Happy Holidays, Amy1oMM (BrettianHolmesFan)! 

I hope I managed to do your wishes justice (except for Lestrade, whom I didn't include in the story). Enjoy!


Come Hell Or High Water




The call comes on a Tuesday evening in November. Sherlock has been fidgety all afternoon, pondering. He has just closed a case, but something about it is still bothering him. There are cracks in the ceiling of the living room which he usually ignores but which are also bothering him today, along with the London traffic ("too loud, stupid council") and the sunshine ("too bright, stupid weather") and he snaps at everything John says. Both of them are secretly relieved when Sherlock's phone rings- a momentary distraction, a respite. 

Sherlock takes the call with a flourish of his arm, swirling around where he stands. The graceful movement however  comes to an abrupt halt which nearly overbalances him, and then he freezes, tensing visibly as he listens to what is being said at the other end.

Possibilities race through John's mind- Mycroft and Moriarty being the most resounding ones. With a frown, John senses that he's in the wrong there, somehow- Sherlock isn't bristling, as he usually does with either of them. He looks- unreadable, really, but his face is chalk-white all of a sudden, and he is staring ahead blankly.

When he finally speaks (a feeble "thank you"), his voice is low and bare of its strength. He ends the call, then stares at phone as though he has never seen it before and can't decide whether it's of demonic origin. 

"Sherlock?" John prompts tentatively. 

The detective looks up at his friend, his expression confused and his eyes wide. Then he sags, legs threatening to give out under him. 

Moving quickly, unthinkingly, John closes the distance between them and supports him, as Sherlock doesn't seem in control of his limbs any longer. The phone falls to the floor with a clatter, but neither of them pay it any heed. John eases Sherlock onto the sofa and sits down next to him, keeping one hand on his shoulder because he looks as though he is going to keel over any second, and waits for him to say something.

Sherlock doesn't meet John's gaze when he finally does, but he sounds vaguely surprised: "Mycroft's dead."


There are situations in which reality seems to retreat, making way for a state of mind that is open to all kinds of strange thoughts, leaving one questioning whether one is actually awake or if one is merely caught in a bad dream. Which is how John feels while he's standing next to Sherlock on the boardwalk of the Albert Embankment, near Lambeth Pier. Silently, they are watching as a sleek, partially damaged black car is being pulled out of the water. There are too many lights and noise, all of it grating on John's nerves. He can only imagine how Sherlock is feeling right now. The detective is standing rigidly, frozen by the meaning of it all. And yet he has to see it, has to smell the river and feel the cold air because otherwise the phone call might just be a figment of his imagination, a mockery of his own hyperactive mind. 

The area is cordoned off, but there are onlookers around it, of course. The police are directing the traffic on the bridge. An officer has been talking to them earlier, and while John had done his best to listen, Sherlock seemed unable to take in even a single word. He had kept close to John and just waited for it to be over,  his eyes already on the water. 

Later, after the car has been secured and given a preliminary check, the officer comes to talk to them again. Sherlock remains as silent as before, though John notices how his jaw is tensing at the words he doesn't want to hear: no bodies found yet... due to high tide... strong current... doors open, one torn off... survival unlikely. 

Sherlock's gaze is drawn to the river again. He has questions, but for the life of him, he can't remember how to speak, how to raise his voice above the horrible, tearing sensation in his chest. It even keeps him from walking over to the wreck of the car and look at it more closely; for the life of him, he can't move a muscle. Mycroft is a pest and a bore, able to annoy Sherlock to no end within a millisecond after meeting him, someone whom Sherlock avoids when possible. And yet now, all he wants for Mycroft to be there, to be his condescending, confident self. He can hear his brother talking as though he were standing next to him: "Sentiment, Sherlock. All lives end, don't be so melodramatic." 

It's all he can do to keep his knees from buckling. 




His legs only do give out under him when they are back in Baker Street; a small mercy that there's no other witness than John. Twice in one day, an inner voice says sardonically when he finds himself on the floor, but Sherlock couldn't care less. He feels nauseous and the room is swaying until John's hands are there, his voice as calm and reassuring as usual: "It's okay, Sherlock. Take deep breaths." 

Hating his own weakness, Sherlock doesn't want to be coddled, and he has things to do. Things to find out.

"I need to-"

"No." John's hands are keeping him right there, on the floor. Sherlock doesn't know that he's still white as a sheet. His friend is taking his pulse while he is steadying him, providing a lifeline. 

Only when Sherlock's erratic heartbeat has returned to something akin to normal and he has stopped shaking (he wasn't even aware of it until John pointed it out), John allows him to get up. He never lets go of his friend, supporting him as he gets to his feet. 

"I can stand," Sherlock protests, his voice sounding hollow and far away to his own ears, but John doesn't release his hold on him. 

"Come on," he says, gently, and pulls Sherlock with him.

"Where are we going?"

"To your bedroom."

"Why? I don't want to lie down. Why did we come home at all?"

John wisely refrains from telling him that he's just had a major shock, even though he'll very likely not admit it. With a firm grip, the doctor steers Sherlock to his room and makes him sit on the bed, switching on only the lamp on the nightstand. 

He then begins to peel Sherlock out of his coat:"I'm going to make you some tea."

Sherlock immediately stands up again: "I don't want tea. I don't want anything. I want to see the car."

"No." John shakes his head. "You're not going anywhere right now, and you certainly won't have a look at the car."

Sherlock's whole body tenses: "I am and I will. You can't stop me. I should have looked at the car while we were there, it's a mistake I didn't. I need-" 

"The MI5 is probably on it already, Sherlock, they won't even let you get near it. And I'll tie you down if necessary."

Sherlock snorts; he makes to push past John, but the doctor is as stubborn as he is, and grips his arms with surprisingly strong fists: "Sherlock," he pleads, with a voice that does not at all match his stance, but betrays his concern for his friend. "Don't." 

Sherlock's gaze is fierce: "I just want to find out-"

"We will. In time."

The understanding and sadness in John's tone are nearly too much to bear. If John doesn't have any hope that maybe the police were wrong, that Mycroft could still be alive, there is no hope at all. And yet hope isn't the only thing that Sherlock has in mind. Everything else might still be fuzzy, but one fact is very clear: he wants revenge. He is certain that it hasn't been an accident which has forced Mycroft's car off the bridge, and he wants to know who, how and why. And once he has found that out, those who are responsible are going to regret it, he is going to make sure of that. 

These thoughts are not him, he is ever so dimly aware of that. They do feel good however; the burn they are providing in his heart are distracting him from the other emotion which is palpable, raw and terribly: loss. It is one thing to say my brother is a pain in the rear. It's a completely different thing to say my brother is dead. The thought however sticks, reeling around in his head until it feels empty, superseding his thirst for revenge for the time being and leaving him exhausted. 

After a few minutes of mute wrestling which slowly turns into petrified stillness, Sherlock visibly deflates. He doesn't protest as John presses him down on the bed once more, sitting down next to him in order to make sure he's calm now. 

"It doesn't make any sense," he says, after an unaccounted amount of time. His voice is not so far away any longer; John has been right to insist they go into Sherlock's room. There are less distractions in here, no phone, no laptop. It's helping him to focus.

"I know." John's voice is calm. 

The doctor waits for a while; when nothing else it forthcoming, he gets up: "I'll make that tea now."




Once his friend is out of the room, Sherlock closes his eyes, listening to the sounds from the kitchen. All of a sudden, he realizes just how tired he is; he feels like he's carrying leaden weights on his shoulders, has had to solve a thousand riddles only to discover that the very last one unlocks a thousand more. He slowly crawls further onto the bed where he curls up, his back to the door. His eyes soon fly open again; this isn't right, he is useless, he should be looking for clues right now, but all the energy he usually possesses seems to have vaporized, and his body feels too heavy altogether. He tries not to think of cold water and the inability to breathe; he concentrates on listening once more, staring into the semi-darkness of his room unseeingly. It's difficult, but it's better than seeing things in his mind.




There's a faint "yoohoo," in the hall, then he can hear Mrs Hudson and John talk with each other. Their lowered voices tell Sherlock what they are talking about; not long afterwards, he hears approaching footsteps, then there's a presence other than John's in the room. 

Mrs Hudson hesitates and, after half a minute of deliberating, tentatively sits down on the mattress. Sherlock doesn't acknowledge her, but he doesn't shrug off the hand which she puts on his shoulder either. 

She can feel that he's trembling and instinctively knows that he doesn't want to hear any words. So she stays silent, quietly keeping him company until John comes in with the tea.

Sherlock can barely taste it. He is distraught by how shaken the concept of Mycroft being dead is leaving him, how small and insignificant it makes him feel, rendering him helpless when he really should be looking for clues, anything to help find out who did this. He is actually grateful that John and Mrs Hudson are there, sitting on either side of him, each with a mug of tea in their hands.

Sherlock wonders if he has noticed before how small Mrs Hudson's hands actually are. Mycroft's hands always seemed big to him. As a little boy, he loved it when his brother hid behind those hands in order to suddenly spook him; later in their lives, they had become the hands of a stranger, just like the rest of the older Holmes boy. Eventually, Mycroft turned into someone Sherlock felt inferior to, a notion he didn't like at all. Around his brother, he usually felt his control slip away, which bothered him greatly. Had felt, he automatically corrects himself with a pang, had bothered. 

He laughs bitterly into his mug, causing John and Mrs Hudson to look at him: the doctor openly, the landlady tentatively, just a brief glance. 

"Even now," Sherlock mutters, aware that he probably sounds like a madman, but unable to stop himself: "Even now."

"Even now what, dear?" Mrs Hudson sounds almost timid.

"He's doing it," Sherlock spits, "he's making me lose control. Even in death, he can't just let me be!"

