Collateral Damage

AU – Preslash/slash

How John and Sherlock became a couple. Takes place before (my) Return to Baskerville fic (obviously).

Sherlock Holmes, John Watson et al. are creations of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle(with the modern adaptation this fic was based on being credited to the brilliant minds of Steven Moffatt and Mark Gatiss). I've just had a fiddle with them.

Chapter 1

John arrived home from surgery to find Sherlock slumbering, yet again, on the sofa in their flat. This was becoming a troubling habit.

Habit, thought John. While he supposed Sherlock could be on the seven percent solution, he highly doubted it. Cocaine made Sherlock more alert, not lethargic - No, this was something else.

John moved to the sofa and knelt down to check on his flat mate.

"What do you want John?" Sherlock's baritone voice startled him, causing John to tilt off balance.

"Jesus, Sherlock," John said righting himself. "You scared the wits out of me. I thought you were sleeping. Are you feeling all right?"

"Fine. Why would you think otherwise?" Sherlock opened one eye to peer at John, who seemed to be invading Sherlock's personal space.

John rose, realising his proximity. "Su…Sorry," he stuttered. "I just, well…you haven't really seemed like yourself of late and I just wanted to make sure you weren't ill."

Closing the eye he'd opened, Sherlock turned away from John. "I'm not sure what you mean by being myself, but I can assure you John, I'm well within normal working parameters.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" replied John

"I was thinking and you've disrupted my thoughts. You know how much I hate having my thoughts interrupted." Sherlock was doing his best to irritate John.

John sighed. "Whatever. Christ. I was only trying to help. Tea?" he asked turning to the kitchen.

No answer.

"Sherlock?" - Still no answer. He was obviously being ignored.

"Arse." John mumbled under his breath, walking away. "I don't understand why you can't do me the courtesy of just fucking answering me."

XXX

Sherlock started feeling, 'not right', around three weeks ago. Not around, exactly three weeks to the day. He couldn't figure out what the issue was. At first, he thought it might be as simple as a cold, or probably at worst, the flu. He was dizzy and tired all the time and his body ached terribly if he exerted himself even the least little bit. He hadn't wanted to worry John as it was more than likely something minor and the doctor would chide Sherlock for not taking better care of himself. No, Sherlock decided he would just wait it out. Whatever it was would go away eventually and he would be back to normal. Well, that's what he thought three weeks ago anyway. Now though, he wasn't so sure.

Sherlock had been doing a good job hiding it all from John, or so he thought. He managed to drag himself out of bed every day and make the pretense of working on an important case from Lestrade. When, in fact, Sherlock had actually turned down the case, claiming it only a two and not even worth his time. The case had really been closer to an eight, and one Sherlock would have leapt on had he been feeling up to snuff.

He'd heard John move to the sofa when he came in from surgery. Meaning to have been perched at the window when John arrived, Sherlock couldn't even find the strength to sit up, much less stand, so he had set about distracting John with a bit of misdirection. He also heard John call him a arse. No surprise there, he was being a right arse. He could have said yes or no to the tea. Simple. It also could have been a precursor to John asking more questions. Not so simple.

Several minutes later Sherlock heard his flate mate set a mug down on the table next to the sofa, then move quietly away to his chair. The last thing Sherlock remembered before sleep overtook him was John clicking on the telly to watch QI.

xxx

As John sat watching (not really) QI, he thought harder on the past few weeks. Sherlock had been working on the same case for entirely too long. It never took Sherlock more than a week to solve even the hardest of cases. Something was definitely going on. John looked over to the sofa and watched the steady rise and fall of Sherlock's chest. Sleeping. John looked at his watch. For the last few weeks he noticed Sherlock had been dropping off earlier and earlier. He assumed it was from exerting himself all day on a case, but what if Sherlock really wasn't working a case? None of the regular tell-tale signs were there after all. The biggest one being Sherlock hadn't even asked John to consult. Sherlock always asked him at some point to accompany him to the crime site, or at the very least asked him a question or two to help 'illuminate' the situation.

Sherlock began to stir on the couch. As he turned, blood began to drain from his nose.

"Oh God," whispered John as he quickly ran to the bathroom to get a flannel. On his way to the sofa he reached down and scooped up his medical bag.

Not wanting to startle Sherlock, John gently said his name. "Sherlock."

Sherlock turned his head again, causing the blood that had been flowing quite freely from his nose to start draining down his throat, effectively choking him.

Coughing and sputtering out blood, Sherlock sat up frantically into John's waiting arms.

"It's okay, I've got you," soothed John. "Spit it out. You've got a nose bleed. Pretty bad one, I'd say." John tried to keep his voice calm.

Still coughing and trying to clear his throat, Sherlock's nose continued to bleed.

"Okay," said John. "Lean your head back and pinch the bridge of your nose." His voice betrayed none of the terror he was feeling inside. "Here Sherlock, take this flannel."

Sherlock could see a slight tremor in John's hand as he handed him the cloth. Sherlock obeyed, taking the flannel and placing it up to his face to help staunch the bleeding.

John was in diagnosis mode. "Is this the first one of these you've had? Don't talk, just nod if so."

Sherlock nodded to the affirmative, his eyes fixed on John. He could tell John was frightened for him. Perhaps this wasn't just a cold after all.

John said, "I think maybe we should go to hospital, yeah?" Then thought - Why am I asking? He knew they needed to go, and they needed to go now.

"It's nothing John," said Sherlock, his voice muffled under the flannel.

"Sherlock," John grabbed his arm, "It most certainly is something and I think it's high time we find out what. I'll not sit here any longer and watch you deteriorate further.

Sherlock knew John was right. "Very well," he said resigned.

"Good, then let's go." John got up and moved towards the door.

As Sherlock rose from the sofa the room began to spin. "John," he said in a weak voice.

Hearing his name, John turned just in time to see Sherlock pitch forward and collapse in a heap on the floor.