Hi. This story came out of nowhere and it just pasted itself to my brain. So I just had to write it.

Features sick!Sherlock and caring!John. Not intended to be slash. Just friendship. Strong friendship. But for all those shippers out there, get out your telescopes or periscopes or ... whatever.

And, yeah. Sherlock's all mine. That's why I'm writing fanfiction. Sigh. You know the truth anyway. I'm just a Sherlockian like you. Whiling away time until season 5 by writing (and reading) fanfiction.

But I do own something. YOU. Muahahahaha. You are within my power.

No, actually, I'm in your power. So I'll update if you want me to {and if you review ; )}.

Now, ta da . . .

When there's nothing, we still have each other.

Hammer pounding staccato rhythms against his head.

Waves of pain that sent ripples of more pain at even a minute movement.

Hot, as if he was roasting in the sun.

Cold, as if he was drowning in the frigid waters of the Arctic ocean.

Opening his eyes only made the ceiling above him turn into an artist's palete, the colours mixing into a giant swirl of madness and bright and spinning and ...

It hurt.

So he closed his eyes again.

The fever had raged in his body for almost half a day now. It had caught him unawares. He had woken up on the couch where he had dozed off (dozed off? Since when did he 'doze off'?) at around five in the morning, while pondering about the various uses of Hirudo medicinalis and if it could help him in his new experiment.

He knew he should call someone. Should call John. John would know what to do. John always knew what to do. But John must've gone off to the stupid surgery, simply shutting the door when there was no reply to his 'Bye Sherlock'. Of course he had thought that Sherlock was sleeping (as rare as that was). He must've chosen not to disturb him. Maybe if Sherlock had been awake, he would have told John to stay.

But for now he could take some paracetamol in an effort to reduce the fever or maybe take a cool bath. And he should drink something. John would want him to stay hydrated. And John would want him to rest. To cover himself with at least a thin blanket to ward off the shivers.

But it hurt. God, it was agony. It hurt to move, hurt to cough, hurt to turn his head, hell, it even hurt to breathe. He'd thought breathing was boring. Now he came to the conclusion that it was also painful.

Everything was painful. All he wanted was to sleep. Or maybe die. But John wouldn't like that. Nor would or Lestrade.

No, he couldn't die. So he tried to sleep.

But he couldn't. At least not fully.

He hung there, by that line that separated consciousness and unconsciousness. Neither asleep nor awake.

But it made the nightmares worse. He knew they weren't real. Knew he should wake up, but couldn't. That made it all the more worse. Knowing that there was no escape from the nightmares.

Where was John? John would help him. He always did. John always saved him. Stupid, reckless Sherlock. Always getting himself into messes. But John was always there to rescue him. To catch him when he fell.

So where was he? Had John left him? No, he wouldn't do that . . . would he?

Could be dangerous.

Coming?

Oh God, yes.

Dying. That's what people DO!

Heartless. But we both know that's not quite true, Sherlock.

Moriarty. A bomb strapped to John. Laser beams pointed to John. John in danger.

John.

Afghanistan or Iraq. The Beginning.

Is that my laptop?

There's a head in the fridge.

I don't have any friends. Yeah, I wonder why?

I don't have any friends. I just have one.

He's with me. Yeah, but who is he? I said he's with me.

He's my friend. Friend? Colleague.

Colleague. Colleague. Colleague.

Was that all he was to John? What if one day he got tired of Sherlock and went on to find new friends. Or maybe went to live with Mike Stamford. Or Lestrade. What would Sherlock, the heartless, cold, rude detective, whom nobody wanted, who was a freak, do then? Because he could never live without John. John was the only one who could put up with him. John made it bearable. No, John made it better. John made him happy. Nobody else wanted him.

Freak.

You're a psychopath.

Not good? Bit not good, yeah.

Sherlock! Timing.

You always say such horrible things. Always.

I am sorry.

Sorry. Sorry. How many times had he even apologized to anyone in his whole life? Once, twice? John had taught him the little things. Saying sorry and thankyou. Had turned down his rudeness a notch. Taught him that it was okay to show emotions. Feelings. Sentiment. (Not that he showed it much just because of that).

But John had given him a reason to really live for. A belief that there was someone who really did care for him. Who told him to eat, drink, sleep. Who tended his wounds. Fussed like a mother hen.

John. John. John.

John would run his fingers through his hair, soothing him. He would chase away the nightmares. He would never tell it to John, but he did enjoy the occasional pat on the shoulder, the occasional hug. There was something about John's touch that made him feel alright.

Maybe that was why he had become a doctor. He must be good at calming down patients. Perhaps it had something to do with him being a soldier. Calm and controlled. Brave, brave soldier, John Watson. Serving the country, saving lives.

