Hurt Comfort

Breathe.

Sherlock stirred, and John peered over at him, nothing but the comforting rise of his chest. Even though it was accompanied by light wheezing. His heart jumped every time Sherlock coughed. Feeling his own heart in his mouth. Fear. Afraid that he wouldn't be able to catch his breath this time. Fear that each breath might be his last.  Should have called Mycroft, Thought John. It was going to be a very long week. 

**

Sherlock awoke sometime in the darkness, gasping for breath. This is what drowning must feel like. HE had almost drowned before, but was blissfully unconscious for it, only waking up in hospital with aching lungs and a crushed chest. Right now, that was preferable. He was going to drown, and be awfully awake for it. One of the things at the bottom of his list of ways to die. 

"John...," he gasped, clawing at the tubes at his face, forgetting entirely what John had said earlier. Only hazily thinking that they must be part of the problem, rather than part of the solution.

Where the hell is john?

Sherlock could see him through his dimming vision, dashing about, digging about through the bag he had unpacked earlier. What is he doing? He properly could have figured it out, but was far too focused on spending all of his energy on making his chest rise and fall.

In. Out. Up. Down. Inhale. Exhale. Oxygen. Carbon dioxide. 

Then John was there, once again shoving plastic onto his face whilst simultaneously injecting something into his IV line. Sherlock struggled against his hand, irrationally thinking that John was trying t suffocate him. But as soon as John's other hand had finished with the needle, it came over to prop Sherlock up against the sofa cushions. Then moving to smooth Sherlock's, wet with sweat, hair. John whispered to him reassuringly. 

"Shhh... Its okay.. just breathe... just. Breathe. The mask is going to help you."

And as soon as Sherlock had stopped panicking , he realised that John was, indeed correct. He could focus on more than just breathing and forcing his diaphragm to contract. It was all okay. John was here.  He relaxed and nodded at John and muffled a ,"Okay."

And into darkness again. 

John sat with Sherlock on the sofa for a while after he had passed out again, not really wanting to leave the world's only consulting detective alone. He could have died, John realised. He still could. What about his brain? No, no, its fine, it was only for a short time.

John willed himself to not think. 

He glanced over at Sherlock, half propped against the sofa, half against John. It seemed easier to breathe like this. Sighing quietly. John grabbed his phone, texting Sarah, informing her of the situation. 

Sherlock has pneumonia. Won't be able to come into work for a while. He is currently on IV antibiotics and oxygen and I'm holding him up so he can breathe. Perhaps you could bring some supplies before or after work? Thanks - John.

John must have falled asleep for a while, because he felt his phone vibrating on his lap.

You're at the flat?! - Sarah

Yeah, you know he is. - John.

But.. if he's that sick, he shouldn't be too hard to get to a hospital? - Sarah.

John's only response was a shrug, but as he could not have that into a text, he only through his phone against the wall. He watched as the phone bounced. And only just realised that he was so stupid. Noting Sherlock's deep breaths, he figured he was in a deep sleep, and wouldn't awaken if John had moved. So John situated him carefully against the pillows, watching his stats the entire time, and once confident that he would not fall of the sofa, or stop breathing. He then started to creep across the room, trying to retrieve his phone. He had one message - 

I'll come over with the stolen supplies for you. Because i'm such a fabulous person. 

John laughed, and looked back to see Sherlock's eyes wide open. They were still feverish, but a brilliant bright blue above the oxygen mask.

***

Sherlock felt something vibrate, John's phone, and felt john startle. Sherlock assumed his sleeping state, not really wanting to speak to John just yet or have a thermometer shoved under his tongue. Sherlock listened to John send and receive texts,properly with Sarah.

John began  moving, and Sherlock tried his best to act limp, as if he were asleep whilst John positioned him on the pillows. But Sherlock could not help cracking open his eyes to watch John hobble across the living room, Dead Foot. Sherlock smiled. Sherlock's brain must have been working slow, because it was only as John turned to look at him, he remembered he was supposed to be asleep. Drat.

So Sherlock had to sit patiently as John asked him questions, stuck a thermometer under his tongue, rechecked his lungs, and replaced the mask with the tubing that Sherlock had ripped off during the night. He remembered that. Vaguely.

Frankly, Sherlock was surprised that the IV was still in, remembering how he panicked. John explained. 

"I taped it very, very, very well. Even if not that circumstance, I knew you would pick at it, or something."

Sherlock was saved from more problems, from the doorbell. Mrs Hudson came in, with another female, Sarah. 

"I come bearing gifts!"She announced as Mrs Hudson let her into the apartment with only the briefest of knocks. Good thing John wasn't still in the sofa with me. Sherlock frowned. Their ideas of gifts were very different. Sarah had brought some medical supplies. Sherlock would prefer some new chemicals, or a nice body to dissect.

"Don't wan't em..,"He announced, flinching at how raspy his voice was. He rolled his eyes and attempted to turn his back to them, but instead got caught by the numerous tubes and wires. And not to mention, John was there pulling him back. Sherlock scowled at him, but it didn't work.

"Thanks Sarah,"John said pointedly, obviously trying to compensate for Sherlock's lack of appreciation. She simply shrugged. 

"Oh dear, I didn't think he was this bad!"Said Mrs Hudson, fretted.

John's heart broke a little for her. But he knew as well as anyone else that she would have little chance of convincing him to see a doctor or even pills.

"Its all right, you know how he gets when he gets sick. Absolutely refuses to admit it." John hesitated, seeing the look at her face, knowing she wasn't listening to any of his words. "Mrs Hudson?" He said loudly. "Perhaps you could make us some tea?" That seemed to register, because she blinked.

"Alright, just this once. Just because Sherlock is sick, just remember I am not your housekeeper. John smiled as she bustled into the kitchen. "Of course."