When John awoke a few hours later he was hot and his throat was on fire. Great, he was sick, he thought to himself. Just what he needed. He turned to get up and found that he was trapped by long arms and legs. Sherlock. Even better.

"Sherlock," John rasped, throat aching. "Sherlock, wake up. I can't bloody move."

Sherlock groaned. He was warm and comfortable, and for once in a deep sleep that he had a hard time rousing from. Granted, he hadn't slept in at least two days.

"What's wrong," Sherlock managed to mumble out, his voice heavy with sleep.

"I need to get up, and I can't with you wrapped around me like a human octopus." Any other time John would have been alarmed at the situation, but his sleep, illness, and grief addled mind had enough to process.

"Why do you need to get up?"

"Sherlock!" John managed to croak that out, barely.

Sherlock sat up, untangling himself from John. He studied him in the faint light. "You're ill. Slight fever, sore throat, congestion." He was full on deduction mode, even after being awake for a few moments. "What do you need?"

John sneezed in reply. "Tissues, apparently and some paracetamol and water."

"Dio ti benedica, mio caro, il mio John," Sherlock said quietly. "I will be right back." He got up and headed out of the room.

John just stared. "Thanks," he croaked out.

Sherlock was back quickly with what John had asked for. John gratefully blew his nose and downed the pills and water. "Thanks Sherlock. I understand if you want to go, I'm sure you don't want to get sick."

Sherlock scoffed at that. "I am sure I will be fine, and this way I can be here if you need anything."

John sniffled. "Who are you and what have you done with Sherlock Holmes?"

He actually got a laugh out of Sherlock at that. "John, you've had a rough few days and having me as a flat mate isn't easy at the best of times. I am trying to do right by you."

John just stared at Sherlock. "Sherlock, seriously, are you on something? Are you having me on?"

Sherlock studied the floor and shook his head. "No, I am not on either count. I am trying to be a good friend," he said quietly. "I even went to Lestrade and got advice, am I not doing this right?"

John was speechless. "Seriously?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Thank you Sherlock, that's the nicest thing anyone has done for me in some time. You are doing fine."

Sherlock smiled the genuine smile that was reserved for John. "I know I am not good with emotions and feelings and caring, but you are my only friend and I wish to try to . . . " Sherlock was cut off by John's sneezing.

Ha-ish, ha-ish!

"Dio ti benedica,mio caro, il mioJohn," Sherlock said and handed John the tissues.

"Ok, back to sleep for you. We can talk when you are feeling better."

John sniffled and yawned as he settled back under the duvet. He was very tired again, and half wondered if Sherlock had spiked his water. That thought was lost as he fell into slumber again, listening to Sherlock murmuring to him in Italian.

Sherlock didn't fall back to sleep for the remainder of the night. Instead he studied John, monitored, and his temperature and breathing and thought about what he was going to do or say when John asked him about their unfinished conversation.