – for all the turmoil he had wrought on their lives over the course of their friendship – he would never willingly hurt John again? How could John take the risk of tying himself to Sherlock, when Sherlock himself could not even find the bravery needed to speak of it, for fear of all that he stood to lose?

Each night, he fell asleep to the same thoughts, and each dawn brought him no closer to an answer.

'Are you all right?' John asked him over breakfast. His appetite had recovered and with it, inch-by-inch, John reclaimed his strength. Already he looked a touch fuller in the tummy, and his pallor had vanished beneath a healthy flush. His temperature tended to tick upwards in the evening, but not high enough to cause concern. He would not be up to chasing criminals for a bit yet, but he could at least move around the flat without needing three hours of sleep to recover from crossing the room.

'Yes, I'm fine.' The corner of Sherlock's lips twitched in a brief smile. 'I didn't sleep well.'

As soon as the words slipped out, he wondered if he had ruined everything. Emotions ghosted across John's face, too swift to name, his brow puckering and those bright eyes turning downcast. John fiddled with his cereal spoon, and when he spoke, there was an edge to his voice that Sherlock could not parse.

'I can – um – I can move upstairs if you want.' The crow's feet at the corner of his eyes deepened as a quick smile flickered across his lips. 'To sleep, I mean. Let you have your bed to yourself again?'

'No, absolutely not.'

John blinked, raising his eyebrows in surprise, and Sherlock wished he could call the words back, soften them, change them... something! They had slipped out before he'd had a chance to think twice, and now he felt horribly exposed.

'I mean, obviously, if it's what you prefer... but wouldn't it be best to remain as we are until we're sure the fever has gone? Your health could still take a turn for the worse.'

As reasons went, it was a pale shadow of logic. Sherlock could see through it, so surely John would too? He'd shake his head and laugh, say something glib and that would be that. Sherlock would be on his own in his bed once more, with nothing to warm him but the fading memory of John's company.

The thought hurt. His heart throbbed beneath his ribs like an open wound, twisting and aching with every beat until he was sure its agony wrote itself across his face for the world to see.

'Yeah, you could be right.' John took another mouthful. Was it Sherlock's imagination, or was there a brighter gleam in those blue eyes? 'Better safe than sorry, I suppose.'

'Precisely.' He reached out for some toast, pretending to be absorbed in spreading jam as his thoughts whirled. Such easy capitulation on John's part had to carry some meaning, didn't it? If John were eager to reclaim his space, he would have done so. Instead, he'd appeared reluctant to depart and prompt to accept any reason to stay.

The knife scraped over the toast, a metronome for his considerations. It would help if he could deduce more about John's state of mind, but the lingering remnants of illness overshadowed all other deductions, writ too broad across John's body for him to make out the minutiae beneath.

'I can't believe you spent all week with me and didn't get ill,' John mused, picking up his mug and taking a sip of his tea. 'I bet if we did an antibody test, you'd have them.'

The change of topic felt like a blessing: a retreat from a chasm he still had not discovered how to bridge, and Sherlock restrained a sigh of relief. 'Probably. I might visit the morgue when I'm allowed out and see what I can discover.'

'Check with Molly about procedures, all right? Not sure the morgue's equipped for handing potentially virulent samples.' John grimaced, no doubt working through all the considerations. 'The last thing we need is Bart's to be declared some kind of plague zone because you ran a test you shouldn't.'

'Unlikely,' Sherlock pointed out, but he still inclined his head in acknowledgement. It was one thing running quick tests on an ampule of blood, but quite another to work with samples suspected of being infected with a pandemic-causing pathogen. 'It won't be for a while yet, anyway. Another four days at least. And your fever must be completely gone before you can set foot outside.'

'Yeah, Sarah said as much. She'd rather I took too much time off than too little.'

'She's not short-staffed?'

'Yeah, but she's a bit short on patients as well. They're doing most of their consultations by phone at the moment, and there's been a huge drop in people bothering to contact their GP.'

