A/N: So this is a little more angsty I guess, but that's alright, the concept's just been meandering around in my head for a while :p

I also twisted some medical lingo and played around with some things, so obviously my medical knowledge isn't exact, far from it actually, just as a warning.

"John, you go in, I've got Randall!" Sherlock shouted at the shorter man, panting between words as he hurried down the dank alleyway.

John simply nodded curtly and made his way away from Sherlock, headed towards the old, rickety house that sat nearby.

As the doctor approached the decaying wooden door, he was about to smash it in with his elbow before thinking better of it, and turned the doorknob to find it was unlocked. He stepped inside the ancient dwelling, immediately beginning to search for the suspected stash of smuggled drugs.

The thud of his boots were heavy on the weak wooden floors, and before long, John found himself in a small cellar, equipped with the standard rusted, leaking pipes. He was beginning his search when the sound of heavy footsteps on the upper level startled him out of his thoughts. He was about to rush to the cellar door, but was stopped in his tracks when the heavy door bolted shut, locking him inside.

He pounded his fists on the thick barrier in exasperation, and was just reaching in his jacket for his mobile when he heard a violent hissing sound coming from some of the pipes. The doctor whirled his head around, only to be greeted by the sight of a greenish-yellow smoke.

It wasn't long before John found it hard to breathe, hard to concentrate, and his fingers fumbled clumsily on the buttons of his phone. Unfortunately he could no longer make sense of much, and was forced to focus on gasping for breaths. He stumbled to the floor, scraping his palms on the gritty concrete. He was curled in on himself, trying to breathe, trying to ignore the sudden burning sensation in his lungs. He wanted to call out, to cry for help, but the most he could do was let out a choked sob before being pulled into unconsciousness.

"Where are you? Where are you?" Sherlock shouted through gritted teeth as he sprinted through the creaky house. He was breathing heavy, constantly jerking his head around in every direction as he searched for his friend.

"John? John!" he yelled, "Pick up your damn phone…" he mumbled as he dialed John's number again. He was met with the voicemail for the third time, and angrily shoved his mobile into his pocket before coming across the cellar door.

Sherlock fiddled with his lock picking kit as he opened up the door, and his greatcoat billowed behind him as he hurried to the fallen doctor's side.

"God damn it, John!" he hissed as he shook John's limp shoulder, "You can't do one thing without getting yourself into some kind of…" the detective trailed off as he became aware of the smell in the room, "toxic gas," he muttered, "great."

When the rush of paramedics, doctors and nurses had finally fled, there was an uncomfortable, almost palpable silence in the waiting room of the hospital. Sherlock was pacing, murmuring to himself inaudibly with his hands clasped behind his back. The detective barely noticed when Lestrade's soft heels padded into the room.

"Sherlock, hey, slow down yeah? You're scaring the nurses," he warned with an attempted sarcastic smirk.

Sherlock's head shot up in anticipation, and Lestrade looked down at the floor when he spoke, his hands resting on his hips.

"Listen," he sighed, "I just got done talking with one of John's doctors," he cleared his throat, "he's gonna be alright, but there've been some…complications," he grimaced at the last word.

"Yes, I know," Sherlock spat, "how could we have missed it Lestrade? Randall wasn't in the alleyway at all! It was his idiotic accomplice! He was waiting in that god forsaken house, waiting for us to go down into that cellar,"

"Sherlock, what the hell are you on about? I'm not talking about the complications with the case, I'm talking about—"

"John. John was supposed to find the drugs. Why the hell couldn't he put that empty shell of a head of his to good use and just have figured out that—"

"Whoa whoa hang on," the inspector warned with a hand held out, "before you go about insulting the man why don't you be damn grateful he's alive?"

"What? I know he's alive, Lestrade, even that dimwit Anderson could've concluded that. The point is it wouldn't have taken so long to find Randall if that stupid accomplice—"

"Do you have an off button?" Lestrade snapped, irritated.

"I beg your pardon?" Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the silver-haired inspector.

"I said, do you have a bloody switch that turns off this arrogant self-centered detective?"

"No I do not have a switch, Lestrade. I can't just turn it off; you of all people should know this. Now spit out whatever it was you were going to say, because in case you were unaware I was in the middle of thinking."

"Right, pardon me," he sneered, before motioning for Sherlock to come closer to him.

"What? What is it?" the detective half-whispered, getting the indication that this was a more private conversation.

