Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.

Hello, everyone! Happy Thanksgiving (well, sort of. On Monday.)! I hope that you all find something to be thankful for, regardless if it's a holiday for you. I want to thank all of YOU for the overwhelming support you've given to this story. I cannot believe how many people have read it and liked it. It blows me away every time. Anyways, here's the final chapter … not sure how I feel about it (rather bittersweet, ending such a good story) but I'll let you be the judge of how good it is. Enjoy!

John couldn't read. He couldn't page through a magazine. He certainly couldn't type a blog entry. All he could do was sit and watch the rise and fall of Sherlock's chest as he slept. John had a million things going through his mind.

Mostly he was mad at himself. How could he not realize Sherlock had become this ill? Had he been so selfish that he didn't even pick up on the tell-tale signs – they were always there, especially with Sherlock. He was a doctor; he was supposed to be trained to see these things. But he hadn't.

Of course, he was also mad at Sherlock. What kind of bubble-headed idiot wouldn't ask for help? Sherlock, of course, it was Sherlock who didn't have the common sense to ask John for help when he fell ill. No, it had to be a game and he had to win. There was no way that he would speak up first … but still. John knew that Sherlock hated to be coddled – he never had time for doctoring – and Sherlock had probably figured that if he asked John for help now, it would seem like a cry of pity, a sort of coercion back into John's good graces. John knew perfectly well, as did Sherlock, that it would've worked, too. John had a weak spot for hurting people – that's why he had become a doctor, to help people. By asking for help, Sherlock would have been able to convince John that everything could go back to normal … but he didn't. Why?

John had been pondering that question for hours, having figured out the answer in the first few minutes. Sherlock cared about their friendship and wanted it to be genuine. He had said so, hadn't he? He had told John to take all the time he needed. Sherlock wanted John to be the one to speak up when he felt he could move on. But did Sherlock want their friendship to be so genuine that he put himself through so much to ensure it?

Yes, John realized, he had. Sherlock had suffered by himself – sick and alone and hurting – for heaven knows how long before John found him. The gesture, as stupid as it was, touched John, although now he had the task of caring for the very sick Sherlock.

The hours ticked by slowly and John grew restless and worried. He watched Sherlock deteriorate as the night moved into early dawn. His sleep became full of restless fits and he often got tangled in the sheets, fighting to free whatever limb was caught up. John could see, as the morning light began to pour into the room, a thin sheen of sweat on Sherlock's face.

Rising from his chair, he instinctually laid a palm on Sherlock's forehead, only to find it burning hot. John worked the thermometer under Sherlock's limp tongue and left to retrieve a fresh washcloth. When he returned, he read the thermometer – 103.5 – before bathing Sherlock's face and neck. John became more worried as Sherlock's temperature continued to rise into the afternoon, peaking at 104.1. Taking ice packs, bags of frozen vegetables, and any other sort of malleable frozen objects into the bedroom, he began packing them around Sherlock's arms and torso, trying in vain to break the fever. The only good thing, John rationalized as he continued his ministrations, was that such a high fever meant Sherlock was never awake to vomit, although it seemed like a pretty grim silver lining. John really wished there was a way he could get some fluids and medicine into Sherlock. He didn't have access to set up a drip, but he could, he decided, try and wake Sherlock to take some medicine and hopefully get some water into him. Fetching a tall glass of cool water, John shook Sherlock's shoulder gently.

"Sherlock, wake up. Sherlock."

Sherlock's eyes opened with what appeared to be a great amount of strength exerted on Sherlock's part.

"What are you doing here?"

"You're ill, Sherlock."

Sherlock's eyes slid closed and John shook his shoulder again, prying them open.

"I know you're tired but you've got to take some medicine. Can you do that for me?"

Sherlock moved his head just enough to let John know he would try. John slid his hand behind Sherlock's head and lifted it slightly, using his free hand to put two pills into Sherlock's mouth before holding up the glass of water.

"Try to drink as much as you can." he said in a very soothing tone of voice. Sherlock drank most of the water before letting his eyes slide closed again. John laid his head back down.

