Disclaimer: Nothing of Sherlock Holmes belongs to me. Just borrowing for my story. No money is being made.

Warning: Implied slash and kisses between two men. Don't like, please don't read.

Written as a request for a friend, who is sick. Hope this makes you feel better.

Stubborn

"It's over! You're surrounded!"

The yells of the police were ignored as several shots rang through the air at a deafening height. The two men caught in the middle moved quickly, running to the same side of the warehouse to escape the barrel of bullets that came their way. The police were quick to return fire but ceased their advance as people joined the suspect at the other end. Before long, the shooting stopped as an odd sound reached the ears of everyone. Something creaked heavily above them and suddenly it gave way.

It seemed the top floor was gone, sending dust and light debris into the air around them. Several shouts rang out unanswered as people scurried away. Doors at two opposite ends flung open and the one they were after ran out. The detective on the case ran into the middle of the room before stopping, looking to each side, wondering each way to give chase. Choosing one side, he made his move, but so did the roof, creaking heavily from the unusual amount of weight being pressed down upon it.

"Holmes!"

The voice fell on deaf ears and the detective continued without a single thought for his own safety. Without warning, the roof gave way, making the middle floor crash down around them along with what was left of the top floor. Debris and dust blocked the view, making it impossible to see anything and instantly, panic and dread were the only emotions that could be recognised.

Watson panted heavily as he struggled to find his way through the now ruined warehouse, which had just hours earlier been standing tall and solid. Coughing deeply, Watson attempted to move closer to where most of the roof had fallen but there was too much in front of him and he knew he couldn't move it alone.

"Holmes!" he called loudly.

There was no answer.

"Inspector, get people in here, now!" Watson yelled to the policeman standing in the entrance doorway, seemingly unsure of how to help.

"Yes, sir," the inspector said quickly, before bustling off as fast as he could to retrieve the help needed.

Pulling and moving debris out of his way, Watson continued to pant heavily, ignoring the sweat that dripped steadily down his face. Sheer panic drilled through him as he lifted stone out of the way and after lifting several pieces of wood that had once been furniture, he saw it. The hope that had faded within Watson was slowly lifting as a glimmer of it showed its face.

The lower half of Holmes' leg could be seen and the blood running down it thickly, made a cold chill run through Watson's spine. His heart hammered loudly against his ribcage and blood rushed through his ears, deafening him to all other sounds. As Watson moved more things out of the way, he was soon joined by officers who helped.

When enough space had been made, Watson hastily stepped through and knelt beside Holmes who wasn't moving. Noticing that most of the stone had narrowly missed Holmes' head as there was no blood around his top half gave almost no comfort as the man was still not moving. Placing two fingers against Holmes' neck, Watson inwardly prayed, closing his eyes tightly.

Then, he felt it. A pulse. A small beating pulse, telling him that the man was still alive. "Watson, what are you doing?"

"Holmes?" asked Watson unsurely, eyes shooting open, wondering if the detective had actually spoken. He removed his fingers from Holmes' neck and placed the hand firmly on the man's shoulder, shaking it slightly. "Holmes, look at me?"

A pained groan reached his ears as Holmes turned his head slowly and opened his eyes to glance up at the doctor. Their eyes locked and Watson moved a little closer to check them out, making sure that Holmes was actually alright. After a moment, Watson realised that Holmes had not yet blinked. Frowning slowly, he began to move a little closer until...

"Boo!"

Watson jumped back from Holmes, startled at his friends sudden movement towards him. A brief flash of anger swept across Watson's face and he muttered incoherently under his breath. He looked down at Holmes with look of disapproval but the detective gave him a rare smile and a small chuckle before laying back. After a few seconds, the smile vanished and his features twisted in pain.

"You're injured Holmes," Watson sighed, leaning both hands on his thighs. "You need a hospital."

"No, Watson. No, no, no," Holmes mumbled instantly at the mention of a hospital. "Just take me home."

"No, I can't," said Watson dismissively, ignoring the protests beneath him. "You have possibly broken your leg and it needs to be cleaned up properly," he added loudly as Holmes' voice rose in volume. "I'll be there and do it myself."

At those words, Holmes went silent and nodded a couple times. Watson smiled faintly. He knew that the best way to get Holmes the help he needed, was to do it himself. Plus, it made him certain that the job was done properly. He couldn't have Holmes getting an infection and having him fall ill.

