Pneumonia

(A/N: Uncreative title is uncreative. To be honest though, naming stories has never been my strong suit. Anyway, this was another request by the lovely Lia Walker. I hope you enjoy it, dear!)

Lethargy was the first sign. Sherlock Holmes was only halfway through solving a most interesting case involving a missing baron and a diamond the size of a fist when the awful weariness set in. But being who he was, it was absolutely impossible to slow down, not when he was so close to finding the hint that would unravel this whole thing.

By the time he delivered the baron's deceitful mistress into the hands of Scotland Yard, his head was pounding and his throat felt as if he made a habit out of swallowing razors. It was official: he had a cold and couldn't be any more furious with himself, for he found nothing more asinine and time wasting than being sick.

Of course, it was dreadfully convenient having a doctor in the house but Watson hadn't even seemed to notice. This was quite out of the ordinary because his dear Boswell's intuition when it came to the ill was usually right on the mark. It didn't take long for Holmes to deduce that he had something far more pressing on his mind. He had only accompanied Holmes on two "missions" during the missing baron case, saying he wished to spend more time at his practice.

It was ironic then; he didn't notice that his own partner was sick because he was too busy dealing with other sick people. Lovely. But it was only a little cold after all, beastly though it seemed, and Sherlock Holmes could definitely handle it on his own.

…

His next case was quick in coming and he could not possibly pass it up. The pursuit of a gang of scam artists led him down to the docks where a brawl broke out, ending with Sherlock and the leader wrestling in the frigid January water. When Lestrade and his men arrived, the rest of the gang had vanished to the four corners but Holmes had immerged victorious, handing over a sopping mess of a man into their care.

He had begun to walk home when the coughing started. It was subtle enough at first and he thought nothing of it until the very force of his hacking had him holding onto the side of a building for support. His chest aching and his throat ablaze with pain, he tried walk again, only to realize that his trembling legs could no longer support himself. Groaning and feeling utterly inferior, he succumbed to hailing a cab.

…

Holmes felt himself steadily deteriorating throughout the night and the following day. He knew he was running a fever and had been alternating between crippling nausea and horrible bouts of coughing since the wee hours of the morning. Watson had come in quite late and hadn't heard a thing through his thunderous snoring. Part of Holmes wished he had heard him, wished he would help because this was like no kind of cold he had ever had before.

Around ten o'clock Watson announced to Holmes's room that he was heading to work. It didn't deter him that he received no response; his friend had been known to go days on end without speaking a word. And Holmes couldn't even if he had wanted to; his throat was completely wasted and his voice was nonexistent.

Holmes was feeling that he just might die when Watson returned that evening. He had been reduced to curling up on his bed, burning up with fever one minute and shaking with chills the next.

"I've just called for dinner," Watson said, poking his head in the door.

And Holmes's stubbornness had just run out. "Watson!" he rasped, trying to sit up but was attacked by another coughing fit that had him doubled over.

"Holmes! My God, what…" the doctor stammered, rushing to his friend, whose complexion had gone an unhealthy shade of grey. He gingerly took Holmes by the shoulders and laid him back down on the bed.

It only took a hand to his forehead and the sound of his rattling, gasping breaths to come to a diagnosis. "Why didn't you tell me you were so ill?"

"It's not a cold is it, doctor?" his voice was barely audible.

"A cold," Watson scoffed, shaking his head, "You have pneumonia, Holmes."

And that's when Holmes realized that he very well could die from this. People died of it everyday. Imagine: surviving bullets, boxing, fires, serial killers, and Sherlock Holmes would be done in by an infection.

"How stupid of me…" Watson's words broke Holmes's already shaky train of thought, "How could I not notice the symptoms…the signs…I must have been the one who brought it home to you!"

"Nonsense," Holmes coughed, and his chest felt as if it were bursting.

"No, but I've been treating a little girl with pneumonia! That's why I've been gone so frequently; I've had to make house calls. Of course, there's not much to be done but she finally pulled through last night… and I'll make sure you do the same." His tone was firm and his blue eyes shone with a steely confidence that Holmes had always admired.

Watson went immediately to Holmes's wash basin, only to find a greenish substance congealing at the bottom of it. "Really?" he exclaimed in frustration and Holmes imagined he would have laughed if it didn't hurt so much to even breathe. His doctor dashed out of the room, only to return a few moments later with his own basin and a wash cloth.

"I asked Mrs. Hudson to bring up some drinking water," he explained as he soaked the washcloth and rung it out before folding it and laying it neatly across Holmes's forehead, "It's very important that you drink plenty of fluids."

The coolness of the cloth was a welcome sensation against his scalding face and Watson promptly removed it and soaked it again every few minutes. Mrs. Hudson arrived shortly with the requested water and Watson helped him to sit and brought the cup to his lips. Holmes grimaced at the first sip as he felt it burn all the way down.

"I know it hurts," his friend whispered softly, "but you really must keep drinking."

