So, as you can tell from the weather in this chapter, this was written up to 70% a loooong time ago, but I never finished it. I had a massive scare today -well, yesterday now-, where I just started coughing blood completely randomly, and my parents had to find me on the bathroom floor in shock, suffering a PNES attack and unable to get up or help myself. Way to start the day, eh? So I decided to finally finish this long chapter. Enjoy the drama.

In a sort of desperate attempt at keeping his mind busy, and not think about his sister, John had taken up a job at St Bart's as an emergency surgeon. He had just told Sherlock one day "I'm going to work. See you in the evening", before closing the door behind him.

Granted, it had been a while since Sherlock's asthma had been a real trouble, and the detective guessed that it had completely left John's mind at the moment. He did feel bad for his flatmate, but didn't know how to comfort someone whose only left family member kept giving in to their alcoholism. Plus he wasn't exactly the cuddle and cry type. So he just let Nicky do the cuddling, and made sure that certain supplies like coffee and milk were always present, and a ready, steaming cup already awaiting John when he came down from his upstairs bedroom every morning.

John never asked Sherlock about when he even slept the past few weeks, always just accepting the mug, with Sherlock nowhere other than in his bedroom. Gifted horses and all that.

But if he'd only asked him a single time, then he most likely never had to be in this situation: sitting in front of a surgery room, having to watch his colleges working on saving his friend.

--

It was summer. God, how Sherlock hated summer. And since when did London have heat waves like this? They were getting one bout of african, sandy air after another. They had ventilators in all rooms now, and opening a window is completely out of the question, yet John always did a quick round of opening all windows in the mornings before he left for work.

Sherlock cursed in his mind as he closed the last window as he tried his best to hold his breath. The bone-dry, hot air was irritating his airways within seconds.

It had been like this for two full, torturous weeks now, and he felt like he would never be able to breathe normally again. He constantly felt like he had a giant rock on his chest, with the biggest chains wrapped around his back, holding it in place.

He turned away from the window, drew the curtains and painfully sucked in a slow breath.

He was in constant pain by now, breathing or not. Nicky whined at him from where he sat on the sofa.

Sherlock knew he was right. He had to take the Beclomethasone, his asthma-attack-prevention inhaler; he just couldn't go on without it anymore.

The spraying of water into the air, the mint oil in hot water inhalation, the breathing techniques,.. it just didn't cut it anymore. He couldn't ignore it anymore.

He'd lain awake almost all night every day, because the second he lowered his head, he'd be gasping for air. And if he did manage to fall asleep, he would wake up 20 minutes later, dreaming of drowning or getting choked by a stranger, drenched in sweat and gasping for air.

Maybe it was a pride thing, but Sherlock hated, hated, hated having to use inhalers. Didn't like it when he first got them as a teen, and that hadn't changed still. The thing about the preventors is that they are basically cortisone, and that is what make asthmatics so prone to colds and worse infections. He would know, never getting sick as long as he could go without meds, but two weeks on cortisone spray and he was bedridden with pneumonia for a month.

He felt like he didn't deserve this... irritating disease. He had been all about health as a kid, believe it or not, and he was so furious that He had to get the demented lungs.

Bronchi.

Whatever.

He had felt so betrayed from his body, that he had started to smoke. In his fury, he had believed that if he did that, he would at least have a reason for the coughing and the chest pains.

His brother had quickly made him see reason, as soon as he'd heard of his new habit.

As soon as Mycroft was out of the picture though... he had not only returned to cigarettes, but started shooting up as well. Granted, the drugs worked to stop the asthma attacks temporarily. Or he just never remembered them.

But the whole withdrawal part when his brother had finally found out, made him feel like drugs were just not worth it. That didn't mean he didn't crave it from time to time, but he managed.

Well, he was currently inhaling steroids. He'd just have to do with what he got. Even when he hated the whole part of it. The taste, the burning in his already irritated bronchi as the medication started to work, the tedious process of coughing up the loosened mucus as he stood hunched over the sink, leaning on his elbows on the sink...

He felt shaky all over again. Nicky's claws could be heard as the little dog made his way over to Sherlock, who had sat down on the cold tiles of the bathroom, panting after the coughing fit.

Nicky curled up on the detective's lap, letting him run his fingers through his fur as he just breathed.

--

Sherlock never noticed the fever. He put it down to the massive heat and his labored breathing - he'd always started sweating whenever his asthma had acted up.

It was now the third day of him taking his prevention inhaler every morning and evening, always carrying a reliever inhaler in a pocket. The pain in his lungs slowly eased down, and he could breathe easier.

