"The best thing about dreams is that fleeting moment, when you are between asleep and awake, when you don't know the difference between reality and fantasy, when for just that one moment you feel with your entire soul that the dream is reality, and it really happened."

John rarely got sick. When he was younger, he could only remember staying home from school three times: a whole week in kindergarten when he had the chicken pox, another week in second grade when he got his tonsils removed, and half a day in middle school when he (along with about a third of the other students) got food poisoning from the cafeteria one Friday. That was it. He'd never missed a single class in university or med school due to actual illness, though, admittedly, there were quite a few that he skipped thanks to partying just a bit too hard the night before. His naturally-healthy constitution, combined with the heightened immunities that doctors tended to get thanks to exposure to any number of contagious patients, generally kept him in pretty good form. Every fall, just to be safe, he went to get the flu vaccine, and he made sure the rest of his boosters were always up-to-date.

Unfortunately, that meant that on the rare occasion that some bug did make it through his beastly immune system, it was a ghastly old thing, and it would put him out of commission for days. This winter's flu was no exception.

John had felt the beginnings of some kind of illness on Tuesday afternoon, when his throat just wouldn't stop tickling and a steady ache took up residence in his forehead. Still, at that point he dismissed the symptoms as allergies—dust and mold were starting to build up in the old buildings as windows were pulled tight against the cold outdoors and ancient furnaces roared to life. On Wednesday morning, he had to fight to pry his eyes open, and when he tried to get out of bed, he felt as though he'd been hit by a truck. He groaned softly as he realized that there was no way he was going to make it in to work today (or, potentially, for the rest of the week) and called Sarah to let her know, and to apologize. He heard the frustration in her voice, but also the pity that had been present there for a long time now. She wouldn't say anything bad to him even if he had been calling in sick due to a hangover. No one said anything bad to him anymore, not since Sherlock died.

He tossed his mobile onto his nightstand and lay back against the pillows. There was a lot that he should be doing right now, he knew. He should shower, get some water and paracetamol and keep both near his bed. Maybe he should brew some tea and put it in a Thermos, and he should definitely bring toast or crackers up to his room before he got worse. Mrs. Hudson had left for a two-week cruise with some new boyfriend (John had met him and didn't really approve, although he certainly seemed like a nice enough old man) and he knew he'd be better much worse before he got better. He fought with himself for a few minutes, then finally dragged himself out of bed and down the stairs.

It would probably be smart to just stay in Sherlock's old room, he mused as he padded past the door that he kept closed and locked, but the idea was too...hard. His coping mechanism, of which his therapist hadn't quite approved) had been to pack up the man's things into neat stacks of cardboard boxes and stuff them all into the now-superfluous bedroom, then lock the door and put the key on top of the refrigerator. He couldn't leave the flat, wouldn't leave Mrs. Hudson all alone in the empty building, but he also didn't want to have to face Sherlock's things on a daily basis. It was working, and he was not about to mess with that by wrapping himself in a duvet which may or may not still hold familiar traces of his old flatmate.

John tossed a few necessities into a box on the kitchen table, then gripped the counter as he waited for the kettle to boil. The few times that he ever became truly ill, he remember wanting to do nothing except lie in bed and melt into the blankets. With Sherlock around, that had been next to impossible. A jolting pang ran through his body at the thought, and he couldn't be sure if it was because of his growing aches and pains or simply the memories. He'd ascribe it to the former and just forget about it. Finally, the water was hot enough and John poured it into the Thermos with a handful of tea bags. Just to be safe, he skipped the milk this time.

John struggled to haul his supplies up to his bedroom, and finally dropped the box on the floor next to his bed. Energy spent, he flopped down onto the mattress and pulled the covers up to his chin, then closed his eyes and vowed to let the germs run their course.

He didn't know how long he stayed asleep, but the next time John opened his eyes, the only thing he was really aware of was a sense of lost time. Colors and shapes swam through his vision, and the light of the room seemed just slightly different than it had before. He wasn't sure what had awakened him, and, what's more, he wasn't sure if the blurry dragon perched on his windowsill was real.

"Fever..." he mumbled through cracked lips, trying to sit up. He should take his temperature. He leaned over the side of the bed to search through the supplies-box for the little glass tube, but his limbs weren't really cooperating and he couldn't see much of anything. That fanged ball of fur sitting on top of the tin of biscuits was surely a hallucination, he decided, while the blood rushed through his head. Okay, taking his temperature was not an option, so he would have to just feel it out. He was hot. Very hot, in fact, but also shivering. This was easily the worst part of being sick. He groaned again, and weighed the pros versus cons of sitting up to retrieve his blanket. Finally, the shivers began to win out, and he struggled into a sitting position and reached for the crumpled-up sheets at the foot of the bed.

