A/N: Hello darlings, I'm back with another romantic Johnlock fic for your delight and pleasure. This has wildly gotten out of control and will be several chapters long. I'm not even done writing it all up, but I decided considering how long it's been taking to finish, I'd go ahead and start posting in the mean time. It is deliciously long and fluffy and I hope you all enjoy it.

Thanks as ever to OldPingHai, who betas these things for me. I'd be lost without her.

John breathed out a sigh of distress. It had been a long day at the surgery and all he wanted to do was put up his feet with a nice cup of tea. But alas, it was not meant to be. For that idiot of a flatmate of his had decided to up and faint at a crime scene.

John was on his way home from work when Greg called to tell him that Sherlock was in the hospital. He had collapsed while chasing a criminal. So, okay, it wasn't exactly a crime scene, but it was damn near close enough.

So instead of going home like he had so desperately wanted, he had gotten off the Tube and taken a cab to St. Mary's. At least someone had the forethought not to send him to Bart's. He dashed into the A&E to find a harried-looking Greg waiting for him.

"John!" the Detective Inspector called as soon as Greg spotted him.

John rushed over. "Hey! What happened, precisely?" he asked.

"Christ, if I know," Greg huffed. "He dashed off like always. By the time me and my team caught up to him, the suspect was gone, and Sherlock was there on the ground. There was no physical damage or any indication he was drugged, so passed out is the best thing they could figure."

"Have they said anything since the initial diagnosis?" John asked.

Greg shook his head. "Not to me they haven't." He jerked his head down the hallway, "Mycroft is speaking with them now." John followed Greg's eyes to see the politician talking to an older female doctor. But not one he was familiar with. She must have been fairly new then.

John sighed. There was nothing he could do until Mycroft was through talking to her. He slumped into a nearby plastic chair and hung his head over his knees, elbows on his thighs. Five minutes later a cup of very black coffee was being thrust under his face.

He looked up to see Greg eyeing him wearily. "You look as bad as I feel," the Inspector remarked as John took the cup of coffee.

John drank a long sip of the coffee, letting the caffeine hit his system. "Long shift at the surgery, two of the doctors on staff called in sick today."

"Why do you stay there?" Greg asked as he took a sip of his own coffee. "It's not for the money. Even I know that. You two are making it hand over fist with his little sleuthing thing he does on the side when he's not helping the Met."

"I know. Just need something outside this-" he waved vaguely Sherlock's direction.

Greg cocked his head to the side. "You still get together to watch games with your old rugby team, right?"

"Well, yeah, but-"

"You still see Bill Murray and your old army mates, yeah?"

"Okay, but-"

"You got other friends, right? Like the boys at the Met and your fellow doctors and nurses, you see them outside work, yeah?"

John nodded. When he wasn't working with Sherlock he was down at the pub with one group of friends or another.

"Well, guess who he's got?"

John sighed. "Just me."

"Too right. Now, it seems to me that you are wearing yourself out when you don't have to be."

John hung his head. "God, you're right. And I've known for a long time now."

"Good." Greg looked down the hall. "Perfect timing. Here comes Mycroft."

John glanced to where the tall politician was strolling toward them swinging his umbrella back and forth like a pendulum. Mycroft was not his usual self. He looked very ruffled for a man who was usually so put together.

John rose to his feet, clenching and unclenching his left hand. "Is he okay?" he asked before either man had time to say a word.

Greg gave him a strange look, before asking Mycroft, "What happened?"

He ignored John's question. "According to his doctor, he fainted. Apparently, it has been over a week since he last consumed anything besides the occasional biscuit and a cup of tea or two. Usually because Mrs Hudson made it for him." He finally turned to John, casting him an accusatory glare.

The blond sighed heavy and deep. It was reminiscent of his sigh when he first heard of Sherlock's hospitalization, only more resigned. But he squared his shoulders and lifted his chin.

"He's a grown man, Mycroft. I'm his friend and flatmate, not his keeper. I can't force him to do anything."

The taller man raised a sceptical eyebrow and Greg snorted in disbelief. John glared at them both.

"You might not be my brother's keeper, Dr Watson, but surely it hasn't escaped even your notice that he tends to eat and sleep more when you are around than when you are absent?"

John scowled at his shoes. How many times had he come home from a long week at work where he had barely seen the detective, only to find out that not only was he on his fourth nicotine patch, he hadn't slept in days and had been subsisting on biscuits and scones.

"More like stealing from my plate or falling asleep on my lap," John groused. It was a pale argument, more like a token protest.

"Sounds almost romantic to me," Mycroft said with a barely concealed smile.

Greg snorted an aborted laugh when John's head snapped up to glare at the smug politician.

John had opened his mouth to retort when a nurse came out clutching a clipboard.

"Dr Watson?" she asked. John's jaw snapped closed with a click.

"Hey, Amy," he greeted. He and Sherlock had been to this hospital so often that almost all the nurses and doctors knew him.

"If you'll come with me," she said with a smile.

John nodded and then stood up. "You'll excuse me. They probably want to go over a few things with me about Sherlock." He followed the nurse, pointedly ignoring the smiles from Greg and Mycroft.

They stopped in front of Sherlock's room and John glanced through the window at his friend. Sherlock's eyes were closed, but John could see the stamps of his malnutrition on the circles under those fluttering eyelashes. His skin was sallow, having lost its healthy glow, and his cheekbones stood out more prominently then ever before. He sighed. This was the product of weeks of self-neglect. He had just been too busy to notice.

