Hey, everyone! This is a song-inspired fanfic, inspired by the song: 'Soldier' by Gavin DeGraw. This is such a Johnlock song, and I can just hear John singing this to Sherlock. This is so perfect for my boys; I recommend you listen to it wholeheartedly. Hope you enjoy this fic!

'John,' Sherlock coughs, wincing as it strained his lungs. 'Go and get some sleep.'

I suck in a breath. 'Sherlock, your fever hasn't gone down for six days and you refuse to go to the hospital. I am worried out of my mind for you and I'm not leaving until it passes.'

Sherlock coughs again. 'Suit yourself. Stubborn ass.'

I chuckle, though it fades when Sherlock's face creases into a frown, his eyes remaining closed. 'What do you need?' I whisper.

'Too hot,' he murmurs.

I reach down to the bucket beside me and pull out the towel, squeezing out the excess cool water. I swipe the stray curls from his forehead and hold them away with my index finger and thumb while placing the damp towel on his forehead. I take the blanket tucked up by his neck and move it to just below his waist. 'Better?' I ask gently, and he gives my hand a squeeze. I smile and place a kiss to his cheek. 'I love you,' I whisper. 'And I'm not leaving until your pain is nullified.'

I sigh. In truth, I haven't slept since Sherlock's fever worsened. I am absolutely exhausted and am sure that I'll sleep for a month given the chance. I've been living on twelve mugs of coffee a day and shop-bought sandwiches and water dropped off by Mrs Hudson every breakfast, lunch and dinner. But for Sherlock, I'd do it all over again in a heartbeat. For Sherlock, I'd walk through the hellfire.

'Please, John. You'll—you'll wear yourself out.' He coughs once again.

'Oh, darling. I can take this,' I murmur, running my thumb over his knuckles. 'I'm a soldier. I'm your soldier. I will stay as long as you need me to.'

'I—I.' Another cough. 'I don't need you right now.' Cough. 'I'm fine.'

I laugh bitterly. 'Right.' I reach for the thermometer and after pushing yet more of his curls aside, place it inside his ear. I press the button and wait for the bleep. 41.6 degrees. 'Tell me that—' I yawn. 'Tell me that when you get cooler and maybe I'll believe you.'

He shivers and his grip loosens on my hand. 'Cold,' he wheezes out.

I hold my hand just above his mouth and feel his breath hitting my palm at rapid, irregular intervals. I take the towel from his forehead and drop it into the bucket. 'Do you want some of that heat rub?' I ask.

'Yes. Please,' he replies, letting out another choked cough.

I take the tube of heat rub from the table behind me and unbutton his shirt, exposing his collar bone and chest. I apply it to his chest and neck, rubbing it in so his skin absorbs the heat. I am struggling to keep my eyes open and I silently will Sherlock to fall asleep so I can make myself another coffee.

'Your eyes must be burning,' he whispers, though I have to strain my ears to hear his hushed voice. 'Go to sleep.'

'I'm fine, love,' I reply, water trickling down my cheeks. Though I try to convince myself that they are tears, I have to reluctantly admit that my eyes are stinging like crazy due to fatigue. 'All I want is for you to pull through.'

But he doesn't reply. For the millionth time, I snap to full attention, thinking he has finally slipped beneath the surface. But no. He has only slipped out of consciousness and into sleep and I breathe out, relieved.

I wipe at my eyes, drying my fingertip on my pyjama leg. I look longingly at the coffee machine that rests on the table on the other side of the bed, my mouth watering. But try as I might, my body won't move to go and get some.

I am positively drained. My eyes start to drop closed and I nearly let them get their relief. But then I hear a voice call softly up the stairs. 'John? I have your lunch!' My eyes snap open and I look at the closed doorway.

The door creaks open a few seconds later and Mrs Hudson pokes her head in. 'Any better?' she asks as she hands me the sandwich pack and water bottle.

I shake my head. 'Nor is he getting worse.' I yawn again.

