So, this has probably been the longest 'one-shot' ever to grace but we'll ignore that wee fact. The thing we should really be thinking about is that this is the last chapter I'd like to say one last thank you to everyone who has reviewed/favourite/is following this fic. It means a lot to know people are enjoying reading this as much as I am enjoying writing it. I have tried to reply to every review, I have a horrible feeling I did leave out one chapter though *cringes*. This was originally to stave off writer's block but I think it's escalated from there. Do remember, it may be the last chapter but I would still love to get reviews. It's the last chance to let me know what you think.

I do not own Sherlock. I would have thought this would be obvious because I have no idea why I would be sitting on this website when I could actually be writing scripts for Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman. Also, if I did own Sherlock we would have seen sick Sherlock and caring John by now (I'm sure you would appreciate that as much as I would Prothoe ;)) Anyway, enough from me, on with the final chapter…

Understanding the Detective

221b was like a warzone, well not quite, at least in a warzone there was somewhere to hide or retreat to. But there was nowhere to retreat to, he had to fight. There was a stand-off, metaphorically speaking, between him and Sherlock. John was sitting in his chair, Sherlock on his, and an omelette sat innocently on the coffee table between them. Neither man was willing to back down, to give in to the others wishes. Who knew a simple omelette would be the sole cause of world war three?

"Eat it Sherlock," John growled between clenched teeth.

"No," replied Sherlock, as if there was no room for debate, staring straight back at his friend. Absentmindedly he plucked gently at the strings of his violin with his spindly fingers.

"I told you to eat it," John tried again, forcing himself to remain calm.

"And I said no." John sighed and took in a slow deep breath before releasing it. "You're frustrated. Why?" the detective asked impatiently.

"Because you just spent the past week in hospital and you were very sick. You need the energy to complete the recovery process which means you have to damn well eat." Sherlock raised his eyebrows in a bemused manner.

"I may have been sick but the clue is in the tense John. I have been sick, I was in hospital. I am no longer sick and I am no longer in hospital. Therefore I am recovered and I need to think, not eat. Eating interferes with brain work."

"So does starving."

"Why do you even care John?" asked the detective, generally confused and intrigued. "It's not like this even affects you." The doctor's face seemed to contort into an expression which expressed both hurt and anger.

"Do you know what, I don't know why I even bother. Just forget it, I'm going out." With that John stood and strode out of the door, grabbing his jacket on the way out.

Sherlock just looked after him, utterly confused. Then again, this was something to do with emotion and John could be ever so emotional at times. That's probably what it was, just something as human as emotion. He'd be alright once he got back. His gaze slowly settled back on the omelette, the thing that had started this whole situation and Sherlock felt something stirring in his stomach. Could that actually be guilt? No, he didn't feel something as human as guilt so what could it be? This time Sherlock sighed, why did John have to get to him? Tentatively he placed the violin back down next to him and pulled the plate towards him. Cold egg slithered down his throat causing him to shudder, he wanted nothing more than to put the plate down and not have any more but he was doing this for John so he had to make a half decent effort.

"Oh," Sherlock muttered to himself after he had forced down half of the meal. "So it definitely was not guilt, what a relief." He practically threw the plate onto the coffee table and ran, as well as he could manage because he was still very sore, into the bathroom and emptied the contents of his stomach. He didn't make it to the toilet quite in time so half of it was all over the floor and down his front. The movement had exhausted his small store of energy and he collapsed to the floor, hoping John would return soon and that he would no longer be angry.

As a matter of fact John was still angry, not as angry as he had been but was definitely not happy. It was moments when Sherlock said things like that John doubted their friendship. Perhaps it was one sided; Sherlock was John's best friend but John was, what, Sherlock's assistant? Deep down he knew this not to be true, not after the distress Sherlock had been in when he thought Moriarty had killed him. Either way, John knew he could not spend long out. Sherlock was still unwell, no matter what he claimed, and would most likely get himself re-hospitalized if left to his own devices for too long.

The flat was silent as he ascended the stairs; the violin could not be heard resonating throughout the flat, and there was no crashing or muttering or anything that would indicate the detective was home. Perhaps he was sleeping, possible but unlikely. It was more likely Sherlock had taken advantage of John's absence and snuck out of the flat to find Lestrade to harass him for cases or something.

