Anyone in the mood for a little bit of friendship and fluff?

I imagined this story to take place between The Empty Hearse and The Sign of Three, but feel free to place it anywhere else, if you like.

I don't own the characters. Naturally not.

Enjoy.

Collapse and Contamination

"You okay?" John asks him curtly as the cab speeds off.

Busying himself with his mobile, texting Lestrade, Sherlock frowns a tiny bit. "Me? What? Yes, of course. Why shouldn't I?" he replied.

John gives a long sigh. "Just asking."

Sherlock keeps typing, slowly facing away from John. He feels cold, although he knows that it's not, is, in fact, fully aware of the fever his body is running. Fever, no longer simply elevated temperature, but real fever, ranging around 38.5 degrees, according to his previous experiences with fevers - which are, admittedly, not so recent.

He feels fine, apart from the irritating weakness in his limbs and the spinning in his head, but of course, if he told John, John, being the doctor he is, would not believe him. Would, probably, confine him to the flat or, even worse, to bed rest, hovering around, not even returning to his and Mary's flat. Completely unnecessarily, of course, because Sherlock is neither a little child nor an old man. And, most definitely, not sick.

John does not give up yet, however. "You're wearing your scarf," he remarks.

Sherlock's eyes remain glued to the screen of his mobile, the text sent minutes ago. "I am always wearing my scarf," Sherlock retorts, moving his thumb over the screen. Trying to keep something from John while looking at him, directly looking at him, has become difficult, or rather: John has become quite adept at reading him, a development which still puzzles and astounds Sherlock. He is not easy to read, he always keeps his feature purposefully composed. But then, of course, John is always the exception.

John chuckles in his "you-know-I'm-right"-voice. "No, you don't," he counters. "Not when it's warm outside."

Sherlock does his best to hide the smile which is about to spread on his face. "Really," he settles on instead, his voice purposefully uninterested. "Fascinating you're keeping such things in mind."

He can practically see John's lips tighten into a strained half-smile, annoyed and amused at the same time.

"Your coat," John proposes now. "You've buttoned your coat."

Sherlock's eyes burn while he keeps them fixed on the screen, not looking at anything in particular.

"I'm not stupid, you know," John adds.

Sherlock can sense his gaze studying him intensly, staring at his profile, turned away.

"What's wrong?" he repeats.

Sighing, realising that this is getting them nowhere, Sherlock pockets his phone, undoes the first button of his coat and loosens his scarf a tiny bit. The cold, persistent and surrounding him, is creeping into his flesh, settling itself around his throat and on his chest. "Pleased now?" he wants to know, fixating John.

John purses his lips. "You're pale," he replies instead of an answer.

Huffing, Sherlock rolls his eyes and simultaneously uses his huff to blow a bit of air into his sweltering face. "Paleness is the natural human complexion, John," he tells his friend.

John simply keeps looking at him, with this gaze of his, steady, firm, warm. And worried.

Sherlock rolls his eyes for a second time. "I'm fine, John," he insists.

The rest of the journey passes in silence.

xXx

Maybe he is not so fine after all, Sherlock discovers when he is getting out the cab, unusually clumsily, grabbing the frame of the door hard until the spinning around him has subsided.

Lack of sleep, maybe. How long has it been, he wonders. Two days, or… No, he has taken a nap the day before, on the sofa, shortly before John has come for his customary visit after work.

Work.

There is work for him to do now, a case, Lestrade's case.

Sleeping is not important, just transport, after all.

Determinedly, he lets go of the door of the cab and straightens, swiftly brushing a hand over his sweaty forehead. Just transport. Case, very promising and hopefully interesting, and once he has solved it, he can rest, for a bit. Give in, stupidly enough, to his transport.

Sighing, Sherlock slowly, still eyed suspiciously by John walking at his side, loyal and steady as always, makes his way over to Lestrade and his team.

xXx

The corpse has been mutilated, the throat sliced, the hands cut off, and everything is bloody, messy, loud, screaming at Sherlock.

For one second, he has to fight back the nausea threatening to overwhelm him, stopping dead in his tracks, John at once next to him, one hand on his forearm.

"You okay?" he wants to know, and Sherlock takes a hasty breath through his mouth, trying to avoid inhaling any of the smells lingering in the air, and nods.

He doesn't even reply fine, this time, he only realises when he is cowering in front of the corpse, looking glass in his hands, bent forwards.

And yet, everything he can see all of a sudden is… blood, blood, a dead body, dead, obviously, but how, how, how…

What's wrong. John's question keeps echoing in his brain, his hazy brain, his head is pounding, his heart is hammering in his chest, and suddenly he isn't even sure if he is fine. If he is okay.

His hands are dropping the looking glass, into a pool of blood, the victim's blood, contaminating a crime scene, tampering with…

His knees are shaking violently beneath him when he forces himself into a standing position, buckling irritatingly, and he is cold, so cold, although he knows his skin is hot.

Paradox, Sherlock finds himself thinking, it's a paradox.