—-

The heat had a short break, finally an entire day of London rain. Finally a day where they could open the windows.

Sherlock had even kept John company that evening. Of course he hid any signs of his struggle the last few weeks, and just listened to John talking about work. About the many people suffering circulatory collapse from the heat wave. About meeting Molly for lunch. About news of his sister. That her liver would need a transplant after the heavy blow it had taken, but that she was at the very end of the list, and John had a different blood group than her. (And Sherlock would never come in question because of his drugs habit.)

The unspoken "I'm going to lose the last member I have left of my family", leaving the cool air turn to ice.

--

The African air had made a reappearance, and a fierce one at that, with expected 39C and air humidity of barely 10%.

And Sherlock was exasperated that Lestrade called him early in the morning on this exact day, saying that some lunatic had decided that today would be a good day for a serial killing.

In his fury of having to leave the safety of the flat, he had completely forgotten to take the preventer inhaler, just grabbed Nicky and stormed out of the flat.

He realized his mistake the second he stepped foot out of the flat. The hot, dry air assaulting his bothered airways, and Sherlock did his best to just keep going, and sat down in the cab.

Yes, he felt like he was sucking air through a clogged straw, and Nicky had picked up on his labored breathing and was gently pawing at him from where he sat on his lap.

Sherlock told the driver the address in one short breath, panting through his nose to get enough air again.

The driver shot him a questioning glance through the back mirror. "Sure you shouldn't be taken to a nearby hospital?"

Sherlock shook his head, and after a few more breaths bit out "'m fine".

The driver kept his eyes on him for a moment longer, before shrugging and taking off to where he was told to drive.

He debated on wether he should just take the reliever inhaler while he was still in the cab. He hated having to use it in general, it always made his body tremble and feel anxious. And he hated it even more to use it in front of the Yarders, after last time.

But the irrational part of his brain said: maybe he would be fine. After all, he'd managed to go for weeks with this air.

Of course, that he'd spent most of the time in his own home with coping mechanisms, had no important part in that logic.

But the decision wasn't his anymore, when he suddenly had to cough and the first two were only wheezes, earning himself another glance from the cabbie.

Nicky started whining at him, and Sherlock made quick work on digging out the blue inhaler from his pants pocket. He was hyperaware of the cabbie watching him and the street variantly, while he did the 'ritual' of preparing and administering the medication.

He suppressed the violent coughs that threatened to convulse his chest, and took the second puff with a glare thrown at the cabbie, who finally kept his eyes on the traffic around him.

He realized that this had been the first time he had made the decision to actively make his.. condition.. apparent to others -well, John was an exception - and it hadn't backfired.

No snide remarks at his inability to just breathe like everybody else (even John had complained once about the air being so hard to breathe, although he never seemed to have thought about how Sherlock was fairing), no sudden craving to smoke a cigarette near him, just.. nothing. Absolutely nothing, besides the staring.

Nicky laid calmly on his lap until they arrived.

—-

Lestrade was discussing something with his team when Sherlock arrived with his dog. He was carrying him in his arms because it was easier to get out of the cab that way, since he had already been laying on his lap and the pavement was almost ten degrees hotter than the weather already was.

It was a fairly weird sight, the detective in only a short button down and pants that were a bit loose as to let air touch his skin, which was futile since there was no wind whatsoever, and carrying a small dog with only a collar on, walking to the crime scene. If no one was the wiser, they would think he was just an ordinary person who happened to cross by the crime scene.

Lestrade had honestly underestimated the severity of Sherlocks asthma. He knew that the Chihuahua was an asthma alert service dog (and a drug sniffer) but the condition had never been this bad before, so Greg had falsely assumed that Sherlock would be fine if he took his meds or whatever.

Well, he was in for a surprise. And probably a shock of his life.

Greg and his team were standing in the entrance of the residence, so he motioned for Sherlock to join them.

The shade didn't help much, but Sherlock felt better about having Nicky on the ground like this. He wasn't too fond of carrying him, and right now he felt like he actually didn't have the strength to carry the 4 kilo dog for long.

Lestrade didn't have a problem with Sherlock bringing the dog. After all, he was considered medical equipment.

But sadly, Anderson seemed to have something against him since the second that Sherlock had brought him with him the first time. "No dogs allowed, you know the rules!" He complained.

But nobody cared. In fact, Nicky was staring at Sherlock in a way that was starting to make everyone around uncomfortable. Like he was seeing a ghost, he was watching the detective so intently.

Greg didn't really pay attention to it. He made Sherlock follow him to peek into the rooms while he started telling him the facts. "Alright, so, we have a 45 year old female, found dead in her bedroom from a deadly shot in the head. But the handgun was found in the kitchen, on the middle of the table, and has her fingerprints on it."