The look John and the old lady now share is one of alarm, and John gently puts his hand on Sherlock's arm: "You're having a completely normal reaction, Sherlock."

"No, I'm not." The detective's voice is acerbic: "Other people might react like this, but not me. Usual standards don't apply to me, in case you forgot. I don't have feelings, I don't break down because of something like this."

John once again holds his tongue, keeping himself from telling Sherlock that he is wrong, and that this is exactly the opposite. 

"Still, you should probably lie down," Mrs Hudson unexpectedly chimes in, "and try to sleep." 

John is amazed by the understanding in her voice. 

Predictably, Sherlock shakes his head at that, but at least he doesn't snap at her.




They stay where they are until long after midnight. 

 Mrs Hudson eventually leaves to go to bed, and John can feel his own fatigue crawling up on him. He didn't exactly like Mycroft, which doesn't make the situation easier; he feels sorry for him, if more so for Sherlock, and his thoughts keep wandering back to the accident- he is determined to call it accident as long as there's no proof of the opposite. Of course he has thought of Moriarty already, but Sherlock didn't have any phone calls, text messages or letters or anything else really which could have been used as a means of gloating, so it doesn't seem to be related to their best enemy. The thought is relieving, somehow, and John immediately feels bad about it. There shouldn't be any relief, not when Sherlock looks like this, forlorn and shaken and not at all his usual self. 

He is silent and tense, sitting on the edge of his bed like a statue, still in his suit and with a blank face. 




At one point, John's eyes close on their own account. He jerks awake with a crick in his neck and feeling disoriented, though he hasn't dozed for longer than twenty minutes. 

Sherlock sits upright, listening intently. When John opens his mouth to ask what he's heard, the detective holds up his hand to prevent his friend from speaking, then slowly gets to his feet. He hasn't so much as touched the doorhandle when there's a scream from downstairs. In an instant, Sherlock and John are out of the room; the scream has come from Mrs Hudson, undoubtedly. 

Who nearly collides with them in the door to her flat; it is all that Sherlock, who has snapped out of his stupor for the time being, can do to grab her by her arms in order to steady her. Her eyes are wide and she is gasping (apparently not even caring that her dressing gown's not closed): "Sherlock! Kitchen!" at the same time that he and John are asking whether she's okay. There's a moment of confusion, and John makes to push past them in order to check whatever is going on, but then he freezes. There, in the dimly lit hall of Mrs Hudson's flat, stands Mycroft Holmes. 




For a moment, nobody moves or says anything. The stunned silence is only broken when Mrs Hudson begins to mewl: "Sherlock, you're hurting me." He hasn't noticed he is still holding her arms, and his grip has tightened considerably at the unexpected turn of events. He lets go now, never taking his gaze off his brother: "What happened?" he asks, his voice flat. 

Mycroft looks nothing like his normal self. His hair's dishevelled and he's wearing only a shirt, trousers and socks, a sight made slightly more absurd by the fact that he's still got his tie. It is torn in places however, just like the rest of his clothes, and he looks damp, if not soaking wet anymore. He is pale and shivering and John, to whom the older Holmes brother strangely looks less tall than usual, does remember he's a doctor at the sight and moves first, wordlessly taking an unresisting Mycroft by the arm and steering him back into the kitchen, where he can sit down. 

Briefly, John is struck by how much this resembles the situation earlier, but he can't dwell on that now; from this close, Mycroft looks even worse for wear, and he must be freezing. John goes to get a blanket while Mrs Hudson begins to make tea. Sherlock keeps his distance, regarding his brother with narrowed eyes: "What happened," he repeats. 

"You know what happened," Mycroft manages to sound aloof, despite appearances. However, he does seem relieved when John arrives with not one, but two blankets which he wraps around the sitting man. 

"It was such a shock," Mrs Hudson more or less babbles over the din of the electric kettle, "first we thought you were dead, and then you are suddenly trying to break into my kitchen. I thought I had heard something, could have been some cats, of course, but you never know.."

Mycroft looks vaguely apologetic: "I didn't mean to scare you," he says softly, "I simply wanted to avoid using the front door."

John's gaze immediately is drawn to the back door, which seems intact. 




Sherlock however has more questions: "How did you get out of the car?"

"When I realized what was going on, I took the precaution to roll down the window. Luckily, the impact on the water didn't render me immobile or worse, so I could get out immediately."

John, worried about the slight tremor in Mycroft's voice and the blood he's seen in his still damp hair when he brought the blankets, cuts in: "I think you'd best get warm before Sherlock continues his interrogation," he says firmly. "A shower and then you should lie down."

Mycroft subdues a smile; the doctor's stance and tone make it very clear that this isn't up for discussion, and frankly, he does feel numb with cold by now. A shower sounds heavenly, even if it means having to use the slightly shoddy facilities of 221B. 

"Come on, I'll find you a towel," John says, beckoning him to follow. 

Sherlock watches them go and turns towards the door as well, but then hesitates: "He doesn't take milk in his tea, only real cream," he tells Mrs Hudson. "If there's no cream available, he prefers it black. Two sugars."

With that, he leaves the kitchen. 




Half an hour later, Mycroft is sitting up in Sherlock's bed, covered with an additional blanket on top of the comforter, and cradling a mug of hot black tea in his hands. The shower has revived him somewhat, and Dr Watson, who has already taken care of the cut on Mycroft's head and made sure he wasn't injured otherwise, was adamant he should not stay on the sofa. 

Mycroft is wearing an old, long-sleeved shirt, a pair of pyjama pants and socks from Sherlock, who unfortunately doesn't possess any proper night attire of the kind Mummy would have approved of. 

While he waited for the water in the shower to heat up, Mycroft could hear his brother and Dr Watson through the door: "I don't have anything he can wear, he's too fat."

"Don't be ridiculous, Sherlock, he is not."

"He'll wear my things out."

"He won't, and besides, they already are quite worn."

"They are not."

"The shirts you're sleeping in are faded and frayed at the hems and whatnot. And that's totally beside the point. If you prefer a clothed Mycroft to a naked one, I suggest you stop being ridiculous and go find something for him to put on."

Silence followed, though Mycroft was convinced he could hear his brother sulk. A few moments later, Sherlock came in with a few things, which he put on the clothes chair. Mycroft, who had just stepped into the shower and felt a little dizzy, peered around the curtain: "Thank you. Oh, and I did tell you I was on a diet, didn't I?"

Sherlock only hummed non-committally and turned to go.

"Sherlock." Mycroft's voice sounded strained all of a sudden.

"Yes."

"Could you stay in here, please? I'm... not feeling too well."

Sherlock stood rooted to the spot; for Mycroft to admit something like that and if ever so indirectly ask for assistance, he truly must have experienced something awful. 

"Okay." The detective pushed the clothes aside and sat down on the old wicker chair. "Don't dawdle, though."

Mycroft supported himself on the wall while he showered, and somehow managed to stay on his feet. The realization of everything which had happened was only then beginning to dawn on him, and it was alarmingly terrifying. There had been attempts on his life before- something which the job brought with it- but never anything of such a scale. 




He tells Sherlock so while he's sipping his tea, savouring the sweet, hot drink. 

"What about Anthea?" John asks, "was she...?"

"No. I was on my own. The driver suddenly veered into the oncoming traffic, and when I checked on him, I saw that he was unconscious. Dead, more likely, but there was no time to assert that."

"And you definitely don't think it was an accident."

"It wasn't, because someone was obviously operating the steering wheel by remote control."

"Well, I'm glad whoever is responsible didn't succeed," John says, and Mycroft gives him a vague smile. 

"We saw the car," Sherlock states, rather abruptly, not looking at anyone. "When they pulled it out of the river. We thought you were dead."

"Sorry to disappoint," Mycroft murmurs into his mug.

Sherlock's head whips up:"Don't be ridiculous," he snaps, "do you think this is funny?"

"No, Sherlock, I don't think it is."Mycroft sounds tired. "Just as it isn't funny that you keep considering me to be your archenemy."

"I never called you that."

"Not in such explicit words, probably."

A heavy silence falls between them. John, who is leaning against the doorframe with folded arms, can see that neither of them is going to give in, stubborn as they are (he takes a shot in the dark concerning Mycroft there, but if Sherlock is anything to go by, his brother probably has just as thick a head as he does). John can also see that Mycroft is using the very last of his remaining strength to keep himself upright, and decides to break it off there and then.

"Maybe you two could continue this in the morning," he suggests in a firm voice which doesn't leave room for discussion, "after you both have gotten some sleep."

For the first time since Mycroft's shower, Sherlock looks at his brother for more than two seconds, and he sees what his friend means. Mycroft needs to rest and replenish his energy. 

"Good night," he murmurs and slips out of the room. Seconds later, they can hear the violin being tuned. 

John and Mycroft share a look.

"He'll always hate me," Mycroft states softly. 

No, John thinks, he won't. Loudly, he says: "I wouldn't necessarily say so, judging by his reaction earlier."

He leaves Mycroft to ponder this, though, judging by the way he looked just now, he probably won't do that for long. 




Sherlock is fiddling with his violin; he didn't begin to play after tuning it, meaning he's too upset to concentrate on the music right now. John, resigning himself to the fact that he won't get much sleep this night, possibly none at all even, joins his friend on the sofa: "Thoughts?"

"It's possible that we're being watched," Sherlock drawls in a deliberately bored voice, "but not very likely."

"'kay," John looks at him, deciding to tackle the issue head-on: "Quite a development, huh?"

"Yes."

"But?"

Sherlock sighs. "I wonder why he's here."

"What? Are you serious?"

"Of course I am. The whole affair has hardly been a laughing matter."

"And now you're just playing with words. You know what I meant."