Cautiously he entered the flat to find it empty, his curiosity was piqued. He felt pretty much all his anger leave him when he saw the half empty plate, at least Sherlock had given it a go and that's all he'd really wanted in the first place. But the question of the detective's location still remained a mystery. "Sherlock!" John called. A slight groan which slightly resembled the word 'John' emanated from the bathroom and so the doctor made his way towards in. Not bothering to knock he barged in and felt sympathy twist at his heart. Maybe food wasn't the best idea after all. "Do you reckon you're going to be sick again?" John asked, keeping his voice neutral for his friend's sake. Sherlock shook his head. "Then why are you still on the floor?" The doctor already knew the answer but he wanted the detective to admit it. His unwillingness to confess any weakness was becoming a problem and they were going to have to discuss it.

Sherlock looked down, his hands apparently fascinating and John felt himself give in. He'd confront his friend once he was cleaned up. "We'll get you in the shower and I'll clean all this up. If I help you stand up will you manage from there?"

"Yes."

"Are you sure? I don't want to have to explain to Mycroft why you're back in the hospital so soon if you fall and hit your head and get a concussion."

"I'm sure." Satisfied with the answer John helped the detective to his feet then turned the shower on as Sherlock removed his t-shirt and pyjama bottoms, leaving his boxers on to maintain whatever dignity he had left. The doctor tutted as he saw his friend's far too prominent bones but restrained himself; forcing himself to say nothing more on the subject.

Sherlock revelled as the hot water poured over him, transforming his porcelain skin into a bright shade of red. He wasn't one to take long showers though, so it wasn't long before he clambered out, towelled himself off and stumbled through to his bedroom. He didn't know if he was grateful of annoyed to find his clothes already laid out on the bed. As a general rule he hated people touching his possessions but on the other hand this was John and he knew he couldn't really be bothered rummaging around looking for clean clothes.

There was a slight tapping at the door as Sherlock was fighting with his dressing gown. "Come in," he said once he's managed to wrap the silk garment around his slender frame. "Are you ok?" asked John from the doorway.

"Well I don't recall vomiting being a sign of good health so what do you think?" Sherlock asked viciously, he was tired of all John's fussing and concern. John strengthened his stance, looking for all intents and purposes as if he were preparing for a fight; he was probably half expecting it considering it was Sherlock he was dealing with.

"Right, sofa or bed?" he demanded in his no-nonsense voice.

"Sofa, tea?" John nodded and headed off to the kitchen as Sherlock slowly made his way to the sofa.

A few minutes later John made his way back into the living room with one mug in each hand, he handed one to Sherlock whose hands were shaking ever so slightly. The moment Sherlock looked into the mug he had been given his expression morphed into one of disgust. "This isn't tea John."

"Good deduction, this is tea," the doctor countered lifting his mug as if to say cheers then taking a sip, enraging the detective even further.

"I wanted tea John. What the hell is this anyway? It looks like something you'd find in a festering wound."

"That is hot arrowroot; it's a drink my mother used to make me when I was younger if I was ill. It helps to prevent vomiting and will start to replenish any nutrients which you have lost. You can have tea once you have drunk that."

"I'm not a child."

"Then stop acting like one."

"Is there any scientific evidence that this works?"

"I don't know and frankly, I don't give a damn. Just drink it ok, it won't kill you."

The detective looked up in surprise, he hadn't anticipated that reaction. "What's wrong with you?" he asked sipping tentatively at the drink and John nodded at him as a way of thanks.

"Nothing, it's nothing. Look, we need to talk." He took another sip; it actually wasn't as bad as he'd anticipated.

"About what?"

"You're inability to look after yourself and unwillingness to ask for help when you need it." The mug stopped, half raised to Sherlock's lips.

"I can look after myself perfectly fine thank you very much," the younger man retorted, immediately on the defensive.

"Mhmm, really?"

"Yes, I managed perfectly fine by myself before you came along," he spat. John stared at him, shocked.

"What, do you want me to leave because all you have to do is ask and I'll be gone."

"No, no, no," Sherlock said hurriedly, a hint of panic injecting itself into his normally calm voice as he realised what he just said and that John meant every word he said. "That's not what I meant. All I was saying is that for most of my life I haven't known you but I still survived."

"I'm not entirely sure how you managed if I'm honest; you have shown some pretty self-destructive behaviour." The doctor felt it was probably best to move past his little half-threat and never speak of it again.

"Mycroft involved himself far too much for my liking," Sherlock confessed. "He would come and fill my fridge each week and then proceed to eat three quarters of the content by himself. It's no wonder he's so fat." John chuckled slightly.

