Disclaimer: I do not own BBC Sherlock.
A/N: This was for a prompt on the BBC kink meme. OP wanted Sherlock coming home early in bad shape and a BAMF!John taking care of business. It's not completed but I'm estimating around fifteen-sixteen parts.

It's a humid afternoon in June, nearly at the anniversary of that day, when John returns home from the surgery. He's had a surprisingly easy day, just summer colds, with the toughest case being a young woman who has been playing a little too much tennis, and he's contemplating what he might have for supper as he opens the door to his flat. He's not expecting to walk inside and find that someone else has already made themselves comfortable, yet that's exactly what's waiting for him.

For a long moment, John just stares. It takes his mind a moment to understand that someone is, indeed, sitting on the sofa, wrapped up in a ratty old blanket. His instinct is to run for his gun but he pauses before his body can follow through on the action and he doesn't know why.

"Hey," he says. "Who are you?"

No response.

"Hey. Excuse me?"

Still nothing.

Highly aware that this could be a trap, John edges across the room. Slowly, he grabs the edge of the sheet, ready to react in case it's a trap of some kind, and pulls it down.

His mind freezes.

It's Sherlock.

John stares, and stares some more, and in the end he can't quite stop staring.

It is Sherlock. The dark curls, more ragged than usual and in need of a haircut, tumble down around his face, creating a fringe that he can hide behind. His eyes are closed and his face is tilted against the back of the sofa. His face is still pale though his cheeks are strangely flushed, and a fresh bruise is developing rapidly on the cusp of his chin. He smells awful and his clothing is noticeably torn and in bad shape and he looks about twenty pounds thinner, but it's Sherlock.

"Jesus fucking Christ," John breathes out finally, sitting back.

There were times when he imagined this, this very scenario, but he gave up on those hopes several months ago, when he couldn't take them anymore. Having them come true now seems like a strange parody of a dream. Hesitantly, he reaches out and touches Sherlock's arm. His fingers come into contact with flesh and he jumps, startled, and with that jump comes the first wave of disbelieving joy tinged with fury.

"Sherlock!" he says, grabbing the man's shoulder. He wants answers and he wants them now.

Sherlock's head falls to the side and his eyes open slowly. "John?" he says slowly.

"Bloody hell, you wanker, you bastard, yes it's me! What are you... no, how did you... Sherlock!" All of his questions rush to the forefront of his mind and in the end, John gets nothing out except for the man's name, and really it seems that's enough.

"John," Sherlock murmurs. He looks around the flat like he doesn't know where he is, brow furrowed in confusion before he sighs. "Oh. I must be hallucinating again. This is annoying."

"Hallucinating...?" John trails off as he starts to notice things that he didn't before. Sweat is beading up across Sherlock's forehead even though he's shaking, no, shivering. His eyes are hazy, distant, and the skin beneath John's fingertips is warm. Very warm. John's hand snaps up and he places the back of his it to Sherlock's forehead. He sucks in a sharp breath at the feeling of the dry heat emanating from the expanse of skin and winces.

"Sherlock," he says carefully. "You're not hallucinating. You're here, with me. You're in my flat."

"In your flat," Sherlock repeats, but it's evident that he doesn't really understand and John closes his eyes in frustration.

"Bloody hell," he mutters under his breath. It is so like Sherlock to fake his own death somehow, leave John in agony for months, and then show up expecting John to take care of him. And the worst part is, instead of chucking Sherlock out like he should, John is going to do it.

He gets up and gently unwraps the blanket from around Sherlock. The smell immediately gets worse. It seems that at some point Sherlock urinated on himself and the blanket. He probably wasn't even aware he was doing it. John sighs and sits back down, suddenly exhausted even though he hasn't done much. He stares at his deathly ill ex-flatmate and feels a headache coming on.

"I should just be calling Mycroft," he says, barely aware he's even saying it.

Sherlock's eyes snap open and he lurches upright, grabbing John's shirts with hands that tremble. "No! No, John. You can't call Mycroft. He's been compromised. He's not secure. Moran will be furious and he'll know and he'll kill you. Whatever you do, do not call Mycroft."

"Alright, Sherlock, alright," John says gently, wrapping his hands around Sherlock's thin wrists. Christ, they're so thin they feel fragile. "Calm down. Who is Moran?"

"Moran?" Sherlock tenses, the moment of lucidity lost, and hunches in on himself. "I don't know who that is. My name is Sigerson. I'm a farmer from Germany."

"A farmer from..." John raises an eyebrow and shakes his head. "Sherlock - "

"My name is Sigerson!"

"For the love of..." John pinches the bridge of his nose and lets out a long, slow sigh. Calling on reserves of patience that he hasn't touched in months, he says, "Sigerson, then, why don't you come take a shower? You'll feel much better. Then you can sleep for a while." After some medication and, hopefully, food.

Wary, dazed verdigris eyes stare at him from under a fringe of curls for a long time. Just when John thinks he's going to have to force the issue, Sherlock says in a small voice, "Okay."

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