"I suppose." Sherlock's voice is so low it's barely audible. Probably because this is almost a concession. 

"You know why he's here," John says, gently. 

"He needs my help. He wants me to investigate."

The doctor pinches the bridge of his nose and inwardly counts till five. 

"Or maybe he simply didn't have anywhere else to go," he suggests, "and you're his brother. Maybe he just wanted your company."

"Would you seek Harry's company if something like this happened to you?" Sherlock asks, sceptically.

John shakes his head: "You can hardly compare her and me to Mycroft and you. But no, I wouldn't have. Harry's neither reliable nor very dear to me."

Sherlock snorts, trying to make it sound derisive, but somehow, he can't. The whole night has been so surreal that he hasn't completely processed it yet, but he finds that a surge of relief is flooding through him each time he remembers that Mycroft's here, alive and relatively well. He's still insufferable, of course, and Sherlock doesn't doubt that he'll be sent a pair of expensive, "proper" pyjamas as soon as Mycroft will be able to arrange it, but nevertheless: he's still there. 




"You look knackered," John states softly, nudging Sherlock's shoulder with his own. "Get some sleep, Sherlock."

"You too."

"I sure will." John stands and stretches, promptly beginning to yawn. "God, I'm tired."

"John." Sherlock doesn't look at him, but he seems to sense that he's got the doctor's attention back: "Thank you for... earlier. Staying with me, and... looking after Mycroft."

If John weren't so tired, he'd probably come up with a more witty reply, something slightly mocking perhaps in order to commemorate this moment- Sherlock actually expressing his gratefulness with words happens too rarely altogether, after all. Instead, the doctor just smiles: "Anytime."




Long after John has disappeared upstairs, Sherlock is pondering this, lying on the sofa. John keeps astonishing him, and it's strangely reassuring to know that he didn't even have to think twice about being there for Sherlock, that it was understood he'd help and assist in any way he could, even if it cost him his sleep. The detective has never known anyone like him, though maybe that's putting it wrong- he has never had a friend like him. A friend who obviously intends to stick with him even though he by now knows a lot about Sherlock. Who admittedly cares deeply for John himself, but he is rather unskilled at showing it sometimes. Most of the time, if he is honest with himself. If the doctor weren't so patient, he'd probably have left already. Still, Sherlock hopes that he'd do the same for John, if the situation were reversed- being there for him, being patient. Well, maybe not as patient as John because that seems impossible, but he'd try.

To have a friendship like that is also a little unsettling- it makes a person vulnerable (John would probably argue: it also makes a person stronger), and furthermore, a lot is at stake if someone messes up. And Sherlock is certain that he under no circumstances wants to lose John again, so he must not mess up. The way John said "anytime" was startingly spectacular in its implicitness- the doctor didn't even have to think about it. Sherlock involuntarily smiles, but quickly turns serious again as his thoughts wander back to his brother. He doesn't know whether Mycroft has someone like that in his life, but he doubts it. If he had, he'd probably not have ended up here tonight. 

You're his brother... Maybe he wanted your company. John's voice says in Sherlock's mind. 

Slowly, Sherlock gets up and pads through the quiet space that is 221B. It is still dark, but he knows his way around well enough not to bump into furniture or other obstacles. 

The door to his bedroom opens soundlessly, and Sherlock slips in unheard. Trying not shake the mattress too much, he eases himself onto the duvet; Mycroft's breathing is deep and evenly, he seems sound asleep. Sherlock stretches out next to him. As a small boy, he used to sneak into Mycroft's bed sometimes; it was comforting to listen to his sleeping brother, in fact still is. Is. Another wave of relief washes over him, relief that he can still use the present tense. He is a little shaken by it, he doesn't like to be overwhelmed by his emotions like this. Well, at least Mycroft doesn't know about it, and Sherlock intends to make sure it stays that way. 

In a minute, he'll go back to the living room and follow John's advice to get some sleep, but right now, he'd like to listen to his brother just a little bit longer. 

With an inaudible sigh, he closes his eyes. 




The End










 

Happy Holidays, stoertebeker!


A Christmas Memory



“You promised.” John remained adamant. After three glasses of mulled wine he felt he was able to cope with two Holmeses. He pointed at the empty red wine bottle lying on the living room floor and grinned. “Your turn, Sherlock.” He paused. “And Mycroft, you will keep your mouth shut for once.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Go on, John, truth or dare? “

“Truth.”

“Fine, what do you want to know?”

Mycroft opened his mouth, but John was prepared. “No snide remarks, no threats, no objections. Are we clear on that? So, Sherlock, tell me about your happiest Christmas memory.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“You know what Christmas is, don‘t you? Tree, mistletoe, presents, silly hats, lots of food, bright-eyed children …“

“You know I do Christmas just to keep you and Mrs Hudson happy.”

Before John could say anything Mycroft spoke. “Heavens, John, this is ridiculous. Sherlock never had any sentimental fondness for Christmas. When he was five he deduced the contents of the presents from the colour of the bows and the exact amount of hot toddy Father had drunk from the angle of his tie.“ He turned to look at Sherlock. “And what about the Boxing Day you used your new chemistry set to blow up Mummy’s best Wedgwood?”

“It was an experiment,” Sherlock replied haughtily.

“And I remember you deducing the vicar’s affair with …”

John got to his feet, raised his arms and yelled “Stop it!” Stunned silence. “Just this once. Do you know what the word H-A-P-P-Y means? Do you have any idea of the concept behind this word? Or are your brilliant minds incapable of grasping what that means to the general public?”

Awkward silence.

“So please, just this once and just for me, Sherlock - do what you are told.”

He fell back into the chair, crossed his arms and looked expectantly from one brother to the other.

Sherlock cleared his throat and threw Mycroft a look John might have called insecure if this word had existed in connection with the Holmes brothers.

“Well, there is one thing I remember. I must have been nearly four. Some weeks before Christmas Mycroft and I went into town. There was a toy shop which had this big, colourful pirate ship in the window, completely made of plastic, with lots of skulls, and treasure chests, and little people wielding plastic swords. It was totally tasteless and very expensive. And I loved it.”

There was something in Sherlock‘s voice that John had never heard before. Longing? Wistfulness? He looked over at Mycroft and detected a softness in his face he had not noticed before and which he would have deemed impossible had he not seen it with his own eyes.

“Of course I did not tell my parents about it. They preferred strictly educational toys made of natural materials. Or musical instruments.”

There was something in the atmosphere that made John nearly hold his breath.

“Well, Christmas came and I kept thinking about this ship. I dreamt of being a pirate at that age. Sentimental, of course, but there you are.” He took a sip from his wine which would have been cold by now. “On Boxing Day I did not expect a surprise as I still remembered

the Montessori Hundreds Board I‘d gotten last year.” He made a pause and looked at the wine in his glass. “And then there were the presents. Lots of useful stuff, a nice globe, a kids‘ introduction to chemistry - and a very big box in different wrapping paper with garish colours and toys printed on it. Suddenly my heart was hammering. My hands trembled when I ripped open the paper and there it was - the pirate ship from the shop window. So Mycroft had told them. It was the first time my parents got me something they did not approve of but which I wanted. And for a second I believed that there might be a Father Christmas after all.”

John turned his head when he heard a soft chuckle. “What, Mycroft? This was a wonderful story and you‘re poking fun at –“

“No,“ Sherlock said suddenly, his voice sounding slightly choked. “No, he isn‘t. Pocket money?”

Mycroft shrugged. “Four months and Aunt Claire‘s birthday allowance.”

“I never thanked you.”

“You never knew.”

“But I do now.” Sherlock got up and clinked his glass against Mycroft‘s. “Cheers, brother.” He looked at John. “Happy?”

“Oh, God, yes.”

Happy Holidays, NotYourHousekeeperDear!




You requested a fanfiction story with ‘a bit of romance and angst’. So I wrote a Johnlock story as well as a sickfic. I hope you don’t mind either of these genres. And please don’t worry about the angst-issue, you can take the title literally :-) Have fun!



Everything will be OK



1. A waste of time?



John had just finished his breakfast and was about to get ready for work as Sherlock called from his favorite spot on the sofa. “We are going to meet Lestrade at the Yard in an hour.”

John looked at his partner and sighed. “You are going to meet him. I am going to work.”

“You have work today?” Sherlock asked in astonishment.

“Yes,” John replied and pointed towards the small calendar on the kitchen wall.

“Oh!”

Sherlock, though gifted with a massive intellect and a remarkable ability to notice and remember even the tiniest details at a crime scene, was somehow not able to memorize whether John had a shift at the hospital or not (or maybe he just deemed the information as unimportant and deleted it right away). So John put the calendar on the wall and marked every day, he had to go to work.


John only took a part-time job at a hospital near Baker Street. It was ideal; he could assist Sherlock with his cases and keep practicing as a doctor. Although Sherlock sometimes complained about John having not enough time for him, he also knew that John was very devoted to his work as a doctor. And of course, Sherlock would never really try to keep John away from his profession. Everything that made John happy, made him happy too.

Their relationship had changed a few months after Sherlock’s return from his death. It took a while until Sherlock was able to figure out these strange new feelings towards his flatmate. And it took some more time until he was able to confess. First, Sherlock had tried to ignore the confusing emotions that bubbled inside him whenever John was around. Then he tried to get rid of them by avoiding John’s presence. He spent long evenings in the lab and didn’t ask John to accompany him to crime scenes anymore. Until one day John was fed up with Sherlock’s behavior and suggested leaving Baker Street because obviously Sherlock did not need him anymore. On that point, Sherlock was finally able to tell John the truth about his feelings towards him. It took a night’s sleep and some hours of shock and musing, until John could admit to himself that he reciprocated.