Mistake. The room began to spin, angles stretching elastic around him. He was vaguely aware of that dragon leaping from the windowsill and fleeing out the door, but that hardly seemed like his main problem. John pressed the heels of his hands against his eye sockets, willing his body to get back under control. He was too hot. The thought came unbidden, but as soon as he thought it, he knew he was right. This fever was very likely approaching dangerous levels.

"'kay," John rasped. His throat was hot and scratchy. He'd probably been asleep for hours now. "Shower. Up, John." His urgings were largely ineffectual, but he did manage to swing his feet over the edge of the bed. The floor felt freezing. After a moment's rest, John struggled to his feet. The room was swaying again, and he couldn't decide whether it was because he was unsteady or simply because his brain was cooking. He was too busy giggling about the thought of sauteed brains with some kind of garlic-and-herb sauce to realize that someone was slipping their arms under his to keep him from pitching forward.

He made his way through the darkness of the flat and the fog of his fever into the bathroom. It was only when he had gotten the shower going and was tugging on his shirt that he realized there was someone in the room with him. "Jesus...!" he hissed, pressing against the wall and pulling his shirt down over his chest. His heart was racing faster than before, now, and he fought to clear his vision. Longish curly hair, silky white shirt with buttons working harder than they should, slightly amused bluish-gray eyes... John sat down, very hard, on the toilet. Sherlock. Sherlock who was dead.

He braced his head in his hands for a moment. This whole being-sick thing was getting ridiculous. The fever was almost certainly dangerously high at this point, especially if he was having hallucinations. Thankfully, the doctor side of his brain finally decided to kick into gear, and he stripped off his clothing. If he was hallucinating, he really just needed to bring down the fever. He could deal with his brain's chosen imagery later, when he was in less danger.

He climbed carefully into the tub, and braced himself against the spray. According to his hands, the water was lukewarm (he'd tested it before getting in, of course), but it felt like ice hitting the rest of his body. Still, it was good. He closed his eyes, relishing the the cool water, but regretted his decision almost immediately. He felt himself losing his balance, and opened his eyes just in time to see the tile rushing up to meet his face.

Then they stopped.

John blinked a few times while his overheated brain attempted to process this new change in the laws of gravity. Finally he became aware that, once again, there were arms wrapped around his chest, holding him up. John stood up, feeling much steadier now, and felt brave enough to let his eyes slip closed again. There were plenty of rational explanations for this. As his body temperature got lower, he would be regaining coordination, but he was still just feverish enough to be hallucinating.

In his mind, Sherlock stood behind him under the water. He was definitely shirtless, but John couldn't tell if he'd also removed the rest of his clothes. It didn't really matter, because certainly as a hallucination, Sherlock would dry off immediately. The image of Sherlock shaking himself off like a dog after a bath came unbidden, and John dissolved into yet another fit of giggles. Since he was being supported by a rather corporeal figment of his imagination, he didn't fight them, just stood there naked under the lukewarm spray of water, laughing his head off while the pretend ghost of his former flatmate stood behind him in some level of nakedness, holding him up. Neither of them spoke until John started shivering.

"That's enough." Sherlock's words were soft, but they seemed to vibrate through the both of them. "Come on."

John stepped out of the shower and was pleased to notice that the walls was no longer doing strange things and that he was feeling much steadier on his feet. He reached for a towel, and imagined that Sherlock-the-hallucination took it from him, first rubbing it vigorously through his hair (John stepped closer to the other man just in case his brain took him off balance again) and then carefully, methodically, dried the rest of his body. He seemed to hesitate when he hit John's waist and below, as though his mind couldn't even allow the ghost of Sherlock Holmes to come into contact with him in such an intimate way, and John took the towel back, finishing the job.

"This is mad," he heard himself mutter. "Absolutely bonkers." He couldn't look at the hallucination. It seemed too real, which made it too painful. Then again, it was much better to see Sherlock than, for example, the gory face of some soldier he'd failed. At least his brain wasn't torturing him with that much guilt. "Well, thank you very much, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, but I should probably go back to bed now, before I pass out and bash my skull open and start dreaming about dragons in top hats and Harry wearing tap shoes..."

The ghost stepped aside without a word, and John could feel him follow him all the way back to his room. He stayed just a few steps behind him on the stairway, and once, when John misjudged the distance to the next step and began to fall forward, strong hands on his hips pulled him back into an upright position. Massively beneficial, this whole mental breakdown thing. John patted the hand before it released him, and finally slid between the sheets. They had cooled considerably in his absence, and felt delicious against his heated skin.

