Non Slash
Disclaimer: I do not own any Sherlock characters - that honour belongs to ACD, Moffat and Gatiss

The room was lit with the soft glow of firelight, and as Sherlock entered like a whirlwind through the front door the flames in the grate flickered, throwing strange eerie shadows around the room.

He had just opened his mouth to call his friend's name when he spotted it, the lump on the couch, covered in blankets and decidedly John-shaped, with a tuft of blond hair sticking out at one end.

His heart jumped up into this throat as he studied his surroundings – not 221B, John had walked out of there a month ago, vowing never to return – no, this was a poor substitute for the home they had shared, this was not quite a bedsit, not quite a flat.

The front door opened straight into this room, where the couch, the only form of seating in the room, doubled as a bed. In an obvious effort to conserve energy and money, the couch had been pulled up in front of the open fire, the only source of warmth. Through the open doorway that led to the tiny kitchen a noticeable draft blew like a gale, and at the far end of the kitchen another door led to a toilet/wet room. Sherlock ran a quick calculation through his head – even at the 'affordable' rents that the landlord charged, he could see the man was squeezing as many of these flats as possible into limited space, maximising profit. He hated that he had driven his only friend to this.

As he turned to survey the kitchen workspace, the young man could see his breath on the frigid air, the heat of the flames in the living room grate barely reaching the past the sleeping man….

A frown creased Sherlock's brow as he stared at his friend, wrapped up in blanket, asleep on the couch. Something was wrong. Something was decidedly not good about the scene in front of him.

John was a soldier, a frontline doctor. He may have been a civilian now for three years, but John had never lost his ability to sleep light (except, Sherlock conceded, when his flatmate had kept him awake for too long chasing a case), yet here he was, not being particularly stealthy in his perusal of his friend's new living quarters, and the good doctor hadn't stirred.

Aware that his next planned move might, if he had misjudged the situation, find him face to face with John's (illegal) service weapon, he strode across to where John lay and placed a hand on his shoulder, giving him a gentle shake.

No response.

He shook him a bit harder.

Still nothing.

More than a bit not good then, Sherlock thought to himself as he pulled the covers off the other man, yet even such rough treatment elicited no response.

"John!" Sherlock's voice was sharp, an edge of panic in it that even he was unable to explain. He checked his friend for signs of injury, but there was nothing. John had simply dressed in his warmest pyjamas, with a sweatshirt over his usual tatty t-shirt, put on thick socks to keep his feet warm and wrapped himself up in his blankets.

Putting the blankets back over his friend the consulting detective made a quick search of the flat – he wanted to be sure the doctor hadn't succumbed to the depression that had once threatened to overwhelm him, in the days before they shared a flat. Sherlock was looking for anything that he might have taken – sleeping pills, anti-depressants – anything that he could overdose on, but the flat was clean.

Returning to his friend, Sherlock prised open his eyelids, checking his pupils – they were non-responsive, but being this close the younger man could see John's skin was pink and healthy looking – except that pink and healthy looking wasn't normal for John. Normal was lightly tanned – he only ever looked this pink when Sherlock did or said something to embarrass him.

Sherlock's mind was working now at speed, his eyes taking in everything about the man lying before him. Checking his pulse he noted it was far too rapid for someone so deeply asleep.

Glancing over his shoulder at the dying fire his eyes widened, and he looked back at his friend with renewed fear. In one smooth movement he pulled John, blankets and all, up onto his shoulder in a passable firemen's lift, fumbling for his mobile as he carried the unconscious man out of the flat.

Dialling 999, he almost screamed at the operator to put him through to the Ambulance Service. Moments later, a calm voice reached his ears.

"London Ambulance Service, what is your…"

"I need an ambulance now" Sherlock didn't give the operator time to finish. "My friend is unconscious, totally unresponsive. I believe he is suffering from carbon monoxide poisoning" Manoeuvring through the front door to the building, the young man eased his burden down onto the front steps, sitting next to him and pulling the blankets tightly around him as he answered the call operator's questions and gave the address.

Sitting in the cold night air, it seemed to Sherlock that they waited for hours, but in truth it was little more than ten minutes before he could see the blue lights of the approaching ambulance.

After a brief check of the unconscious man's stats, the paramedics loaded John into the ambulance and Sherlock leapt in alongside him.

"Are you family?" the paramedic asked as he slipped an oxygen mask over his patient's face.

"He has no family" Sherlock lied, blithely ignoring the existence of Harry Watson. "I'm his friend"

xXx

The first thing John noticed as his senses returned, was that he was warm – warmer than he had been in a long time. He lay, luxuriating in the feeling of a soft, comfortable, warm bed – until his memory prodded him, reminding him that his flat didn't have a proper bed, and what it did have was generally lumpy and uncomfortable. Warm was not a word used to describe the flat at all. The next thing was the pounding in his head.

He drew in a deep breath, and was brought up short by the smell of disinfectant and starched sheets. Hospital? How the hell…..?

"John?" Sherlock had seen the signs of consciousness returning, and was now standing peering down at his friend, watching as he blinked sleepily in the harsh fluorescent light.

"Sh'lock?" the army doctor's mouth felt as if he'd been chewing cotton wool, and the hand he was trying to raise to his face to wipe the fog away from his eyes wouldn't cooperate with his brain. "How…?"

"Your new flat's a death trap" the younger man spat angrily. "If you must live somewhere other than Baker Street, you could at least find a decent flat, with proper heating and a landlord who cares what happens to his tenants."

As John looked away, ashamed and unable to keep eye contact, Sherlock realised that maybe the other man had had little choice. His insistence that the doctor give up his work at the surgery to work solely with him meant that the only money John had was his army pension, and finding a job after giving up a perfectly good post for the flimsiest of reasons would be hard.

"Come home."

The soft spoken words had John's eyes snapping back to the other man's face. He said nothing, his eyes trying to read the meaning behind Sherlock's words.

The silence stretched, and the two men continued to stare at each other, totally oblivious of the hustle and bustle of the busy A&E department.

Finally John could stand no more.

"But I'm stupid and useless. Why would you want me underfoot, holding you back?" quietly he reminded his ex-flatmate of the words he had flung at the doctor in anger, just four weeks previously. "Why?"

Sherlock frowned. He realised that his first thought – that at least John would have a decent place to live if he came back – was probably not what this proud ex-soldier wanted to hear. He would think he was being offered charity.

Suddenly it was clear what he needed to say. He fidgeted nervously with the blanket covering his friend, then blurted out

"I'm sorry! I was wrong, John – that's what I was coming to say to you. I need you to help me with cases, I need you to keep the idiots away…"

A slight smile twitched at the corner of the older man's mouth.

"Well that was bloody honest at any rate"

"Of course it's honest…" Sherlock realised that his friend was smiling, and pressed his advantage, "Come home – Mrs Hudson misses you."

A/N: Carbon monoxide poisoning is no joke – and often fatal. It doesn't cost much to buy a CO alarm (similar to a smoke alarm) and it could save your life.