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When John opened his eyes, wondering why his body felt so absolutely ruined, he was immediately aware of two things. One was a cold, damp flannel that was lying across his forehead and the other was the actions of two pairs of hands on his body. One set was tucking something – a blanket, it had to be a blanket, what else do people tuck? – around his legs. The fingers of the other set caught his skin lightly and accidentally as they fastened the buttons of a pyjama shirt that he was wearing. A blue and white striped pyjama shirt that he didn't recognise, John realised, as his eyes focused on the garment. John looked upwards from the hands – soft, with very neat nails – to bare forearms and rolled up shirt sleeves and finally to a familiar face – that of Mycroft Holmes.
"What are you doing here?" John asked, pulling the cloth from his forehead. His voice sounded rough from lack of use and, as he spoke, the words seemed to scour the inside of his head. He screwed up his eyes as stabs of pain seemed to shoot through the backs of them.
"I've been asking the same thing for the past eight hours." Not Mycroft's voice. Sherlock's. His were other pair of hands at the end of the bed. Only not there anymore. Now Sherlock's hands were on his shoulder, on his still exposed collarbone, and cold. "How are you feeling?" Sherlock's voice was soft and low; it didn't seem to hurt as much as his own.
"Pretty bad," John admitted. "Achy. Muscles hurt." He squinted at Mycroft again, who had just finished fastening the last button and was being curiously silent. "He's been here for eight hours? Where have I been?"
"After you passed out, you were mostly asleep." John thought he could hear a smile in Sherlock's voice. "And when you were awake and your temperature was up, you weren't always making sense." John was pretty sure that it was Sherlock who wasn't making sense at the moment.
"I don't feel like I have a temperature now," he mumbled. Sherlock placed the back of his hand on John's forehead, as Mycroft reached for a digital thermometer that was lying on the bedside table.
"No, you don't," Sherlock confirmed clinically, throwing a threatening look at his brother. Mycroft rolled his eyes, but left the thermometer alone. "The fevers are cyclical. Every two days, lasting four to six hours." John nodded, as if he had acknowledged the information given, sighed gently and settled back into the pillow, closing his eyes. Then he opened them again and sat up a little.
"Cyclical fevers every two days? As in the classic symptom of…"
"Malaria." This was Mycroft, who was now busily tapping something into his smart phone. He looked up momentarily to meet John's surprised gaze. "Yes, Dr Watson, you have malaria." Sherlock made a kind of indescribable noise that seemed to be intended to express annoyance.
"You always have to take everything away from me, don't you?" Sherlock snapped. "I come up with the diagnosis and then you don't even let me have me the pleasure of telling John that he has malaria." Sherlock was gesturing towards John when he made the last point, and caught the rather pained expression on John's face. "Oh. Not good?"
"A bit not good, yeah," John replied, before adding, "Really – malaria? I knew I was ill but I thought it was just a virus..." Mycroft, obviously unconcerned with how John was taking the news of his diagnosis, interrupted him.
"Sherlock, the cyclical fevers and the fact that John came back from Afghanistan within the past six months are enough for any schoolboy to have worked out it was malaria." Mycroft addressed John. "He was exactly the same as a child; always wanting attention even for the most minor of achievements."
"Yes, but I even diagnosed the type of parasite; I did a blood test!" Sherlock said indignantly. He grabbed John's arm roughly and yanked back the sleeve of the pyjama shirt to reveal a red mark on the underside of his elbow.
"Hmm, indeed. You always had a talent for finding a vein," Mycroft sniped.
"Sherlock," John hissed, though gritted teeth. "That other symptom of malaria – aching joints." Sherlock loosed his grip on the arm, as John examined the small wound. "Did you ask me before you did this?"
"Of course," Sherlock said dismissively. "But you were asleep at the time, so you couldn't really reply to me." A harsh laugh was heard in Mycroft's corner of the room.
"That's right, Sherlock. Never let a little thing like procedure get in the way of your investigations." Sherlock dropped John's arm suddenly, prompting another anguished noise from the patient. He stood up to face Mycroft, and coldly addressed him.
"And you, of course, would never do anything without following the proper channels. Especially something like – oh, I don't know – spying on someone. Or bugging their flat. I mean really, Mycroft, under the sofa – aiming for the cliché, were you? Or perhaps you assumed that everyone spends as much time lazing on the sofa as you do?"
"Oh well done, Sherlock. Was it a "three patch problem" to find it? Glad to see you've given up smoking; is easier to break a drug habit the second time around?" Sherlock was about to reply when John started coughing, a raspy dry sound that prompted silence from both men.