Holmes nodded mutely and obeyed (he really couldn't deny Watson anything when he was acting as his physician). The landlady returned with a few blankets in her arms, hovering for a moment before letting them alone once more. Watson quickly covered him to ward off the chills and lowered him back down onto his pillow.

There was really nothing more he could do besides rewet the cloth over again and whisper calming words. Some doctors proclaimed that a hot bath followed by a cold bath was the best treatment for such an illness but at this point, Watson feared that moving him would be fatal. So he battled Holmes's fever and applied soothing strokes to his chest and aching limbs until the other man drifted off into a fitful sleep.

He watched him, watched the movement of his eyes under their lids, watched the uneasy rise and fall of his chest, and he prayed, and he hummed every lullaby that he knew. He knew that the worst thing for this sort of situation was panic but he was nearly in its clutches. There had been patients with pneumonia, patients that hadn't been so lucky as the little girl, people from every walk of life and he could hardly suppress the nagging, threatening thought that Sherlock Holmes was, in fact, not invincible. He had patched up enough broken ribs to know that. Underneath it all, he was human, a human with weaknesses, a human whose life he could save. Dear God, let him be saved.

…

It was very early in the morning that the chills stopped and the first ray of hope gleamed ahead. He tried not to set his hopes too high, knowing that if he pulled through, there could still be permanent damage left behind. His mind told him this but his heart was already pounding with premature elation. He had to make it. He knew he would because John Watson could not imagine his life without Sherlock Holmes.

…

It was nearly teatime. Watson expected Mrs. Hudson to knock at the door any moment. He knew she was concerned, he having turned down breakfast to maintain his vigil but food was honestly the last thing on his mind.

"That's my song."

Watson jumped, his heart skipping a beat, and humming ceased as he stared down at the source of the raspy voice. Holmes's eyes had slid open a fraction and he wore a faint smile on his lips.

"Well technically, it's your song. I wrote it for you."

He merely blinked at him stupidly for a moment as his insides reacted somewhat the way that butter does when spread on hot toast. Holmes's smile broadened and so did Watson's until they were just smiling at each other like loons.

"I always knew I liked it," he finally replied, his hand finding that of his partner's and holding it gently under his own.

"Well you should, it's bloody fantastic," he jested and Watson chuckled.

"So what do you think, Doctor? Will I live?"

"Yes, I expect a full recovery. At least it's clear that the humour lobe of your brain has been unscathed by the fever."

He broke into a lazy sort of grin, still looking horribly exhausted. "Then here are my orders for you. I want you to go clean yourself up, have your tea, and go to bed."

"There's no way I'm going to leave you alone tonight."

"I didn't say you had to, I just said go to bed. It doesn't have to be your own bed."

For whatever reason, be it fatigue, stress, relief, or years of pent up emotions, Holmes's words shot through him like lightening and he found himself jolted forward, his lips pressing earnestly against the detective's. For a moment, he was stunned into silence before his hands were at Watson's chest, pushing him back as roughly as he could (which was about with all the strength of a fully grown butterfly).

"You idiot!" he exclaimed, turning his face away, "You're going to catch it too!"

Watson could do nothing but laugh and plant a kiss on Holmes's blushing, stubble roughened cheek instead.

…

Night had fallen and Watson had managed to eat his own dinner and to get some of Mrs. Hudson's soup into Holmes with minimal protest, which was a feat in and of itself. The adrenaline of that afternoon had worn off and Watson found himself to be painfully tired, which brought up the question of where he would sleep. Did Holmes really want him to share his bed? And was it just for convenience or did he really share Watson's feelings?

He had been thinking about that impulsive kiss all day and as he did, he felt increasingly stupid. What if Holmes didn't reciprocate his affection? But didn't he bring it upon himself with that bed comment? What if he thinks the kiss was just something silly? An accident; thinks that Watson hadn't longed to do that with every fibre of his being since they had first met? What if, what if, what if…

His head was beginning to hurt and his eyes felt as if they were going to snap closed of their own accord any minute. Holmes was dozing, curled up on his side as the war inside John Watson finally reached an impasse. This was the moment of truth. Quietly, he snuffed out the candle on the bedside table and, after donning his nightclothes, crawled under the covers behind Holmes.

Tentatively, he draped an arm over the other man's waist. It felt right, it fit. The detective stirred slightly, looking about to awaken.

"Holmes," Watson whispered into the nape of his neck, "Sherlock…"

"Hmm?" he felt the slight twitch of his body at the use of his Christian name.

Watson's heart managed to bounce between his heart and his stomach and he was sure that Holmes could feel it hammering wildly. "I just wanted you to know that I love you."

There was silence. "I was just thinking if I had lost you…if you were gone and I could've never told you…I've always loved you."

There was another silence and Watson was just beginning to think that he had fallen asleep when there was a quiet but definite, "I love you too."

Watson hadn't been expecting that, and he certainly hadn't been expecting the tears that sprang to his eyes. He closed them and heard the soft "pat" as they hit the pillow before bestowing a gentle, lingering kiss on the pale neck before him. With a contented sigh, he pulled himself more snugly against Holmes's back and the two slept more soundly than they ever had.