Special Circumstances: BBC Sherlock

[matilda3948]

So this story developed in pieces in my drabble thread, but I thought I'd post it in a single chunk in this section 1. because I know not everyone reads the drabble thread and 2. It was chopped up into lots of little pieces and I thought it would be nice to have the whole thing without having to scroll through pages.

Anyway, in this story both Lestrade and Sherlock are ill. Just John/Sherlock friendship and established Lestrade/Mycroft relationship.

I haven't made any meaningful changes from the drabbles. Just cleaned up the grammar and fixed a couple typos.

Special Circumstances

“Hmm. John owes me dinner,” Sherlock said, coming up beside Lestrade. "Knew you were smoking again." Greg rolled his eyes and took a long drag off his cigarette.

“Shut up, Sherlock.” There was little heat in his voice though—if anything Greg sounded weary and defeated. He sniffled and cleared his throat.

“Why so glum? We caught the guy,” Sherlock said. Greg practically exploded with rage.

“Sure we caught him but only after he killed another girl! Do you know what it feels like to have to inform parents that their child was murdered? No! Of course you don’t because you don’t have any bloody human emotions! We can’t all be robots, Sherlock!” By the time he finished shouting all the fight seemed to leave Greg’s body and leaned against the brick wall, struggling to get his emotions back in check. Sherlock’s face remained impassive but he too leaned against the wall, his shoulder very nearly touching Greg’s. They stayed silent for a moment before Greg turned to the side and sneezed.

HuhRahhSHHoo! HuhhTSSCHHooo!

“Bless you,” Sherlock said quietly.

“Thanks.” Greg sniffled wetly then rubbed a hand over his weary face. “Listen, Sherlock I’m sorry about what I said before.” Sherlock waved a hand in dismissal.

“It’s fine.”

“No it’s not fair to take my anger out on you, mate.”

“Better me than someone who cares—benefits to being a robot,” Sherlock said. Greg looked at him ready to apologize when he saw the corners of Sherlock’s mouth twitch.

huhAhhTSSCHHoo! RahhSTSSHHHooo! huhTSSCHHooo!

“Christ! Sorry,” Greg said.

“You should go home,” Sherlock said. Greg sighed.

“Gotta finish processing this scene first. I just…just needed a few minutes.”

“Are you going to share?” Sherlock asked, nodding towards his cigarette.

“Thought you quit?”

“Special circumstances,” he said quietly. Greg nodded and handed over the pack and his lighter. Sherlock lit it and took a deep drag, slowly exhaling a thin stream of smoke.

“Hey? You okay after all of this?” Greg asked. Sherlock hesitated for just a second.

“Don’t be stupid, Graham.”

***

Sherlock stared out the sitting room window picking out a melancholy tune on his violin. He’d lost track of how long he’d been standing there, but the frost on the windows had finally melted in the morning sun. He put the violin down with a frustrated huff and roughly ran his fingers through his hair before grabbing his coat and heading out and hailing a cab.

Lestrade sat at his desk trying to work on the mountain of paperwork that had accumulated while he was working this last case. His head was pounding and there was a dull ache in his sinuses making it incredibly difficult to focus. Plus his nose was constantly tickling, always threatening to erupt in a fit of sneezes. In short, he felt miserable.

“Doesn’t the Yard usually give you a couple days off after a homicide case?”

Greg looked up to see Sherlock leaning against the doorframe in his office. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been there. Of course, his nose chose that moment to embarrass him even further.

HuhRahhSHHoo! huhNSHHHoo!

If, instead of trying to fight off another sneeze, Greg had opened his eyes he would have seen Sherlock frown and narrow his eyes in something akin to concern.

huhRAHHsschhoo! RuhhAHHSHHHoo!

“I’m quite certain the Yard gives you sick days,” he said coming into the office and sitting in the chair across from the older man. Greg grabbed a crumpled handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose, earning a disgusted grimace from Sherlock.

“What do you want?” Greg asked.

“Well, I assumed since you’re here there must be something incredibly urgent. A new case perhaps? Jewel thief? Art heist? Escaped convict threatening a unicorn and rainbow factory?”

“Sorry to disappoint but it’s just paperwork,” Greg said, clearing his throat.

“You mean to say all you have is your incredibly pedestrian paper pushing responsibilities?” Sherlock asked.

“Afraid so.”

“Then why aren’t you at home?”

Damn. Greg hated when he walked into one of Sherlock’s traps…and he really should have seen that one coming.

huh Huhh HuhRAHHssshhooo! hhRAHHSHHHooo!

“Bless you.”

“Thags.” Greg rubbed his forehead.

“You are going to dream about her,” Sherlock said quietly, those intense eyes fixed on Greg’s pale face.

“Sorry? What?”

“You clearly feel unwell but resist going home to rest. Most people jump at the opportunity to stay home and sleep when they’re sick but you’re here slogging through case reports. You’re afraid of what you’re going to see when you close your eyes—afraid you’re going to revisit the last case in your sleep.” Greg felt a lump in his throat as Sherlock continued to talk. “You will dream about it—about her. The only question is when. You can fight sleep for another two days, making yourself even more ill until your body forces you to sleep, but the dreams are still going to be there. Whether you sleep today, tomorrow, or next week it’s waiting for you. Since you’ve clearly got a cold, only an idiot would delay resting any longer.” It may have been a typical Sherlock deduction, but the tone was much softer than Greg was used to. It wasn’t helping him keep his emotions in check; frankly, he might have preferred Sherlock busting in, calling him a moron, and going about his day. Greg brought the crumpled handkerchief up to his nose, catching several exhausted sounding sneezes in the fabric.

huhRahhMSHHoo! hhRuhhSHHHF! huhruhhhMFSSHHHOO!

“Bless you.”

“Thag you.” When Greg lifted his head both men pretended his eyes were wet and red-rimmed on account of his cold.

“Home,” Sherlock said firmly. Greg nodded and gathered his things, Sherlock matching him stride for stride as they made their way out of the building. Suddenly Sherlock stopped and faced Greg. “Just ask,” he said.

“Ask what?”

“Whatever it is that you’ve been debating asking me since we left your office.”

“After we left the scene last night…did you…have you slept yet?” Greg asked. Sherlock sighed.

“Not yet,” he said.