With the assistance of Inspector Lestrade, they hauled Holmes to his feet and guided him out of the warehouse and to a waiting hansom cab which quickly took them to the hospital.

Three Weeks Later

"So, Mrs. Crosland, what seems to be the problem?"

The middle-aged woman sitting opposite Watson shrugged slightly, feeling a little nervous. She had avoided this trip to the doctors for just over a year now and only came because her daughter threatened to take her to the hospital if she didn't comply.

"Well..." she said slowly, tucking a loose strand of her short black hair behind her ear. "I've been coughing lately, and I've had a few night sweats and a couple fevers."

Watson smiled faintly and Mrs. Crosland breathed in and out deeply. She seemed to relax a little. Watson got to his feet and opened the top draw of his desk and took out a black stethoscope.

"Come and sit up here on the table and I'll check you out, Mrs. Crosland."

Nodding slowly, Mrs. Crosland got to her feet and smiled at the young man before her, placing a hand on her chest, feeling somewhat flustered. "Oh, Leila, please," she said as she hopped up on the table.

"Okay then, Leila, take a few deep breaths for me," he said placing the stethoscope gently against her chest. Slowly, Leila did just that and breathed in and out, looking straight ahead. "How long have the problems been around?"

Leila shrugged lightly. "About a year or so."

Watson gradually nodded. "You said you've had night sweats, have you had much trouble sleeping? Feeling fatigued at all?"

"Not really," Leila answered. "I mean, the night sweats really have been sporadic."

Suddenly, a small knock at the door interrupted both Watson and Leila, making them look up and become distracted. The door opened slowly and Watson's receptionist poked her head around. She glanced around the room and seemed relieved when she spotted Watson. Her eyes were wide and she held a small piece of paper in her hands which shook lightly with fear.

"I'm with a patient, Mrs. Flynn," Watson said sharply.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Watson," she replied quietly. "There's been an emergency call from your former residence about another patient. You've been requested."

"No," said Watson firmly. "If he calls again, tell him he'll have to wait until tonight."

"Yes, sir," Mrs. Flynn said in a nervous tone before leaving and closing the door behind her.

Watson let out an irritated sigh before attending to his patient again. "I am sorry about that, Mrs. Crosland..." a sharp look made him change his words, "sorry, Leila. It seems Mr. Holmes is losing his patience."

"It's no bother," she said quickly.

"Right, back to where we were," said Watson quickly, focusing upon listening to her heart beat. "What about the fevers? How bad are they? Any vomiting, diarrhoea, blood?"

Embarrassment crept onto Leila's features. "No blood or diarrhoea but I have vomited a couple times."

"And what about your weight? Have you lost much weight recently?" asked Watson, removing the stethoscope and looking down at her.

Leila took a moment and thought about it, eventually nodding. "Yes, actually," she replied. "I've lost a few pounds, quite rapidly too. I didn't think anything of it."

"Well, Leila," said Watson, pointing back to the chair. "Please, have a seat." He returned to his desk and sat down, leaning forward, taking note of everything so far. "I think you may be suffering from Tuberculosis. The symptoms fit and I think you should return home. Inform your famil,y tell them to get checked out. And for you, I'm suggesting a lot of bed rest. Nothing active or straining and no going out unless it can be helped. If your symptoms worsen you should go to the hospital."

"How long should I wait until going there?" Leila asked quietly.

"Hmm... give it a few weeks and if nothing at all improves then I would advise not waiting much longer to-"

A knock at the door stopped Watson's flow of words and he sighed irritably again. He knew what this was about. Leila gave him a smile and got to her feet. Watson followed her to the door, opening it for her.

"Thank you, doctor," she said, covering her mouth with a handkerchief she pulled from her pocket.

"Not at all," said Watson watching her leave and his receptionist walk in.

She still appeared nervous. "H-he called again and is quite insistent that you see him."

Knowing that his old friend wasn't going to give up, he nodded slowly. "Move all my afternoon patients to tomorrow," he instructed. "I'll make time to see all of them then."

"Yes, sir," Mrs. Flynn muttered walking back to her desk.

Watson walked to the rack in the corner and placed his trench coat on and his hat and looked to Mrs. Flynn. "And you can finish up and take the afternoon off."

