Chapter 6: Bit Not Good/Bit Less Bad

Hello everyone! No, I didn't die, so I am sorry for the painfully long gap between updates, but my inspiration kind of died, and it took me forever to find a suitable end to this story. Thank you all for your patience, and I hope you find the final product to your liking. Feedback always appreciated, I own nothing, yada yada yada...

The world is suddenly very loud.

Everything is far too bright and far too amplified, and every cell in his body wants to scream at them to shut up and leave him alone, but his voice seems to have vanished.

Murmurs.

Blurry shapes that form into people...

One of them is John's, and it appears to be soothing him... trying to make him hold still for something... slowly he becomes aware of others around him- great shadowy figures with taunting voices and sharp hands that want to hurt him...

"N-nno..." He lips are numb, and the word is slurred out. John doesn't understand, but only squeezes his hand, pinning him down for one of the figures to leer over him, something clasped in one hand... he struggles, but his arms are weak, and John holds his hands together, ignoring his pleas for help... why is this John not helping him? .. he needs his John... this John isn't listening... they're going to hurt him! Something is crushed onto his face, something covering his mouth and nose, and he wants to take it off, but John is still holding his hands...

"John..."

John had only kissed his hands, still holding them tightly between his own, and when he speaks, the words are distant, echoed.. "Shhh Sherlock it's okay, they aren't going to hurt you.."

"Don' let them.. John... don't..." His words were garbled, heavy... Thick lashes flutter, trying to focus in on John's face, slivers of ice melting before they could observe, before they could absorb... There was a pressure on his hand. Touch of skin on skin... John's hands... so warm...

"...'m right here, Sherlock..." John's fingers on his cheek, brushing.. cool. How odd, just before they had been warm- doesn't matter, feels nice.

Remember for later.

Comfortable sensation.

Peaceful.

Safe.

More fragments float through the disorientation... John's voice again... "..'s okay... you're going to be alright... I'm right here... right here..."

His John.

Safe.

The world becomes liquid and dark, and all he is aware of is John's touch, John's words floating somewhere beyond his reach...

Darkness.

beep

beep

beep

beep

Sterile.

Clean.

Sherlock stirs, only to find a dull ache consuming his entire body.

Uncomfortable.

His throat is on fire, but breathing has become a bit easier... However his stomach is churning in a most unpleasant manner, and the nausea begins to escalate.

Bit not good.

Focus elsewhere.

Where is he?

He inhales slowly, trying to collect as much data as possible without opening his eyes.

Bleach, windex, something that could be peppermint tea.. John's shampoo...

Conclusion: hospital.

Lethargically, Sherlock attempts to pry his eyes open, but finds his eyelids to be much heavier than usual, and the energy required to lift them seems to have vacated his body hours ago. A slight weight along his cheeks and mouth suddenly becomes noticeable, and he lifts a hand to inspect it, but finds his fingers caught with a firm hand.

"Don't touch it."

This time he does open his eyes, and manages to collect a blurry image of John towering above him, before the gravity on his eyelids kicks back in. He swallows, trying to ease the burn in his throat. "What time is it?" He rasps, not bothering to try and sit up. His head is pounding worse than before, and though the pain in his chest had receded somewhat, the urge to cough has not. The few words are enough to spur a fit of barking coughs, and because sitting up appears too large an effort, he must let the force shake him against the mattress, making his ribs throb in protest. The bed quickly dips to one side, and John gently props his trembling body upright, which is enough to reduce the coughs to weak spluttering. John rubs soothing circles on his back, saying nothing until the coughing had ceased, leaving him clammy and exhausted. John strokes his hair hesitantly, before answering the previous question.

"It's about a quarter to seven in the evening- you've been here for almost 12 hours." Sherlock opens his mouth, another question on his lips, but John answers for him.

"Bacterial pneumonia. Pretty serious fever- for a while you were close to breaking 42, but I doubt it will have any long lasting effects on your massive brain." Sherlock's mouth quirks in a wan smile, which John mirrors. There's a moment of silence, and then John sighs. "They're saying moderate infection, and you probably wouldn't even need to be here if you'd just taken care of your self. Or told your flatmate- your flatmate who happens to be a doctor- that something was wrong.." There's a tinge of anger in John's words, but Sherlock is too exhausted to compile a fiery retort.