***

“Good evening, Mr. Holmes,” Anthea said as her boss got into the car. He’d just returned from a top secret (even by his standards) conference. He hadn’t even been permitted to use his mobile while he was there.

“Anthea,” he greeted.

“I trust your trip went well.”

“Well enough. I confess I am glad to be back though. It was disorienting to be so disconnected.”

“It was only 48 hours, sir.”

“Said the woman who is permanently attached to her Blackberry,” he said. Anthea smirked and then held a folder out to her employer. Before letting go, she said,

“This is what Detective Inspector Lestrade has been working on in your absence. Thought you should know as soon as possible.”

Mycroft scanned the contents of the folder—newspaper clippings and police reports about the child homicide case. He frowned deepened as he read.

“Have you spoken to him?” he asked.

“No, sir. I stopped by his office but he’d already gone home. Since you were due to arrive tonight I thought I would let you handle it yourself.”

The house was quiet when Mycroft got inside. He dropped his things and immediately went upstairs to the master bedroom. Gregory was huddled under the blankets, crumpled tissues littering the floor, and an empty tea cup on the bedside table.

“My poor love,” Mycroft sighed. He sat on his side of the bed and watched his lover sleep. A frown was etched on Greg’s face and there were stress lines across his forehead. It was clearly an uneasy sleep. Mycroft kissed Greg on the forehead—perhaps a bit warm. Greg’s head jerked to the side and he made an odd choked noise. “It’s okay,” Mycroft said quietly. “Everything’s okay now.” Suddenly Greg startled awake, gasping and then promptly coughing harshly. “Oh, Gregory. Come on, sit up.” He helped ease the silver haired man into a sitting position and the coughing soon died down. Once he was able to take a breath, Greg realized that Mycroft was back, sitting next to him on the bed. He tried to smile but it dissolved into a choked sob. Mycroft wrapped his arms around him and Greg rested his head against Mycroft’s chest.

“I’b sorry,” he sniffed. “This last case was…”

“I know, love. Anthea informed me as soon as I arrived. I am so sorry, Gregory” He felt the older man shudder.

“So glad you’re home.”

“As am I.”

As much as Greg wanted to stay curled up against Mycroft’s body, he could feel his nose beginning to itch. He waited until the last possible second before pushing back and turning his head.

HuhRahhSHHHoo! RuhhSSHHoo! Huh hhRUHHssschhhooo!

“My goodness. God bless you, Gregory.” Mycroft got his handkerchief out of his pocket and handed it to him.

“Thag you.” He blew his nose and scrubbed a hand over his face.

“I’m sorry I was neither here nor accessible the last few days,” Mycroft said.

“S’fine. I’m just glad you’re here now. I’d ask how your trip was but I know you can’t tell me.”

“No, I cannot. But I am—” He stopped when Greg held up a hand, his face taking on his familiar pre-sneeze expession. He brought the handkerchief up a few inches from his face as his eyes fluttered shut, mouth going slack.

Huh ehhuhh Huh…HuhhPTSHHooo! huhRahhMFSSHH! hhRuhhSHHMF!

“God bless you, Gregory.”

“Thahhuhh…huhRahhMNSSHHoo! HUHrahhSSHHOOO!”

“God bless you again. If you don’t mind me saying, you sound dreadful.”

“I feel dreadful,” Greg admitted, clearing his throat loudly. “I think it’s a good thing Sherlock chased me out of the office today.” Mycroft raised an eyebrow in question. “How about some tea and I’ll fill you in?” Greg said.

“As long as it’s accompanied by some cold medicine and something to eat. I know you haven’t eaten well—if anything—while working this case.” Greg dropped his eyes.

“Not sure I can stomach anything quite yet,” he said quietly. Mycroft frowned; this case must have really hit Gregory hard.

“Very well,” he said. Greg looked up with surprise—he was expecting a fight about eating. Mycroft’s eyes softened and he cupped Greg’s face. “I just want to make you as comfortable as possible tonight. We can revisit eating tomorrow.”

***

Sherlock yawned and pulled his dressing gown tighter around his thin body.

NGK’tschh! hehKTCHH!

He sniffled and rubbed his nose on his sleeve, before pulling the blanket off the back of the sofa and wrapping it around his shoulders. He really wanted to blame Lestrade for giving him a cold, but knew it was unfair. He’d been feeling poorly the day before; most likely they’d both caught it from the same person while working the homicide case. He hadn’t slept in days—first focused on catching the killer and now reviewing the case from start to finish to see where he could have done better. It shouldn’t have taken another body for him to figure it out…another small, young body. He shook his head and rubbed his eyes.

NGTssh! NKTsschoo!

He wished John was home. He’d been working double shifts at the clinic and Sherlock hadn’t seen him in days. His cell phone chirped and Sherlock glanced down.

I believe a “thank you” is in order, brother dear –MH

I understand you convinced Gregory to go home today. –MH

Sherlock still didn’t answer.

Was it that bad? –MH

If one was the type to be distressed by these sorts of things, this last case would have been quite disturbing.” –SH

Are you alright, Sherlock? –MH

Always. –SH

Sherlock frowned. He despised outward displays of concern from his brother.

Do let me know if you need anything. Gregory is quite unwell and I believe you’re coming down with it as well. –MH

Piss off! –SH

Temper, brother mine. –MH

HehNGTS! NKTsshh! hhSNTCHHoo!

God bless you. –MH

Sherlock threw the phone onto his desk and resumed his spot on the sofa.

***

John was exhausted. If he had to treat one more cold, flu, strep throat, or sinus infection he thought his head might explode. He was a bit concerned about Sherlock too—John didn’t like leaving the consulting detective to work cases on his own, but he couldn’t spare any more time at the clinic. He was pleased to find the flat neither on fire, nor in imminent danger of catching fire. He found his friend sound asleep on the battered sofa. John smiled—it wasn’t unusual for Sherlock to crash after a case, sleeping for twenty or more hours at a time. His smile soon faded when he heard an odd noise come from Sherlock. If it was anyone else, John might have described it as a whimper. He heard it again, louder this time and John sat down on the edge of the sofa. Definitely a nightmare. He reached down and brushed a few errant curls from Sherlock’s forehead.

“Aw, you’re burning up,” John said even though he knew Sherlock couldn’t hear him. “Sherlock? Wake up. Come on.” John continued to call out until Sherlock jerked out of his sleep with a gasp, his eyes wide and darting around the room. “Whoa. Easy, mate. It’s okay.”

