The Final Case: Part Four

"John!"

The doctor flinched as he heard the moan from upstairs, the coffee cup clutched in his hand getting squeezed tighter. He sighed heavily before he poured a second cup of the still-hot-coffee, added the proper amount of sugar, and headed upstairs, grabbing a pill bottle of advil on his way past the cupboard. He pushed the door open gently with his foot and a groan met him, the light falling into the room.

"Sit up, Sherlock," John instructed, shutting the door slightly as to not abuse the detective too much. Sherlock pulled back the covers carefully, taking a look around the room before sitting up and moaning, leaning back against the headboard. He took the mug that John held out to him and took a small sip, John watching him carefully.

"I feel like I'm dying, John," Sherlock muttered into the coffee, his eyes shut as he let the steam roll over his face and sooth the pounding in his head. "That's a lie. Death is less painful than this."

"Why did you let yourself get so drunk than?" John asked, reaching up to brush a stray strand of hair out of Sherlock's eyes. Even totally shitfaced, John thought Sherlock was a beautifully wonderful creature; the way his eyes darted around behind the lid, the way his lips parted slightly to cradle the mug between them and sip the warm liquid, the way his fingers held the cup like it was holding liquid life. Everything about Sherlock was just too wonderful and at peace, no matter how much pain Sherlock was in. "You're normally so good at controlling yourself."

"I was trying to figure out your puzzle, John," he muttered. He took the pills John held out to him just then and took a moment to swallow them, John watching his lips as he pushed one pill between his lips with three fingers. "Can you tell me the answer, please?"

"To what puzz-" then it hit him and his heart fell into his stomach. Sherlock was talking about the hints John had been dropping… about his feelings for the detective. He couldn't tell him, he just couldn't. And he didn't like it that Sherlock just thought it another puzzle. Was he really that clueless?

"Your puzzle, John," Sherlock said slowly, opening his eyes to look at the doctor. "Please, I've wasted enough sleep over this."

"I-I can't…" John muttered, tucking another strand of hair behind Sherlock's ear and standing. He knew the motioning was a little bit more than their usual friendly flatmate act, but John just needed the contact than. Besides, it could easily be taken as just a kind gesture towards a friend who feels like his brain is clawing at the inside of his skull with a knife. "At least, not yet. Sleep now, and maybe when your head isn't killing you we'll talk. Night."

Without turning back to Sherlock's pleas, John exited the room and closed the door behind him. He sighed, pausing outside the door, before shaking his head and heading back to the kitchen and his coffee.