After being a couple for almost 8 months now they had developed a fairly good routine in their relationship - anything far from ordinary of course, but normal enough for them.

“When will you be back?”

“My shift ends at 3pm. But I have an appointment with Sean afterwards to discuss my examination results.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Waste of time,” he said.

John sighed again. They had this discussion already. John, as a responsible doctor, always made a general medical check-up once a year. He tried to convince Sherlock to do the same, although he already guessed his partner’s reaction.

“That’s completely ridiculous! We are both in an absolute perfect health. Such an examination is a total waste of time!”

John had resigned that argument rather quickly. He had hoped Sherlock would be a bit more reasonable after the events of last winter, where a very tough case of flu rendered the detective bedridden for almost a week. After that Sherlock had admitted that a flu vaccination (which he had refused as dull previously) could be (perhaps!) an appropriate precaution next time.

“However,” John said after putting on his jacket. “I should be ready at about 4pm; shall I meet you at the Yard or Bart’s?”

“I’ll text you.”

With a quick kiss on Sherlock’s temple and a ruffle through his partner’s curls, John left.


----------------------------------------------

“You are in pretty good health, John,” Sean said and smiled at him.

Sean O’Mara was a former colleague of John from university but both men lost contact after John joined the military. Sean had started to work in the hospital a few weeks after John. They were more than surprised as one day both accidently bumped into another, John leaving the elevator, Sean entering it. Since then, they kept close contact and sometimes went for a drink after work, frequently accompanied by Mike Stamford.

“Blood pressure, cholesterol level, blood sugar, everything within the optimal range,” Sean continued while he looked at the test results. His smile had faded a bit.

“But?” John asked noticing the small frown on his colleague’s forehead.

“Your liver values are not OK,” the other doctor answered. “Look.” Sean handed the paper to John and pointed at some figures with his biro.

“Mmhh, yes, I see. They are a bit too high,” John agreed with a frown.

“You had any problems recently? Fatigue, pain?”

John thought for a moment, then shook his head. “None at all.”

“Well then,” Sean said. “It’s most likely just a spontaneous deviation or even a mistake in the analysis. But I will draw another blood sample and send it for a second analysis, just to be on the safe side.”

“Right, go ahead,” John nodded and rolled up the right sleeve of his jumper. Of course he knew that irregular results could happen without any actual cause.

“If you don’t hear anything from me within the next few days, everything is fine,” Sean said after labeling John’s fresh blood sample. “Otherwise I’ll call you.”

“Fine. Going for a pint again soon?”

Sean grinned. “Sure!”

With a tiny bit of worry John left the hospital. His phone beeped. It was 4pm exactly; of course, Sherlock had took him by his word.

Barts. Lab. Meet me there. SH

On my way. JW

John had hardly entered the laboratory, before Sherlock begun to tell him about the latest case. A car mechanic had been stabbed in his garage. John asked about some details that Sherlock deemed unimportant and had left out. Then they started with the experiments Sherlock deemed important to do. He was bent over the microscope and several test tubes while analyzing different types of engine oils. John on his side handed him ingredients and took notes about the results.

Quarter to nine, after Molly’s third attempt to get rid of them and John’s loud growling stomach, Sherlock finally gave in to leave the lab.

“By the way,” Sherlock asked while the two men waited for a cab to arrive. “How were your examination results?”

John had already forgotten about his conversation with Sean. “As you said,” he answered without thinking. “Perfect health.”

Sherlock huffed. “I told you so, total waste of time.”

On their ride home, Sherlock was franticly typing on his phone, John wondered whether he should have told Sherlock about the abnormal liver values. But finally he shook his head. Don’t be silly, he told himself. It’s nothing. No reason to worry.

 

Everything will be okay

3. I won’t lose you



John returned half an hour later with two shopping bags in his hands. He had settled down a bit and had already thought about how to tell Sherlock about the upcoming surgery. When he entered the living room he saw Sherlock sitting in front of his laptop. He was paler than usual and when he looked up, John saw an expression between fear, disbelief, anger and disappointment. Shit!

“Sherlock…” he began.

“When?” Sherlock said in a low and dangerously calm voice. “When had you planned to tell me this?”

“Look, I came back from the hospital yesterday. And then there was the case, and…”

“And what?” Sherlock interrupted once again, his voice trembling with anger now. “You hold me so superficial that I would find the case more important than your health? More important than finding out my partner has cancer?”

“It’s not definite, yet,” John replied, feeling his own temper rising. He understood Sherlock’s agitation but he would clearly appreciate the opportunity to give him a proper explanation.

“Oh great, very soothing!” his voice louder and dripped with sarcasm. “I suppose, you expect me to be grateful for not being distracted.”

Ok, that’s enough, John thought. A reasonable conversation is not possible at the moment.

“You know what! Yell at the wall, the skull or whatever. Throw your temper tantrum like a five year old! I am the one that may be seriously ill. I must come to terms with it first!” John finally yelled desperation in his voice. “I’m going for a walk. I need some air!”

Without waiting for an answer, John slammed the shopping bags on the ground, turned on his heels and left the flat.

----------------------------------------------

There was this place in Regent’s Park - a bench a little of from the main path, hidden between some bushes near a small pond. John always went here when he and Sherlock had a fight. Sherlock knew about it but he seldom came here. He normally respected his partner’s wishes for privacy. Today was different though. About an hour after John’s leaving, he slowly approached the bench on which John sat with a very thoughtful and sad face. Sherlock felt his stomach contract by the sight of his partner. His emotions wreaked havoc after seeing the websites about liver cancer and treatment options, suddenly realizing the reason for John’s distant behavior in the last few days. But the only feeling left now was fear. Sherlock sat down next to John and both men said nothing for a while.

Finally, John raised one arm and run his hand gingerly through Sherlock’s curls. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

Sherlock shut his eyes momentarily, enjoying the feeling of John caressing his hair. He took a deep breath. “Me too. I shouldn’t have yelled at you.”

“It’s ok,” John replied.

“What happened?”

John told him about the first blood results, the assumption of a measuring error, the second sample and about the uncertain ultrasound pictures and results of the MRI scan yesterday. Finally, he told him about the upcoming surgery. “I am sorry,” John said again. “I should have told you earlier. At least yesterday, after the scan.”

“No,” Sherlock said and looked at John, anger and fear written all over his face. “You should have told me much earlier. Why haven’t you? Don’t you trust me anymore?” The desperation in Sherlock’s voice was hard to bear. “I know I can be ignorant sometimes, but...”

“No!” John interrupted, his heart clenched at his partner’s words. He cupped Sherlock’s face in his hands and stroked slowly with is thump along his cheekbones. “No, that’s not it. It’s... I didn’t want to worry you. And, I think, I didn’t want to worry myself,” John hesitated while Sherlock slowly relaxed under his touch. “I don’t know…as long as I didn’t tell anybody, it felt as if it wasn’t true. I could ignore it. But if I had told you, it would have become much more real. This doesn’t really make sense to you, doesn’t it?”

“A bit,” Sherlock replied with a tiny smile.

“I was afraid,” John finally admitted. “God, I AM afraid,” he said and his voice sounded hoarse.

Sherlock leant forward until their foreheads touch. He took Johns hands in his own. Both men stayed still for a long moment, just relishing the presents of one another and seeking strength.

“I won’t lose you,” Sherlock finally said with determination. “I won’t let that happen.”

---------------------------------------------

Sherlock received a call from Lestrade shortly after they had returned to their flat. “He has a new case,” Sherlock told John. “I will tell him, we won’t come this time.”

“No,” John said quickly. “It’s ok. Let’s go.”

“But…”

“Please Sherlock. I don’t want to spend the next days musing about the things that might come. I need a distraction. We need a distraction.”

Sherlock looked into John’s pleading eyes and nodded. “Right, I’ll ask him for the address.”

---------------------------------------------

“Trouble in paradise?” Sergeant Donovan said snippy.

“Shut up, Sally,” Lestrade grumbled in a stern voice.

The DI immediately noticed that something was off. Sherlock was much more agitated as usual and surprisingly didn’t seem so eager about the crime scene as well. John also seemed a little tense but remained friendly and polite as always. “Everything alright? You two are a bit off the track today,” Lestrade asked as he and John stood near the victim waiting for Sherlock to finish his examination.

“What?” John was only listening with half an ear. “No, we are fine.” Lestrade had his doubts but didn’t ask further questions, hoping John would talk to him, if he felt the need.

“I need to see the victim’s flat,” Sherlock said after finishing his investigation of the crime scene. He stood next to John, much closer than usual. It almost looked as if he would have to suppress the urge to take his partner’s hand. Usually John and Sherlock kept their relationship as private as possible, especially around the Yard. But some of the Yarders, particularly those with whom they worked together frequently, knew.

After the victim’s flat they visited his workplace. John and Lestrade questioned the staff while Sherlock investigated the victim’s bureau. He glanced around constantly, to make sure where John was. As if he was afraid the other might just disappear.

The case proved to be more difficult than originally thought and kept them occupied the whole weekend. It indeed provided the kind of distraction Sherlock and John needed. Both men engrossed themselves deeply in the investigation and keep the dark thoughts about the things to come at bay.

On Monday around lunchtime Sherlock and John stood in Lestrade’s office and presented their results. Lestrade was impressed by the level of detail and accuracy they used - double-checking some of the evidences, comprehensible documentation. In addition, both had already written their statements down. Lestrade, though happy with the results, frowned. This was all very unusual. But he did not get to question their behavior, as Sherlock already turned to go. John gave the DI an apologetic you-know-how-he-is-smile and followed suit.
----------------------------------------------
“Do you want to do something special today?” Sherlock asked cautiously on their way back to Baker Street. They hadn’t talked about the surgery much in the last two days. But now as the case was over the whole subject hung over them like a sword of Damocles once again.