"That was really good, Sherlock. Very good."

Sherlock didn't seem to be listening and John went back to his silent methodical care.

It was early evening by the time Sherlock woke up again. John had barely left the bedroom the entire day, but it had been worth it when Sherlock's fever had broken and his temperature had fallen to a much more comfortable 99.5 degrees. John had removed the ice and was sitting, once again, in his chair, lost in thought.

Sherlock gave a deep cough, causing John's eyes to travel from the floor to his face. Sherlock's features were crumpled and his coughing fit was becoming more violent, gaining depth. Suddenly, Sherlock was sitting upright looking very urgent. John, luckily, had realized what was about to happen and thrust the bin onto Sherlock's lap just a moment before it was needed. John patted Sherlock's back while he was sick, trying to take the edge off the most-unpleasant experience he believed existed.

"Better?" John asked as Sherlock caught his breath.

"Yes."

John removed the bin and Sherlock fell back against his pillows, eyes wide and alert. John leaned over him.

"How are you feeling?"

"Better." Sherlock said, taking a deep breath. "Much better."

"Your fever broke about an hour ago."

Sherlock, still breathing hard, nodded.

"Do you think you're going to be sick again?"

"No." Sherlock sounded quite confident but John, being less sure, went and emptied the bin and brought it back, setting it close just in case. He sat back down in his chair, the tension mounting with every passing minute. Finally, it became too much for John.

"Sherlock."

Sherlock turned to look at his friend but the moment they made eye contact, John's eyes fell to his hands.

"Sherlock," he said again. "I don't really know how to say this, but …"

"You don't have to say anything, John. It's okay."

"No, no, it's not." John raised his head. "It's not okay. I know you know how much this hurt me and I know that you're sorry for it. But you have to understand …" John stopped for a moment before continuing. "You have to understand that I trusted you. I feel betrayed by what you did."

"I know."

"I want to move past this, I really do, but how do I know if I can trust you again? How do I know that the next time something happens, you won't just disappear and leave me to pick up the pieces?"

"I can't answer that, John. I can tell you that I am sorry and that while I think it was necessary, I understand that you don't agree. Trust is something you earn, John, and I'm willing to show you that I need you."

It was Sherlock's turn to pause before continuing.

"What you said in the cemetery, about me finding you so alone … well, I was alone then, too. I've never had a friend like you before."

John looked down at his hands. As much as this needed to be said, he couldn't deny it was awkward.

"I forgive you, you know." John said at last. "But it's going to take time before things are like they used to be."

"Nothing can ever be like it used to be. There's no point in recreating a past."

"You're right." John agreed. "But I do have one question for you."

"Anything."

"Why didn't you say something when you first got sick? I would've helped you, you know that, right?"

"Of course I know that." Sherlock answered. "But you have to learn to trust me again, not the other way around. You had to come to me."

"That's fine and all," John said. "But that was a pretty stupid thing to do. You were really sick, Sherlock. If I wasn't a doctor, I would've had you in hospital the moment I found you. What made you so sure that I'd find you before you were half-dead?"

"I wasn't going to die from this, John. It's a simple case of flu."

"Your temperature was at 104, Sherlock. Any higher and you could've had brain damage. So how did you know that I'd find you?"

"I knew that eventually you'd see the signs and once you found me, you wouldn't just leave me, especially if I was as ill as you said."

"You really trusted me, then?"

John watched and there was no trace of hesitation in Sherlock's voice.

"With my life."

And … how'd I do?

Also, before my closing note, two points of business.

1) Thank you so much for all your well-wishes. Still rather sick, but slowly getting there … colds just take forever to go away and it's annoying.

2) I had the pleasure of doing this story upon request … if you have any story ideas that you'd like to see done, let me know! I'm always up for a good challenge (in case you haven't noticed, I don't do slash of any kind. Also, I prefer sick fics but I'm willing to tackle new projects =) )

And that, my dear friends, is the end. Thank you so, so much for reading It's My Turn to Believe. I hope you loved reading it as much as I loved writing it!

~StoryLover18