Sherlock didn't even take five seconds to reply. "Blood on the bed?" He wasn't allowed to look himself because forensics were still working on getting pictures.

"No."

"But on her body and clothes?"

"Uh, yea. How did you-"

"Anywhere inside her house?"

"Nope."

Sherlock groaned. "Idiots..."

Lestrade just looked at him and waited for the explanation.

"She wasn't killed in her house. Someone killed her elsewhere, waited for the blood to dry, and then brought her into this house, positioned her, and put the handgun on the table. She obviously owned the gun, so all he had to-"

"He?"

"Obviously. All he had to do was use the right gloves and-" he was suddenly cut off by a fierce coughing fit. Nicky, who was staring at him the entire time, suddenly jumped up on his back legs and pawed at the detective's legs.

Greg finally took notice and suddenly got very concerned. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock didn't really know what was happening, only that he was coughing up a LOT of mucus all of a sudden. Liquid-y mucus. After the long, painful coughing fit he took a tissue and spat into it. He looked down and suddenly felt how his chest and throat were on fire and how much he was panting and his entire body started tingling with pins and needles.

Nicky stepped away just in time for Sherlock to suddenly collapse, all strength leaving him. He was still conscious, which made it all so much worse. Because for one, he couldn't stop coughing because the build-up mucus kept blocking his airways, and every time he spat it out - he was too busy trying to breathe to try to swallow it - he just kept seeing the clear mucus with so much red red red.

"Help." He croaked between pants. Greg crouched down next to him and put a hand to Sherlock's back to support him, and barked at Donovan "call an ambulance RIGHT NOW!"

Anderson, for once, stood back and kept his mouth shut.

Nicky was sitting to Sherlock's left and has his head on his lap, giving Greg a pleading look. Sadly, Greg had no idea what he was supposed to do in this situation other than hope that Sherlock didn't die in the time it took for the ambulance to arrive. He had read up on asthma attacks for a bit, and knew that usually inhalers did the trick. But. This wasn't your average asthma attack.

Sherlock just sat there, body shaking from the shock, trying his hardest to stop himself from coughing, and his thoughts were a mantra of "ow ow ow ow ow ow" as every breath just felt like he was breathing razors instead of air. And for some reason, he desperately wanted to get up. Probably fight or flight response or something, his foggy brain concluded. But he didn't have the strength. He couldn't even push himself up enough to lift his behind in order to change position in hopes that the intense tingling in his legs would stop.

"Sherlock, would your inhaler help?" Greg asked him desperately. His consultant was growing more and more pale and his lips were starting to turn just the slightest bit blue. He just wanted to do SOMETHING. Anything to help, but he didn't know how.

"I don't.. know.." Sherlock managed to force out. His voice was hoarse, his lungs and throat were burning and stabbing and he was terrified of coughing up more blood, so he suppressed the urge. His hand fished for the little device. He knew that he had just used it not long ago, and didn't think that it would be a good idea. But he was desperate for Any kind of positive change. So he used it again, in front of everyone's eyes. Greg had to hold him up because he almost fell flat on his back when he wasn't supporting his weight with his hands and uncapped the inhaler.

Donovan approached them hesitantly. "Sir, ambulance will be here in about two minutes, they just finished up two blocks down the street."

"Thank god." Greg sighed. But suddenly he had a heap of detective slam into him. "Sherlock!" He checked him over. He was still awake... sort of. "You can't fall asleep now! Stay with me a but longer, alright?"

Sherlock just kept panting and trembling in his arms, pressing his eyes closed. He just wanted this to end, right now. He wanted to escape the pain.

This was just a messed up dream. A nightmare. Never in his life would he have thought that he'd be this vulnerable in front of his enemies. ..And Greg.

He's had coughed blood before. But never this much. And it never hurt this bad before.

He didn't remember much after he saw the flashing blue lights.

--

John sat in front of theater room 3, looking down at the bloody tissue in his hands. The doctors were performing a bronchoscopy in order to find out where the blood was coming from, and he wasn't allowed in the room. In all honesty, he didn't feel like he could actually stand in there, next to his sedated friend, watching the monitor as they travelled down the probably bloodied and torn airways.

No, all he wanted was to know that his friend would be alright. He was already about to lose his sister. He couldn't lose his best friend now, too.

"John?" He startled. Looking up, he saw Molly Hooper in front of him.

"Molly.." he trailed off, not sure what to say. She sat down on the chair next to John's, looking down at the bloody tissue in John's hands.

