This takes place after The Six Thatchers and it's a fix-it fic for The Lying Detective. Spoilers everywhere.

John walked over to the armchair by the sofa with his cup of tea. Sunlight streamed past him to alight on the well-worn furniture. John usually did the hoovering while Sherlock tidied the kitchen but in his absence the flat had fell into a state of disrepair, littered with crumbs from the peckish detective and more mysterious stains from his experiments.

John and Mycroft's minions had since then tidied up the place but there was nothing they could do for the deeper stains and damage that occurred in their absence.

"John."

The doctor had been moments away from taking a seat but now he set down his cup and approached the sofa. He studied the man with the dark mop of hair. The detective was most likely dreaming again. Seeing that Sherlock was in not in physical or emotional distress John picked his cup back up and sat on the armchair as he planned.

"Culverton Smith," Sherlock murmured.

John frowned. Sherlock had been obsessing over that name since this had all started. The man was a spokesperson for a pharmaceutical company, always advertising some chain that John forgot the name of now. Mycroft looked into it for him at first, humoring his unwell brother. It led nowhere and definitely not to the grim fantasies that had been playing out in Sherlock's mind. The detective had nearly given him a heart attack when he had tried to smother himself in his sleep. John had saved him, coming back to the flat early that day. Sherlock's ravings had been especially disturbing, murmuring things about wanting someone to kill him and not wanting to die.

He was quieter today and the fever was down. John did not need to watch him but the sitter still had Rosie and he needed to be by Sherlock's side. Sherlock shouting for him in a half lucid state had kept him here. He knew he was needed.

"Mmm." A deep furrow marred the detective's brow and his head tossed from side to side.

Sherlock continued to groan like someone who was coming to. John got up again and took his pulse while his ex-flatmate tossed fitfully.

"Sherlock," he called softly.

He knew that sleep was the best remedy for Sherlock but he needed to know that the detective was okay. He had been through a lot, and so had John.

"Hey, Sherlock," he whispered.

Finally his eyelashes fluttered and his lips parted. He seemed to be pulling himself out of a deep slumber. John's thumb gently caressed his hand as he kept hold of his wrist. He sat there as a gentle presence as Sherlock opened his eyes.

The detective blinked rapidly and he stared at the ceiling. John felt his stomach clench.

"Sherlock? Are you with me?"

At last the bright blue eyes alighted on him, no longer fever-bright. They stared at him with something of their former concentration and intense focus.

John let out a breath he did not realize he had been holding. A slow smile curled at the corners of his mouth. He waited.

"John?" Sherlock shifted but lay still after settling back down. "What are you doing here?"

The words were sharp, almost accusatory. A war was going on behind Sherlock's eyes.

"Mycroft called me. He let me know that you had been admitted to St. Barts."

"Hospital? I wasn't in the hospital." His eyes suddenly went wide. "Culverton Smith...I had the staff fill the intravenous bags with saline. I caught his confession on the recording device in your cane. He tried to-"

"Sherlock, Sherlock," John said softly. "You never met Culverton Smith, at least as far as either Mycroft or I can determine. You've been feverish for the past week and malnourished for the past two."

The lines in Sherlock's face deepened. "But Mary...Mary left me a message."

John paled.

"John, I'm so sorry. I never would have wanted her to save me. I should have taken the bullet-"

"Shut up." John squeezed his eyes shut. It was still nearly impossible to hear that name.

Sherlock's eyes clouded with their feverish distress that had been present for the past week. John took a deep breath, studying Sherlock's disheveled state before he continued more gently, "Just...rest. You've been as sick as a dog. We'll discuss this when you're feeling better."

The answer seemed to do little to appease the detective. He was working himself into an upright position. His arms were shaking as he propped himself up. John moved closer, hovering a foot away from his patient.

"Mary told me that I should work myself to the brink, put myself through hell. She said that when you saved me I would be saving you. That message is the only thing I could do for you and..." Sherlock collapsed back down to the cushions, breathing hard. His face was pale again. He seemed unable to continue.

"You must have been dreaming."

"No, it's right there on the mantlepiece. I stabbed it." Sherlock indicated the fireplace with a wave of his hand.

"All right. I'll go take a look."

John stood up and moved away, keeping Sherlock in his peripheral vision. The detective's skin was still a yellowish grey, almost corpse-like. After Sherlock got this off his chest John would have to get some food into him. For now he had to show Sherlock that there were no monsters under his bed or in his mind palace.

John spotted Sherlock's skewering knife. It was reserved only for the cases that really challenged him. John studied the envelope pinned to the mantlepiece. He wrenched the dagger upward and the packet popped free. Out of the corner of his eye the skull grinned at him. The skull looked pristine, left out of Sherlock's delusions as he tore about the flat before Mycroft had summoned him. John sent it a little smirk before he turned to the manilla packet. It had John and Mary's address. John took note of the date it was stamped with. Sherlock had received it before they had gone to the aquarium.

John opened the envelope, unsure of what to expect. Sometimes Sherlock's delusions had seemed too real as if he were recounting memories. Surprisingly, what he found made him smile slightly. He took the disk out and approached his flatmate, proffering it to him. 'Rosamund' labeled the disk in blue blocky capital letters.

"It's the baby pictures we sent you a month ago. We sent out copies to Lestrade, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, and a couple of coworkers at the practice."

Sherlock frowned, holding out his hand for the disk. John gave it to him and let him study it for a while, allowing the sleuth the time to complete his deductions.

"I can load it up on your laptop if you like."

Sherlock shook his head. "That won't...be necessary. It seems I've been in my mind palace for a while. Must have gotten lost."

John sent him a sad little smile. "Well, you're back this time. So no more shouting about philanthropists and cereal. At least not until you have something to eat. You must have lost almost two stone while I've been gone."

Sherlock looked downward, plucking at his loose shirt.

"I'm sorry."

The words had a peculiar weight to them. John glanced down at the floor as his mind turned to Mary as it often did.

"I know."

Sherlock looked away, unhappy expression still present.

"I-it wasn't you. I wasn't angry with you."

The dubious look Sherlock sent him was almost scandalized in its intensity.

"I know that I was angry with myself and took it out on you. I'm sorry, Sherlock. Mary...wouldn't have wanted this."

John clenched his hands into fists as his eyes burned. Even as his breathing picked up, Sherlock's slowed down. Sherlock's expression was more lax now. He gingerly touched John's wrist, an echo of the touch John had given him before he woke up.

They stayed like that for a silent minute. John wiped his eyes surreptitiously with his sleeve. He sniffled.

"What-ah-what would you like to eat? We have toast, take out..." His offer was given awkwardly but with determination.

Sherlock suddenly appeared hopeful.

"Do we have any ginger nuts?"

John chuckled softly. "Yes. We have ginger nuts."

Sherlock hummed happily and then John knew, he finally knew that it would at least be a little okay.

The End