Hello! No this isn't the final chapter of "A Shift in Priorities". Sorry about that. This was meant to be a warm up get my brain to focus on that story. And because my muse doesn't know what SHORT is, here is part one of what has stretched past the 5000 words mark.

Part 2 is written and just needs to be edited and posted, which because Old Ping Hai is so freaking awesome, it'll be up tomorrow. Well, barring any unforeseen delays. And that ladies and gentlemen is how you know you've been working too long at a law firm, when you automatically try not to give guarantees.

Enjoy!

John stumbled blurry-eyed into the surgery. He had been off the past two days, but couldn't afford to take any more. He had used up the vast majority of his sick leave chasing after mad, consulting detectives. Not like he'd done that in a couple of months, but as it was nearing the end of the year, all his time had been used up and he was sick as a dog.

He managed to sneak past the ladies in reception, but before he could make it into his office, he was waylaid by his boss standing in front of him, arms folded in front of his chest. John looked up to see Dr Dillon Janzek glaring down at him.

Dillon was 6'4 and built like a tank. He did not look happy to John at all. "I thought I told you to take the week off, John," he growled.

John started coughing and Dillon led him away from the hall to John's office and into his own.

He sat John down in one of the big, cushioned armchairs and then made his way around his desk to his own chair.

"You can't be here, and you know why," Dillon said.

John sneezed fitfully and nodded. "I know," he rasped, "but I don't have any more paid leave, and I can't afford to miss another day."

"What happened to that detective gig you have on the side?" Dillon asked.

"I don't know," John said, burying his head in his hands. He dragged his hands over his face and sighed. "It seems all the clients we are getting nowadays bring us just piddling nothing cases that don't pay much, if anything. The Met is working on making Sherlock a paid consultant, but Greg isn't sure when that will go through."

"I guess the rich and famous aren't clamoring to be on that blog of yours," Dillon said with a wink.

"Oh, bloody ha," John murmured. "They know I can be discreet. I've done it before. I think it's more that Sherlock has turned down one too many 'my necklace is missing' and having it turn out to be pawned for gambling debts or given to the mistress. But Sherlock has been trying. He's been around to the Yard and his brother's office every day and that's when he's not calling them every five minutes."

John started coughing again, his body doubling over with the sheer pain.

"And that's just one of the reasons you can't be here, John," Dillon said with a frown. "You can't even make it through a speech like that without trying to cough up a lung on the floor. Can you imagine trying to diagnose somebody?"

John shook his head and then abruptly stopped when it made his head spin.

"Go home, John. I mean it. I don't want to see your face around here until you can speak five sentences without coughing, all right?"

John nodded and then pressed his hand to his head.

"I really am sorry this is happening to you, John. Honest."

"I know, thanks, Dillon," John said.

Sherlock had been in his mind palace since John snuck off to work. There was only one option left, but he didn't think he could go back to that. Running around the world chasing down the remnants of Moriarty's cell had taken a rather sizable chunk out of his soul, and he wasn't sure he could give any more. Plus that meant asking Mycroft for help.

His eyes flew open and his mouth formed an oh. "Oh!" He had been blind. There was another option. A better option. He really should have thought of it before. It was the perfect solution to their money woes.

Sherlock strolled into his room and hastily got dressed. He threw on his coat and gathered up his wallet, mobile phone, and keys. He was out the door before he could change his mind. This was the solution. He just had to have the guts to do it.

He hailed a taxi and then checked his watch before giving the cabbie directions.

Mycroft was in his office, standing over his desk getting ready to leave for the Diogenes, when Anthea poked her head in.

"Yes, my dear?" Mycroft questioned.

"Your brother is here to see you," she replied.

Mycroft blinked. Not only did Sherlock rarely come to his office (well, bar recently, when he had been harassing big brother for cases), but he usually just barged in without waiting to have himself announced.

"Really?" he asked, with a raised eyebrow.

"Yes, sir. He says it's urgent."

Mycroft sat down hard on his chair. "Do send him in, won't you?"

Anthea nodded and closed the door behind her.

The next time the door opened, it revealed his brother. Gone was the worry and stress that had been plaguing Sherlock since the detective business had hit a slow patch. Before him was the East Wind, the man who would move heaven and hell to get what he wanted.

But he was being polite, which meant whatever it was, it lay with Mycroft to grant. And he would grant it. Mycroft didn't care if it was to bomb half of the western bloc; if it meant seeing his brother like this again, he'd do it.

None of this showed on his face, of course. "To what do I owe this pleasure, brother mine?"

Sherlock tossed his hair out of his face and shoved his hands into his pockets. "As per the agreement in the written trust, I am here in person to ask for the release of the sum owed to me as set up by our parents."