“I’m not allowed to eat anything after 7pm. So let’s get an early dinner afterwards at Angelo’s.”

Angelo was delighted to see them and immediately put a candle on their table. But soon he noticed the strange atmosphere between his favorite costumers (well, guests, as they never paid for their meals). Both just pick at their food without actually eating much. Angelo tried to begin a conversation, asked about the things they were up to recently but Sherlock just ignored him and John gave only brief answers. Finally Angelo left them alone but occasionally threw a worried look in their direction. John gave him a light squeeze on the shoulder as they left. “It’s fine Angelo. Just not our day today.”

They retired to bed early this evening cuddling close together and trying to give each other comfort. But Sherlock was a bit restless. John could sense that something was on his partner’s mind. “What is it?” he asked.

Sherlock stayed silent for a moment. He began stroking through John’s hair before he finally spoke. “How risky is the surgery?”

“Well, it’s a surgical procedure on a major organ,” John said but noticed that this answer was not really sufficient. He sighed. “The liver has a strong blood circulation so the biggest risk of the surgery is blood loss, especially if the tumor is grown strong together with the surrounding.” John felt Sherlock’s tension and held him a bit tighter. “They’ll be prepared for this. They’ll have units of stored blood ready should the need arise.”

They fell silent once again, both just staring into the beginning darkness of the night.

“It’ll be fine,” John whispered. He sat up a little and gave Sherlock a tender kiss. “Let’s get some sleep.” He suddenly felt very worn out. Sherlock didn’t object. He continued stroking his partner’s hair as John slowly drifted off to sleep.

Sherlock lay awake for a long time.



 

Everything will be OK

5. Was it worth it?




Sherlock had pushed the call-a-nurse-button immediately and only seconds later one of the ICU nurses entered the room.

“He has a fever,” Sherlock said, still touching John’s cheek.

The nurse left and returned moments later with a thermometer. “38.1 degrees,” she said. “It’s a mild fever.”

“Your unqualified opinion whether the fever is mild is not relevant,” Sherlock barked. “Call Dr. O’Mara!”

Despite his harsh tone the nurse didn’t seem to be offended. She worked in the ICU and was confronted with upset relatives every day. She just nodded and left the room.

It took Sean O’Mara only a few minutes to arrive at the ICU. Sherlock had to leave the room while he made a brief examination. “We are going to monitor his temperature during the night,” the doctor said after the nurse had let Sherlock in again. “If it goes up, we’ll administer fever-reducing medicine and we’ll make a blood analysis in the morning.”

“Is this all? You said early, an infection could be dangerous due to the blood loss. Now he is burning up and all you want to do is wait?” Sherlock almost yelled. He didn’t care whether he disturbed other patients.

“He has a low-grade fever.” Sean replied with a calm and soothing tone. “It does happen regularly that patients develop a mild fever after an operation. In most cases, it is a side effect of the anesthesia or a stress response of the body towards the surgery. That’s why I suggested the sedative, to let his body rest after the strenuous events of today.”

Sherlock’s gaze was fixed on John, holding his hand once again. Sean wasn’t sure if the detective had heard him probably.

“Sherlock,” he said and laid his hand gently on the other man’s shoulder. “The fever is most likely not a sign of infection. The surgery is just a couple of hours ago. It would be much too early for this.”

“But it could be?”

“Yes,” Sean replied with as much struggle as he had answers John’s ‘But it could be’-question a few days ago. “Yes it could be. But it is very unlikely.”

Sherlock said nothing, just stared at John. But at least he seemed to have calmed down a little.

“Go home,” Sean suggested. “We are monitoring him closely.”

“No.” Sherlock snapped. “I’ll stay.”

“Sherlock…“

“I. Am. Not. Leaving. Him. Now.”

---------------------------------------------

Sean had finally relented. Sherlock stayed the whole night. The nurse who regularly came in to check on John didn’t try to kick him out either. John’s temperature didn’t go up but stayed around 38 degrees until in the early hours of morning it finally dropped a bit.

Eventually, Sherlock had fallen asleep with his head on John’s bed, still clutching his partner’s hand. The nurse carefully shook him awake when the light of the new day already shone into the room. “Sir?” he blinked at her smiling face. “His temperature is almost back to normal, 37.0 degrees.” Sherlock glanced at John who looked indeed a bit better than the previous evening. “He’ll wake up soon,” the nurse added.

Only a few minutes later John’s eyes blinked open. It took him a moment to become fully awake but then he looked at Sherlock with frown. “I thought I told you to go home.” his voice was hoarse and sounded still weak but also annoyed.

“Why do you think I hadn’t?” Sherlock said defiantly.

“I am sick, not stupid,” John said a bit more gently now. “Your coat looks ruffled and you have an imprint on your face. Sleeping in a chair bent over with your head on my mattress is not good for your back.”

“Your observation skills are improving,” Sherlock said and couldn’t help but smile. He was relieved that John obviously felt better.

“I learned from the best,” John replied, returning the smile. “So, what happened?”

“You had a fever during the night. Around 38 degrees but it subsided in the morning.”

“Aseptic fever,” John said and nodded. “Can happen after a surgery. I experienced it after all shoulder surgeries. It’s nothing serious. Sean should have told you.”

“He did. But I was afraid you might have got an infection.” Sherlock answered and looked down at their entwined hands. “I … I was scared,” he whispered.

John said nothing. He should have scolded Sherlock for his stubbornness. But in fact, he was glad that his partner was still at his side. Though he did feel a bit better then yesterday he still felt weaker than he had for a long time. “It’s ok,” he finally said with a strained voice and stroked Sherlock’s hand.

John’s condition did not improve much during the day. He didn’t felt any pain, but was fuzzy, as if his head was full of cotton wool. Sherlock stayed with him the whole time. Occasionally he read to him from the novel that John had packed in for hospital. But again and again John dozed off.

In the afternoon, Sean O’Mara announced that John would be moved into a regular room. “Your blood values are ok, no sign of infection. Your other vitals are stable too.” John seemed to be satisfied with this decision but Sherlock wasn’t convinced.

“Wouldn’t another night at the ICU be better?”

“No Sherlock,” John said before Sean had a chance to reply. “I’m fine.”

John was moved to the room which was originally prepared for him, just before supper. He did manage a small bowl of soup but declined the bread, the first meal he was allowed to eat after the surgery.

Before his shift ended Sean visited John once again. “I spoke to the lab. We’ll get the results of the biopsy tomorrow.”

“Good,” John replied. “That’s good.” He was fed up with waiting.

“And now,” Sean said and looked expectantly first at Sherlock and then at John. “I am going to keep the promise I gave yesterday.”

John grinned slightly. “Agreed.”

“Which promise?” Sherlock asked confused but soon realized what they were talking about.

---------------------------------------------
Sherlock was annoyed that Sean and John forced him to leave the hospital. Sean even accompanied him towards the exit, as if to ensure the man would indeed go. “Sherlock, John is OK for now. The recovery proceeds very well.”

“But he is still so weak and tired,” Sherlock almost whined. He would have clearly preferred to stay at his partner’s side.

“Sherlock, John’s surgery is over for barely 24 hours now. His body needs time to recover from surgery, anesthesia and the blood loss. Besides, he got strong pain killers which made him a bit dizzy additionally. We’ll change the medication tomorrow. And we will run some examinations, like a MRI scan, to control the healing.”

Sherlock immediately looked alarmed.

“These examinations are completely normal and routine after those kinds of surgery.” Sean tried to reassure him. “Sherlock, I would never have ordered to move him from the ICU if I wasn’t sure about his state.”

Sherlock fixed his gaze on Sean but he saw no dishonesty. Finally he nodded. They reached the entrance hall. “Go home, try to get some rest,” the doctor continued. He gave Sherlock a slight pat on the shoulder and left to end his work day.

Sherlock was just about to leave the hospital when he spotted two people, obviously a couple, near the exit. He couldn’t help but stop and stare at them. A young man held his girlfriend in his arms who apparently was a patient in this hospital given the drip she pushed next to her. Her age wasn’t easy to estimate due to her bare head and fragile, skinny stature. Cancer patient, Sherlock thought and observed her posture closely. No unnatural gestures or careful movements to avoid pain that indicates any surgery. Leukemia, he supposed. With a sad face the man placed several kiss on the girl’s face until he finally left the hospital. The young women took her drip and slowly walked towards the elevator.

Sherlock stared at the closing door and wondered if he and John would say goodbye to each other in the same way soon.
----------------------------------------------

Sherlock wasn’t able to concentrate on anything while he was at home. He tried to set up an experiment but messed up with the ingredients, so he left the kitchen table in a mess. Television was out of question. The stupidity of the people only increased his bad mood. The violin, which usually helps him to calm his mind, didn’t work either.

At some point Sherlock decided he could as well try to get some sleep. He was exhausted by the events of the last 2 days and the few minutes he napped in the hospital chair near John’s bedside weren’t exactly restful. He expected falling asleep would be difficult but his body demanded rest as soon as his head hit the pillow. Unfortunately his mind wouldn’t calm down as quickly as his body.

They were chasing a suspect through the streets of London. Sherlock ran ahead, John following close behind. He ran around a corner but the footsteps behind him abruptly disappeared. He stopped and turned around “John?”

“Sherlock,” he heard John’s voice, hoarse and weak.

Sherlock walked around the corner and suddenly wasn’t on the street anymore but in the doorway of their bedroom. John was curled in bed. He looked pale and ill, had lost several pounds of weight.

“John!” Sherlock said and rushed to his partner’s side.