"Thank you, sir."

Wasting no more time, Watson left his practice and quickly hailed down a hansom cab and was at Baker Street before he knew it. Just as he reached the door it was yanked open by a harassed looking woman. Watson's eyes widened in surprised but he quickly regained his composure and moved to the woman and spoke gently.

"Mrs. Hudson, what's the matter?"

The middle-aged woman pointed up the stairs with a firm finger, her facial expression grave. "You give that man something and shut him up!"

Mrs. Hudson bustled away, seemingly frazzled and Watson sighed again. Taking his hat and coat off, he placed them on the rack beside the door before ascending the seventeen stairs and once reaching Holmes' room he knocked firmly.

"Away with you old woman!"

"It's me, Holmes," said Watson loudly.

The other side of the door went silent and Watson took it as a good sign. He opened the door and instantly recoiled slightly before entering completely and closing the door behind him. The detective's room looked as though a tornado had ripped through it. Books, candles, clothes, paper and heaps of other objects were spread out across the floor and the furniture. Holmes' oil lamps were burning low as they were still glowing, illuminating the room, casting deep shadows across the walls. The black curtains were pulled closed, blocking out the outside world. And the room smelled heavily of opium, sweat and it was suffocatingly hot.

After seeing the state of the room, he turned to see Holmes, sitting on the floor, leaning against his bed, staring at him through narrowed eyes. The sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up to the elbow and sweat stains dampened the collar around his neck and his entire being looked as though he hadn't washed in days.

"You're late."

The voice was cold and the words spoken quietly. "Don't you dare, Holmes," Watson snapped. "You can't live like-"

"What, am I doing something daring?"

"Stop it, Holmes," barked Watson impatiently. "You cannot live like this," he continued, indicating to the mess around them. "This isn't normal and it isn't healthy. You need to get this mess cleaned up, you need to bathe and you need to get outside."

"There is nothing out there of interest," Holmes said, taking his eyes off Watson and leaning his head back against the bed. "Besides," he said, changing the subject. "I thought you were supposed to be finishing the case. He got away if you recall."

"Let it go, Holmes," said Watson, tone now calm. "The lead has gone cold and Malchiel has gone missing. No one can find him. It's going to have to wait."

"No," said Holmes firmly. "You have to keep looking."

"No," said Watson, shaking his head firmly.

"Watson, you have to!" Holmes said loudly.

Watson sighed. "Holmes... I have to keep reminding myself that I am not a detective, you are. I'm a doctor. You have another three weeks in the cast and then you can tentatively continue the case."

"Tentatively?"

"You need to look after yourself," explained Watson. "And your leg may still be fragile after the cast is taken off. You may be brilliant, Holmes but you're not invincible."

"I can still help from here-"

"No," said Watson as he moved around the room, making everything neater.

Holmes followed all of Watson's movements carefully and only blinking when necessary. As Watson approached the window, he shouted his protests but they were ignored as the curtains were opened and all lamps extinguished.

"Really, Holmes, you're not a child anymore," Watson muttered, continuing his cleaning.

"You said you'd look after me," said Holmes, indignantly.

Watson turned at those words and looked towards the detective who was now sitting up but not looking at him. He knew the man was sulking but Watson was sometimes unsure of whether it was sincere.

"Look," said Watson as he walked towards Holmes, coming to a stop a few feet from him. "I have been looking after you but I can't do everything and I can't be here twenty-four seven as I'm sure you'd like and as much as you want to think otherwise, I cannot solve this case alone."

"You mean won't," retorted Holmes.

"Perhaps," replied Watson vaguely. "Now, are you going to bathe or will I have to knock you unconscious first?"

For a moment, Holmes seemed to consider the two options before bringing up his own. "I can't get in that tub with this on."

"I'll help you," said Watson holding out his arm.

Holmes looked down at it for a long moment before he took the offered help and managed to stand on one leg. Clutching Watson's arms tightly, he hobbled to the bathroom. As the tub filled with a mixture of hot and cold water, he striped Holmes' clothes off his body and his eyes were soon full of his friend's form; the slim, masculine form which smelt of sweat and tobacco.

When the tub was filled and Holmes naked, Watson gently lifted his surprising light friend into the tub and allowed him to adjust. Leaving the room for a moment, Watson grabbed a stool from his old room and sat beside Holmes who was already washing himself, much to Watson's surprise. As he waited, Watson looked down at the tiled floor.