"Is that-"

"Sherlock's.. he's in there right now." John said, pointing to the door next to him.

"Oh gosh.. uh.. John, can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

She bit her lip. "Does Sherlock really have asthma?"

Well, that was unexpected. "Yeah. Yes, he does. Why?"

"Well, uhm.. Detective Inspector Lestrade was with me once-- you know, the case with the dead asthmatic? Well, he told me that it was solved because Sherlock knew so much about asthma and.. I've just been wondering if it was true or not. This dog that his brother gave him.. it's an asthma alert dog, isn't it?"

John was actually impressive by how much Molly had deduced on her own. "Yeah, to.. all of that."

"Where is his dog?"

"Sorry?"

"Where is his dog? If Sherlock's in surgery, where is he, that little dog? I'm just worried, if it's out on the streets or-"

"No, no. He's at the nurse station right now. They are all over him." John chuckled.

"Oh, alright." Molly smiled. She then looked at the theater door. "Do you know what happened?"

John sighed. "Greg told me a bit earlier. Apparently Sherlock was called on a case and before he could tell him his deductions, he started coughing blood, collapsed, and passed out just when the ambulance arrived."

"Oh no, that's horrible! I'm really sorry, John."

"It's... it is what it is, isn't it? Let's just hope that you won't have out favorite detective on a slab." He joked, with a very dark humor.

"Yeah, he better doesn't." Molly agreed.

The door next to John opened and a team rolled Sherlock out. They both sprang up immediately and walked into ICU with them.

The surgeon responsible for Sherlock actually sighed when the detective was placed in one of the rooms, the accompanying nurses getting him hooked up on an IV and oxygen. John and this doctor knew each other, and John knew that it wasn't out of disrespect, but because he knew what John was already going through, and that he wouldn't like the news.

Molly checked her wrist watch and turned to John. "My break is over, I'm sorry-"

"No, no it's fine." John told her.

"Text me on his condition, please." She pleaded as she turned back at the door.

"Of course." He replied. And she was gone.

John turned to the doctor. "So, what did this git manage to do now?" He looked down at the tissue that he forgot he was still holding. "Apart from this." He decided to finally throw it into the trash now.

His college wasn't very amused. "Well, apart from the obvious, he has a case of bronchitis that is on the brink of turning into pneumonia." John groaned. "I understand that he used to smoke?" John nodded. "Well, he is at definitive risk of developing COPD, so we better keep an eye on that. Follow up appointments and checks with his pneumologist are highly recommended."

'He's not gonna like this', John thought bitterly. "Bloody idiot.." he cursed as he looked at his unconscious friend.

His college chuckled and put a hand on John's shoulder. "I'll leave you two alone now. You know the deal: any questions, come straight to me."

"Yeah.."

"Good."

They were alone now. John took one of the rolling chairs and sat down next to his friend.

He sat in silence for a good ten minutes, not sure what to say, and knowing that Sherlock wouldn't hear him anyways.

But at some point his emotions took over.

"You bloody idiot... I'm already losing my sister and now you go and pull a- a-.. a SHERLOCK." John whispered to him and turned away for a moment.

"That doesn't even make sense.." came a weak voice from behind him.

John turned back around to see Sherlock looking at him through barely opened eyelids. "Sherlock you GIT! Bloody git!"

"Heard you the first time.."

"Bloody git!"

"Mmmh."

"Shut up, you shouldn't be doing anything other than breathing and sleeping."

Short silence.

"Where's..."

"Sherlock I mean it-"

"Where's.. dog.."

"Are you serious right now? Are you actually, bloody serious right now?" John snapped at him. "You go for WEEKS! Or who even Knows How Long, with bronchitis, which was on the Brink of becoming full blown PNEUMONIA, cough BLOOD on a crime scene, faint in the ambulance, and all you ask is WHERE YOUR DOG IS?!"

"..yes.." Sherlock whispered.

John didn't even know how to respond now. "He's at the nurses station. Believe it or not, people are very fond of a well behaved, fluffy little Chihuahua."

Sherlock didn't look happy about this. "They.. gon.. spoil.."

"Shut up, I mean it."

"But Jo-"

"SHUT. UP!"

Sherlock finally went quiet.

John looked him in the eye. "I'm already losing my sister, Sherlock. The last person of my broken family that I have left. I can't-.. I can't lose you too." His voice cracked but he didn't care. His sister was dying and his cock of a friend decides that Now was a good time to throw his health away? "You can be so selfish sometimes..."

Sherlock didn't have the heart to tell him what he'd been up to, and just reached out clumsily to grab John's hand.

"You're not getting rid.. of me that easy."