Mycroft blinked. "Oh."

It was such a simple request. One that wasn't dangerous or outrageous. But one that took a major hit to Sherlock's pride.

Sherlock gritted his teeth as he watched Mycroft's face for tells, but his brother's face was a mask.

"It was either this or work for you again, and I-" Sherlock bit off the last word.

Mycroft nodded. He didn't want that for his brother, not anymore. Not after what it did to Sherlock.

"Done."

Sherlock's lip quivered. "I-"

"As in, you will have access to your trust fund, Sherlock," Mycroft clarified.

Sherlock dropped into a chair in relief. He nodded.

Mycroft wrote a series of numbers on a slip of paper and stood up. "Are you aware of how much is in there?"

"If I've done the math correctly, somewhere around three-quarters of a million pounds," Sherlock replied.

Mycroft chuckled. "Only if you include interest."

Sherlock frowned. "What else would I include, Mycroft?"

"I have been investing it for you for years. You now have something closer to around four million."

Sherlock stuck out his lip and cocked his head. "Well."

"Yes, you know my skill set, Sherlock. You are the best at mass connections in a small amount of data, I am the best at finding details in a mass of information. Imagine what I could do with the stock market if I wasn't a government man."

Sherlock chuckled. "Just how many off-shore accounts do you have, Mycroft?"

Mycroft just smiled tightly. "There is one thing you need to know. You are only allowed to take out a thousand pounds per thirty days."

Sherlock gulped. "That..that won't be enough. We are several months behind on all our bills, with everything we could scrape up going to rent or food."

"I said that's how much you could withdraw, Sherlock. There is no spending limit using a card."

Sherlock nodded tightly. "I just hope the thousand will be enough to stave them off until I get the card issued."

"It will be expedited, of course. And I would give them access to the account until you get the card and swap the payment method. I suspect that what they want will barely put a dent in the interest. But still, take out the thousand for other things like food and rent."

Sherlock's lip quivered again, this time in relief. Yes, he and John would be okay now.

Mycroft walked to stand over his brother, holding out the paper. Sherlock took it and put in his inside breast pocket.

He stood up and took Mycroft in his arms. Mycroft returned the hug with a fierceness that only older siblings had for their younger siblings.

"Thank you," Sherlock breathed.

"I didn't do anything," Mycroft chuckled.

"You could have made it difficult for me. Asked what the money was for, questioned my motives," Sherlock whispered.

"I knew why, Sherlock, it's because you love him and would do whatever it took to make him happy."

"I do, more than anything."

"Go."

Sherlock nodded and slipped out of the office. Mycroft slumped against the front of his desk. John Watson had done the impossible. He had been the making of his brother. He had taken a great man and made him a good one.

Mycroft's phone pinged in his pocket and he pulled it out to read the message. He chuckled and then typed out his reply. Sliding the phone back into his pocket, Mycroft stood up. He had work to do if the transfer of Sherlock's trust fund was to go smoothly. He felt lighter than he had in months. Today was a good day.

John walked out of Dillon's office, wondering how he was going to get home. He barely had enough money to take the Tube, but didn't think he'd be able to withstand the morning crowds still bustling about.

He walked by a pretty brunette and then turned back. "Anthea?" he croaked.

"Hello, John." She smiled at him before shooting off a message on her Blackberry. "I've come to take you home."

John blinked at her for at least a minute, bleary-eyed. He coughed into his sleeve and away from her. When he looked up, she was giving him that pitying look she had down to an art.

"Come on, then," she said slowly, as if talking to a small child.

John followed behind, still not sure what was going on. He ducked into the car when she held open the door, her nose still buried in her Blackberry.

She closed the door behind him, and he rolled down the window. "Why is Mycroft doing this?"

"Who said that Mycroft set this up?" she asked, cocking her head to the side.

"Well, you're here, for one," John rasped, before turning to sneeze into his handkerchief.

"Oh, John, Mycroft wouldn't do this for you."

John blinked, his head achy and foggy. "Sherlock?"

She just smiled. "Good-bye, John."

Once back at Baker Street, the driver helped him up the stairs and into his flat. John stumbled to the sofa and pulled the tattered afghan over himself before he drifted off to sleep.

Sherlock bounded up the stairs quickly and quietly, deftly avoiding the stairs that creaked. He opened the door and found, that as expected, John had crashed on the sofa. He dashed up to John's room and got the doctor's thick duvet and pillow. He brought them downstairs and made John as comfortable as possible.

He then tore through the kitchen, jotting down brands that they used for the basic items and making a list of what they needed. Next he flew down to the ground floor and knocked on 221A.