My landlady puts her hand on my shoulder. 'John, sweetheart, you can't forget about your own health to take care of Sherlock's. You haven't slept in nearly a week.'

I smile at her sweetly, putting my hand on top of hers. 'Mrs Hudson, I've served as both a soldier and an army doctor. I've had plenty of experience staying awake for days caring for wounded brothers-in-arms. I can handle this.'

'Yes, but you're not that man anymore,' she tells me, pulling me against her in a hug. 'Now you're not Captain Watson, but Dr John Watson. And even doctors need to sleep sometimes.'

I sigh. 'I assure you, Mrs Hudson, I can take care of him and myself. I'm okay.'

I feel her shake her head in mock disapproval. 'Why must you be so stubborn, Dr Watson?' she asks in a light, teasing tone, though I detect the slightest hint of seriousness underneath.

I don't reply, instead eyeing the coffee machine as she releases me from her grasp. She follows my gaze and says, 'Let me make you a coffee, then, dear. It's on me.'

I smile at her gratefully. 'Thank you,' I breathe as Sherlock stirs. 'Sherlock?' I ask hurriedly.

He doesn't say anything more but pulls the blanket further up around him. I take the thermometer again and put it to Sherlock's ear. 38.9 degrees. I smile. 'Good news. His temperature has gone down to just under thirty nine degrees C. I have a feeling he'll recover in a couple days or so.'

'That's good, dear. Hopefully, then you can take a well-earned rest,' Mrs Hudson says pointedly as she hands my coffee mug. I take a sip (and ignore her obvious jab at me), revelling in the heat that explodes pleasurably in my mouth. I peel back the plastic cover on the sandwich pack, realising I have a throbbing pain in my fingers. Slowly, I take a bite of the cheese and tomato surrounded by bread and smile. I don't comprehend how hungry I actually am. I wolf both sandwiches down in less than three minutes. When I've finished, I discover that I feel refreshed, like my battery has been recharged to go from thirty percent to around eighty. I know I can't be one hundred percent up to standard without sleep and a much-needed shower but that is currently not an option.

Mrs Hudson laughs. 'You had breakfast five hours ago, John,' she tells me, taking the packet and giving me the water bottle.

I unscrew the cap, throwing my head back and letting the ice cold liquid leak down my throat and jolt me awake further. 'Yeah, well, I get hungry easily.'

She laughs again as she nears the door. 'Whatever you say,' she says before leaving the room in silence.

A few minutes after she goes, Sherlock speaks for the first time after waking. 'If I pull through this,' he starts whispering. 'If I get better, I'm going to give you a meal so big that you'll never get as hungry again.' He smirks, though his eyes stay firmly shut.

I laugh as I realise what he's hinting at. 'Well then,' I say, squeezing his hand. 'I very much look forward to it.'

'Good,' is the reply that I'm given, and I grin. 'Water,' he rasps a moment later.

I jump up from the chair that I sit in, noting with remorse the pain set in my legs. But that's not the most important thing here; first I need to tend to Sherlock.

'Okay,' I tell him. 'You're going to need to sit up, love.'

He lifts his head up, and it's as clear as day that he's struggling. I haul him gently into a sitting position (propping him up on numerous pillows) and reach for his water glass. I put it to his lips and tip it up as he takes in the lukewarm water, drop by drop. He gives me the smallest shake of his head once he's had enough. 'Soup?' I ask him, watching as he leans his head on the headboard.

'Please,' he croaks out. I take the flask of warm chicken soup from the table and pour some into the cap.

'We'll let it cool for a few minutes, yeah? That way you won't burn your throat.'

Sherlock looks at me, his blue-green eyes missing their signature shine. They are so dull, lifeless and when I see them for the first time today, my heart breaks a little. 'I love you, John,' he tells me, his hand slowly wrapping around my wrist.

I smile. 'I love you most, Sherlock. I love you.' I kiss his forehead as my own hand wraps around his wrist. 'I will always love you.'

I lean back, my hand leaving his. I remember his food. I take a spoon of soup and test the temperature. It's perfect. 'Here. This'll warm you. It'll feel good.'