All of a sudden the scenery changed again. They were no longer in the bedroom but in a hospital room. John was still in bed and Sherlock almost stumbled back at the sight of his partner. Johns head was bald and he was hooked up to various machines and a drip. The weight loss was severe. Face and cheeks were thin, pale and emaciated, his eyes sunk deep in their sockets. John’s eyes, their sight was more shocking than anything else. His eyes, which normally were so filled with life and love, were empty, unfocused and lifeless. Sherlock grabbed John’s skinny hand. “John,” he said quietly. “John, I’m here.” The grip of John’s hand increased very slightly as a response. Sherlock smiled, but the smile disappeared immediately from his face when he realized that John's figure got more and more translucent. “Don’t leave me John,” Sherlock said, tears streaming down his face. The grip of the other man got weaker and weaker as he slowly faded away.

John looked at him at last. “I love you,” he whispered. Sherlock read the words from John’s lips. His voice was barely audible.

“John!” Sherlock screamed. “JOHN!”

Sherlock woke up, panting, gasping for air. He was drenched in sweat; his shirt clung to his body. The scream of John’s name still burned in his throat. Sherlock felt his stomach turning and just made it to the toilet before being sick. He bent several times over the bowl and vomited until his stomach finally settled. Sherlock leaned up against the bathroom wall, eyes closed and tried to calm down. It didn’t work. His breathing became faster and faster, a feeling of suffocation. His heart pounded in his chest and he was shaking all over. Sherlock knew what was happening to him, it was the beginning of an anxiety attack. He experienced some during his drug addiction and withdrawal when he had miscalculated a dose or the craving for the drug was really bad. His fists dug into his pajama pants as he desperately tried to get his breathing under control. But it only got worse. A light whimper escaped his mouth as he curled up into a ball and gave in to the panic.

Sherlock couldn’t remember falling asleep. After a while the attack abated but left him so exhausted, that he had no strength to move back to bed. Now he awoke lying on the bathroom floor still curled up and shivering from cold. He slowly rose, untangling his limps, every muscle of his body screamed in protest. His stomach hurt and he had a foul taste in his mouth. Sherlock carefully stood up but his legs were so shaky he had to sit on the rim of the bathtub for a moment and took some deep breath. After splashing some water in his face and brushing his teeth he stumbled back to the bedroom. It was hardly 6am and he felt so worn out, he desperately wanted some more sleep.

Sherlock drifted in and out of a light slumber but wasn’t able to find really restful sleep anymore. At some point he gave up, lying on his back, just staring towards the ceiling. The images of the nightmare were still present in his mind. His stomach cramped slightly at the pure thought of it.

Sherlock turned onto his right side watching the empty space of the bed beside him. He wondered whether it was a good thing that he opened up for emotions by being with John. Of course, he would also be affected by his illness if they were not a couple but just friends. But he wouldn’t hurt so much - mentally and physically - if he hadn’t broken his sociopathic shell. He wondered whether it was worth it. On the other hand he didn’t really have a choice. The love that broke his shell, his shield, had grown inside him, inside his heart long before he was aware of it and it couldn’t be removed. But at the moment fear and sorrow were so intense, so painful Sherlock almost wished to have his heart of stone back.
 

Everything will be OK

7. Two sides of the coin



After his conversation with Audrey, Sherlock felt a lot better. He was still worried, but he no longer had the feeling of drowning in his sorrow.

John sat upright in bed; the head section of the bed was adjusted to give him a comfortable position. He flipped through a paper when Sherlock entered the room and smiled. “Sorry you had to wait. I’m a man in demand at the moment.”

“So I heard. You enjoyed the morning?” Sherlock said and was relieved seeing John in a joyful mood.

“Oh yes. I had a nice flirt with the radiology assistant. Nice girl.”

“I am sure she is absolutely dull,” Sherlock replied with a tiny hint of jealousy. John’s grin grew wider.

“Compared to you, definately.”

John smiled his warm smile that Sherlock loved so much. He sat down next to John on his bed, softly stroking his partner’s cheeks. John looked a lot better today. His face regained some colour and his posture showed much more energy. “How are you feeling?” Sherlock asked after a proper kiss.

“Better. Still a bit tired, but much better.”

“How were the examinations?”

“Good,” John replied. “Scans were normal, no signs of complications.”

“The biopsy?”

“Sean said he would get the results this afternoon.”

Sherlock nodded. He felt fear rising inside him again by the thought of what they might learn today but tried to remember the things Audrey told him. He met John’s gaze – warm and gentle and soothing. It’ll be alright.

Sherlock looked on the paper John had been reading. “The Sun? Really, John!”

“I am not exactly fit enough for the heavy stuff. I would probably have fallen asleep half way through the first article of ‘The Guardian’. Besides...” John opened the paper again. “It can be quite entertaining.”

Sherlock and John spent the rest of the morning flipping through the paper. Sherlock pointed out (several times) how dull, boring and stupid this sensationalist writing is. (“It’s called yellow press, Sherlock.”). They were bickering and giggling and a few times John had to try really hard not laughing out loudly, because that would certainly hurt.

After lunch, John felt very tired again and wanted to sleep for a moment. “You should try to take a nap also,” he said, the dark bags under Sherlock’s eyes were not gone unnoticed. “You look tired.”

“I’m fine.” Sherlock replied and settled himself in the chair next to the bed to give John space to sleep.

John woke up about two hours later. Sherlock still sat in the chair, looking out of the window, almost apathetic. He was so lost in his thoughts he did not noticed that John had woken up. John watched his partner closely who obviously hadn’t napped. Besides the dark circles under his eyes, Sherlock looked exhausted the way he sat slumped in the chair. Sorrow and pain were written all over his face. John suddenly realized how alone his partner must have felt in the last couple of days and how much he probably had suffered due to John’s state. John cursed inwardly. Yes, they were a couple for a while now. But he knew very well how hard it still was for Sherlock to deal with his emotions. And now he had allowed that his partner went through hell without anybody there to help him. “I am sorry, Sherlock,” he said with a lump in his throat.

“Wha… What?” Sherlock said, turning towards him, trying to regain his composure he let down during John’s sleep.

“I am sorry,” John repeated and reached out for Sherlock’s hand.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock almost snapped. He felt insecure not knowing what John was getting at. “What should you be sorry about?” he said a bit more gently.

“I left you alone with all of this,” John replied. “You had to go through this emotional chaos all alone.”

“Well, you weren’t exactly fit enough in the last two days to discuss my… emotional state.” Sherlock said, the last two words spoken in slight sarcastic tone. He was angry at himself for letting his defenses down.

“Yeah, true,” John said and smiled sadly. “But I should allow you to talk to someone about it.”

Sherlock shrugged. “I would not have talked to anyone anyway. You know I am not good with this.”

“You would have, at least with Mrs. Hudson.”

Sherlock stayed silent for a moment, remembering the dreadful nightmare and the anxiety attack and how much better he felt after the talk with Audrey. “Maybe,” he finally admitted.

“Well, I am here now,” John said taking both of Sherlock’s hands in his own and looked him in the eyes. “Please don’t shut yourself up. You don’t have to be strong for me. I used to be a soldier, you know. I am used to fighting.” John gave Sherlock a moment to let his words sink in. “We are going through this together, no matter what happens.”

‘You love him, don’t you?’ Audrey had asked him and he fully understands the meaning of her words now. ’That’s all you two need.’ Sherlock squeezed John’s hands and nodded. “Together,” he replied almost solemnly.

Despite his new found confidence, Sherlock instantly tensed up as soon as Sean O’Mara entered the room. Like the other day, he was not able to deduce anything about the doctor’s mimic or gesture. He smiled, yes, he saw that but he was not able to observe the meaning behind the smile. Sherlock felt blind, as if someone had put an invisible curtain between him and the rest of the world which block off any deductive attempts. His stomach contracts painfully and he felt as if he would be sick again. John on the other hand was calm, completely calm, not even a glimpse of nervousness but, as always he sensed his partners feelings. He took Sherlock’s hand and gave him a reassuring smile.

“Your scans this morning were splendid. No sign of infection. And the wound is healing nicely,” Sean begun.

“What about the biopsy?” Sherlock interrupted in a low voice feeling on the edge of collapsing.

Sean’s smile spread into a wide grin. “Benign. I told you it would be. It was an adenoma, just like I suspected. No further treatment necessary.”

“Thank you, Sean,” John said and took a deep breath. “When can I go home?”

“Well,” Sean hesitated a moment. “Normally, I would like to keep you in over the weekend. But, as you are a doctor yourself AND when you promise to be careful and rest, then I am willing to release you tomorrow afternoon.”

John smiled and nodded. “I promise to behave.”

“He will,” Sherlock said. His voice was husky and his face a kaleidoscope of emotions - shock, relief, exhaustion, joy.

“Come here,” John whispered after Sean had left. Sherlock almost threw himself into an embrace. He nuzzled his face into John’s neck and held him tight. A quiet sob escaped him and he felt tears running down his face. Terrible useless things! Especially now. John was fine! Why did he cry?

“Shhhhh,” John whispered and had to suppress a sob himself as relieve washed over him and he finally understood what he had just learned. “It’s OK, Sherlock. I’m OK! Everything will be OK!”

They stayed silent for a while holding each other in their tight embrace. John occasionally stroking his fingers through Sherlock’s hair.

“Sorry,” Sherlock said when they finally split apart and looked at each other again. His eyes were red and puffy and he felt a bit embarrassed.

“Don’t worry,” John said whipping away some tears from his partner’s as well as his own face. “Sometimes happiness doesn’t go without tears.”

That reminded Sherlock of something John said to him once, after their first big row when Sherlock had difficulties coping with his negative feelings. He was angry and sad about the fight and almost panicked that John would leave him. Then John had hugged him too.