So unlike Sherlock. Sherlock with his drug habits, his nasty comments, his emotions locked away. Sherlock who was Afraid of his emotions.

Look at me John. I'm afraid.

Emotions. The grit on the lens. The fly in the ointment.

It's okay. It'll be okay. As long as John was there. Only if John was there.

"Jhn"

Speaking was a mistake. The simple word uttered made his dry throat clench up, triggering a series of coughs.

Couldn't breathe. Breathing wasn't boring. He had to breathe. He had to sit up. But the coughs sent agony rushing through every bone, muscle and nerve in his transport. He couldn't find the strength to turn, let alone sit up.

Suddenly he could breathe. It wasn't a full breaths, rather short gasps. But he couldn't help it. He knew he should calm down. He was close to hyperventilating.

"Slow, Sherlock. In. Out. Slowly. With me, mate. Come on now. Slow down."

Slowly Sherlock calmed his breaths, copying John's. John? When did he come here?

He asked as much. Or at least tried to.

"Jhn" was as far as he got before another fit of coughs overtook him.

A hand rubbed his back, propping him up and soothing the coughs a little.

Murmured words were directed at him. He couldn't hear above the buzzing in his ears.

A hand descended on his forehead.

Cool ... and yet warm at the same time. The hand (John's, Sherlock's mind supplied) smoothed back his sweat drenched hair back.

"Sherlock. Open your eyes for me. Come on. Just for a few minutes."

For John. Of course.

He opened his eyes into slits, wincing as the hammer increased it's vigorous pounding at his head.

A brownish, blondish blob with grey green eyes floated above him.

"Good. Sherlock, look at me. Focus. That's good. Now have you taken anything?"

No. No, he had given up drugs. Given it up for John.

"Nnoo. No drugs. I promised."

His desperation made his voice clearer.

"No. Sherlock, that's not what I meant. I know you didn't take drugs. I meant paracetamol or something. To reduce the fever."

"Can't. Hurrs, Jhn."

"Ssshhh. I know. I'm going to fetch some tablets, okay? I'm assuming you didn't have anything to drink either. I'll be right back, alright?"

"M'm, 'k"

John had left to get medicine and water. Or maybe juice. Loyal John. Always helping him. Taking care of him. Yes, John would take care of him. He could sleep now. At least until John came back with the medicine. Then he would take it and maybe ...

He was asleep between one breath and the next.

Why was it taking John so long to fetch the tablets?

"John, where are you?"

He looked surprised to hear his voice ringing strong and clear. Hmm, strange.

John had his bag packed. Sherlock felt his heart pound harder.

"I'm going away Sherlock. I can't believe I stuck with you for so long. You are a freak."

Freak. He couldn't believe that John called him that. It had to be a dream. A nightmare.

A nightmare with no escape.

"No. Please, John. Don't leave. I'll be better. I promise."

Nightmare-John just laughed. A cold cruel laugh, unlike the soft, warm laugh of the real John. His John. His blogger and best friend.

Friend? Colleague.

No. John did not mean that. He couldn't have.

Without John he would fall. Drown. Suffocate. Burn.

I'll burn you. Ill burn the HEART out of you.

Burn. Heart.

Burn. John.

"JOHN."

"Hey, hey, hey. It's okay. It's okay. I'm here, Sherlock. You're dreaming. I'm right here. Open your eyes."

John. He was here. He hadn't left. He didn't call him a ...

"John. 'm no' a frea'. 'm sorry. I be goo'. Frien'. Yo' my frien'."

"Of course, you're not a freak. You are a good man. You have the most biggest heart. And you are and always will be my best friend."

Glassy eyes met clear ones. The firm words of John releasing Sherlock from the nightmare.

"Promise? Promise you won' leave?"

"Of course, you git. I promise. I made that promise a long time ago. After all what would you do without me?"

"M'm. Los' withou' my blogger."

"Right. Now swallow these pills. Try should help with the fever."

A hand was under his head, raising it. Two pills were placed in his mouth and he felt cool glass against his lips.

A sip. Then two. A gulp. Within seconds he was gulping down the tall glass of water as fast as he could. He couldn't get enough.

The glass was withdrawn from his lips. He whimpered.

"Slowly, Sherlock. Slow sips. Don't want to bring it all up, do we?"

The glass returned. And Sherlock sipped a little more slowly.

John gently lowered him back onto the couch.

A fluffy warm blanket was draped over him and he sighed, relishing in the warmth.

A chair leg scraped the floor.

"Sleep, Sherlock. I'll be here."

Sherlock drifted to sleep, turning his head slightly towards the hand carding through his hair.

A/N: Hope you enjoyed. Please read and review. And I'll update if I get any interest or I may just end it here. It's in your hands, people, people, people.

Ta,

L.S.