He has the soup and sighs. 'I feel like a child,' he says with scorn, and I know he's self-deprecating. My heart shatters a little more at his words and I swallow thickly. 'I have to be fed, I have to be taken to the toilet, this is horrible.'

His fever has gotten so bad that he cannot stand without feeling dizzy. He claims to have a numbing pain in his fingers and legs. And yet he refuses to see a specialist doctor.

His condition is reaching the end of my own spectrum. I'm doing what I can but if he worsens, I don't know if I'll be able to give him the support he needs, the support that a doctor specialising in this field can give him.

'You're ill, Sherlock,' I tell him, giving him another spoonful of the soup. 'Everyone gets ill once in a while. Even I get ill sometimes.'

'Didn't ask to be ill,' he mutters.

I chuckle softly. 'No one ever does.'

I feed him the cupful of soup a spoonful at a time and when he's finished, he screws his eyes tight. 'Thank you,' he whispers.

'It's nothing,' I say. 'Need to go?'

He shakes his head. A ghost of a smile graces his lips as he tries to shift again. He winces. 'Hey hey, let me help you,' I exclaim as I jump up to aid him.

I help him lie down, removing the pillows and throwing them over to my side of the bed. 'Are you cold?' I ask, holding the blanket.

'A little.' I drape the blanket up to his shoulder level and pick up the thermometer. Still the same. 38.9 degrees.

'You're getting better, love,' I say. 'I predict a few more days like this. Then you'll be fine.'

'At least my throat has stopped hurting,' he says, closing his eyes.

'See?' I say. He yawns, and it's contagious. 'Go to sleep, okay?'

I watch him as he tries to sleep, flexing the fingers on both my hands, easing the tension in them. I, too, am tired but I can't sleep for fear that something happens to Sherlock while I'm resting.

'I'm going to just walk around the room a little, okay?' I whisper in Sherlock's ear, in case he's still awake.

I pace around the room, the pain in my legs making the motion harder. I groan and look wearily at Sherlock to see if he heard. Nope. He's fast asleep, breathing steadily. As I walk, the pain eases and soon walking is as painless as it has been ever since I met Sherlock.

I check Sherlock's temperature one last time before I sink back into my chair. 38.9 degrees. Same as it has been for the past couple of hours. Hopefully, it stays this way or reduces.

I sigh, watching him. He sleeps peacefully. And for once, I feel like I am tranquil, calm. And it feels good.

Sherlock wakes for the first time that day. He's been on bed rest for a further two days and it's seven twenty in the morning. 'Good morning, John,' he says, sitting up with practised agility. My heart soars as I hear his usual baritone voice.

'Morning, Sherlock,' I say. I sit up straight in my chair, after allowing myself to slouch during the night. 'How are you feeling?'

'Really good, actually,' he says with a smile.

I grin back at him. 'Fab. Any pains?' I ask.

He shifts around, checking. 'Nope. None.'

My grin widens. 'Let me just check your temperature and then I think you'll be free to go.'

I put the thermometer to his ear. '37.0 degrees exactly,' I say. 'Perfect body temperature.'

'John, I-' Sherlock starts to tell me. He changes his mind a second later. 'Thank you for staying with me while I've been ill. I appreciate it so much.' He takes my hands in his.

'Hey,' I say, smiling fit to burst. 'I told you. I'm a soldier. Your soldier. Your pain is my pain, your discomfort is my discomfort. And I'll redo the week without sleep all over again if you need me to.'

Sherlock smiles, looking down at our entwined hands. 'John, you-'

I don't let him finish his sentence before I take a hand and tip his head up for a desperate, needy kiss. Just before I let my eyes (finally) drop shut, I see his blue-green eyes, at last with that signature stint of gold. They are shining, full of life, happiness and the sight compresses my heart back together. His eyes shut after the momentary shock has passed and mine do the same. His hands circle my neck, pulling me even closer than I thought possible. We seem to mould into one single hybrid: not Sherlock and John, but Sherlock-and-John. My hands move under his arms to cup his cheeks and the force pushes him back against the headboard. I tilt my head to the side, deepening the kiss. I feel him smile and then he pulls back, our noses touching. 'Oh god, I missed this,' he murmurs.