"Much as I hate to interrupt this family reunion," John interjected, once he had caught his breath. "It isn't really doing much for my headache. And I still don't know why you're here," he added, to Mycroft.
"Yes, do enlighten us, why are you here?" Sherlock added, scathingly. Mycroft adjusted his tie. "It's not as if you know anything about malaria."
"Actually, I was instrumental in securing Cheryl Cole's eventual diagnosis of, and successful treatment for malaria," Mycroft replied, puffing himself up a little. Perhaps it was his utter exhaustion, John thought, but this whole situation was starting to become a little too surreal.
"No, that's not true," John mumbled. "This is some weird, feverish delusion. You are the government. You deal with matters of national importance. You don't get involved with The X-Factor." Mycroft smiled. It was not a smile of joy, but of self-satisfaction.
"The X-Factor is a matter of national importance," Mycroft replied archly. "It's one of the only tools that we have left with which to bury bad news. I have Simon Cowell on speed dial. Well," he corrected. "Anthea does."
"Who is Cheryl Cole?" Sherlock asked John, with rather touching naivety.
"When I'm feeling better, I'll introduce you to The X-Factor," John promised. "Mycroft, please tell me why you're here." Sighing, as though explanations were very much beneath him (John assumed that in most situations this was indeed the case), Mycroft continued.
"I was informed of your illness though my usual channels, John," he began. "And not trusting my feckless brother to do anything about it…"
"I was doing plenty!" Sherlock retorted loudly. Seeing John wince at the noise, he lowered his voice and continued. "I'd put him to bed, taken some blood, done the test…"
"You hadn't called a doctor," Mycroft said, in a voice of such threatening steadiness that most people subjected to it would have been left cowering. John had heard it on the first occasion that he'd met Sherlock's brother; it wasn't a voice that was easily forgotten.
"You didn't call a doctor?" John repeated in disbelief. "I don't understand. You knew I had malaria, and you didn't call a doctor? Have I even seen a doctor?" From somewhere in his foggy memories of the last eight hours, John thought he could recall the metallic cold of a stethoscope and hands that didn't belong to Mycroft or Sherlock tapping on his chest.
"You're a doctor," Sherlock said, as if John might have forgotten this in his malarial haze. Seeing that this was not enough to satisfy John, he continued. "It wasn't as if I was going to leave you untreated. I was going to take some chloroquine from Barts just as soon as your temperature went down. I didn't want to leave you alone. You aren't the most co-operative of patients while delirious."
"Sorry," John muttered. The sensation that he had of being in a different world to Sherlock and Mycroft – in which the chains of events that they narrated refused to cohere into rational explanations – might have been a hangover from the feverish episode. On the other hand, it might have been an occupational hazard of knowing the Holmes brothers. "But Sherlock, you could have got chloroquine from a hospital - legally, on prescription, without stealing – if you'd just called a doctor." Sherlock looked at him sullenly, obviously not enjoying the fact that John was taking his older brother's side on this issue. John decided it was probably easier to get a straight answer out of Mycroft. "Have I seen a doctor?"
"Yes," Mycroft replied. "I called over a specialist from the School of Tropical Medicine." He handed John a card. Squinting through the stabbing pains behind his eyes, John could make out the name and the Harley Street address.
"I've heard of him," John said grimly. "And I can imagine what he charges for a house call." Mycroft waved his hand dismissively.
"All taken care of," he said, flippantly. John gritted his teeth; he didn't want an argument. Not now, at least; not when he felt as if he'd spent the last few hours on the rack instead of asleep in…
Oh God, this was Sherlock's bed. He was in Sherlock's bed. It was Sherlock's duvet, his pillows, his room. John shuffled uncomfortably beneath the covers. Then he remembered that he didn't recognise the pyjamas, which made him feel even tenser. Mycroft must have noticed the awkwardness, because he picked that moment to announce that it was time for John's second dose of medicine and that he would fetch it from the kitchen.
Seeming calmer now that his arch-enemy had left the room, Sherlock perched on the end of the bed and began, absent-mindedly, to roll down the sleeve of John's shirt.
"A ready injection of cash is one thing that Mycroft is useful for," Sherlock said, clinically, as he fastened the buttons on the cuff. "The only thing he is useful for, in fact. Except for these pyjamas. Yours were soaked with sweat, and I couldn't find another pair, and Mycroft keeps an overnight bag packed in the boot of his car at all times. That's why they're so ridiculously big on you. His diet obviously isn't working." Realising he'd drifted from the subject at hand, Sherlock cleared his throat. "Money doesn't mean anything to Mycroft. Even if it did, he's got more than he'll ever need. So just let him do this." John nodded and yawned.