Despite how much energy he spent, he still wouldn't want to be away from Holmes. He knew what the man was like. He didn't cope too well if he was gone for long. Watson was unsure of how the man coped before they met but he never asked. It was one piece of knowledge he was happy without.

"Watson!"

The doctor jumped faintly and turned to look at Holmes who was holding the wash cloth to him. "I asked if you could do my back."

"Sure," Watson said, clearing his throat and moving closer to Holmes. He gestured for him to bend forward and he did without saying a word and gently, Watson began to move the wash cloth over him slowly, making sure not to miss a spot. As he reached the man's neck, he spoke again.

"I take it your thoughts are preoccupied with where you're supposed to be?"

For once, Watson was happy to say that the detective was wrong. "No," he said quietly with a gentle shake of his head.

"Really?" asked Holmes. "Does she know you're here?"

"She has a name, Holmes," said Watson in the same quiet tone. "Mary is aware of what's happened and understands that you need more assistance than usual. You should be grateful for her understanding."

A grunt of indifference reached his ears. "I thought you'd miss the old days."

Watson didn't reply and he moved to stand back but stopped when something gripped his wrist. It was Holmes' hand, wrapped around it firmly, holding him in place. They locked eyes and Watson once again attempted to pull away but stopped when Holmes refused to let go.

"Come here."

Watson swallowed hard at the whispered, sultry guttural tone from his friend. Licking his lips slowly, Watson felt himself being pulled closer to Holmes with nothing more than a gentle tug. A small moan rumbled in Watson's throat as their lips met in a short, chaste kiss. He pulled away quickly, turning his back to Holmes and running a hand over his face.

"You promised, Holmes."

For a couple moments, the bathroom turned silent until the rushing sound of water filled Watson's ears, prompting him to turn around and face his friend again. It seemed he was attempting to get out of the bath himself but just as he was about to stumbled forwards, Watson rushed ahead and grabbed him, holding him up easily.

"Come on, to bed, I think."

After wrapping a towel around him firmly, Watson helped Holmes back to his rooms and sat him upon the bed before retrieving clean clothes. After helping Holmes into them he stood to leave but felt a hand grab his wrist again.

"Stay."

"Holmes..."

"Please, John."

Watson sighed slowly and closed his eyes at the tone and use of his first name. Nodding, Watson sat down beside Holmes, ignoring the hand that lay casually on his leg briefly before pushing it off. "I'll stay on one condition."

"What?" asked Holmes, a little worriedly, turning his head to look directly at Watson.

"When it comes time for me to leave, you'll behave."

"And if I don't?" Holmes asked as though being presented a challenge.

"I'll have to sedate you for hours so Mrs. Hudson can have some peace."

"Hmm..." Holmes hummed as though seriously thinking about it. "It would probably be good for both of us. Are you returning tomorrow?"

Watson nodded. "Yes," he said tiredly. "But next time you have to wait until work is over."

"You're all wet," commented Holmes, ignoring Watson's words, leaning forward a little to look at Watson's clothes.

The doctor shrugged. "It's water. It'll dry."

It went silent and for hours it remained so until Holmes spoke again, unable to let it go. "What about the case?"

"It will still be there, waiting for you."

"Will you?"

"Yes."

Holmes' natural stubbornness had finally melted somewhat and Watson could feel the man beside him relaxing more than was usual. As the sun set, Watson watched Holmes pushed a pile of books of the bed, so he could lie down. He watched the detective but remained quiet. He was just happy that he had calmed down and was finally doing what he should be.

Getting to his feet, Watson adjusted his clothing and despite his better judgement, he bent down and gave a sleepy Holmes a short kiss on the mouth. As soon as the kiss ended Holmes closed his eyes and shifted in his position on the bed, burying his face in the pillows.

"Mary will be waiting for you..."

The bitter edge to Holmes' voice was clear but Watson chose to ignore it. After things with Mary turned serious, they agreed to put an end to this, but it seemed Holmes couldn't let this go either.

"I'll see you tomorrow," said Watson quickly, backing towards the door.

Just as Watson stepped through the doorway, he turned and looked at the still form on the bed as he grasped the brass door knob. The man looked at peace and Watson just hoped he stayed that way until he returned.