My hands still lay on his cheeks as I beam. 'I missed you,' I mutter back. 'Being right beside you and not having the desired contact was driving me 'round the bloody bend!'

He smirks, the gold in his eyes becoming mischievous. 'Well, my offer still stands. When you're refreshed and rested, I'll keep to my word.'

I match his expression. 'You better!' I laugh.

'I will,' he tells me softly. 'Go take a shower, have a well-earned rest and then we'll talk.' He kisses my forehead and my eyes close, a shiver running down my spine. 'I love you.'

'I love you more. You know I do,' I tell him.

He beams. 'Go get in the shower. I'll bring you clean pyjamas.'

I kiss him again. I get off the bed and walk over to the en suite. I look back at Sherlock once again, asking, 'Are you gonna be okay?'

He nods. 'I'll be fine. Go.' He waves me off.

I undress and turn on the shower, setting the temperature to something a little colder than usual. The feel of the cool water running down my scorching skin is indeed refreshing. The sensation eases the tension in my muscles from being in a chair for so long. The pain in my fingers dissipates till it's virtually non-existent.

I wash my hair, the foam of the shampoo in my hair light and pleasing. I think about the well-needed sleep I'm going to have, how I'm going to feel reborn after waking fresh. I can't wait.

I can't wait for Sherlock to be beside me in his Belstaff. I can't wait for us to be at a crime scene, Sherlock deducing all he can about a criminal or a victim, which is always everything. I can't wait for the rush of adrenalin and the electric thrill as we run after a suspect. I can't wait for Sherlock.

I dry off and slip into the pyjamas Sherlock handed me. They're a size bigger than normal and I realise with a smile that they're not my pyjamas. They're Sherlock's. I know he'll like slipping them off me.

I walk back into our bedroom and see that Sherlock has changed the bed sheets. He's not in the room so I assume that he's gone to put the old bed sheets in the washing machine. I pull back the covers and lie down, the warmth engulfing me comfortably.

As soon as I have closed my eyes, the door quietly creaks open. I don't open my eyes, sure that it's Sherlock, waiting to see what he'll do. The bed sinks as he sits, though the covers don't raise. He won't be staying. He lies down, kissing my temple. I bite my tongue to stop a smile breaking out.

'Oh god I love you,' he whispers in my ear, his breath tickling my skin. It's getting harder to feign sleeping. 'I love you, I love you, I love you. And one day – soon – I'll marry you. I'll marry you and make you mine for good. My soldier. When you're ready. But for now, I'll let you sleep. Goodnight, John. Sleep well.'

He kisses my temple again before getting up off the bed. As soon as I hear the door shut, I whisper, 'I love you too, Sherlock. I can't wait to truly be your soldier.'

And with that, I drift off into a peaceful and tranquil slumber.

I wake to see Sherlock lying in the bed beside me. His clotheless upper half is visible. He's propped up on an elbow.

'Morning, Sleepyhead,' he grins.

'Morning,' I say, stretching. 'How long was I out?'

'Twenty six hours and fifteen minutes.'

I gasp. 'I've been asleep for more than a day?!'

He smiles. 'You needed it, John. You deserved it.' He leans over me, shifting his weight to his forearm. I know my pupils have dilated. 'Ready?' he asks in a soft whisper.

I smile. 'Ready,' I reply, though I'm unsure if I said the word out loud or not.

Either way, Sherlock gets the hint. His left hand cups my cheek and he slowly brings his lips to mine. My arms wrap around his neck, pulling him closer.

We're not going to rush this. We're not going to ruin it. We'll go slow, and we'll both love it.

Well? What'd you think? You like it? I know I liked writing it for sure! Leave a review to let me know what you thought! I'd appreciate it!