I know it's been a while, and there's not really much action in this chappie but meh. At least you ended up with something! That's better than my schoolwork is doing rn!

Anyway, enjoy!

Disclaimer: DeiDei does not own Sherlock. Simple as.

The first hour was silent, just the two of them. Both were awake and aware, but neither had much to do other than to sit or lie as they were. It was a peace they were accustomed to, one they had done almost every time the "visits" happened. If Sherlock was thinking right then, he would have been counting to the exact seconds when Lestrade would stand from his chair, his perch for watching the detective, to go and make tea and soup. To retrieve the soft auburn blankets that he always draped over the younger man whilst the kettle boiled and small flames licked at the copper pan on the stove.

As always, it was painful for Lestrade to see Sherlock so quiet, curled up on himself on his sofa. The detective had become like a son to him, and it was times like this that he could see how young the dark-haired man actually was. He was so accustomed to him bounding around in excitement, like a new puppy you just brought home. Sherlock was the same at every crime scene, practically bouncing where he stood, never staying still for long. John may as well have been a disgruntled owner by the way he ended up following him around, a sigh on his lips but a glint in his eyes. It felt so.. wrong to have the younger male silent and stiff, barely breathing, without even a glance around the room.

He was thrown from his thoughts by the click of his kettle, indicating the water had boiled. It was almost mechanical, the way he put the correct amount of sugar into the mug with the teabag. The way he pulled out the milk and various ingredients from the fridge, pouring the milk in the mug and laying everything else on his kitchen side automatically. It was a routine between them, whether they knew it or not. Sherlock would arrive, lie on the sofa and stare off into the distance for a while. Lestrade would get up and cover him with his blanket, one that was never used for anything else, before going into the kitchen. He would make tea, and place it in front of the detective, who by then would've fallen asleep. By the time the tea was cool enough to drink, the soup would be simmering on the stove, only 20 minutes away from being done, and Greg would come and make sure Sherlock drank it, whether he wanted to or not. If he was still unresponsive, Lestrade would feed him the soup like you would a small child, sit them up and spoon feed it them. Soon after, he would always respond. Quietly at first, but within the hour, a full conversation would form. Sherlock would say everything that had happened, even if Lestrade had been there, and Greg never interrupted. He would hold him as he cried, calm him when his breathing became erratic, cool the anger that flowed in his veins in an instant. And sometimes, they had to use the 'last resort'. Unfortunately, tonight seemed like it would be one of those 'last resort' times.

As expected when he entered the living room, Sherlock had dozed off lightly on the sofa, face nuzzled into the cushion, soft breath blowing at the loose strands of his scarf (which he had refused to remove). The mug of tea was placed cautiously before the detective on the small table. An observant gaze from Lestrade was all that was needed for him to confirm the other man was asleep, slightly malnourished but he was definitely going to fix that. Back in the kitchen, he busied himself with chopping up various vegetables and placing them in the pot of boiling water, a range of spices following shortly after. An old family recipe of his, from when poverty was high and immune systems were low. The sort of thing that could save you on the verge of death. Well, maybe not quite that good, but definitely enough to help someone get every nutrient they needed.

It felt like barely seconds before everything was chopped and in the pan, boiling quietly on his stove. Not a sound came from the other room, yet Greg hadn't expected anything really. Sometimes, the detective would speak in his sleep, his voice rough and grating, the type which burnt at the throat of the speaker. This night was silent, though. Were one not to know, they would think all residents of the house were at peace, at rest. And yet, as Lestrade entered the living room once again, he knew it was anything but. His footsteps thudded gently against the carpet as he walked, the noises enticing a soft groan from the younger man.

A dip in the sofa was enough to "wake" him, the soft hands the lifted him up barely keeping him in consciousness. It was hard for him to focus on anything, not even registering as he was pulled up into a sitting position, his eyes glazed and staring off at the earth toned blurs in front of him. The first thing he actually noticed was the slight pressure against him lips, the lukewarm liquid brushing against them. His first instinct was to deny the sustenance his body craved, to push away the fluid trying to force it's way past his lips, but the weakness he felt was too overwhelming and he quickly gave in. As soon as the tea touched his tongue, he began gulping furiously, almost to the point where he felt he would choke, but the imminent danger did nothing to stop him. It was only when the cup was pulled away that he took the moment to breathe, hearing the words float around him, telling him to slow down. After a few more slower sips, he heard the voice again. It was deep and familiar, soothing and hushing him in time with the hand he hadn't realised was brushing lightly through his curls.

"Dad..?"

So, feel free to review, let me know whether you wish to burn it in the fires of Mount Doom or claim your undying love for it. I don't really mind, but I would prefer to know what you think.