A/N: Uh okay so I don't really know much about hospitals and stuff so please try to ignore the probable inaccuracies. Also (spoiler alert), trigger warnings for hospitals and eating disorders. But it's not much.

I'm still very much open to prompts! Anyone has an idea, send it my way. C'mon. Spread the love. (And the feels.)

Could Be Dangerous

It's about the caring thing again. It's always about the caring thing.

"For God's sake, Sherlock, you could have got her killed!" John shouts as he runs both of his hands through his hair, gripping at the short strands as if he wants to tear them out and throw them at his friend.

"But I didn't." Sherlock's voice is infuriatingly calm, his anger only showing through the flashes in his eyes. He grips the back of his black leather chair with his fingers, leaning against it, leaning towards John. "Why can't you understand that? I knew the man was bluffing. I wouldn't have let him pull the trigger if I thought otherwise."

"Thought. Exactly. Thought, Sherlock." John begins pacing, strides cut short by the minimal floor space of the flat. "You didn't know. You observed. You deduced. Which in English means you thought. You're betting your intelligence against other people's lives. Even if it didn't seem like a gamble to you, it was."

"John-"

"How is it this easy for you to disengage? I thought I was making you better." He stops now, looking at Sherlock dead on for the first time in almost an hour, his arms hanging dead by his sides. A loose thread from his jumper hangs by his left hand. Sherlock watches this instead of meeting John's eye. "I thought I was making a difference."

"Are you implying that there's something wrong with me," states Sherlock to the loose thread.

John bridles, his hands curling a little into themselves. Sherlock watches the effect on the thread; curled around John's finger. How poetic. "No," he says. "It's not about that. I'm saying, what's the point in having me around if you don't... care?"

Tears have started to form in John's eyes. He's trying to keep them hidden. He should know better. Sherlock sees everything. And sometimes, it hurts.

He closes his eyes at the low blow, fingers digging into the leather, probing the sponge underneath. His breathing slows down as he tries to come up with a response that won't make the situation worse.

No, he thinks, don't say that. But he values John too much to lie to him.

"I care about you," Sherlock tells him, "very much. But only you. You're special. I don't know why, but you are special to me. Does that answer your..."

He has opened his eyes to find that John has taken his coat and left.

How did I not notice? he thinks, sitting down heavily in his chair, staring at the stale, John-less air that's left behind. At least I won the argument. He can't argue now that caring is worth it. Not when it feels like this.

He texts John thirty-two times over the next few days. He even calls once. But he only gets one reply.

08:16 – (2 days ago) – John. Male found dead in Thames. Need you to confirm heart attack. SH

09:05 - (2 days ago) - I know that you're at Sarah's. Do you want me to come and drag you out? SH

10:01 - (2 days ago) - Bluff called. I forgot where she lives. Laptop and address book are on the other side of the room. You're being childish. SH

11:00 - (2 days ago) - Your shower gel is still here. Therefore you currently smell of lavender and papaya - Sarah's personal brand. If I need you I'll follow the stench. SH

He keeps this up every hour on the hour until -

17:57 - (1 minute ago) - If you can deduce where I am, try deducing how to get me to come home.

Sherlock swears loudly, too loud for a crime scene. He pickpockets Anderson as he passes in an attempt to aid his mood. It works a little as he finds an out-of-date condom in his wallet.

The text was very deliberate, teasing almost. Obviously John doesn't want Sherlock expressing sentiment via text; that's cheating. No, he has to call him back somehow.

Just in case, Sherlock sends message after emotional message, but it's a swing and a miss. He hopes John at least appreciates the effort he's gone to. (He Googled 'friendship quotes'. He changed a few pronouns. He sent them to John. All time he could have spent dissolving human hair in sulfuric acid.)

What the Hell is the answer?

It's five days after John left that Sherlock finds he can't stand up without shaking, without becoming so dizzy that he can't think, without needing to sit back down immediately.

Initially he works around it, simply texting Lestrade about crime scenes he's already been to. He stays in his armchair for five hours, content to sit tight until the illness sods off.