'Isn't that a good thing?'

'Only if they were time-wasters.' John shrugged, shaking his head as he decapitated his boiled egg and dunked toast in the runny yolk. 'Which is very few of them, to be honest. No, I'm more worried about what we'll see in a year. How many people who needed a quick diagnosis that won't get it because they decide not to bother us – that kind of thing.'

Sherlock held his silence. John's concern was a valid one. It was easy, while wrapped in the depths of Baker Street, to forget that there was an uncertain world beyond the window-panes. There were many ways in which things would never be the same, and that uncertainty only made John's recovery seem like even more of a triumph: a victory snatched from the jaws of some great nemesis.

'People will adapt,' he murmured, knowing it could offer no solace to those individuals whose lives would be forever changed. 'But yes. There will be far-reaching consequences, in the health-service and beyond.'

John pulled a face, closing his eyes and looking, for a moment, as tired as he had been in the depths of his illness.

Instinctively, Sherlock reached out, his hand covering John's where it lay on the table. John's knuckles twitched, warm and strong beneath his touch. A quick twist on John's part, and they were palm-to-palm, his fingers woven between Sherlock's own.

He could pull back, if he so wished. John's grip may be firm, but it was not a cage. He lifted his eyes to Sherlock's gaze as if daring him to comment, and Sherlock's breath whispered between his lips, coming from somewhere far deeper in his chest than normal. Butterflies thrashed beneath his navel, filling him with a bubbling cocktail of fear and excitement, dread and anticipation.

He thought they had retreated from the lip of the precipice, but it yawned before him once more. All his good intentions to wait until they were free of confinement kept slipping through his fingers, washed away by some deep, visceral need to speak the truth.

'You do not have to face the future alone,' he husked. There was no strength left in him to give his words more power, not when his heart beat so madly in his chest. 'I'll be here, if that's what you want.'

'As a friend?' John tilted his head, his question as soft as his expression. There was no judgement or cruelty, no narrowed eyes or downturned lips. There was just John, watching Sherlock as if he held the answers to all the questions in the universe, the same as always.

Sherlock's words strained in his throat, a torrent desperate for release, but he choked them back, bowing his head to stare at the scarred tabletop. 'If that's what you wish.'

John's grip shifted, his thumb brushing over Sherlock’s knuckle as if he were some animal that needed soothing. Perhaps he was. He could feel a wildness in him, something riding the crest of a wave, desperate to survive but terrified of the fall he felt sure awaited him. 'What about what you want?'

The question whispered between them like a prayer in church, little more than a hint of words shaping the air. All around them, life continued. The fridge hummed its gurgling harmony and the tap let loose the occasional drip into the kitchen sink, but to Sherlock it felt as if time had stopped.

The moment he both craved and feared had come upon him. Not, as he'd always assumed, in the whirlwind aftermath of a successful case when they were high on victory. Instead, it found him now, in this small oasis of calm certainty, and he knew that if he let it slip through his fingers, then it would be a moment he could never reclaim.

There was no going back.

'You.' Sherlock sucked in a deep breath, straightening his back and looking John in the eye. 'I want you, not just as a friend. I want the chance to share your life in every possible capacity.'

Now it was his turn to stroke his fingertips over the fragile vault of John's wrist. Perhaps in better moments, he would have thought to take his pulse, to seek out data to confirm or refute his assumptions, but such logic was beyond him. It did not even cross his mind. Instead, he could only clear his parched throat, his gaze flickering back and forth over John's features. 'I would be yours, if you would let me.'

His heart hammered in his throat, every pulse threatening to choke him as the silence settled around them anew. His muscles quivered with tension, as if he were a violin string stretched too tight, awaiting the conductor's guidance towards a symphony or a dirge.

There was nothing more he could say, no further promises or reassurances he could offer. Such things were not in his power to give. He could not swear to John that their lives would not once again lead them in to the shadows of death or the ravages of grief. All he could do was await John's judgement, for better or worse.