Then his vision blurs, everything he can see for a second is John's shocked face and the sky above him, the clouds and… and then everything goes black.

xX~Xx

In retrospect, John should have known that something has been amiss. Well, he has known, in fact, that Sherlock isn't as fine as he claims to be, that there is something ailing him, possibly a fever, going by how hunched he has sat in the cab, huddling into his coat and scarf, and by his pallidness, his cheeks an odd rosy glow.

He is a doctor, supposed to treat people who are sick, and he is Sherlock's best friend, his former flatmate, and therefore knows when something is wrong with him. The only problem John finds himself confronted with in moments like these is that there is nothing, most of the times, that he can do, with Sherlock too stubborn to actually admit that he might be unwell. Nothing except staying nearby and making sure that nothing happens.

Nothing too bad, at least.

So far, everything is as it always is. Sherlock has appeared, has allowed Lestrade to inform him about the details of the case - gruesome murder, this time -, has headed off towards the corpse, has insulted Anderson and Donovan, out of habit, mostly, has started examining the corpse.

Or that is what it has looked like.

Only that Sherlock now is slowly getting to his feet, very unsteadily, an oddly blank expression in his face.

John is distantly aware of Lestrade's surprised yell next to him, or Anderon's face, showing a mixture between shocked and actually worried, as he lurches forwards, towards Sherlock who is swaying now, ready to fall over any second.

And before John has had any chance to reach him and slow his descent, Sherlock Holmes collapses, in a graceless heap, next to the bloodied corpse.

xXx

Against his first impulse, John doesn't freeze. He drops to his knees next to Sherlock, on his back, eyes closed, unearthly pale except for a few reddish spots littering his skin.

Fever, John realises before he has even rested a hand on Sherlock's forehead.

Fever, he finds confirmed what he has suspected all along.

The blood matting Sherlock's dark hair, the blood from the puddle next to him, from the puddle he has landed it, makes John's hands freeze for a moment.

Blood in dark hair. Matted, sticking to too pale skin. Lying limp, lifeless. Sherlock on the concrete.

And John, back in front of Bart's once more, can't breathe.

"Jesus, John!" is what tears him out of his reverie a moment later, Greg's shocked voice, kneeling next to him.

John's trembling fingers find their way to Sherlock's neck, to the carotid artery standing out against his white skin.

Not dead, a relieved voice inside of his head whispers, and John, for a second, scolds himself. Of course not. Not even Sherlock's blood.

Pulse, a bit fast, but steady and strong.

John nonetheless doesn't remove his fingers from Sherlock's throat when he tells Greg: "Take his legs. Elevate them."

Almost hurriedly, Greg does as he is told. "Do you need someone to call an ambulance?" he wants to know, but John doesn't listen.

Cups Sherlock's cheek, instead, with his free hand, wipes his moist hair away from his forehead, addresses him.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Sherlock's lashes start to flutter.

"Sherlock," John insists, his voice, surprisingly, steady, his fingers still reassured by the firm thumping, "open your eyes. Look at me. Open your eyes."

For once, Sherlock obeys, and John's heart lurches in his chest. "Very good," he tells Sherlock.

What worries him the most is that Sherlock doesn't even roll his eyes. "John?" he whispers instead, blinking rapidly, apparently trying to make sense of his surroundings.

Only now John dares to remove his hand and starts untying Sherlock's scarf, undoing the buttons on his coat.

"Why's… there… blood in your… face?" Sherlock mumbles groggily, slowly. "…alright?"

John's heart does another worrying flip at this seldom display of concern, though in a situation when entirely inappropriate, and he can't help but smile. "We're at a crime scene, remember? You collapsed next to the victim."

Sherlock's eyes flicker shut. "Oh," he makes.

"Oh," John repeats.

xXx

Five minutes later, when Sherlock has told him, to John's relief, his name, date of birth, what they are doing here, John finally answers Lestrade's question.

"I don't think we need an ambulance," he informs Greg who is still holding Sherlock's legs, Anderson and Donavan and all the others they have worked with on multiple occasions before are hovering nearby awkwardly, not knowing what to do, not knowing if to do anything at all. "I can handle that at Baker Street."

Only then, the thought strikes him that he cannot, probably, manhandle Sherlock into a cab, out of the cab again and up the stairs to 221B and into his bedroom.

"I'll drive you," Greg prompts in exactly that moment, and John gives him a relieved smile.

It is Sally Donavan who almost shyly steps into Greg's place and grabs Sherlock's long legs as Lestrade leaves to get his car.

xXx

Nonetheless, John is relieved when they finally arrive in front of 221B, and Greg supports Sherlock's dead weight on the right side while John is firmly pressing the door bell.

Finally, Mrs Hudson opens, the look of mild annoyance on her face immediately replaced by concern. "Oh dear!" she exclaims while John and Greg drag Sherlock inside, his head dangling and his feet barely doing anything to carry at least a part of his weight.

"Bowl of water would be lovely, Mrs H," John pants, awkwardly climbing the stairs, his right arm around Sherlock's waist, his left trying to prevent Sherlock's head from lolling around too much. "And medication…"

Both him and Greg are breathing heavily by the time they have mastered the two flights of stairs and have reached Sherlock's bedroom.