Amy coughed discreetly. John looked at her startled, knowing full well the expression on his face was more fond than worried. It seemed that Sherlock had that effect on him. If other people had done what he had, John would be furious. But, no, he was fond. Damn it.

She smiled at him. "He's fine, John. Nothing good, regular feedings won't cure."

John knew that, he did. "Thank you."

"Normally we'd just release him into your care as soon as he woke up. But to be honest, you look like shit."

John laughed. He supposed he did; lack of sleep and no breaks at work today had completely done him in.

"Seriously, John. You look like a good stiff wind would knock you over. We can suffer one night with him if you want to go home and get a good night's sleep before tackling a grumpy flatmate."

John looked back into the room. "Thank you, but no. He'll go right back to sleep once we get home. And if I can't take care of a sleeping detective, I wouldn't be much of a doctor now, would I?"

Amy smiled. "I guess not. Just press the call button when you are ready to go, and I'll bring the release papers."

"Thanks."

"Any time, John. You take care of that mad man of yours," she said with a grin.

John laughed. "I'll certainly try." He gave her arm a squeeze and then walked into Sherlock's room.

Up close Sherlock looked worse. This was a man who had stopped caring about himself and that made John's heart ache. Instinctively John reached out and ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair and immediately the detective's eyes fluttered open.

John continued to card Sherlock's hair as the younger man looked up at him.

"There you are," John said with a smile, "you had me worried, you know?" He smoothed Sherlock's hair back out of his face.

"I'm sorry." Sherlock blushed. "I never meant to. Damn this transport!" He hit the side of the mattress causing the most unangry-like sound in the history of mankind, a mild foof.
"Hey, I happen to like this transport," John said in mock indignation.

Sherlock ducked his head away from John. "I wasn't asleep when you came in," he mumbled.

"Oh? Checking your eyelids for leaks, then?" John asked.

Sherlock snorted. "No. I didn't want to listen to Mycroft drone on and on about how careless I was, so I pretended to fall asleep."

"Did it work?" John asked with a raised eyebrow.

"No," he replied, sulkily. He looked down and away, causing John to have to chase him to keep his fingers soothing Sherlock's curls.

"I behaved childishly," Sherlock muttered.

John's hand stopped its movement. "Is that what Mycroft said?"

Sherlock refused to meet his eye. John gently took his friend's cheeks in his hands. "He did, didn't he?"

Sherlock nodded awkwardly in John's hands.

"I thought you were against listening to your brother," the doctor said.

"Even when he's right?"

"Especially then," John said as he brought Sherlock's forehead to his own.

Sherlock sighed. "I would only eat or sleep when you were home, and if I happened to fall asleep before you came home no matter how hard I tried to stay awake and you were gone before I awoke, I wouldn't eat at all. There were times that Mrs Hudson would force biscuits on me, but other than that..."

"Why?"

Sherlock sighed. That was the question, wasn't it? "I was trying to punish you for being away all the time," he admitted after a long silence.

All right, John agreed silently, that was childish. "Maybe a bit childish, then." Sherlock wrenched his face away from John's hands, but the good doctor merely cupped his fingers around his friend's chin and pulled him back to look at him. "But I have been gone. Far, far too often lately and I didn't think about what that might do to you, and I'm sorry."

Sherlock finally looked up at John, a wide-eyed expression of wonder on his face. John thought his friend looked so adorable in that instant. Not that he would tell Sherlock that; the detective had an aversion to things that put him in a light that went against his cool facade.

That wonder slipped off Sherlock's face and he grimaced. "I assume that they are releasing me tomorrow after a night of observation."

John chuckled. "Nope," he said popping the "p".

"Against medical recommendation?" Sherlock asked with a questioning raise of his eyebrow.

John shook his head, "Nope, maybe against 'Mycroft recommendation', but no. They know by now that I am more than capable of taking care of you."

Sherlock straightened up and immediately swung his feet out of bed. John moved to the side and watched as Sherlock stood, wobbled, and promptly sat back down.

"I said you were ready to go home, I didn't say you could do so of your own volition." Sherlock glared at him. "Look, Sherlock, you've fainted. You haven't got your strength back yet."

"And how long will it take to get back?" the detective groused.

"A few days at least," John said, crossing his arms over his chest and giving Sherlock a firm glare.

"Days?!" Sherlock protested.

"Yes, Sherlock, days."

"How am I going to survive?" Sherlock moaned.

"You'll live; I'm going to be there, remember?"

Sherlock sighed. "What about other things?"

"Sherlock, I've seen you naked before, I assure you helping you in the bath and taking a piss will not be a problem for me, unless it will be a problem for you?" Sherlock shook his head. "Good, we'll start with getting you out of that hideous gown and into some real clothes. We can't have you showing that arse of yours to everyone, now can we?"

Sherlock blushed and let John bully him into the clothes he had been wearing when he fainted.

John pressed the call button for the nurse and Amy arrived with the release papers and a wheelchair for Sherlock.

Amy helped Sherlock into the chair while John signed him out. Then the three of them made their way to a waiting taxi, Amy helping John get Sherlock into the vehicle.

All the way home, Sherlock lay pressed against John's side, his head on the doctor's shoulder, sighing happily as John ran his fingers through the detective's dark curls.