John withdrew, his fingers slipping from Sherlock's grasp and leaving him bereft. The chair scraped its accusation over the floor, a painful rasp to Sherlock's ears as John got to his feet. Shock flickered its wings across Sherlock's vision, but John did not retreat as he feared. Instead, he moved around the table, coming to a halt at Sherlock's side.

'Stand up,' he ordered, and now more than ever, Sherlock wished he could read John Watson's mind. His body was a walking contradiction, his voice soft despite its command while those nimble hands clenched into tight, desperate fists at his side. He looked pale, despite each breath whispering too quick between his lips, and no smile curved that mouth.

Weakly, Sherlock did as he was told. He had got it all wrong; he must have done. Why else would John look like that? Angry but not? Sharp and desperate in a way Sherlock could not begin to understand?

The sudden heat of John's embrace rocked him back on his heels, pinning his arms at his side as he blinked. He'd expected hissed words and refutation. Instead there was John, pressed against him and hugging him tight enough to hurt, his nose digging in to Sherlock's shoulder.

'You – you don't mind?' Sherlock asked, his lips numb.

'You prat.' John's muffled voice made him smile, and when John breathed out it felt as if he blew away all the tension in the room, banishing the webs of doubt that ensnared Sherlock's frame. 'Why the fuck would I mind? I've wanted it – you – for bloody years.'

'I thought...' Sherlock trailed off, extricating his arms from where they were pinned at his waist and wrapping John in the depths of his own embrace. They clung to one another, every shared breath and the pressed-close beats of their hearts slowly crystallising the moment around them. 'After I came back...'

John looked up at him, his eyes bright and that rumpled face creased with regret. 'I was an idiot,' he murmured. 'I wanted to hate you. To – to punish you for everything you put me through, but I just ended up punishing myself instead.' He shook his head. 'I forgave you, long before I said it the other night, but you're not the only one who's sorry. I was so angry. So hurt, but I shouldn't have let it become resentment. It just seemed easier than actually talking things over.'

Sherlock shook his head. In his mind, John had nothing to apologise for, but he still watched Sherlock as if the survival of his whole world depended on the next few moments. He placed the power of absolution, and with it, the course of their future, firmly in Sherlock’s hands.

As if he could ever cast John aside.

Slowly, he bent his head, closing the narrow distance between them. John's indrawn breath hushed like tearing silk. He kept waiting for him to pull away, but he never did. Instead, his fingers tightened in Sherlock's dressing gown, bunching in the slippery fabric as if he were afraid Sherlock would evaporate like so much mist.

'I forgive you,' Sherlock murmured against the heat of John's mouth, speaking it like a vow into John's lips before sealing it there with a soft, hopeful kiss.

The tight noise in John's throat, half-groan, half-sob, sparked along Sherlock's nerves, as scintillating and perfect as man before him.

It was as if the discordant notes of his existence found their tune, balancing one another in a perfect harmony he had not considered possible. John's heat called to him, and the first, tentative brush of his tongue against Sherlock's own made him gasp. Oft-ignored desire tore through him, leaving him trembling in its wake.

How long had he craved this? Not the mere equation of one body against another, pliant and willing, but John, specifically? He could not even begin to count the days, and now that he had him – had John, strong and yielding in equal turn in his arms – Sherlock could barely breathe for the sheer rightness of it all. This was the moment that brought his life into focus: the instant in which all the jagged, disparate parts of himself slotted into place.

John loved him. It wrote itself in the strength of his kiss, the brush of his hands, and in every contented sigh. It was a love Sherlock returned with equal fervour, pressing it into John’s skin with shaking fingertips and slow caresses.

He placed himself in John’s hands, confident in the knowledge that, whatever hardships the two of them may face, he would always find his sanctuary.

Their hearts would beat together for the rest of their days, safe and strong in each other’s care.