“John?”

“Yeah. You were having a nightmare.”

“I don’t have nightmares,” Sherlock said.

“Right.”

hhNGTssh! ehhSNGshhh!

“Bless you. So the sneezing combined with the fever tells me how you’re feeling.” Sherlock wiped his nose on his sleeve and John rolled his eyes and got up to get a box of tissues. “So…I’ve seen the morning papers. Another case solved.”

“Yeah.”

“You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

John frowned. That was the least convincing “fine” he’d ever heard. He ran his fingers through Sherlock’s hair.

“This was a bad one, huh?”

“What? The case with murdered children? Yes, heh Hehh…I suppose it could be classified as bad.”

hhNTSCHH! hehKTsschh! SNGsschhoo!

“Bless you. I’m sorry I wasn’t there with you.”

“I’b not.” Sherlock saw hurt flash across John’s face and clarified. “I only meant that I’b glad it’s not in your head.”

“But it’s in yours,” John said. Sherlock nodded but kept his eyes downcast. John continued to slowly card his fingers through Sherlock’s hair until he felt some of the tension start to dissipate. “Would you drink some tea?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t suppose I could get you to eat anything,” John said.

“Not hungry.”

John figured but he still had to ask. He got up and went into the kitchen to fix tea. Sherlock sat up and felt his head spin. Why did he always get a fever when he was sick? The slightest cold and his temperature spiked. It really was absurd when his body betrayed him like this. Speaking of the failure of his transport:

hehSNGsschh! hhNTSCHH! NKTsshh! hhSNTCHHoo!

He grabbed a fistful of tissues and brought them to his irritated, flaring nose for another round.

huhTSCHHoo! NTGSHH! huhNKSCHHoo! ehhHUHSNSCHHHooo!

“Christ, bless you!” John said, coming back into the room. He handed Sherlock a mug of hot tea as soon as he finished blowing his nose.

“Thag you, John.”

The two men sat side by side, the silence only broken by Sherlock’s occasional sniffles and sneezes.

“How’s Lestrade?” John asked finally. Sherlock sighed.

“You know how he is when there’s children involved. Managed to catch whatever this is as well,” he said gesturing to his cold-ridden appearance. John frowned.

“Should I call him?”

“No. Mycroft’s back frob wherever he was. If he thinks Lestrade needs a doctor he’ll call…or break into your clinic.”

hehh huh HehNTSCHHHooo! hhNGSSHHHooo!

The sneezes shook Sherlock’s frame—too strong to be restrained or stifled. He straightened up just in time to double over again.

EhhSNTISHHHOOO! SNDSSCHHHOO!

“Bless you, Sherlock!” John put his hand on his friend’s back and rubbed slow circles as he blew his nose, coughed, and blew his nose again. “Come on. You should be in bed.”

“Don’t want to.”

“I’ll get you a couple paracetamol and—”

“I said no,” Sherlock said. John frowned.

“and I’ll stay with you until you fall asleep.”

“I’m not having nightmares.”

“I know. You don’t have nightmares,” John said.

hhSNCHHooo! SNTSCHHooo!

“Bless you.” John stood up and nodded towards the hall. “Come on, Sherlock.”

***

She was standing in a garden, the wind ruffling her dark hair. She was smiling and twirling in circles with her arms out wide. Suddenly, she dropped to the ground like a marionette whose strings were cut. By the time he reached her she was already gone.

“Gregory? Gregory!” Mycroft shook the older man’s shoulder to try and rouse him from yet another nightmare. Like he had several times before, Greg shot up with a hoarse shout, disoriented and shaking. Normally he would collapse in Mycroft’s arms as soon as he realized where he was, but this time he bolted from the bed and ran into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. Mycroft didn’t think he could be more worried about Gregory, but when he heard his lover getting sick he realized he was wrong. He got up and nudged the door open, frowning when he found Gregory all but collapsed on the floor. Wordlessly, Mycroft handed Gregory a cup of water, flushed the toilet, and then wet a washcloth before sitting down on the floor next to his lover. He placed the cool cloth on the back of Gregory’s neck and tugged on him until Mycroft was supporting most of his weight. Tremors shook through Greg’s body and Mycroft knew he was fighting tears again. He was beginning to doubt his ability to handle the situation. Almost as if he could read Mycroft’s mind, Gregory said,

“M’okay. Just a bad nightmare.”

“I’m quite concerned about you, Gregory.” Mycroft ran his fingers through Greg’s short silver hair.

“I’m just a little shaken up, that’s all.” Mycroft sighed and kissed the top of his head.

“You’re more than a ‘little shaken up’ love, but that’s understandable.” He felt Gregory’s breathing hitch twice before he pushed away.

huh Huh RuhhMFSCHHH! huhSNMSSSHHH!

“God bless you, Gregory.”

“Thag you.”

“May we get up off the floor? I don’t want you to get chilled,” Mycroft said.

“Yeah,” Greg sighed. He let Mycroft help haul him off the tile floor and back to the bedroom.

“How’s your stomach?” Mycroft asked once Greg was back in bed.

“Fine now. It was just that dream. My nose, on the other hand…”

huhRahhNGTsshh! hhRUHHsntschhhoo!

“God bless you. Here.” Mycroft handed him another clean handkerchief from the stack on the bedside table. “Would you drink some tea?”

“Sure. Thag you.” He turned his head and coughed roughly into his fist. When he opened his eyes he was surprised to see Mycroft still standing there, looking a little unsure.

“Gregory…I know you don’t feel well, but you need to eat something.” Greg shook his head and Mycroft sighed. “It’s been two days since you’ve put anything in your body other than tea and cold medicine. There’s nothing in London I wouldn’t get for you if you’ll just tell me what you’ll eat.”

huhhSNTSHHooo! RuhhDTSHHHooo! huhRAHHKSSCHHoooo!

“God bless you, Gregory!” He nodded and gave his nose a thick blow before raising a pair of pleading eyes up to Mycroft.

“Please don’t make me eat yet. I feel so ill. Everything just…hurts. I can’t bear the thought of food right now. Please…”

“Shh. Fine, love. It’s fine,” Mycroft said. How could he say no to such a sad plea? He’d never seen Gregory in such a state and he just couldn’t bring himself to make things more difficult for him, even if it was in his best interest. Instead he leaned down and placed a feather-light kiss on Gregory’s warm forehead. “My apologies. I didn’t mean to upset you. I just want you well again.”