“There is no cherry-picking when it comes towards emotions. You get the whole package – joy and sorrow, happiness and sadness, laughter and anger. Two sides of a coin. They go together like light and dark.”

“Hey!” John said stroking over Sherlock’s cheeks once again. “Stop brooding.”

“I’m not brooding,” Sherlock said and smiled. “I just thought how much I’m looking forward to taking you home tomorrow.”

“Yeah, snoozing on the couch, watching a DVD, sounds like paradise after all this madness.”

“Well, I think I have already something in mind, we could take a look at.”

“YOU want to watch a movie?”

Sherlock grinned “Do you know the ‘Little Shop of Horrors?’”



- The End –



Author’s note:

I have no medical profession. All medical facts described in this story based on an internet research. If anyone noticed serious mistakes, don't hesitate to contact me (well, after you know how I am).

Thank you very much to my two beta-readers shouldbestudying and kittykat for their help!!!

Happy Holidays, Alyxpoe!


Dear Alyxpoe,

This little fic is for you! I hope you’ll enjoy reading it as much as I did enjoy writing it – although I have to admit that Vampires and AU aren’t really what I had expected. ;-)

But nevertheless, you asked for Johnlock, Vampires and AU – and this is it. But be warned: I cheated a bit with those Vampires, and it’s only slightly AU, and it’s also my very first Sherlock fanfic.

Enjoy!



Another First Encounter




When Sherlock arrived at the crime scene, Detective Inspector Lestrade was already waiting for him.

“So, Detective Inspector… you finally decided to invite me in on this”, Sherlock said, his eyes focusing on the body lying before him on the floor.

“Finally, what do you mean, finally?”, Lestrade asked.

“Well, Detective Inspector, four weeks ago a dead Klingon at a Star Trek Convention, two months prior to that a Hobbit drew his last breath at a Lord of the Rings Convention. And now a vampire is lying dead at a Fantasy gathering. I’m sensing a pattern here, wouldn’t you agree?”, the Consulting Detective explained, matter of factly. Before Lestrade could even think of an answer, Sherlock continued: “And who is he?”


With that, he motioned to a short man with blonde hair who was standing in a corner of the otherwise empty conference room. Lestrade indicated for the man to join them, and while he slowly walked towards them with a slight limp, the Inspector explained: “He is with the Paramedics team that’s assigned to the Convention. His name is John Watson, he’s a former army doctor who…”

“Yes, I can see that”, Sherlock interrupted, turned to the doctor and asked: “Have you come to any conclusions yet?”

“I beg your pardon…?”, was John Watsons irritated reply. Sherlock impatiently rolled his eyes and said: “Oh God, you certainly have been here long enough, staring at the body? Any conclusions?”

John Watson swallowed hard, then answered: “Well, the most important conclusion would be: He’s dead, stabbed in the back, no bite visible. Not really a very real vampire, I would say.”



Sherlock couldn’t help but to smirk. He now looked closer at the man, who was in his early forties, who had either been in Afghanistan or Iraq and who had a psychosomatic limp.

“A very accurate observation. Anything else?”, Sherlock asked.

“I thought they specifically called you to find out about anything else.” John Watson gave Sherlock a somewhat quizzical look, but the tall man with the curly hair had already turned back to the dead… vampire. After a few minutes of examining the body, he said to Lestrade: “You and your people will have to talk to every single… vampire out there. Let me know if you find anything of value.”

---------------

A few days later, Sherlock and John Watson met again in Lestrade’s office. Sherlock asked some more questions, John gave some more answers, and Sherlock grew more and more fascinated by the man who seemed startlingly unimpressed be Sherlock’s… Sherlockness. Admitted, John was surprised, fascinated, amazed when Sherlock effortlessly deduced him from head to toes, then again who wouldn’t be? But this was enjoyably (yes, enjoyably!) new: John wasn’t appalled by it or cynical about it, on the contrary. He didn’t hesitate to blurt out: “Extraordinary. Quite… extraordinary!”



It only took Sherlock a few minutes to know everything he needed to know about John Watson – or so he thought. But granted, the most important finding about the doctor right at that moment was: He was looking for a flat. And Sherlock was looking for a flat mate. And John was… well, acceptable, very acceptable. As acceptable a flat mate Sherlock could ever hope to find, even he, who didn’t do emotions and sentiment, realized this in a split second. And curiously he wasn’t so sure – and usually he was sure about everything! – whether or not ‘acceptable’ really was an… acceptable word to describe John Watson.

---------------

They met in front of 221B Baker Street the next evening. When they stepped into the living room, Sherlock took off his coat. John couldn’t help but notice the tight white shirt, the braces stretching across it, Sherlock’s lean and at the same time inviting body.



‘Hell, what’s wrong with you?’, John thought to himself and frantically tried to concentrate on something else, on the fire place (sitting in front of it next to Sherlock…), the leather sofa (being slouched on it with Sherlock…), the kitchen (standing at the sideboard with Sherlock pressing his body against John’s from behind), the bathroom with its washing machine (sitting on it with Sherlock… oh God… Oh God Yes!).


“John, is something wrong with you?”, Sherlock asked and stepped a little closer. Close enough for John to smell Sherlock’s hair, to be tempted to touch those ridiculously curly curls, to unstrap those braces…

“No, I’m fine, it’s all fine”, John somehow managed to answer. Sherlock looked at him closely, and John knew he needed to say something now, or otherwise…

“Uhm… how did you know my limp was psychosomatic?”, he asked.

“Well, for starters, I was pretty sure you hadn’t fallen off a horse”, Sherlock said.

“Pretty sure…? Well, I don’t really know anything about you, but ‘pretty sure’ doesn’t quite sound like you.”

“But no horse.”

“No horse, true. Riding a horse isn’t really… you know… uhm…”


Okay, that was it. John had to get a grip on himself. Whatever it was that was going on here, it had to stop, John had to make it stop. He clearly wasn’t himself, and he had no idea why. Well, that was not entirely true, he had an idea, a pretty good idea, for that matter. But going there probably wasn’t such a good idea, so he simply had to stop…



“John, stop it”, Sherlock said.

“Stop…what?”, John asked, surprised, nervous.

“Stop pretending you haven’t noticed.”

“Noticed? What?”

“Me, John”, Sherlock said, impatience resonating in his voice.

“What about you?”, John asked, breaking Sherlock’s gaze and trying to take a step back. But Sherlock was faster, he wouldn’t let him, he just grabbed John by his arms and drew him in even closer instead.

“I hate to admit it, but I don’t really know, John. I just know it’s because of you. And I know how you just looked at me when I took off my coat”, Sherlock said, his voice being a mere whisper now.

“Sherlock, I didn’t… I mean, I just happened to…”

“John, I know. I also just happened to…”


And with that Sherlock brought up his right hand to John’s face, then slowly, carefully caressed the doctor’s cheek, ear, nose, lips and finally – and later he wasn’t able to determine where he took the courage from to do something so unlike himself – brought his own lips to John’s mouth and kissed him. Kissed him for seconds or minutes or hours, neither of them would have been able to tell. And John kissed Sherlock back, cautiously at first, then more and more demanding, then again tender and hot, then all at once and even more.


When their lips finally parted, Sherlock felt as if he had known John Watson for all of his life. And John felt as if Sherlock had been there with him in Afghanistan, as if he had been there with John all along.

“Quite extraordinary”, John sighed, knowing just too well that those were two of the first words he had ever said to Sherlock.

“Oh god yes”, Sherlock said breathlessly, having no idea that he had just vocalized what John felt deep inside of himself.

“I don’t even know you”, John said. Sherlock smiled and answered: “I’d like to say the same about you, but… well, that would be a lie.”

“Show-off…”, John said.

“My John…”, Sherlock retorted.

“Shut up!”

“Make me…”



And after that, no more words were spoken in 221B Baker Street for a very long time. And it was all fine.

Happy Holidays, Solar!

I hope you will enjoy the fluff 



Many thanks to my beta-readers shouldbestudying and teaEarlGreyhot. You both did a wonderful job!




Whatever works

 

1

Everything started on that very evening in mid November when I came home from a truly nerve wrecking day at the hospital. I climbed up the stairs of 221B Baker Street, anticipating the five days off ahead of me and longing for nothing more than some quiet time in my armchair. But of course my wish was doomed right from the beginning.


When I entered the living-room, I found Sherlock standing in the middle of it, with a suitcase, staring at a pair of plane tickets. “Go on John and pack your luggage” he said without even looking up at me.


“What?” was all I managed to blurt out. He raised his head in bewilderment. “John” he said slowly as if I was mentally disabled “we will be at a professional conference for three days, so you will need your suitcase. The plane will take off in just a few hours.” 

 
“Sherlock, please!” I sighed. “I just came home from a disastrous day at work; I am looking forward to enjoying my much deserved days off and now you tell me something about a plane and a suitcase I have to pack?”


“Exactly”

 
“What?”

 
 “That’s exactly what just happened. You are really getting good in observing.”

 
I sighed again, more heavily this time. “Yes, but what I need now is context. Context, Sherlock! Why would I pack my suitcase? Where is this mysterious plane heading to? What the hell does that all mean?”  


Sherlock’s eyes which stared at me the whole time in a most scary and penetrating manner softened considerably during my speech.

 
“Right” he nodded, “I didn’t tell you about the conference yet.”

 
I rolled my eyes.
 

“The American Academy of Forensic Sciences has invited me as a guest speaker to their next conference” he explained. “It seems that finally someone has recognized the importance of tobacco ash” he added with a smirk.

 
I breathed deeply. It seemed that, after all, we got closer to the facts. “Fine, alright, a conference. I see. You were invited. Good for you. But what does this have to do with me?”

 
“Isn’t that obvious, John? You are going with me. I am afraid of flying!”