"Alright, well he's gonna need to stay here for another day or two, as you've probably guessed, but going home's gonna be a different story. Sherlock, it looks like that gas had some pretty nasty side effects." He lowered his voice a bit.

"What side effects? Just out with it Inspector I don't have all night."

"D'you know what? Fine, you don't wanna talk to me, talk to his doctor, okay? 'Cause I got a hell of a lot more important things to do than stand here and bicker with you all night." Lestrade shook his head to himself before making his way out of the waiting room.

Sherlock bit his bottom lip in frustration and eventually managed to locate John's doctor.

"He's asleep," the doctor mentioned as he showed Sherlock into John's room.

"Is he? Because I would have thought he was thoroughly examining the inside of his eyelids." The detective shot back without even glancing at the stout, middle-aged practitioner.

The tall, dark-haired man held his hands behind his back as he swiftly made his way around John's cot, examining it as if it were a crime scene. He barely batted an eyelid at the thick oxygen mask that obscured his friend's face, and didn't question any of the various tubes or wires that seemed to jut out from every nook and cranny.

"Uhm," the doctor mumbled, "he's still having some trouble breathing, as you, uhm, can probably tell, but, uhm—"

"Tell me what the complications are, Lestrade warned of complications."

"Oh, right, er, well, the damage to his lungs was pretty rough. That particular toxin is notorious for respiratory problems, and he was very close to a pulmonary edema, but the biggest problem is, well, I'm afraid your friend is gonna have some trouble speaking."

"Speaking?"

"Yes, unfortunately there was some additional damage to his throat. He'll be able to talk again, but it could be a while."

"How long is a while?"

"Uhm, a few weeks,"

"There's something else." Sherlock stated flatly as he watched the uneven rise and fall of John's chest.

"Oh, there is, actually. With damage like this, especially with the lungs, he's gonna have difficulty getting around. He might get out of breath quickly; need help moving about, things of that nature."

"Hm. Is that all?" he asked, his voice a bit softer this time.

"I suppose so. I'll assume you want some time with him; I'll leave you to that. It's alright if he wakes; just don't overwhelm 'im, you know."

"Of course,"

The doctor shot a quick sympathetic smile as he shut the door behind him.

"Don't speak, don't even try to." The detective warned John after just waking up and beginning to open his mouth.

John gave Sherlock a sleepy, questioning face.

"According to your doctor, you're not going to be talking for a while, which according to him, is 'a few weeks.'"

John just sighed and closed his eyes like he knew this was coming. He stared out blankly, blinking slowly and heavily.

"Randall was caught," Sherlock said as he got up from the stiff chair he'd been sitting in. His Belstaff was still on, along with his leather gloves and fixed, stern expression.

"Caught his bloody accomplice too, the right sod. Lucky Lestrade showed up before I let my fist do the talking,"

After listening to Sherlock's proclamation, John did the only thing he was accustomed to after hearing his friend brag; he rolled his eyes.

"John Hamish Watson," Sherlock scolded, "did you just roll your eyes at me?"

Then the doctor did it again, sighing in annoyance as he let his eyes roll in another direction.

"You've just recovered from an attack of toxic gas, which I rightfully rescued you from, you've got more wires hanging out of you than the damned IT department, and you're giving me an attitude."

John just glared tiredly at his friend.

"Fine, you can thank me later. I'm off to the Yard, ruddy paperwork. You should sleep."

Sherlock turned and opened the door in one swift movement, and added;

"Oh, and don't chat up any of the nurses while I'm gone," before closing the door.

John let a weak smile creep up on his face before falling back asleep.

"Big day huh?" Lestrade asked with a wide grin as he stood next to Sherlock in John's hospital room.

"Lestrade, as much as I admire and respect you, I would, at this point, kindly ask you to shut it."

The Inspector just grinned further and slapped the detective's back encouragingly.

"Good to see you're excited to have him home." He said.

Instead of answering, Sherlock just brought his attention back to the nurse who was slowly helping his friend onto a wheelchair. It was when John finally sat up in the chair did Sherlock notice how exhausted he looked. He had dark grey circles rimming his eyes, just above his cheeks that were ghostly pale. When John looked at Sherlock, he gave him a familiar warm smile that said not to worry, he was alright.

Almost instinctively, Sherlock shot a fond smile back.