***

Though he had a novel in his hands, John spent more time staring at Sherlock than reading. He was looking for early signs that he was having another nightmare. If John caught it early enough he could sometimes calm his friend before he woke in a panic again. When his mobile flashed an incoming call from Mycroft, John quietly got up, left the room, and shut the door before answering.

“Mycroft?”

“Hello, John.”

“Everything alright?” he asked, immediately noting the strain in the other Holmes’ voice.

“I confess I am a bit out of my element at the moment. Gregory is unwell and I can’t seem to ease his discomfort.” John sighed and ran a hand over his head.

“Yeah. Physically or mentally unwell?” he asked.

“Both I’m afraid. He seems to have a severe head cold but that’s not my most pressing concern. He can’t get more than a couple hours of sleep—plagued by nightmares from this last case. Plus, I can’t get him to eat anything. I know it’s been at least two days, perhaps longer.”

“I’m dealing with much the same thing over here,” John said, allowing himself to share Mycroft’s worry for a moment.

“How is my brother?”

“Sick. Restless. Really troubled by that case. He hasn’t talked about it much at all, but it must have been bad.”

“I agree. They’ve both seen a lot over the years. It takes something profound to shake Gregory this badly, Sherlock too,” Mycroft said.

“Look, I’ve been debating this all day with Sherlock, but I could call in a prescription for a mild sedative.”

“Hmm.”

“I know, not my first choice either, but I’ve never seen him like this. He’s only going to get more ill unless he can get some meaningful rest.”

“I agree,” Mycroft said.

“Shall I do the same for Greg?”

“If you would.”

“Sure thing. I’ll send it to the chemist down the street from you. Let me know if his fever gets too high or you think he’s getting a sinus infection.”

“I appreciate it, John.”

“Good luck with your patient.”

“I suspect you need the luck far more than I do,” Mycroft said.

John had just finished calling in prescriptions for both men when he heard the sound of breaking glass come from Sherlock’s room. He threw the door open to find a mussed up Sherlock sitting on the edge of the bed staring at his hands, a broken glass at his feet.

“What happened?” John asked. Sherlock looked confused.

“Tried to get a drink but I dropped the glass.” John gingerly picked up the large pieces of glass and then sat down next to Sherlock.

“Show me your hands,” he said. When Sherlock held his hands out John saw the reason he lost his grip—his hands were shaking violently. Sherlock clenched his fists several times before extending his long fingers again, but it didn’t help. John tilted Sherlock's head towards him. “Did you have another not-a-nightmare?” he asked. Sherlock nodded. “Okay. Get back in bed at least until I clean up the rest of the glass."

When he came back with a fresh glass of water (plastic this time) and a dustpan, John found Sherlock leaning up against the headboard, his knees pulled up, and a handful of tissues poised a few inches from his face. He put Sherlock’s water on the bedside table and bent down to clean up the mess left from the previous one.

“Bless you mate,” he said.

heh…Ehh…hehNGTshh! KTschhh! hhNTSCHH! Hehh…hehKTsschh! SNGsschhoo!

“Christ! Bless you, Sherlock.” John threw away the rest of the broken glass but Sherlock was still in the midst of a prolonged sneezing attack.

Heh…ehh hehSNGsschh! NKTsshh! hhNTSCHH hahhSNTCHHoo!

He blinked a set of watery eyes, taking a fresh handful of tissues from John before he dissolved into another fit.

NTGSHH! huhTSCHHoo! Hah…huh huhNKSCHHoo! EhhHUHSN’SCHHHooo!

“Bless you again!” John said, frowning. Sherlock nodded and took a hesitant sniff. Once he was sure he was done sneezing, he blew his nose several times before yawning widely. “You okay?” John asked.

“I feel awful,” he said, resting his head in his hands.

“I know you do,” John said.

“I’b so tired,” Sherlock sighed. John slid up so he was resting against the headboard next to Sherlock. Despite being several inches taller, Sherlock scrunched down and rested his head on John’s shoulder.

“Are you sure you don’t want to talk about it?” John asked quietly. Sherlock shuddered. “It might help clear your head.”

“Shouldn’t have taken four,” he whispered.

“Four?”

“Children. It shouldn’t have taken four. I had everything I needed after the third one. I should have seen it,” Sherlock said. “I couldn’t have done it after two, but I should have after the third. Cora’s on my hands.”

“Cora was the fourth victim?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, Sherlock. None of this is on your hands,” John said. “None of it.” Sherlock shivered again.

“Her favorite food was spaghetti and she loved ponies. Her favorite color was green even though 93% of girls her age chose either pink or purple as their favorite color.”

John had asked him to talk, but now that he was it was awful. John had to will himself to sit still and let his friend speak. Sherlock coughed lightly into his fist and kept going.

“She had a dog—a cocker spaniel—and a parakeet. She was her grandmother’s favorite.” Sherlock swallowed hard. “She was wearing those odd little shoes that children like—the ones that light up when they walk.” His voice was barely above a whisper by the time he was done.

“Jesus, Sherlock.” John pulled his friend towards him and rubbed his back. In all the years he’d known Sherlock, he’d only seen him on the verge of tears once, so the slow tears steadily dripping from those blue eyes was the equivalent of sobbing. John was willing to sit there for hours if that’s what Sherlock needed, but there was only so much comfort Sherlock would allow himself. After a few moments, he sat up and scrubbed a hand over his face. “No wonder you can’t sleep,” John said.

“Like I said, glad you weren’t there for this one,” Sherlock said, rubbing his nose against his wrist.

heh EhhNGTsshh! SNTsschhoo!

“Bless you,” John said. “Mycroft said Greg’s struggling too. He called earlier,” he explained.

“You might consider writing him a prescription for a sedative. He may dot slehhh…sleep heh without it.”

HehhhNTSCHH! EhhNTCHHoo!

“Bless you. I already called in scripts for both of you.” Sherlock looked up, surprised. John wasn’t in the habit of prescribing him addictive drugs. “Just to help you sleep until I can get you back on your feet.” He brushed a stray piece of hair out of Sherlock’s eyes, before putting his hand on his forehead. “You’re a bit of a mess,” he said. A small smile ghosted over Sherlock’s face.