 
And that’s why, instead of enjoying some trash TV and a few pints of beer, I found myself on a plane soon after. Just that I had to hold hands with Sherlock was something that I did not entirely comprehend.

 

2  

I don’t think I have to explain how uncomfortable I felt, sitting in my Business Class seat next to Sherlock and holding hands with him. A lot of the other passengers were still squeezing their way through the narrow aisle and quite a few of them looked at us, bemused and obviously a little embarrassed too.

 
“Sherlock, why precisely are we holding hands?”

 
Sherlock’s forehead was pressed against the little window, he frowned. “I am afraid of flying, John, I already told you.”

 
“But holding hands will not prevent the plane from crashing” I replied. I can also be smarty-pants, sometimes.
 

“I think I am going to die, John.”


All of a sudden I felt sorry for that usually very proud and confident man next to me. To show a weakness surely was not easy for him. And his voice was thick of fear; his eyes were wandering around anxiously now as if he was checking that everything was going according to schedule.

 
“It’s alright, Sherlock” I said appeasing, patting his forearm with my free hand. I also had to confess to myself that I felt somehow flattered: Sherlock Holmes the genius, who usually didn’t even bring himself to shake hands with other people, was soothed by my very presence and more than that by physical contact with me.

So I decided to come to terms with my fate for once and to stand the strange looks we got from our neighbours and even from some of the stewards (homophobic bastards, all of them!).

 

3

By the time we finally arrived in Atlanta, USA, my whole body was stiff from sitting in the same position because Sherlock didn’t let go of my hand for the entire flight. He spent the whole time digging his fingernails into his seat (and into my hand), Sherlock looked quite exhausted after the flight, so we just jumped into the first cab we could find and shortly after arrived at the hotel he had booked.

 You can imagine that at that point I craved for nothing more than a soft, warm bed and some peace and privacy. Well, while my first wish became reality the second one got spoiled by the fact that Sherlock obviously booked only one room. One double room.
 

“Sherlock, why on earth would you do that?” I exclaimed when I found out, not being able to hide the huff in my voice. Gosh! Nothing, just nothing could ever be easy or “normal” with this man.

 But Sherlock was puffed up. “We are friends!”
 

“Yes, right, Sherlock” Jesus, I was just so tired, and tired of explaining the most basic rules of social behaviour over and over again. “We are friends, but that does not mean we have to sleep in the same room.”

 “Or in the same bed” I added indignantly as I just realized that this was exactly what we were going to do. Sleep in the same bed. 

 Not that this is happening for the first time. Of course I remember Baskerville and also some other occasions. Sometimes, I think it is better not to over-analyse or over-interpret these things, making it easier to keep consistent with your (hetero) sexual identity.    


Then, what happened was the following: we changed into our pyjamas, laid down in our bed, each of us tidily wrapped in his own blanket on his own side of the bed, of course, and Sherlock grabbed my hand.

I was surprised, to say the least.

 Wow.


I mean: why?


No, I mean: why didn’t I already pull my hand away?


“Sherlock?”


“Hmm?”

 
“Why did you just do that? Grab my hand?”

 “Don’t know. Just felt… good when we did it on the plane.”

 “Oh.”

There was silence and I didn’t even know if the situation was awkward or not. I mean, if it is awkward you should also feel awkward, right? But maybe it is also awkward not to feel awkward? Hell, this thought was leading nowhere.

 “Problem?”


I cleared my throat.

“Well…no, I guess it is fine.”


That night, although being dead tired, I stayed awake for hours on end, my heart beating in my throat, and my fingertips on Sherlock’s hand prickling with joy.

 

4

The next day something seemed to have changed. I got up and I felt strong and energized, in spite of everything that had happened the day before and the whole world seemed to be covered with gleam. I remembered the time in Afghanistan when I got a little too much morphine after my bullet wound. The feeling was quite similar. This time, I blamed it on the slight jetlag.

 During our breakfast in the dining-hall, Sherlock kept deducing everything and everyone around us. I hung on his lips, because he is brilliant. He really is, isn’t he? Actually, I don’t remember too much of what he said, but I do remember his face, so full of self-confidence, and pride over my admiration. And his smile, he smiled a lot that morning.

 We finally arrived at the conference, the destination of the whole trip. We listened to lectures about new developments in forensic sciences and in the breaks Sherlock met lots of people who all seemed to know him already. He introduced me as his partner and for once I didn’t object, despite the ambiguity. I just followed him around, like I always do.

 That’s how the days were passing: Sherlock spent the time impressing me and everyone else with his not deniable cleverness and I felt an immature gratification as I was the only one he let to be in his close vicinity. During the nights we were holding hands. It was perfect.

 

5

On the last day of the conference, Sherlock finally held his long-awaited presentation about his 200-something types of ash. It comes with no surprise that he gloriously fulfilled all expectations and that he was praised to the limit afterwards.
 

But when we came back to the hotel for our last stay there, he seemed to be not only very pleased, but also a little nervous. I explained that with the approaching flight the next day he would be anxious. With hindsight, I was probably wrong.

 I woke up in the night after restless sleep. Sherlock was awake too, he was lying on his side facing me and his eyes fixed on my face. I gazed back, too tired and confused to say anything.

 “I want to kiss you,” Sherlock said eventually.

His voice was firm, though scratchy, just a little.

 “Sherlock…” I started. My heart was beating like a drumfire. My brain was empty. I awaited the feeling of disgust, anger, or even horror.

 “Sherlock, we can’t do this.”

“Why not?” He sounded alarmed.

“Because…” I swallowed. “Don’t you understand? We are not gay. At least I’m not. No idea about you. This is just something I can’t do.”


“John” His voice was saturated with sweet tenderness now, letting shivers running down my spine.

 “John, I never had the urge to kiss or to be physically close to anybody in the world, except you. I don’t know if that makes me gay or not and I don’t care. It is just a label. All I know right now” he swallowed “is that I want to kiss you, so badly.”

 I swallowed too and all of a sudden I realized that the feeling that was growing inside me more and more was not disgust, as I assumed before, but desire. My lips parted as I breathed deeply. I saw Sherlock’s face in front of me; it was closer now than before. I closed my eyes and at the same moment I felt his lips pressing gently on mine. I am quite sure the world stopped turning in that very moment. After we parted, Sherlock beamed at me and whimsically he murmured “You do know, that in fact, I am not afraid of flying, don’t you?” “Oh, shut up” I growled and pulled him back to me.  

 And that’s basically where we are now, Sherlock and I. We share the same bed, we share intimacy and we kiss. I can’t think of anything better than hanging around with him, listening to him, seeing his face, being by his side, all the time. I don’t care if you think we are a couple or that he is my boyfriend or even that I am gay. I just don’t think that way. Not anymore. I guess, we just do whatever works.

 

tonnaree wrote:

Those were all wonderful!

But I did get espcially excited reading this quote:

"By the time we finally arrived in Atlanta, USA, "

JOHN AND SHERLOCK WERE HERE AND I DIDN'T KNOW IT!!!

It's great that you liked the stories. We agreed on not posting comments in this thread however, since there'd probably be too much hullaballoo, making it harder to scroll from one fic to the next. Therefore, comments should stay in the other Secret Santa Thread.

Happy Holidays, YukinaKid!


YukinaKid: I hope that this story as short as it is fills your wishes just a little (note from the author who originally was supposed to write fic for you)

Note from Kerkerian: One of the authors found herself inconvenienced, but she found a friend who stood in for her.



*+*
Death warmed over... He'd heard someone use that phrase once in relation to being sick but he hadn't known what it would feel like until now. In fact, before now he'd thought it a complete and unnecessary exaggeration. He had finally settled in bed, medicine finally taking effect and his body starting to relax when the doorbell rang.

Well, rang was the kind phrase for it. By the sixth ring, going straight through his head, Lestrade managed to drag himself to an upright position but it wasn't until the twelfth ring that he made it to the door. "What in the bloody..."

"Ah good, you're awake," Sherlock said, stepping past Lestrade into the apartment. A sheepish looking John Watson was right behind him.

"We're sorry to intrude," John started.

"What are you doing here? I called in sick for a reason."

"Well I certainly couldn't be expected to deal with Anderson and Donovan. Besides, I had information on the case that you might find of interest."

"And it's a waste of time being that I'm not on duty today."

"Then I should think you could bring that in tomorrow. One of my more genius conclusions."

Lestrade stared at the other man for a long moment. "Wait a minute... is this your attempt to cheer me up?" John's expression clearly indicated that it was indeed.

"This is indeed one of the cases you've been attempting to solve for a few years is it not?" Sherlock asked. "That alone should cheer you up."

Lestrade gave a long sigh and would have shot Sherlock a glare, but was interrupted by another fit of coughing.

John winced as Lestrade tried to catch his breath, “That cough sounds really bad. Have you seen a doctor about it yet, Greg?”

The other man shook his head. “No, it's just the flu, mate.” When John looked like he was going into full doctor mode on him, the DI quickly added, “It is the flu I've got. It's been going around the Yard for a few weeks now and I'm just the latest poor sod unlucky enough to catch it, is all.”

“If you're certain that's all it is –“

Sherlock gave an impatient roll of the eyes, “Yes, yes, of course he is certain, John. Even Lestrade is smart enough to make such a simple deduction as this one!”

“And on that note,” John said, as he began to push Sherlock towards the door. “I think it's time we left!”

“But I haven't shared the cold case solutions yet!” The consulting detective fairly whined.

“They've been unsolved for five years. They can bloody wait a few more days for Greg to get well!” John retorted, giving Sherlock one last push to get him out the door before disappearing himself.

A few minutes after they left, Lestrade was awaken briefly by a text alert on his mobile.

Call me if your cough gets ANY worse. – John