"Alright, will you just, hang on to me, okay, no, damn it," Sherlock muttered incessantly as he fumbled to get John up the towering steps at Baker Street. They'd done away with the wheelchair at the hospital, as it was only used to get John down the long hallways easier. Now he was left with a six foot detective and an old cane for support, though he couldn't quite remember the whereabouts of his cane at the moment.

"John, will you just hold still!" Sherlock ordered, stopping at about the third step. John's arm was curled around the detective's waist, whose hand was firmly on the doctor's shoulder. They were both breathing rather heavy, and thought perhaps they should have planned this better.

Sherlock looked over to John's face, expecting him to look just as frustrated, but instead found that his friend looked weary and exhausted, sad even. Sherlock huffed and tried to straighten himself.

"John, I'm only going to do this once, and don't you dare think anything of it." With that, Sherlock lowered one of his arms to rest behind his friend's knees, and the other on his back, and proceeded to carry him the rest of the way up the steps.

John would have wriggled, and protested, and maybe even laughed if he could have, but instead he just let his friend hold him, leaned his head into Sherlock's chest and closed his eyes.

"Oh no you don't, you are not falling asleep, don't get soft on me Watson," Sherlock grumbled as he clumsily opened the door to the flat. He headed immediately to the sofa where he plopped his friend down unceremoniously and went about removing his coat and gloves.

John grumbled something incoherent as he lay limp on the sofa with his eyes shut.

"Yes John I know you're tired, as you should be, and seeing how I'm not lifting you up another flight of steps, feel free to fall asleep right where you are."

Sherlock looked to John as if he was going to get a response, and then it hit him that he wasn't going to, not for a while.

"Well, you've had your breakfast," Sherlock said as he took away the small plate that still had toast crumbs in it, "that I kindly made for you," he added.

John looked up from where he lay on the sofa and narrowed his eyes at his friend.

That you burnt. He seemed to say.

"I did not burn it on purpose, that toaster is defective."

He glared again.

"I am not defective, John. Honestly you are ridiculously childish. And yes, 'it takes one to know one' I know, very clever, you can see how amused I am." Sherlock grunted as he dumped the remnants of toast in the trash.

When he came back into the sitting room, he settled himself on the coffee table in front of John.

"Now, we need to talk."

John opened his mouth in quiet disbelief.

Are you serious?

"You know what I mean!" suddenly the detective was standing, pacing back and forth by the sofa.

"This predicament is going to become infuriatingly tedious if we don't work out some sort of method of talking to each other."

John sat up a bit on the few pillows resting behind him, and made a motion with his hands as if he were writing on a notepad.

"Ugh, dull. I won't have you carrying around a notebook like a clueless Uni student, not to mention having to wait for you to scribble something and then having to decipher your ridiculous chicken scratch."

The doctor fought back the urge to roll his eyes some more and instead took out his phone and pretended to text.

"Yes, texting could work, but again, tedious. We'll use texting when something you want to say is too long or we're not near each other. That settles that, but I need an immediate response, John. You know how I work, I don't like to wait."

John pursed his lips into a thin line and gave a look that said;

Well excuse me for being exposed to a toxic gas.

Sherlock grunted and stopped his pacing.

"I know it's not entirely your fault—"

John jerked his head up;

Not entirely?

"I know it's not your fault," Sherlock corrected, "but it's still going to be a bother. Any suggestions?"

The doctor looked up in thought for a moment before quietly shaking his head. Sherlock watched as John's gaze flickered from the detective to the tea kettle in the kitchen.

"Ugh, you probably want tea. It was bad enough I had to make you toast," he muttered as he put the water to boil.

"Now, as I was saying, oh, for Christ's sake," he complained as he saw how John was staring at himself on the sofa, and went to retrieve the blanket from the back of his armchair.

"Here," he spat as he draped the blanket, somewhat carefully over his friend. John looked him right in the eyes and Sherlock said "You're welcome." Then, it was like a whole roomful of light bulbs went off in the detective's head.

"Oh, John!" he exclaimed, his voice now dripping with excitement, "This is brilliant! Don't you see?"

John just gave him an odd look and frowned in confusion.

"We're doing it, we're doing it right now, we're talking without you saying anything!"

How?

"You, your face, your movements, it's all I need. Why didn't I see this sooner? I deduce what you're thinking practically on a daily basis. This might be easier than I thought."

The eye rolling was back again;

Yeah right.