“Thank you, John.”

***

Not that John would admit it of course, but he truly missed his impulsive, broody, brilliant, insensitive flatmate. He glanced at his watch confirming that Sherlock had been in a sound sleep for nearly fifteen hours. He fell asleep roughly an hour after John gave him the sedative. John had laid down on the bed next to his friend and grabbed a few hours of sleep during the night. The medication had its intended effect though, because Sherlock was deeply and peacefully asleep. Not a single not-a-nightmare so far. John heard a sniffle and glanced over at Sherlock. He rubbed his nose and turned over on his side. He looked young when he slept…and fragile—something else John was loathe to admit. The previous night was still sticking with him. He’d never seen Sherlock cry. Hell, he’d never seen Sherlock show even a drop of sympathy for a victim but there was something about Cora that had gotten under his skin. The facts that Sherlock had rattled off weren’t case-related; they were thoughtful, personal and bordered on heartbreaking.

hhNtshhoo! hahktschhoo!

Sherlock was only fractionally awake when he sneezed.

“Bless you,” John said, handing him a couple tissues. Sherlock nodded and wiped his nose, blinking slowly. John wasn’t sure if he was going to wake up or go back to sleep, so he just kept quiet until it was clear that his friend was leaning towards wakefulness.

“What time is it?” Sherlock asked, his voice still thick with sleep.

“Nearly five.”

“You should get some sleep,” Sherlock said with a yawn. John laughed.

“No. Five in the evening. You’ve been asleep all day.” Sherlock looked confused. “You needed it,” John said. “That was the whole point of the medication.”

Sherlock got up and went to use the loo. John took that as a good cue to go make tea and a grilled cheese sandwich. It was his secret weapon in the war to get Sherlock to eat.

hehNTSHHoo! ehhGSHHooo!

“Bless you!” John called out to the living room. He wasn’t expecting an answer, much less for Sherlock to come wandering into the kitchen. He coughed into his fist and John turned from the stove. “Hey, what do you need? Go sit and I’ll bring it to you.” Sherlock nodded but didn’t ask for anything; he just turned on his heels and went and flopped on the sofa.

HuhNTSHHooo! hehKTsshhhoo!

“Bless you, Sherlock.” John came in with two cups of tea and Sherlock’s sandwich. He put the latter down on the coffee table with a pointed look at his friend. John’s expectations didn’t need to be voiced. A few minutes of quiet tea-sipping late passed before Sherlock’s nose got the better of him.

huhNGsshh! huhNTCHoo! heh…huhKTSHHoo!

“Bless you. You feeling any better?” John asked. Sherlock started to answer before ducking his head down again.

HehTSHHHoo! huhSNTCHHoo!

“Kind of answers my question I guess,” John said. He was glad that Sherlock at least had the presence of mind to bring his box of tissues with him. After blowing his nose (repeatedly), Sherlock took a couple sips of tea.

“Despite the sneezing, I am actually feeling some better,” he said.

“I’m glad,” John said. He did his best to hide his smile when Sherlock reached out and picked up the plate and took a bite of his sandwich. He practically inhaled the first half, before slowing down when he started in the remainder. “Did you even chew that?” John asked.

“A bit.”

“I’ll make you another one later if you’re still hungry.”

“How long’s it been since I’ve eaten?” Sherlock asked. John rolled his eyes.

“If you’re relying on me to keep track, it’s safe to say it’s been too long.”

hehNGSHHooo! hahNTSHHoo!

“Bless you. This cold’s not getting into your sinuses, is it?” John asked, reaching over and putting his hand on Sherlock’s forehead. “Barely any fever. That’s good.” Sherlock swatted John’s hand away.

“Just a cold,” he mumbled.

“Right.”

Sherlock sighed and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

“Listen, John…I um…I wanted to thank you for…well, for looking after me the last couple of days.”

“It was nothing.”

“No, John. It most certainly was not ‘nothing,’” Sherlock said. “In addition to being ill, I was…unsettled by that last case.”

“I know you were and I’m glad I could help—glad you let me help.”

huh heh…HehKTCHoo! hhNGSHHoo! NTK’SHHoo!

“Bless you.”

HehehhTSSHH! TSSCHHoo! NTSCHHoo! hehSNSCHHoo!

“Christ! Bless you again. Here,” John shoved a handful of tissues into Sherlock’s hands. After blowing his nose, his breath hitched several times but didn’t result in any additional sneezes. He shook his head as though it might dislodge the tickle before picking up his previous train of thought.

“Have you spoken with Greg?”

“No. Texted with Mycroft a bit but Greg’s been asleep even longer than you have,” John said.

“Hmm.”

“Thought I might drop by tomorrow and see how he’s doing. You can come with me if you feel up to it.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock repeated.

“We back to one-syllable grunts then?”

“Hmm.” They shared a glance and both laughed, though Sherlock’s caught in his throat and made him cough until he had tears in his eyes. John handed him his tea and patted him on the back. “Not ready for laughing then,” Sherlock rasped. “I’m serious though, John. I sincerely appreciate your assistance.”

“Any time, Sherlock.”

“Especially since it was all your fault.”

“What? How was any of it my fault?”

“Before your arrival in my life I would have never suffered from such an intolerable wave of sentiment.”

“Oh shut up!” John chucked a pillow at his head, hitting Sherlock square in the face. He scrunched up his nose and sneezed.

Ntschh! KTsschh! HehKTSCHHoo!

“Drama queen,” John said.

“Aren’t you supposed to be making me another sandwich?”

***

The next morning found John and Sherlock tucked into the back of a cab on their way to Mycroft’s townhouse. While not 100%, Sherlock was mending. Based on his conversation with Mycroft last night it sounded like the same couldn't be said for their detective inspector. John had his medical bag with him and was lecturing Sherlock on not hassling their friend when they pulled up to the house. Mycroft met them at the door.

"Good morning John. Sherlock, I didn’t expect you to be accompanying the doctor. You’re sure you’re well enough to be out?”

"Overthrowing hostile governments from home this morning?"

John rolled his eyes and did his best not to smile.

“Do you two think you can play nice for a few minutes while I look in on Greg?” the doctor asked. Sherlock turned and went into the sitting room without answering. Mycroft followed and John went upstairs to see his patient.

The two brothers sat in opposing armchairs assessing each other.

