Chapter Text
On the day that John returned to 221b Baker Street, he could tell something was wrong. He’d had no correspondence from Sherlock in the last 3 days of his holiday, and although he hadn't expected much from him, he’d received semi-frequent text messages throughout the rest of his trip. He tried the door and, upon finding it locked, produced his key from his pocket to let himself in. Mrs Hudson was not to be found, and he presumed she’d gone to see her grandchildren, as she did most weekends.
There was no noise coming from upstairs, and the hairs on the back of John’s neck stood on end as his mind wandered to worst case scenarios. Burglaries, shootings, hostage situations? Anything could happen with a home-alone Sherlock Holmes. His time in the army had made his reflexes quicker than most, and he knew he could take down one or maybe two men of average build. With more, he’d need backup. His hand wandered to his pocket as he contemplated texting Sherlock first, but pulled away when he realised the implications that could have. What if one of the men heard the phone and knew he was here? He just had to go for it. He looked around, his eyes fixing on a rolling pin in the corner of the kitchen. He took a stride over and took it in his hand, gripping it and making his way slowly up the stairs.
He made as little noise as possible, his knowledge of the creaks in the left corner of the 4th step up making all the difference, John thought. As he reached the top, he noticed the door was ajar, and nudged it carefully with the toe of his heavy duty walking boot. They were his retired army boots, but served him well in the cold winter months in London. The door swung further than John had anticipated, and he almost fell back down the stairs in an attempt to conceal himself from the men that he so honestly believed would be inside.
He re-adjusted himself at the realisation that the flat was seemingly empty. His and Sherlock’s chairs sat just as they had been when he had left, and case notes lay strewn carelessly all over the desk as usual. John straightened his coat, glad that nobody was there to witness his lack of composure. As he placed his weapon of choice down on the desk amongst various unopened case files and screwed up post-it notes, he heard noise that resembled a squeak. He listened harder and it repeated.
“J-hn?”
It was coming from the bathroom, and John’s feet moved almost without his mind processing as he recognised his best friend’s voice.
“Sherlock? What the hell are yo-“
As John’s head peered round the bathroom door, his eyes cast on the most pitiful looking consulting detective he had ever seen.
Sherlock was slumped on the floor, barely propped up by the wall behind his head. His skin was pale and sweat beaded across his forehead, dampening his dark curls, sticking some to his head while others stuck out unceremoniously. His clothes had obviously not changed for days, and his shirt remained on him only by the fastening of one button in the middle.
John knelt down before Sherlock, whose face twisted in a sort of lopsided smile, and it was almost as though a switch flicked in his head as the doctor in him sprang to life.
“Sherlock, how long have you been like this?” He asked, laying the back of one hand to the detective’s forehead; far too warm.
“D-no, a while” Sherlock sighed. He attempted to clear his throat and set off on a string of deep, rattling coughs. John stretched his arms behind his back; pulling him and helping him sit upright. His hands rubbed circles on Sherlock’s back until the coughs subsided and he slumped back into John’s arms. John noted the shivers.
“We need to move you. You can’t stay down here.” He said quietly. He knew he needed to treat whatever it was Sherlock had, and he couldn’t gather all the information he needed from on the floor of a bathroom. Sherlock nodded silently, his eyelids drooping. John shook him slightly.
“Sherlock, you need to stay alert, okay? D’ya think you can stand up?” John held tightly to Sherlock’s frame as the taller man struggled to push himself off the floor. It took a while, but eventually John managed to get Sherlock standing. The detective was shaking harder now, his breathing coming harsh and fast as he clung to the material of John’s coat.
“That’s it,” John sighed, “Not far and then you can lie down, okay?”
The 10 or so steps into John’s bedroom were slow, and the wheezing from Sherlock just continued to worry him more. Sherlock let out a low wheeze as John lowered him down and his body hit the mattress, and John pulled his legs round so he was laid flat.
Sherlock set off on another round of wheezy and exhausting coughs, deep in his lungs and causing him to gasp for breath after.
“..h’rts” the detective murmured between breaths. John dug around under the bed, pulling out his black bag and placing it on the bed bedside Sherlock as he took a seat by his head.
“What hurts?” John spoke loudly, trying to keep the attention of the other man. His fingers found a quick and thready pulse at Sherlock’s right wrist. “I need you to talk to me. When did this start? What are your symptoms?”
“started y-yesterday, head, chest, stomach, e’rything.” Sherlock mumbled, his body shaking.
“M’ cold.”
John nodded, his mind flicking through substances the detective could have come into contact with, viruses, poisons.
“I’m gonna need to examine you, Sherlock. Then you can have some medicine and go to sleep, yeah? Try and breathe” He dug around in his bag as a small nod from the other man confirmed he’d be acknowledged. John pulled out a digital thermometer, set it to zero and took Sherlock’s chin in his hand.
“Can you open your mouth a bit for me?”
Sherlock did as he was told, and John busied himself warming his stethoscope on his hand while he waited for the device to beep. The reading was grim, and John swore under his breath.