But then Lestrade needs them - him, now - ASAP at a triple homicide just down the road. I can make it down the street, Sherlock thinks. The world's only consulting detective can walk down a street.

He stands up. Well, more accurately, he falls forwards onto the carpet.

Inspiration hits him as the floor does.

18:22 - (3 minutes ago) - Baker Street. Come at once if convenient. SH

18:23 - (2 minutes ago) - If inconvenient, come anyway. SH

18: 24 - (1 minute ago) - Could be dangerous. SH

Odd that these words still apply even years after they were first said.

He blacks out just as the answer comes through. The last word that he sees is 'John'.

"...suspects include Myra Collins and Stephen Johnson, who are currently being held for questioning. Blimey, they're really pulling their punches, huh?"

Laugh. Cough. Rustle.

"Police dog attacks stripper at carnival. This sounds more up your alley."

"John?"

It's groggy and drugged-up but it's definitely his name. John smiles and puts down the newspaper. "Sherlock."

John helps him sit up, smirking at the bedhead-afro Sherlock's curls have become. He leans back in his chair as he watches his friend get his bearings.

It's a few minutes before Sherlock has cleared his mind enough to speak (it makes him uncomfortable when he adds to the stupid in the room).

"Okay," he says to John after he's deduced what hospital he's in, the room number, and how long he's been there (only a few hours). "So what was it?" He smirks. "Broken heart?"

John smiles, but it's sad. "Nah. Sherlock, you forgot to eat."

He blinks. "Oh. Right. I do see how that would be problematic." He feels the weakness in his limbs as he reaches for his chart. "How long do I have to stay?" he enquires, flicking through his test results.

"They're saying overnight, but to be honest, you slept off most of the damage just now. I think you'll be alright in an hour or two, once the IV's done its job." He eyes the tube that invades Sherlock's arm.

Sherlock nods once. "Half an hour it is. So." He flips the chart shut. "You. How are you?"

The brief paradise phase fades as relief is replaces with hesitation. "Fine." Pause. "I just have to make sure of one thing."

The other man nods again.

John sets his lips in a firm line, fingers playing with the loose thread on the same jumper. He's been wearing it for almost a week. It's on backwards. "Your texts. That's what I was thinking of, why I came back, why I uh. Found you. Um. How did you - why -" He stops, gathering his words.

"You want to make sure I didn't just guess," Sherlock fills in. "You want to make sure I know why it worked."

"Yeah."

Sherlock smiles. This he can deduce. But he doesn't need to think. He knows. "The texts I sent were significant to our relationship. Normally I'd delete stuff like that from memory. You wanted to know you're special, you egotist."

John leans forward, arms draped over the hospital bed, the ends of his fingers lightly resting on Sherlock's hip. "Knew it."

They just smile at each other for a bit; Sherlock because he has someone to care about, John because he has someone to care for.

"Sorry," John blurts suddenly, "but how did you forget to eat?"

Sherlock waves his hand dismissively. "I was busy."

"Busy? Too busy to notice your stomach trying to eat itself?!"

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock says, "That's an exaggeration."

I usually feed you, John doesn't say.

I was too preoccupied worrying about you, Sherlock doesn't say.

"You're an idiot." John has that look of astonishment on again, the one he gets when Sherlock does something extraordinary. Recently Sherlock's been noticing its presence in more domestic situations, from when Sherlock won Pictionary to when they got through Bond night without a single complaint. It's rather flattering, Sherlock finds. He's not used to it yet. He likes it. He likes John.

But he knew that already.

It's 60% the drugs, 20% the dizziness, and 20% the fact that John doesn't smell of lavender and papaya, but Sherlock finds himself just out-of-it enough to take John's hand.

John barely even flinches, just squeezes it back, rubbing his thumb in lazy eights across the back of Sherlock's hand. Sherlock highly suspects that John was doing this when he was unconscious. "Come on," John says, fondness leaking into his voice. "Let's go home."