"You've lost weight, little brother," Mycroft said.

"Jealous?"

"Concerned."

Sherlock's huff of derision quickly dissolved into a cough and Mycroft frowned. He got up from his chair and went into the kitchen, coming out with two hot cups of tea and a plate of biscuits. He placed the tea and biscuits down next to his brother and then resumed his seat, crossing one leg over the other and sipping his tea.

"Surprised you're not eating any," Sherlock said picking up a sweet and taking a bite.

"I am not the one who has foregone food for three—no four days."

"You're slipping Mycroft. I ate a sandwich last night."

"Sherlock, one grilled cheese is not enough to keep you going."

The younger Holmes rolled his eyes, mumbled something about sounding like John, and picked up his tea. If he was forced to pick something he liked about visiting Mycroft’s it would be his taste in tea. It was a rich, complex mix of flavors and spices—no doubt an expensive import. Mycroft watched the way his brother tried to hide the comfort that the tea gave him. He’d put a spoon of honey in Sherlock’s tea, knowing that he liked it and it would soothe his throat. Sherlock’s nose twitched ever so slightly and Mycroft knew he was very close to succumbing to the sneeze he’d been fighting since they sat down earlier. Sure enough, a moment later, Sherlock put his cup down and poorly stifled a sneeze into a loose fist.

huhNGTsshh!

“God bless you,” Mycroft said. He reached into his pocket to get a handkerchief but Sherlock waved him off, getting his own from his jacket as his breath hitched softly.

huh Huh ehhh huh…hhNTSHH! KTSCHHoo! huhNtsschh NTSCHHoo!

“God bless you, Sherlock!” Mycroft frowned as Sherlock blew his nose before coughing again, having to take a swallow of tea to get the spasms to stop. He wasn’t sure what concerned him more: How poorly Sherlock sounded, or that he was unable to hide it. “You don’t sound at all well, brother dear. Have you taken anything this morning?”

"Since when have you paid so much interest to my wellbeing?"

"Just being more vocal about it today is all. What you and Gregory went through was awful."

"It wasn't that bad," Sherlock said with a dismissive shrug. He was thoroughly expecting Mycroft’s well-worn lecture on sentiment putting a person at a disadvantage, how it hindered one’s ability to see a situation clearly, to make decisions, and execute plans. Instead, all he said was,

"What a sad excuse for a lie, brother mine."

"Let's not do this, Mycroft. This isn't what we do."

“Special circumstances,” Mycroft said quietly.

hehNGSHHoo! hhTSNchhoo! huh heh HuhNKSHHoo!

“My goodness. God bless you, Sherlock.”

“Oh, bake yourself useful and get be some more tea,” Sherlock snapped. Mycroft rose and came around behind Sherlock’s chair. He reached down and took Sherlock’s cup of the side table, pretending that the brush of his hand against his brother’s shoulder was accidental. Sherlock failed to stifle a yawn and, perhaps surprising them both, Mycroft squeezed his shoulder.

“I…I’ll be back with more tea.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock said.

***

John knocked lightly on the bedroom door even though it had been left ajar.

“Can I come in?” he asked.

“Hey John. Of course.” Greg cleared his throat and sat up in the bed, leaning against the headboard. John came into the bedroom and looked around. It was a surprisingly warm space—deep taupe walls with lots of navy and evergreen accent colors. The bed looked divine, though John suspected that Greg was ready to be elsewhere.

“How are you feeling?” John asked, sitting down in the chair that he knew Mycroft had left at the side of the bed just for him.

“I’ve been better,” Greg said, running a hand through his short hair.

“Yeah. You look like hell,” John said with a smile. It was true. In addition to the expected pale face, red nose, and glassy eyes, Greg had at least a couple day’s worth of stubble on his face.

HuhruhhNGSHH! huhhSNCHHooo!

“Bless you. You sound like hell too,” John said. He’d seen Greg sick on a handful of occasions but his sneezes sounded congested and strained in a way he’d never heard before.

“Bloody cold just huh…just won’t stob,” he managed before sneezing again.

huhSNTCHHooo! huhRahhSNSSHHHoo!

“Bless you.” John waited until Greg had coughed, blown his nose, and coughed some more before continuing. “Mycroft said you’ve had a rough time of it lately.” Greg nodded. He knew John meant more than just physically.

“Finally got some sleep. Thanks for those pills—they’ve helped. I was…well, like you said, been having a rough time of it.”

“Have you talked to Mycroft about it?” John asked.

“Just general stuff. He already has so much on his mind, doesn’t need cop nightmares added to it.”

“Well, that’s just stupid,” John said, grabbing his bag. Greg cocked his head like he hadn’t heard the doctor correctly. John shrugged. “He loves you. You worry him more by not talking about it.”

“Maybe.”

“Let me take a look at you,” John said.

huhRhhdschhhoo! hhSNSSHH! HuhhSNCHHHooo!

“Bless you. Do you feel as congested as you sound?” John asked.

“Worse, if possible.” Greg grabbed a handkerchief off the bedside table and tried blowing his nose, but he could barely get any air through his nasal passages. John started by listening to his patient’s lungs, pausing when he heard a slight wheeze at the top of Greg’s airway.

“You’re close to bronchitis. Have you had a fever?”

“Off and on for the last couple of days.” John frowned and listened again. Then he checked Greg’s throat and ears before examining his sinuses. He wasn’t surprised when Greg hissed and pulled his head back when John applied pressure to the space underneath his eyes.

“Sorry about that,” John said.

“It’s fihehh…huhh…HuhhSNGSHHoo! hhSNDSHHoo! Ugh. Sorry.”

“Bless you, Greg.” John grabbed his prescription pad and scribbled out a couple of things. “You’ve got a pretty bad infection. I’m going to get you on some antibiotics and a decongestant.” He paused and tore another sheet off the pad. “I’m also going to write you a referral for a psychologist.”

“John—”

“Just hear me out. You can tear it up as soon as I leave if you want, but I want you to have it. I can look at you and tell you haven’t eaten solid food in days, your sleep’s uneasy, and you don’t want to talk about it. I know that feeling. I also know what it can lead to in the long run, so here’s a referral for the woman I saw after Afghanistan.”

“Did you like her?” Greg asked. John thought for a moment.

“No, I didn’t like her. She was good though.”