“-wha?” Sherlock breathed.
“39 degrees, you need to cool down” John said sternly. Sherlock sensed an edge of panic in his words.
“but ‘m freezing” He said softly. John sighed.
“I know, but it’s not actually cold in here. You just feel cold because of your body trying to fight off whatever illness you’ve managed to contract.” He told him.
Sherlock did not argue. He trusted John, and he felt too miserable to argue. Besides, if John didn’t know how to make him better, who would?
John pulled Sherlock forwards slowly with one hand, his other trying feebly to undo the remaining button on the front of his shirt.
“Give me a hand, mate” he said as he pulled on the sleeves. Sherlock’s arms weakly extended, shaky but slightly helpful in getting his shirt off all the same. John pulled at the remaining fabric; screwing up the damp and creased dress shirt and throwing it across the room before settling the tall man back, sitting against the pillows. He made quick work of Sherlock’s trousers, undoing the buttons and then sliding them straight off, sending them flying in roughly the same direction of the shirt.
Sherlock’s teeth chattered as the air ran over his overly warm chest, causing his shivers to increase. John strode swiftly to the wardrobe, pulling a thin blue blanket from the top cupboard and laying it over his boxer-clad roommate. “Right” he sighed, taking his position beside Sherlock. “I know you’re cold. I’ll get you something for your fever in a minute. You need to drink some water as well.”
Sherlock nodded again, making no sound but blinking at John with glossy, feverish eyes. John gave a half smile and ran his fingers through Sherlock’s curls once before turning and retrieving his stethoscope from where he’d discarded it on the bed. Re-warming the end, he put the earpieces in his ears and moved one hand to Sherlock’s waist to steady him.
“Deep breaths, Sherlock.” He said softly, pressing the diaphragm to the middle of his chest. Sherlock’s heart was racing, and the unmistakeable rattles that John heard with his rapid breathing confirmed his diagnosis. He moved the stethoscope around, checking both lungs thoroughly before removing it and putting it back in his bag. John moved his hand back down to Sherlock’s wrist, taking it in his hand and pressing three fingers to feel his pulse thrumming there.
“You need to focus on your breathing; your pulse is too fast.” He looked up at the detective. He looked slightly less flustered than he had earlier, but his eyes were still-fever bright as the movement of his chest slowed. John smiled; it was typical of Sherlock to contract pneumonia and not something simple like a common cold. He placed a hand on Sherlock’s chest and breathed with him for a minute, satisfied when the thrumming beneath his hand reduced to something that almost resembled a normal rhythm.
John presumed Sherlock was already aware of the exact type of bacteria attacking his lungs, but he would tell him later just in case. John’s first priority was getting him hydrated and comfortable, and for a second he wondered how he could do that without taking him to hospital. Ideally, an IV would get his dehydration under control, as well as administering antibiotics to fight the infection, and in a hospital environment John would have direct access to monitoring for his vitals at all times. He know that would be best for Sherlock, and would mean a quicker recovery time, but he also knew the fuss Sherlock could kick up when he didn’t want to do something.
“That’s loads better.” He sighed. “Ideally, I’d like to take you to hospital.”
Sherlock’s eyes widened. “N-no. You’re a doctor.” He muttered; his voice stronger now his breathing was under control. John shook his head, running a hand through his hair.
“I know, but I can’t treat you here. Sherlock, you have pneumonia. I need monitoring, an IV, oxygen, not to mention the medication you need.” He said; an edge to his voice. He was almost angry at himself that he wasn’t enough to help. Sherlock took a shallow breath in.
“I’m not going to a b-b-loody hospital. Call Mycroft, he’ll help.” He rasped. John returned his hand to his chest, reminding him to breathe. He was right; Mycroft could do anything.
When Sherlock had managed to control his breathing again, John got up and went to the kitchen, his mind telling him that Sherlock must be feeling pretty miserable to be okay with help from his brother. He returned a few minutes later with an array of bits and bobs. In his hand, he carried a small bowl of water; Sherlock noted it was chilled by the slight condensation on the side. In the water was a clean flannel, and in John’s other hand was two bottles of pills and a separate glass of water. He placed all of the items down on the small table by Sherlock’s head, shook two tablets out of one bottle and two from the other, and handed them to him with the glass of water.
“Two of them are for pain and fever, the others are low-grade antibiotics. They’ll help” He said softly. Sherlock took the pills gratefully, giving a slight smile before putting them in his mouth, taking the water from John’s hands and sipping it carefully.
John helped Sherlock lie down, fluffing his pillows and moving the blanket up until it covered him fully. He pulled the flannel from the bowl of water on the table, ringing it out and placing it carefully on his forehead. Sherlock sighed at the cooling sensation it brought, and John stroked a hand through his hair as his eyes started to close.
“Get some sleep; I’m going to call Mycroft.” He said softly, his fingers moving down and just resting at Sherlock’s carotid pulse before he got up, adjusting the blankets, and walked towards the bedroom door.
Sherlock thought he managed a “thank you” before he drifted off to sleep.