"Have I really slept for eight hours? I'm so tired."
"The sleeping was interspersed with a bit of thrashing about and incomprehensible babbling. But yes, you've mostly been asleep."
"And…why am I in your bed?" John asked, nervously hoping that the answer didn't involve something truly embarrassing.
"It was easier to carry you here once you'd fainted," Sherlock surmised helpfully. "But you can move to your room if you want to, I suppose. Mycroft suggested you might be more comfortable there." Sherlock looked vaguely disappointed at the prospect of John not being entirely satisfied with his nursing skills.
"No, I'm too tired. And I like being here. You got the best bedroom." John replied quickly. He closed his eyes and sighed. "I took those damn anti-malaria tablets the whole time that I was there. Even when they made me feel sick, I still took them."
"I suspect that making sure you didn't get malaria wasn't the first thing they worried about when you took a bullet to the shoulder. Easy to miss a few doses," Sherlock said, stroking his arm. John shrugged his shoulders and looked at his friend.
"Maybe. Probably. Sometimes the medication just doesn't work. But do you know what the strangest thing is?" John gave a hoarse chuckle and Sherlock shook his head. "Getting malaria is neither the most exciting nor the most dangerous thing that's happened to me in the last three months. Or even in the last month. Or even in the last week."
"Glad you see you're feeling up to injecting a little levity into the situation, John." Mycroft was in the doorway, holding a glass of water and a blister pack that John assumed contained his medication. Sitting up, John briefly examined the packaging and then took the dose without comment. "There's one more dose to be taken by tomorrow, and another the day after that. And be sure to keep yourself well hydrated," Mycroft added.
"John does have a medical degree," Sherlock snapped. But his voice lacked some of the scathing tone with which he normally addressed his brother, and he did look at John as if to make sure that he had understood Mycroft's instructions.
"Thank you, Mycroft," John said, being careful to keep his response light and level. "I'll be sure to do just that. And thank you for all your help."
"Not that we needed it," Sherlock added, almost out of habit.
"I'll take that as an expression of gratitude," Mycroft replied, rolling down his shirtsleeves and replacing his cufflinks. "Now you're awake, John, I suppose I can trust you to be sure my little brother doesn't do anything to put your health in danger. So if I inform you that you have an appointment in Harley Street at ten-thirty on Monday morning, might I then conclude that my assistance is no longer required here?"
"Your assistance was never required," Sherlock muttered. "You just like interfering. Surely there must be a banana republic that you can bring down if you need to occupy yourself." Mycroft laughed coldly.
"Indeed. I have more important things than London's newest crime-fighting duo with which to occupy myself, to use your phrase." Mycroft was putting on his jacket now, straightening the lapels, brushing invisible dust from the sleeves. He snatched his umbrella from where it rested against the wardrobe as he left the bedroom, calling over his shoulder, "No need to see me to the door."
"I wasn't intending to," Sherlock said, although John noted that he waited until they had heard the heavy thud of the door closing before he spoke. Sherlock slipped his shoes off and swung his long legs up on to the bed, so that he was sitting next to John. "He's insufferable."
"But useful," John added.
"Not really. He didn't even make a pot of tea before he left." Something seemed to catch Sherlock's eye, and he reached over John for the thermometer that lay on the table by the other side of the bed. Carefully, he turned John's head to one side and placed it in his ear.
"I thought you said I didn't have a temperature," John said, as the device emitted a high-pitched bleep.
"You don't. But there's no harm in me checking," Sherlock said stiffly, with a little too much emphasis on the pronoun. "You do have a tropical disease."
"Don't I know it," John mumbled, coughing again. His back ached and his joints felt like they'd been ground together. He shuffled his position slightly so that he was sort of leaning into Sherlock, who didn't seem to mind this. "My head hurts. Everything hurts."
"Do you need anything?" Sherlock asked, softly.
"More sleep," John said, closing his eyes.
When John woke up again, there was no cloth on his forehead and only one pair of hands, one of which was cradling his shoulder and whilst the other stroked the hair back from his forehead. It might not be the full Cheryl Cole treatment, but, at least while he was ill, John preferred dealing with one Holmes brother at a time. And he was pretty certain about which one of the pair he would choose.