"Don't start with the attitude John; the look of an angst-ridden teenage girl doesn't suit you."

John stuck out his tongue in defiance.

"Nor does that of a five year old child. Now, is there anything else you need at the moment? I'm planning to head to the lab for a bit. Mrs. Hudson will be just downstairs, and she does have a phone, so you could—"

Suddenly John held out his hand as a signal for Sherlock to stop talking.

"You're fine?" he asked.

John nodded sleepily, and with that, Sherlock was out of the flat in a flash.

The sky had already darkened outside as the detective made his way back up the steps. As he got closer he could hear John coughing from the opposite side of the door. He quickened his pace and listened more intently, realizing that his friend was practically wheezing, and sounded like he was struggling.

Sherlock burst the door open to find John still lying in the same position on the couch, only now he looked as if he were painfully choking on some odd bit of food. The coughs were racking up and down his chest, making him shake and quiver like he were drowning.

"Shit," was all Sherlock could muster as he ripped off his coat and strode quickly to the kitchen to get a glass of water.

He practically pounded the water onto the coffee table before kneeling by his friend.

"John, listen to me you need to calm down and try to take a deep breath, can you hear me? John?"

The doctor nodded vigorously in between coughs, and eventually slowed down enough to be able to get some water down.

Sherlock had one hand on John's chest and one on his shoulder as he tried to steady him as the violent coughs simmered down to shaky breathing.

Sherlock sighed, "They…said that might happen. Come, you need to sit up." He moved his hand to John's back, helping him to sit up slowly.

When John was finally sitting up and had taken more sips of water, he leaned his head against the back cushion and squeezed his eyes shut tight.

"Why didn't you call Mrs. Hudson?" Sherlock asked as he absentmindedly ran his hand over his friend's back in a soothing motion. John just grimaced and shook his head.

"John, I need you to stop thinking you don't need anyone. I know you are normally perfectly capable of taking care of yourself but right now you just need to suck it up and accept the fact that you're—"

The doctor snapped his head around to face his flatmate, who immediately noticed the look of hurt and exhaustion in his eyes; and for the first time saw that his cheeks were damp with mangled tears.

"Out of commission, for the time being," Sherlock finished.

Sherlock assumed that John's contented sigh meant he was alright, though he was still slumped over with his eyes shut.

"You look miserable John, when was the last time you ate? And don't tell me it was this morning because we both know only I'm allowed to go all day on nothing but toast. John?"

The doctor nodded, and the detective sighed.

"You could have called Mrs. Hudson, you could have called me. Are you that proud that you can't admit that you need help?"

Finally, John looked up at Sherlock, and mouthed the word "asleep".

"Oh, you were sleeping all day…I suppose you're entitled to still be exhausted. Did the coughing fit wake you?"

John nodded again.

"Right, well," Sherlock got up from his kneeling position and padded over to the kitchen, "whether you like it or not, you need to eat. You're weak as a kitten right now and I won't have you passing out at random intervals while I'm trying to get work done." The detective spoke over his shoulder as he collected a few plain crackers into a small bowl.

"Here, surely you can at least stomach these." He stated as he plopped the bowl in John's lap.

After nibbling on a few crackers before resting the bowl back on the coffee table, John knocked on the wood to get Sherlock's attention, who was sitting in his chair engrossed in a book.

"Hm? Oh, did you need something?"

"I'm assuming you need to use the bathroom," Sherlock deduced just by the awkward, uncomfortable look on John's face.

The taller man shot up from his chair and helped his friend hobble over to the bathroom door.

"I'll be standing right outside," he reassured.

When John came limping out, Sherlock stopped him instead of heading back to the sitting room. The bathroom was right next to his bed, and he stared at the mattress intently.

"Do you know what? Uhm, actually, yeah," he decided to himself before sitting John down at the edge of the bed, who then gave him a look that asked what on earth he was doing.

"I hardly sleep in here, and it'll be far more comfortable than the sofa, not to mention the close proximity to the bathroom. It's not awkward, so don't give me that face, just lie down, you're fine."

John did as he was told and tucked himself in under the sheets. Then for some reason, Sherlock was kneeling by his face, looking closely at him in the dim light.

"I know you don't like this," he said solemnly, "but you're still recovering. Your muscles are weak, and so are your lungs, and I know you know this, but you have to promise not to do anything stupid."

Another glare from the good doctor.