With Greg's assistance, John strips Sherlock of his heavy and thick coat, removes the scarf and the jacket and his shoes, and then rests him back on the mattress, with a duvet. Sherlock only groans, but doesn't open his eyes.

"Greg, could you…," John begins, once more wiping Sherlock's sweaty hair back.

"Yes," Greg answers immediately.

John simply has to smile. "Thermometer," he explains. "It's… in the kitchen, I think, third drawer of the first cupboard to the right."

Greg hurries out of the room.

xXx

John is taking Sherlock's pulse, unnecessarily, but comfortingly, once more when both Mrs Hudson, with the bowl of water and even a few cloths, and Greg, with the thermometer, enter.

Mrs Hudson immediately rounds Sherlock's bed, sitting down on the other side, the bowl of water next to her, while John complicatedly pops the thermometer into Sherlock's mouth.

"Oh, dear," Mrs Hudson repeats as she dabs one of her cloths into the bowl and wrings it out, ready to place it on Sherlock's brow as soon as John is done.

The thermometer beeps, John removes it, Mrs Hudson starts wiping Sherlock's face immediately.

"What is it?" Greg wants to know, glancing over John's shoulder.

"39.2," John replies, frowning. High, too high for John's liking.

"Stupid boy," Mrs Hudson chides Sherlock who is not likely to listen at the moment. "What have you done now?"

"Greg," John addresses their friend once more while he is grabbing a second cloth, wetting it, too. "Could you go to the kitchen again and fetch something to drink? Water?"

"'course," is Greg's only reply before he is out of the room once more.

Without hesitation, John grabs hold of Sherlock's right leg, shoves his trousers up a tiny bit and wraps the cool, wet towel around his calf.

While Mrs Hudson is doing the same with Sherlock's left leg, John is slapping him, gently, once more.

"Wake up," he mumbles. "Sherlock, wake up."

Once more, Sherlock's eyelids flutter, he moans and finally wrenches his eyes open. "John?" he slurs, squinting, blinking.

"Yeah," John croaks, taking the glass from Lestrade who has entered again. Medication, Mrs Hudson has brought medication, too. Paracetamol, good.

"Are you nauseous? Dizzy?" he wants to know.

Sherlock only sighs deeply. "Cold," he mutters slowly.

John feels a soft smile tug at his lips. "Can you sit up a bit?" he asks, and assists Sherlock, the glass on the bedside table. "Drink," he tells his friend.

Obediently, still rather out of it, Sherlock sips half of the glass before John hands him a pill, telling him to swallow. Once more, Sherlock does as he is told, and then collapses back to his pillow.

"Sleep," John tells him, wiping an errant curl away, not minding that Greg is watching him. "You'll feel better when you wake."

xXx

Mrs Hudson makes tea and brings some biscuits, and she and Greg settle down on the sofa, none of them thinking about leaving. John texts Mary, telling her that he will be back late, and tries to tell himself that worrying that much is completely unnecessary. Nonetheless, he can't help but keep checking on Sherlock, who is indeed sleeping peacefully, rewetting the towels and taking his temperature once more.

The fifth time he enters Sherlock's bedroom and wipes his best friend's face again, Sherlock stirs, frowning, groaning unhappily. "John?" he mumbles.

John chuckles softly. "I'm here," he replies.

Sherlock's eyes open, a questioning expression in them. "Why are we… here?" he finally wants to know.

John carefully nudges his arm. "Because you collapsed on the crime scene like a damsel in distress, and because you didn't tell me about your fever," he explains.

Sherlock manages to look embarrassed for a split-second. "Oh," he mutters, then continues with: "So, doctor, tell me…"

John chuckles once more. "You're an idiot," he informs Sherlock. "Don't ever scare me like that again. You're lucky you're temperature's gone down a bit, or you would be in hospital."

At this, Sherlock grimaces and nuzzles into his pillow. "What for," he mumbles almost sleepily. "Got my own doctor…"

He should be angry, John assumes, angry at his idiot of best friend for not paying attention to his health, but all he can think about is the ridiculous warmth in his chest at this comment.

Sherlock curls up a tiny bit more. "Sorry," he whispers, almost quietly enough for John to miss it.

John rests a hand on Sherlock's upper arm. "It's okay," he tells his friend. "Just don't do that again, okay?"

Sherlock nods, half asleep already.

"Sleep," John mutters quietly, drawing Sherlock's covers up to his waist. Temperature down more than half a degree - good, really good. A reason for relief.

He is almost at the door when Sherlock's drowsy voice holds him back. "Thank you," he slurs, a yawn disrupting his words. "Tell L'strade… 'm sorry for… contaminating his… crime… scene…"

John simply chuckles, not closing the door behind him completely.

Mrs Hudson and Greg are chatting in the living-room, Sherlock, his best friend, is sleeping in the bedroom, Mary, his fiancé, is, hopefully, waiting for him at home.

Idiot of a best friend. But best friend.

John's smile deepens, and the tension begins to leave him. Everything is, after more than two years, as it should be. Finally.

The End

Thank you very much for reading. Feedback would, of course, be highly appreciated!