The ghost had disappeared, but John found himself thankful for all that he'd done already. Maybe that was the purpose of the dream—helping him make sense of his perilous trek to the shower until he could bring his body temperature back down to a manageable level. His eyes were just slipping closed again when he heard catlike footsteps approaching his bed. The dream was back, standing there silhouetted in the light from the hallway and holding out a fresh glass of water. John took it without question and downed a couple more paracetamol. Helpful.

That clinched it. When Sherlock was alive and not dragging John all over London, he was perfectly content to play with thumbs and livers in the kitchen while John rode out the worst of his illnesses.

"Cheers," John mumbled to the ghost, and felt a small sort of aftershock of giggles run through him. "If you're tired, your room's still pretty much the way you left it. Do ghosts sleep?" He wasn't entirely sure what else he said, or whether Sherlock actually left his room, because he quickly drifted off to sleep, whispering something about sleeping upside down and turning into bats.

The next time John woke up, the light streaming through his windows made him cringe, but at least he didn't feel as though he were bathing in fire. He blinked a few times and pressed the back of his hand to his forehead. Sure, as a doctor he knew that it wasn't very accurate, but it did tell him that his skin wasn't burning up. He leaned over the side of the bed to dig through the box, but as he did, a mug on the nightstand caught his attention. Last night had been strange, but he didn't remember making tea. He reached out to touch the side, then yanked his hand back. It was still hot.

Surely he hadn't sleepwalked downstairs, boiled the kettle, prepared the tea, sleepwalked back upstairs, gone to sleep, and then awakened only a few minutes later? John scratched the back of his neck. There were no noises coming from anywhere else in the flat. He'd long since stopped listening for the violin, stopped dreading hearing explosions or anything like that, but clearly someone's been in the flat, so why shouldn't he believe that they're not still there?

John got out of bed, but kept his duvet wrapped around his shoulders. He didn't want to be stuck in his room all day. After all, there wass an entire flat downstairs, minus one little room, so why shouldn't he stretch out on the couch under his blankets and watch whatever garbage they showed on the telly during the day and just generally mope about? He was reasonably certain that wouldn't fall down the stairs, after all.

So he made his way downstairs, exceedingly careful not to trip over his blanket or dump the tea down his front. By the time he was all set up on the sofa with the remote and his laptop and the cushion from his chair, the tea was practically the perfect temperature. With a yawn that ended in a miserable groan, John settled in for a long day. He was asleep before the talk show came back from commercials.

The next time John opened his eyes, he realized that there was someone perched in Sherlock's old chair. He blinked a few times, to clear his vision, but he already sort of knew who it would be. Strange, he didn't feel feverish this time. He pressed his wrist to his forehead and wished he'd remembered to bring the box of supplies downstairs as well.

The dream-Sherlock was sitting cross-legged in the chair like he so often did, fingers steepled perfectly under his chin. His sharp eyes were trained intently on John's huddled form, and his face brightened a bit when he saw that he was awake.

"Ah! You're awake. Good. How was the tea? I'm a bit out of practice."

John blinked a few more times. Had the dream spoken to him this much last night? It was all sort of blurry, but he should have remembered something like that, right? "It was good," he finally replied. "Thanks."

"Your fever is down, but not quite broken. And you're still quite uncomfortable, if your groaning is any indication. Are you going to vomit?"

It was strange to hear his subconscious speak to him, but surely that's what this was. It made sense, actually, for someone under as much stress as he was to have this kind of break with reality. In any case, he could certainly argue that his hallucination was serving as some kind of doctor-slash-mouthpiece. What he was saying made sense.

"It's just the flu, remember? I'm not going to vomit." Then again, if he knew that, then surely his doctor-slash-mouthpiece should know that too. The real Sherlock, if he was alive, would have known that as well. "What are you? Why am I seeing you?"

"Would you like some soup? Well, it's just broth, really, but it's all that you had in the cupboards."

If John had ever had any doubts about whether this thing in front of him was just a hallucination, that clinched it. He didn't think Sherlock had ever once in his life uttered the phrase "would you like some soup?" and he certainly would not start now, in the afterlife. Unless maybe he was trying to make up for his past behavior so he could get into heaven. Though on the other hand, he'd probably just stand at the gates deducing every little thing about Saint Peter until the man finally let him through just to shut him up already. He laughed and turned over, burying his face in the back of the couch and falling into another deep sleep.

This time, he knew what woke him up: someone was knocking on the door. Actually, it was more like pounding, possibly battering. John rubbed his eyes and sat up, becoming aware of a very pressing urge to go to the toilet. The visitor could wait two more minutes, whoever it was. How long had he been asleep this time?

When he finally opened the door, Lestrade was standing a few steps away from the door in a position that seemed to suggest that he was getting ready to break it down. John studied him blearily for a moment, and then turned to go back to the sofa. Greg followed him inside the flat and took a seat in John's chair. (He'd made the mistake of sitting in Sherlock's only once.)