"You know damn well what I mean. You are a stubborn little man, you realize this. And yes, I am enjoying the fact that you can't back sass me. And no, I don't think you'll hit me. Though, just to be safe," he got up from his kneeled position, "goodnight, John, I'll just be in the kitchen, you know what to do if you need me."

What the bloody hell. –JW

John texted Sherlock wearily in his sleep addled state, the morning sun aggravating his tired eyes. Then John heard a buzzing sound from the opposite side of Sherlock's bed, and the man himself, who was lying down atop the covers, checked his phone.

Whatever do you mean? –SH

John sat up a bit just to thrust his head back into the pillow in frustration. He picked up his phone again.

Why were you sleeping next to me? –JW

I could ask you the same question. –SH

The most sound the doctor could make was an almost inaudible grumble in the back of his throat. He turned his head to the left and glared at the lanky figure sprawled out next to him.

This isn't funny. You scared the shit out of me when I woke up. –JW

But you're not scared now. –SH

Why are you texting me? We're right next to each other. –JW

My voice is groggy in the morning, it's unbecoming. –SH

Yeah right. You're pitying me. Cut it out. –JW

The detective let out a long breath and set his phone aside.

"Alright John, you win," he said quietly.

You didn't answer my question. –JW

Sherlock clasped his hands together over his dress shirt and stared up at the ceiling as he spoke.

"I began to feel…tired, last night, and thought it'd be best to…get some rest."

The younger man cleared his throat, then turned his head to look at John, who had also just turned his head. They looked at each other for a while, and decided that neither of them needed to say anything.

By mid-afternoon, even if it were just for a split second, all seemed to be back to normal at Baker Street.

John was settled in his favorite armchair with a good book, and Sherlock was busy angrily scribbling notes by his microscope on the kitchen table. It wasn't until Sherlock needed John's attention did things go awry.

"John, do you know which medical journal contains the chapter about hair follicles? John?" he didn't even glance up at his friend as he spoke, just kept staring at the tiny molecules in his vision.

The good doctor was about to turn his head to his flatmate when he spoke up again.

"For Christ's sake, if you could just get your nose out of that damn book and answer me!"

Now John was staring with his mouth slightly agape in Sherlock's direction. He looked down at the floor and shook his head slowly.

"Oh, I, erm, that was probably not good, uhm,"

By that point, John had already got a firm grip on his cane, grabbed his jacket and started for the door. Sherlock was up and by his side within seconds, reaching out his arm to block the shorter man's path. John stood steady as he stared daggers into Sherlock's eyes.

"John, you're not going anywhere." He said authoritatively.

Suddenly John was lifting up his cane, whacking at the detective's wrist that was resting right near the doorknob.

"Ah! John! Stop that you're being ridiculous!"

But he didn't listen, instead he jerked the door open and was about to make his way downstairs when he was grabbed on his forearm by Sherlock, who pulled him back inside instantly.

"You are not going anywhere, not without help, you and I both know you can't make it down those steps."

At that point, John had already been breathing heavily through his nose, and was now looking as though he were ready to punch his flatmate any minute. Holding back the urge to lash out, he tore his arm away from Sherlock's grip and slammed the door shut. He stood for a moment, his face reddening and lips trembling with words he couldn't produce.

"Listen to me," suddenly Sherlock's hands were on both of John's arms in a nonthreatening manner, and John surprisingly didn't fight him, "you need to relax. It was just a comment, an accident; you can't get yourself worked up like this, not when you're…" While searching for the right words to say, John began to vigorously shake his head, frowning angrily and trembling lightly.

"Your heart rate is too fast John, you need to calm down do you hear me? The doctors said that—oh," Sherlock exclaimed as his friend suddenly dropped to his knees and began to cough.

"Shit, John," the taller man was kneeling by his friend who could barely keep himself up, and was now coughing very much like he did the second night he was back. Sherlock decided to lean him up against the wall before jumping up to the kitchen and frantically getting a glass of water together.

When all of the chaos finally calmed down and both men were reduced to bated breaths, John looked up at Sherlock and mouthed "I'm sorry".

Sherlock just shook his head, "No, I am."

After a thoroughly mind-numbing examination, Sherlock sat John down in one of the chairs in the waiting room.

"Just sit tight," he said, "I know you're tired but don't fall asleep here; you'll drool all over the chairs and I'm not dealing with disgruntled nurses today."