"Did you finish the arrowroot?" he asked tenderly. Sherlock nodded and handed him the empty mug which John left to fill with tea.

"Ok, will you tell me now?" the older man asked as he sat down once again.

"Tell you what?"

"Well let's start off with why you didn't tell me there was something wrong when your symptoms first appeared."

"I didn't think it was that bad, just some mild discomfort I could ignore."

"And when they got bad?"

"You were out."

"No, they got bad before I went out, I'm sure of it. Stop lying to me and tell me the truth."

"I thought you had better things to do than worry about me."

"Sherlock, you should have told me. You almost died; if we had caught it earlier we could have avoided the secondary infection completely. You could probably be back solving cases by now if you hadn't. Look, I know that emotions are foreign to you but you have to understand that I feel emotion. I don't know what I'd do if I lost you, yes I know this sounds cliché but I don't care. You're my best friend Sherlock. I want to know if you're not feeling too well, especially if we can avoid another situation like this. Do you understand?"

"Why do you worry about me so much John?" asked Sherlock with a sort of child-like innocence.

"What? Why do I worry about you? Because you're my best friend, I already said that."

"Yes, but why does that mean you worry about me." John stared at him in disbelief.

"Are you saying that if the roles were reversed, and I was the one who had appendicitis, that you wouldn't worry about me?" He wasn't angry; he was just astonished at his friend's lack of understanding.

"Well of course I would but that's different."

"In what way?"

"Well, it'd be you. But nobody ever worries about me. Well, Father used to worry that I would embarrass him and I suppose Mycroft worries but apart from that…"

"Sherlock! Don't be ridiculous. I honestly have no idea what you are on about but I care about you and I worry about you. I don't give a damn whether or not you understand or agree with such sentiment because it won't change anything." There was a brief moment during which neither of them moved and then they both smiled for a reason neither of them was sure of.

"Sherlock."

"Mm?"

"Promise me if you think there's something wrong in the future you'll tell me."

"Yes, same goes for you."

"What, you'd actually help me if I was ill?"

"Well unless you tell me I won't be able to call Mrs Hudson." The two of them snickered before taking a sip of their tea. "John."

"Mm?"

"I'm bored."

It was another week before Sherlock got his first call to come and help on a case. He was tucking into the toast John had made him as the doctor looked on, pleased to see the detective was starting to regain some of the weight he had lost. He was not healthy, not by any stretch of the imagination, but he was slowly getting there. Sherlock's phone buzzed against the table and he grabbed it, toast forgotten.

"Sherlock Holmes."

It's Lestrade; we've got a triple homicide. It looks pretty brutal and we've ID'd the three victims and done a brief background check, no obvious connections so far. Yet they were killed in the same room and there's nothing to indicate they were forced in the room against their will. Can you help?

"Well of course I can, I'm not an idiot."

That's not what I meant Sherlock, are you healthy enough. Give the phone to John, let me speak to him.

Instead of doing this he held his phone against his shoulder and turned to face the doctor "Triple homicide?" he asked hopefully. He was aware that if he did not get John's permission he would not be able to leave the flat. Either John would stop him himself or Mycroft's agents who were stationed 'inconspicuously' outside would stop him.

"Toast first," John replied sternly.

"It's fine, I'll be there shortly," Sherlock spoke into the phone.

Are you sure that's ok? Did John say you were well enough?

"Look, John will be with me so if you're that concerned wait until we get there and you can discuss it with Dr Watson. Where is the crime scene?"

I'll send a car. With that Lestrade hung up.

For once Sherlock was compliant and finished his toast before heading to his bedroom. A few minutes later he re-emerged in his purple shirt and suit, looking as good as new. He put his coat on as he hurried down the stairs, John in tow and they both slipped into the waiting police car. The detective's phone buzzed indicating an incoming text and he growled in frustration as he removed it from his pocket. "Mycroft," he practically seethed.

Take care brother; do try not to annoy anyone.

Leave me alone and get a life, do try not to start another war.

That's it, it's finished and I thank everyone who had read this through. I'd just like to say the thing about the arrowroot works, that's what I have if I have a stomach bug, just a tip for anyone who doesn't know.

This fic may have now finished but I would still love a review. Actually, do you know what I would really love? If you would be kind enough to tell me what your favourite part of this fic was. I do love to know those sorts of things. Argh, I can't believe this is finished, now I have to go and remember what is going on in my other fics which I have abandoned whilst doing this one. Thank you to you all once again.