"Mrs. Hudson called me. She said you weren't answering your phone. She was worried about you." His tone was somewhere between accusatory and genuinely concerned. John spread his arms a bit to indicate the mess that had grown up around him. Tissues everywhere, three mugs sitting on the table in front of him, his laptop sitting dead at the foot of the couch—oh no, wait, it was plugged in again and charging. Huh.

"I've not been well," was John's explanation. "Phone's upstairs. I'm downstairs." He shrugged, which served only to remind him how stiff and painful his back was from sleeping on the couch all this time. He should take a painkiller, he decided. It might even help with the rest of his aches. Ah, but the bottle was upstairs. Damn.

"Do you need anything?" Lestrade's face was moving quickly towards concern, empathy. It was a nice change from the mixture of self-loathing and pity that he so often wore when the two of them spent any time together. John nearly waved him off, but then had a better idea.

"Actually, sure. Could you go get my mobile from my room? And I have a box of stuff by my bed. Medications, biscuits, stuff like that." He lowered his head. Greg had offered, after all, and it was better to accept the marginal shame of asking for such a stupid favor, rather than risking tripping down the stairs and getting seriously hurt. "I'm not really feeling up to the stairs lately..."

Lestrade nodded and went to retrieve the items. Almost as soon as he'd gone upstairs, Sherlock appeared in the doorway to the kitchen.

"You should be sleeping in a bed," he stated. "That couch isn't good for sleeping on. I should know."

John pushed the thought away. "I'm not going upstairs."

"There's a perfectly good room down here, you know. You've got the key and everything. Why aren't you using it?"

"No." John's voice was firm, with not a trace of the illness-induced weakness. "That's Sherlock's room and I don't want to sleep in there."

A strange look crossed Sherlock's face, but then he gave John a wry grin. "It's not like he's using it," he said. "Don't make me carry you."

"You couldn't if you tried."

Sherlock's reply was simply a raised eyebrow. John stood, took a few steps towards the kitchen for the key, which Sherlock held out in a long, pale hand. Oh. But Lestrade. He couldn't just go to sleep in another room. That would be rude.

"Let me deal with him. You need sleep. I'm looking forward to this anyway."

John hesitated. He knew that his dream-thing could not actually explain the situation to Greg and then usher him out the door, but on the other hand, he was a smart man, and John was still extremely tired. Lestrade would probably figure out where he'd gone, just put the box on the coffee table or the floor, and let himself out again. It wouldn't be fair to make John play host with the flu, of all things, would it? So he unlocked Sherlock's bedroom for the first time since the week after his death and pushed the door open slowly, as though he were walking into a tomb. The bed was only a few steps away.

He couldn't bear the thought of slipping between the very same sheets where Sherlock had slept (however rarely he'd done so), so he just flopped onto the mattress, on top of the old blanket. The bed smelled more like old linens and disuse than expensive soap or cologne, but when John put his head on one of the pillows, he could just make out the light scent of Sherlock's old shampoo. Come to think of it, that was in here too, somewhere. He didn't realize he was hugging the pillow to himself until Sherlock was standing above him.

"There's water on the nightstand," he said thoughtfully. John just nodded, and he found himself wondering if he would actually awaken to find water again. How was he doing that? Was he blacking out? Losing time? Developing psychic powers? Strange. For a moment, he thought Sherlock had disappeared again, until he felt a cool hand reach down to brush his hair off of his forehead. A pleasured moan escaped before he could stop it, but...it just felt so nice. Maybe that was why his mind had conjured Sherlock's ghost: comfort. He didn't need doctor-speech parroted back at him: he just wanted something familiar. He reached up to hold the hand in place for just a moment longer, and their eyes met in the darkness.

"I miss you," John said, and realized that, despite how common and silly a phrase it was, he had never uttered a truer thing in all his life.

"You can stop now," came the reply, and John understood. He needed to stop missing him. He needed to pick himself up, accept that he'd had a great loss but that it was time to look forward in life. Sure. Maybe that was another reason for his break with reality: his brain was trying to heal him. That could make sense too. He nodded, just once, and let the ghost's hand slip away. He could hear Lestrade coming down the stairs, and the soft but sure footsteps that he'd begun to associate with his subconscious as well as his dead flatmate went out to meet him.

John was drifting in that place just before sleep, but a loud crash from nearby jolted him awake. Lestrade had dropped the box of supplies, he realized immediately—he could hear the metal tin of biscuits still resonating slightly from the impact.

"Sherlock?" The detective's voice was shrill with anger and disbelief, and John began to wonder vaguely if perhaps he had not been hallucinating after all.