John just let out the smallest form of a laugh he could, and Sherlock stood up and brushed himself off.

"I'm going to have a word with your doctor, oh, and no chatting up single mothers while I'm gone."

Both of the men smiled faintly at each other before Sherlock was off down the hallway.

"It's been almost a week; I'm not seeing much improvement." Sherlock said with irritation as he sat across the desk from a smug looking doctor with short, light brown hair.

"It's been barely a week, Mr. Holmes," he corrected, "and Dr. Watson went through a much larger trauma than you can tell, seeing as how it all occurred on the inside."

"And what does that tell me? Why isn't his voice coming back at all, and why is he so god damn…brittle." He gritted his teeth on the last word.

The doctor sighed as he glanced over his clipboard, "Your friend is so, 'brittle', as you put it, because of that nasty toxin. It attacked his respiratory system, along with the pulmonary artery, which luckily didn't sustain too much damage, but the point is if it's difficult for him to breathe normally when he's sitting how hard do you think it is when he's subjected to physical activity?"

"But there was no 'physical activity' he just shot up from his chair and yanked at his jacket and…whacked his cane around everywhere…"

"I'm sorry?"

"Nothing, long story, I just don't see how that can be physically exhausting."

"It shouldn't be, not even for him, but it's different if he was under stress, which I'm beginning to think that's where this is going."

"Alright, fine, we had an argument, would you like a gold star?"

"Mr. Holmes,"

"Why isn't his voice coming back?" Sherlock interrupted.

"Because these things take time, and unfortunately no amount of hot soup or tea is going to be a quick fix."

"I never made him soup." He grumbled, almost to himself.

"Well maybe you should, sir, instead of getting into heated arguments?"

"Maybe…"

The only light coming into the bedroom was the sliver of yellow from the hall light that ran down the side of the door. Sherlock lay awake, staring at the silhouette of his sleeping friend next to him. Now, in the stillness and silence of night, he could hear it. He could hear the difference in John's breathing. It was slower, slightly uneven, labored and congested.

During the day, he could have sworn John's breathing didn't make a sound. It was blocked out by all of the white noise and hum drum of activities in the daylight. But now it seemed as though someone turned the volume up, on everything, really. Every toss and turn in the bed would produce a loud shuffling noise, every footstep on the wooden floor moaned in discomfort, and every turn of his body made the springs in the mattress come alive.

Sherlock frowned slightly as he heard another hiccup in the doctor's breathing that would lead to a slight cough, then fade away. He'd been sleeping next to John since the first night, but neither of them spoke a word about it, literally or otherwise.

The next morning, Sherlock awoke to the sound of his mobile going off. His eyes shot open and he was immediately hyperaware of his surroundings, and was then ecstatic to see Lestrade had texted him in need of his assistance. John was still sleeping, and Sherlock decided to let him sleep as he got himself ready.

When the detective's navy blue button-up was tucked neatly into his dress pants, he came back into the bedroom to check on John.

"Mm," John mumbled, finally letting a sound escape his mouth that wasn't breathy or barely existent.

"Very coherent, John. Now, Mrs. Hudson will be coming up very shortly, I'm off on a case," Sherlock said as he meticulously rolled up his sleeves.

The shorter man stared up at his tall friend from the bed and furrowed his brow.

"Don't give me that. I've been pent up in here for what seems like years and I've finally got a case! You should be excited. I know you can't tag along but that doesn't mean we can't work together when I get back. What? What're you looking at me like that for?"

John averted his gaze, then got himself up and made for the bathroom. When he emerged, Sherlock had just finished getting on his shoes.

"Your cane's in the sitting room," he noted, "I'll just help you, come on." He motioned his open arm towards his friend, but John shook his head in refusal as if to claim he could do it himself.

"Right, after you, then,"

Sherlock watched as John made his way down the hallway, albeit unsteadily, but still at a rather fast pace, which Sherlock thought was quite good, of course until John slipped on his footing and almost fell to the floor, clinging to the wall for support.

"It's been four days John!" the detective wailed as he helped his friend to his feet, "Why are you still like this? It doesn't make sense. I don't care what that doctor says, you should be able to walk without tripping over yourself, though I'm sure the psychosomatic limp doesn't help," he grumbled to himself as the pair made their way to the sofa.

"That stupid gas shouldn't have had this profound of an effect on you, you're a damn soldier! This is ridiculous, I'm sorry John, but I'll text you later with the case details."