"Dull."

Even through closed eyes, he can feel John's scowl. After a pause, he hears John stretch across the bed, pick up something. Opening one eye, Sherlock sees a paper cup being offered. It takes a moment for him to remember to take it, and shakily removes a hand from under the blankets. Trembling, he accepts the water, but manages to drink the entire thing. John looks relieved, and moves toward the pitcher on the adjacent table.

"More?"

Sherlock shakes his head, collapsing back onto the pillows, breathing heavily. His stomach has settled somewhat, but the rest of his body aches like he has been in a fight, and his joints seem to have turned to butter. Swallowing, he squeezes his eyes shut, and is going to ask John for something to help the pain, when he realizes that John is settled comfortably on the edge of the bed, and that their hands are curled together in a neat little nest on the sheets. He glances up, slightly concerned that he is imagining things, but John seems unbothered by their extremely UN-platonic contact, and is humming quietly to himself. Brown eyes look warmly upon Sherlock, speckled with a bit of worry.

"Are you alright?" John asks, face creasing as he takes in the slight furrow of Sherlock's brow.

"Just tired." Sherlock mutters, eyelids now feeling very much like lead weights attached to his face. "Achy." He rolls over slightly, testing out his range of motion. His body screams in protest, and he takes the sudden waves of pain that radiate down to his kneecaps as a bit not good. He must have grimaced, because John is suddenly stroking his hair again. John is also rubbing little circles on the back of his hand with a thumb, and it really feels quite nice. An abrupt shiver runs down his spine, and Sherlock shudders, trying to ward off the feverish chills. Everything is just so cold... he knows it must actually be quite warm, as John is looking perfectly comfortable in a tee shirt and jeans, but his own body seems to be crumbling as they speak, and the chills make him clench his teeth together to refrain from having their chatter together. They sit in silence for perhaps a minute, until Sherlock rolls all the way over, away from John, and pulls the blanket up.

"In." He commands, not looking at the doctor.

"What?"

"I'm cold. Get in." His voice is hoarse and raspy, and the vibration of words makes his throat hurt.

John gawks openmouthed, trying to formulate a response. "Sherlock there are..." he glances toward the door. "there are people out there." He bends down, ruffling Sherlock hair and bringing his voice to a whisper. "Greg is going to swing by in a bit, and your brother has already been here twice.. I'll be right here, but I'm not going to-"

"Please." Sherlock croaks, voice breaking a little. "Please, John."

John chews his tongue and glances at the door.

"Move over."

Grinning into his pillow, Sherlock scoots over as far as the small hospital bed will allow, making room for John to slide in behind him. Still nervously eying the door, John slips off his shoes, before carefully maneuvering behind Sherlock. Hesitantly, an arm creeps out and curls around the detective. Sherlock smiles. Slowly, legs brush and arms entwine, and before long, the two men are in a gentle embrace. Sherlock has stopped shivering, and John is placing small, precise kisses along the crown of his head, Sherlock murmuring sleepy sounds of contentment. The light outside fades to orange, to purple, to a deep midnight blue, until finally the only light is from the handful of stars visible above the city lights. John smiles into Sherlock's hair, and is about to drift off himself, when Sherlock's deep voice breaks the silence.

"Thank you."

John squeezes his hand. "For what?"

The room is quiet, and yet John can hear the whirring of the great brain beside him searching for an answer. He is about to ask again, when Sherlock interrupts.

"Just, thank you."

John's hand is met with another squeeze, and he takes that as an apology of sorts. A declaration. A promise. All those things that they won't ever quite be able to say aloud- conveyed in a single gesture. John snuggles closer toward Sherlock, a half-smile on his lips.

"Any time."

THE END

Well, this is the end of "A Bit Not Good", everyone! Hope you enjoyed it. Thank you for all your feedback and follows. I would love to accept prompts, so if you have any ideas you would like to see fleshed out, I would love to hear them. In the meantime, I am trying to work more diligently on my other active work in progresses "Four Foods Groups" and "While Wearing A Sheet" and will try to update very soon. Thank you all so much! XX

Audrey