“I’ll think about it,” Greg said. “How’s Sherlock?”

“He had a bad few days, but he’s coming around. Didn’t get as sick as you did thankfully.”

“I didn’t know he was sick.”

“Mycroft didn’t say anything?” John asked. Greg shook his head, but couldn’t answer because his nose was itching in anticipation of another sneeze.

huh Huh…HuhRAHHSDCHHooo! hhSNDSHHooo! RuhhSNTSHHooo!

“Bless you.”

“Thags.” He grabbed several tissues and did his best to try and blow his nose but all he managed was a thick squelching noise. John gave him a sympathetic smile.

“Decongestants will help with that. Mycroft probably just didn’t want to worry you with Sherlock. I was home to look after him. I’m sure he’ll be up to bother you in a moment.”

“He’s here?” Greg asked.

“Yeah. Downstairs with Mycroft. Hope I don’t find two bloody corpses when I go back.”

“There won’t be blood. They’ll just stare each other to death.” John laughed.

“Even he talked about it,” he said with a pointed look at Greg. “Slept better once he did too.” Greg had never been happier to be interrupted by a sneezing fit before in his life.

HuhhSNSCHHoo! hhSNTCHH! huhRuhhSNDSHHooo! huhSNTCHHoo!

“Bless you!” John said. Greg nodded while he swapped out the soggy tissues with fresh ones, sniffling miserably.

“You sound disgusting.” Both men glanced up to see Sherlock standing in the doorway, an unreadable expression on his face.

“Sherlock,” John warned.

“It’s alright,” Greg said. “I actually do sound disgusting.”

“Told you,” Sherlock said, coming into the room. He was carrying two cups of tea. “Mycroft insisted I bring you this,” he said, putting one down next to Greg. Then he glared at John who quickly got the message and got up.”

“I’ll just uh…take your prescriptions downstairs then. Feel better, Greg. Give me a shout if you need anything, yeah?”

“Thanks, John.”

Sherlock plopped down in the newly vacated chair and propped his feet up on the bed, observing Greg over the top of his cup as he sipped his tea.

Greg did his best to straighten up and look slightly less miserable than he felt. Sherlock looked pale and a bit thin; he was glad John was looking after him.

"John said you've been sick. You okay?"

"Aren't I supposed to be asking you that question?" Sherlock asked. When Greg didn't take the bait, Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I've got a cold. Nearly over it. Happy?"

"Not happy you've got a cold. Sorry, you probably caught it from me."

"Impossible. I already had it by the time I came and dragged you out of the Yard."

"I didn't notice."

"I didn't want you to," Sherlock said. Greg seemed to be reviewing that day in his mind when Sherlock reached over and took his tea out of his hands. He soon realized why when he felt the familiar tickle surge through his sinuses.

huhSNDssshh! HuhNGSHHHoo! huh ehh huhRAHHHSHHHOOO!

"Bless you," Sherlock said. "So...sinus infection?" Greg nodded but his breath caught and he coughed roughly into his fist. "And bronchitis," he added. He swung his feet off the bed and leaned forward, his fingertips pressed together, resting at his lips. "Hmm."

"What?"

Sherlock handed Greg's tea back to him, but didn't answer—at least not directly.

"Are you sleeping? Without the aid of the sedatives John prescribed?"

"How did you know about that?"

"He gave me the same thing."

"Really?" Greg asked. Sherlock gave an impatient huff.

"Not the point."

"Right. Um..." Greg ran a hand through his hair. "Not well I guess. You were right about the nightmares. Kinda always waiting right around the corner." He reached for the tissues again with a tired sigh.

HehNTSCHH! hhSNDSHHoo! huhGSNSHHooo!

"Bless you. Any particular recurring detail?" Sherlock asked. Greg was growing uncomfortable under those sharp eyes. He tugged on the blanket and cleared his throat a couple of times.

"Look, Sherlock. I...I really don't want to get into it," he said quietly, a chill suddenly shaking his body.

"Hmm. You're no better than you were three days ago."

"What do you mean?"

Sherlock held up a finger and froze in place. His slim nose twitched and he took a couple tissues from the box on the nightstand.

Hehh ehhNGTshh! hehKTsschh!

“God bless you,” Greg said.

hhNGTsshh! hehNKTSHHoo!

“And again.”

Sherlock nodded and blew his nose, crumpling up the tissues and throwing them in the waste bin by the side of the bed before continuing as if nothing had happened.

"As I was saying, the night at the crime scene, with Cora. Your body would shake at times. I noticed it again the next morning at the Yard. Some people's bodies respond that way when their emotional system is overloaded. It's like a pressure release valve. There are a number of different physiological outlets, but trembling is one of the most common."

"I am not trembling," Greg said. Sherlock picked up a book off the bedside table and handed it to Greg.

"Extend your arm out as if you were trying to hand it to me." Greg held the book out, his hand reasonably steady. Sherlock leaned back. "Now, let's discuss the nightmares that you're having about the—" He didn't even have to finish his sentence before the tremor made itself known again, causing Greg's hand to shake. He dropped the book and sighed.

"Might be struggling a bit," Greg conceded.

Sherlock nodded once and then looked over his shoulder as though he wanted to make doubly sure that neither John nor Mycroft were within earshot.

"I'm going to tell you something and if you ever repeat it, not only will I vehemently deny it, but I'll find a most public form of humiliation for you as punishment." That certainly piqued Greg's interest. He nodded and Sherlock lowered his voice as though he were about to impart a tremendous secret. "John may not be entirely incorrect when he suggested the therapeutic benefits of discussing a troubling incident."

"You're saying I should talk about it?" Greg asked. Sherlock made a face.

"Yes. I spoke to John about...well about some of the more persistent images I was experiencing when I tried to sleep and, though ludicrous and needlessly emotional, it did...help." He said the last word as though it were the worst four letter word he'd ever uttered. Greg gawked at him. Sherlock advocating for honest emotional expression? He cleared his throat but that quickly dissolved into a harsh, barking cough. It tore at his throat and made it difficult to get air into his lungs. He felt hands push him forward and rub firm circles on his back. Mycroft must have come upstairs when he heard the noise. Try as he might, it took ages before the spasms stopped. He took a couple shaky breaths and swallowed gingerly before opening his eyes. Much to his surprise, it was Sherlock who had one hand his back and other in the center of Greg’s chest, still slowly circling.