And Sherlock would have very well burst out the front door of the building if he didn't meet a crossed-armed Mrs. Hudson on the middle of the steps.

"Now I know I didn't just hear you boys having a row…" she said disappointedly.

"Oh, I suppose I was yelling…was I? Damn it,"

"What's gotten into you Sherlock? What is it?"

"John, it's John, for Christ's sake, I don't know what to do. I can only last so long in that flat before I start to go insane. D'you know Lestrade specifically told me he'd hold off on having me on cases until John and I were settled? This is the first time he's texted me since the accident and I thought I'd be ecstatic but all I can think about is John falling or John coughing or wheezing and I can't take it anymore—"

"Oh dear, you poor thing," she frowned, "you're worried?"

"I am not worried, that's hardly a word I would use. It's just…he's just so…he's like a damn marionette with the strings cut loose, and I can't—I can't…" Sherlock's raised voice trailed off as Mrs. Hudson suddenly went in to embrace him. He didn't protest, just sighed and breathed deeply. She patted him lightly on the back before inviting him into her flat where they could talk more about what was going on in Sherlock's head. He texted Lestrade saying John still needed him, which wasn't a complete lie, not at all.

For around the next fifteen minutes, Sherlock just sat at Mrs. Hudson's table and told her everything.

"Oh Sherlock, you really care about him don't you?"

"Of course I do, but what the hell do I do about it? Every time I want to tell him I'm worried sick about him it just comes out as a muttered curse and possibly an insult. God only knows how much worse I've made things."

"Now dear you know that's not true. You just need to get back up there and tell him these things, without the curses and what have you. I think he needs you more than anyone, you know."

"Plus I'm probably the only person on the planet who can know what he's thinking just by looking at him."

"That too, dear."

Sherlock smiled quickly and got up from his seat.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," he shouted over his shoulder as he thudded back up the steps.

When Sherlock walked into the sitting room, he found John to be changed out of his pajamas, sitting up in his armchair reading the paper. The detective didn't know whether to be happy that he'd been up about the flat on his own or worried at how many times he may have tripped.

But before Sherlock could say anything, John set down the paper and got out his phone to send a text. Sherlock's phone buzzed shortly after.

A marionette with the strings cut loose? –JW

"Oh…you, heard that…" he practically whispered.

John put his phone away and helped himself up with his cane, making his way to Sherlock's bedroom.

"John—"

But Sherlock was cut short when the doctor held out a firm hand, and he could deduce exactly what John's face said:

Don't.

So he didn't. He didn't do anything, just let John make his way to the bedroom and shut the door softly behind him.

After about ten minutes of sitting up against the door, Sherlock was sure he had to go in. So he knocked first, but didn't even wait for any sort of response before letting himself in.

He found John exactly as he thought he would; curled up on the far side of the bed, tucked under the covers but not sleeping.

Without any resistance from the doctor, Sherlock tucked himself in too, facing his friend.

"I know what you thought you heard," he started, his voice just above a whisper, "but if you had heard anything I said after that…it'd be a whole other story."

John looked at him expectantly.

"This past week has been nothing short of hell. I haven't slept, not enough, anyway. Less than usual. I can't sleep, couldn't sleep, not after seeing you gasping for air that one night. I never want to see that again John, ever. And I never want to have to find you lying unconscious in a cellar, do you get where I'm going?"

He nodded sympathetically.

"I've been irritable with you mostly because of the lack of sleep, but also because I just didn't know what to do, with you or myself. Sometimes I feel like I'm talking to myself. Sometimes I want to phone you then realize I won't hear your voice on the other end. At night all I can think about is if I hadn't gone after that stupid accomplice thinking it was Randall, I would have been in the house with you. Do you understand?" he asked gently.

John just nodded again.

Then Sherlock slowly reached out his hand to cup his friend's face softly.

"I cannot delete you, John Watson, I cannot."

John smiled warmly and extended his own hand to reach his friend's cheek. He cleared his throat the best he could, as if he had practiced it, and even thought it was barely audible, he croaked out the words;

"You won't ever…have to,"

And then, for perhaps the first time, it was Sherlock who was lost for words.

A/N: Somehow I always end with them cuddling or something, I guess I just find that idea really endearing :3 Anyways as always I would greatly appreciate any reviews you might have, and thanks again for stopping by ^-^