"Sherlock?" Mrs Hudson asked, but was bustled aside as Sherlock made his way inside her flat.

"I need your help," he explained, as she twittered at his lack of manners.

"I'm not qualified for that, dear," she murmured.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "With John."

"Oh, well, I think you should just come out and tell him how you feel," Mrs Hudson said, putting a finger to the side of her mouth.

"What?" Sherlock asked, confused and then waved the comment away. "Not about that, Mrs Hudson. John is sick and I know next to nothing about taking of someone else."

"Oh!"

Mrs Hudson sat him down and went over the things that he would need to do, what he would need to get at the shops, and how patient he would need to be. Sherlock absorbed it all, drinking in every facet of information he could squeeze from her.

She added to his list and then sent him off to the shops.

He walked out of 221 and saw a black sedan waiting for for him. Sherlock sought out the nearest CCTV and mouthed the words 'thank you.'

He got into the car and directed the driver to the first set of shops he needed to visit.

Returning almost three hours later, he made a few trips to take all his bags and packages up to the flat, even with the help of the driver.

Sherlock scurried around the rooms, putting away the food and medicine, setting up the humidifier he had bought and placing it near John, and getting John's sleep clothes. He started the chicken noodle soup he had harassed his mother for and then knelt next to the doctor.

"John," Sherlock said, gently shaking his friend.

John opened his eyes and muttered, "Oh god, what, Sherlock?"

"You can't sleep in your work things," Sherlock explained.

John looked down only to be met with his duvet. He tried to pry it off him, but he was a weak as a kitten.

Sherlock moved it and the afghan, then helped John sit up. Sherlock got John out of his work clothes and into his pajamas. He then lay John back down.

"Sherlock?" John had enough sense to inquire.

Sherlock shook his head, "Just rest, I've got you."

A small smile graced the doctor's lips and as he drifted off to sleep, he murmured, "I love you."

Sherlock stood up and pressed his hand to his chest to ease the small ache that formed there.

File that under one more thing that John has said that he didn't mean the way Sherlock would have preferred.

A couple hours later, Sherlock roused John for the soup, a cup of peppermint tea, and a trip to the bathroom, as well as medicine.

But even that much exhausted John, and soon he was out again.

And the next few days followed that pattern.

John couldn't remember much of the past couple of days, but he remember a whispered plea from Greg and Sherlock's insistence that he couldn't leave John.

"Shit, Sherlock, this is the fourth victim in five days!" Greg's voice nearly cracked at his fight to keep his voice down.

John opened his eyes to see Sherlock shake his head. "I can't."

"He won't need you for a couple of hours, he's asleep for fuck's sake!" Greg pleaded. "I need to stop this guy before he slaughters half the population of Brixton!"

John watched as Sherlock stared at the floor, completely torn. John wanted to tell him to go. To find this bastard. John would keep.

"Give me everything you've got. Bring it all here to Baker Street. I'll do what I can from here."

Greg threw his arms up in frustration. He knew Sherlock wasn't going to budge from John's side.

"You could always ask Mycroft," Sherlock whispered. John had to strain to make sure he had heard him correctly.

"Fine." Greg stormed out the door and slammed it behind him.

The next time he was conscious enough to be aware of his surroundings, he found Sherlock on his own laptop, reading.

John stirred and suddenly Sherlock was by his side. A cool hand touched John's forehead, neck, and cheek.

"Your fever seems to have broken," Sherlock murmured.

John nodded and sighed in relief when doing so didn't make him wince.

"How long was I out?" John asked, struggling to sit up. Again, Sherlock was there to help.

"Three days."

"Shit!" John swore. He then looked around, the flat was relatively clean for them, he could smell food cooking in the kitchen, and Sherlock's chemistry set had been cleared away.

He took a deep breath and realized that his lungs felt clear, too. He spotted the humidifier and frowned.

"Where did you get that?"

"I bought it, I thought it might help," Sherlock admitted with a shrug.

"Sherlock..." John said and then trailed off. "Oh, wait did you have a case when I was out sick? I think I remember Greg coming by."

Sherlock shook his head, "I couldn't leave you. So I directed him to Mycroft. I hear they got along swimmingly."

"I vaguely remember that." John rubbed his face wearily. He took deep breath and let it out slowly.

"So where did you get the money for the humidifier or the food I know you've been feeding me, for that matter." John lifted his arm and took a whiff. He made a face, which startled a laugh from Sherlock.

"I'll suspect you'll want a shower," Sherlock said, side-stepping the question. "Go, I'll grab you some clothes to change into."

John's eyes narrowed. "Don't think I don't know what you are doing. I want answers when I get out."

Sherlock nodded solemnly. "Of course, John."