“Sorry,” Greg rasped, attempting to move back. Sherlock’s hands held firm.

“Take your time,” he said quietly. He waited until Greg took a couple more deep breaths before easing him back against the headboard.

“Thanks,” Greg whispered. “Christ, I feel awful. How did you manage to get over this so quickly?”

“Superior genetics.”

“Of course,” Greg said.

“Though not entirely well it seems,” Sherlock managed before grabbing for the tissues again.

hehGNTshh! hhNKTSHHoo!

“God bless,” Greg said.

“Thank you.” Sherlock leaned forward in his chair again and fixed the older man with a look. “You know, hacking up a lung is not a valid reason for avoiding my question.”

“What was the question again?”

“What’s the worst of it? What’s staying with you from that case?” Sherlock asked. Greg shook his head and stared straight ahead, his eyes losing focus. Sherlock looked at him—this man who had hauled him out of flophouses and back alleys more times than he wanted to admit. This man who’d taken him into his house when he was high, ill, and depressed—who’d looked after him when he didn’t have the sense to look after himself. Sherlock sighed, checked the doorway again and said,

“For me it was Cora’s shoes.” Greg’s head jerked up but Sherlock kept talking. “They were those little sneakers with the lights in them that flash when her feet hit the ground. Such an obscure detail to fixate on, but it was impossible to get out of my mind.” He was quiet for a moment, giving Greg time to digest that confession and decide if it was enough to get him to participate in the discussion. He cleared his throat and finally started to talk.

“It’s the mother’s voices,” he whispered. “Every time I try and sleep I hear them screaming. Doing those notifications was…just so much anguish. I’ve notified probably a hundred families over the years, but with those kids…their parents…” his voice broke and Greg dropped his head as tears threatened to overwhelm him. Sherlock reached out and squeezed the detective inspector’s forearm, just a steady, reassuring reminder that he was present. “I’m afraid I’ll never stop hearing it,” Greg said.

“That’s extraordinarily unlikely,” Sherlock said. “Auditory memory is notoriously unreliable; even traumatic memories are the most likely to fade with time. Olfactory memory is actually the strongest. Most people think it’s sight, but it’s actually scent that stays with a person the longest.”

“What an odd…yet oddly comforting thing to say,” Greg said. Sherlock sat back in his chair.

“Well, it’s not exactly my forte.”

huhRahhSHH! huhSNDSSHHoo! huhSKTSHHHoo!

“Bless you,” Sherlock said. He patted his legs and stood up. “You should get some rest.”

After seeing John and his brother to the door, Mycroft got Greg a glass of water and went upstairs. He was not prepared for what he found. Greg was sitting in the bed with his head buried in his hands, sobbing.

“Gregory, what on earth happened?” he asked, rushing into the room and sitting on the bed. He tugged at Greg’s hands to try and get a look at his face. “Please, Gregory. What’s wrong?”

“Shehh…Sherlock…” was all he could manage between hiccupping breaths. Mycroft bristled.

“I’m going to have him killed,” he said. Greg looked up and sniffled thickly.

“Ndo. Id’s nod thad.” Mycroft winced and handed Gregory his handkerchief.

“I can barely understand you, dearest.” Greg took the cloth and gave his nose a heavy, wet blow. Crying had loosened the congestion in his head and he was practically dripping. Mycroft rose and got several clean clothes from the bureau and came back to the bed. He was barely able to get a clean one into his lover’s hands before Greg sneezed.

HuhhRahSDHXCHHoo! HuhhSGNCCHHooo! hhRuhhNGTZSSHHOOO!

“God bless you, Gregory!” Mycroft frowned as he sat there helpless to do anything while Gregory coughed, blew his nose, and coughed even more. “Breathe,” he said quietly, holding out the glass of water. “Sip this and try and slow your breathing.” Slowly, Greg calmed down. His face was damp and flushed from crying; an occasional tear still escaped and dripped down his face.

Mycroft went to his side of the bed, toes off his shoes, and laid down on top of the blankets. He tugged Gregory towards him and ran his thumb over the tear tracks on his face.

“Are you alright?” Mycroft asked. Greg nodded.

“Better now.”

“Now can you please tell me what my delightful little brother did to incite such a reaction?”

“He was nice to me,” Greg whispered.

“Ah. Yes, I can see how that would be upsetting.” Greg laughed—he so loved Mycroft’s wry sense of humor. “He told me I should…that I should talk about what’s bothering me from this last case. He said thaahh…huhh hang od…” He grabbed one of the handkerchiefs and hurried to get it to his face before suffering through another punishing sneezing fit.

huhSNDKSSHHooo! HuhhRahSDHXCHHoo! huhGNTSHHHooo! huh ehh HuhhRAHHKXTSHHHOOO!

The final sneeze wrenched his body forward and triggered the rattling cough he’d recently added to his list of symptoms. Mycroft gently patted Gregory’s back just between his shoulder blades. When he stopped coughing, the exhausted older man sank back against Mycroft, letting him support more of his weight than before.

“God bless you, my love,” Mycroft said. “I’m glad we didn’t wait any longer to call John. You sound so ill, Gregory.” He pulled the blankets up a little higher and made sure Greg was well covered.

“Thag you. Sorry about that.” He rubbed his nose in the handkerchief but managed to stave off any additional sneezes for the moment. “Sherlock said that talking about the case would help me sleep easier…would…unburden me.” Mycroft was slowly running his fingers through Greg’s short hair and he paused only briefly before saying,

“Gregory, I don’t often say this, and if you repeat

[MyOwnPrivateSFC]

Matilda! I am so glad you posted this here! As I said all along, it really has something very different--very special--about it. Plus, it's fascinating to see how long it is when it's all written out. Not to mention that now I can easily find it for rereading purposes.

[Kali]

This is amazing!!! I can't believe I haven't seen this before in drabbles! You captured their personalities so perfectly... I'll definitely be looking for more from you.

[cally]

Again, I have to say how perfect this is. One of the best things you've written.

[Seniorstatus14]

I just love this story so much! Thank you for posting it all in one post So much angst! Angst is my biggest weakness hahaha! Great job on the story!

[SneezyRae]

It was even more fantastic reading it in one long chunk. So well written

[sapphiremint]

Fantastic job, very well written. I love the way you captured Sherlock's and Mycroft's personalities in their texts.