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After John had relieved himself, he had come back and found Sherlock in a deep sleep. At first he hadn't been worried – his fever had gone down and he wasn't coughing or sniffing anymore, but he hadn't woken up.

Worried, John stayed awake all night, ignoring his thirst and instead eating the cookies Harry had made. A few times, he almost fell asleep, but caught himself. Sherlock didn't wake up the next day either. Feeling a bit panicked, John decided that if he hadn't woken up by the night, he would call Mycroft.

When night came and went, John reached for his phone and called Mycroft, anxious. "Hello? Mycroft? Yes, it's John. It's about Sherlock, he went to sleep after you left and hasn't woken up yet, I'm getting worried," John said; his anxiety evident in his voice.

"I'll be right over," Mycroft said, his voice sounding drawn.

"And can you please get me some water?" John asked a second before Mycroft hung up.

Sighing, John reached out and cradled Sherlock's face in his tan, broad hands. "Can you hear me, Sherlock? You better wake up, you have to! I can't live without you! Please…" John's voice dropped to a low whisper, "wake up."

*.*.*.

Five minutes later, Mycroft strode through the bedroom door, looking superior. He chucked John the water bottle and went immediately to Sherlock, pressing his wrist to Sherlock's forehead. "He doesn't have a fever, and I'm pretty sure his flu has gone," John told him getting off the bed and taking a deep drink of water, relieving his throat, giving Mycroft more room. He quickly skulled the whole bottle, sighing with relief. Mycroft looked up at him, surprise flitting across his face. "You didn't leave him, did you? Not even to get a drink?" he sounded awed an incredulous.

John stared back at him steadily, "I wasn't going to leave him. Not while he sleeps."

Mycroft blinked, and then returned to checking Sherlock over, taking off the covers.

Making a small huffing noise, he stomped out of the bedroom. He returned a minute later, holding something in a small bowl. Grinning, he dipped two of his fingers into the bowl then rubbed the strange mixture onto Sherlock's lips.

Sherlock's eyes immediately flew open, and he shot backwards, wiping his lips furiously to get rid of whatever Mycroft had rubbed onto his lips.

John stared in amazement. "What's in that?" he asked Mycroft, astounded.

Mycroft grinned, wiping his fingers onto his pants. "Chicken eyes, lambs brain and carrot. Always worked when he was little," Mycroft said, ignoring Sherlock's murderous glare.

"Good evening Sherlock, John," he said, then left, swinging his umbrella and looked a lot more relaxed.

John watched him go, then, as soon as he was gone, leapt at Sherlock. He swung his hand back into a fist and struck a hard blow onto Sherlock's cheek.

Then, he grabbed Sherlock's shirt in his fists and pulled him roughly to John before he had time to react. John kissed him harshly, almost painfully, as he told Sherlock without words what he had put John through.

Eyes closing, John softened the kiss, pulling back for a second to breathe, before gently pressing his lips back to Sherlock's.

He felt Sherlock relax, slowly responding to John. John pulled back again and slapped Sherlock on his cheek, then pressed his cheek to Sherlock's to soothe the ache.

Sherlock groaned, wrapping his arms around John and squeezing him tightly. "You absolute bastard," John whispered in Sherlock's neck, "Don't you ever dare do that to me again!"

They lay together in silence for a short while. "How long was I asleep?" Sherlock asked; his voice rough from lack of use.

"Two days," John responded quietly, burying his face deeper into Sherlock's neck.

John felt Sherlock stiffen in surprise. Then he started cursing under his breath. John looked up at him, curious.

"I made plans for that day… Now I'll have to call them again and rearrange it again," He murmured, looking down at John, his eyes sparkling in merriment, and a small smile tugging on the corner of his mouth.

John frowned, sitting up and pulling away from Sherlock, who pouted childishly. "What arrangements?" John asked; ignoring Sherlock's sulking.

"I booked a private jet to Paris."

John's jaw dropped open. Paris? As in, with the Eiffel tower and everything?!

Sherlock chuckled quietly while John imitated a fish as he tried to speak. "How did you get the money to book a private jet to Paris?" He asked finally.

"Oh, I didn't," he said, waving his hand dismissively. "It's my family's jet."

*.*.*.

Five hours later, John and Sherlock were standing in a French airport, John completely dumbstruck and Sherlock looking around as if this were London.

"Sherlock, so what ex-" John started looking back to Sherlock only to find him gone.

Sighing, John started wandering around, idly trying to find Sherlock.

As he walked, he caught sight of a man. He looked familiar, with earphone in his ears, a large jacket and a baseball hat on his head. John turned as the man walked past.

The man turned, revealing his face to John, and winked, blowing John an air kiss. John felt himself turn pale.

Moriarty.

John turned and bolted blindly in the opposite direction.

He bumped into quite a few people, apologizing each time but never pausing. He finally caught sight of a tall, dark curly haired man wearing a purple coat. He crashed into Sherlock, frantically making sure he was OK.

Sherlock frowned, taking in John's still white pace and his franticness. "John? What happened?" Sherlock asked, gripping John's forearms.

"I-I…" John puffed for breath, and then realized he didn't want to tell Sherlock. "It's nothing. I just overreacted."

Sherlock didn't believe him for a second. Glancing around, John could see Sherlock decide that this wasn't the best place to talk. Taking John's hand, he said over his shoulder, "Don't think I'll forget, we will talk about this later."

John groaned mentally. Sherlock never forgot.

*.*.*.

Sherlock hailed a taxi, and dragged John inside, speaking to the driver in French.

John shivered, God, why did Sherlock speaking French sound so sexy?

John shook himself and looked out the window through the car ride, ignoring Sherlock's stare on his back. He wasn't faking his interest in the scenery either, it was his first time in France and he wanted to remember it.

Hopefully it would be fun and he and Sherlock could go see the sights together without any danger or interruptions.

*.*.*.

They arrived a massive hotel, which looked very expensive. As he got out of the taxi, John got apprehensive. "Sherlock, maybe it's better if-"

"Nope!" Sherlock cut him off, grabbing his hand and practically dragging him through the entrance.

Sighing, John allowed himself to be pulled along by Sherlock to the front desk.

"Je suis Sherlock Holmes et ceci est mon mari, John Watson. Ma famille a une histoire ici sous le nom de Holmes. Pourrais-je avoir la clé s'il vous plaît, mon mari et moi sommes très ... désireux de vérifier le nouveau lit qui a été installé. "

John was confused. How and when did Sherlock learn French? Then he wondered what Sherlock had said, because the guy shoved a key at him and practically shoved them away from the desk.

Sherlock chuckled, obviously amused.

"What did you say?" John asked curiously, once they had packed their stuff away and sat on the huge bed.

"Oh, nothing really. Just something that would make him move faster," he said, chuckling at his own joke.

John frowned; about to pursue the topic further, but Sherlock interrupted him. "What happened?" he demanded.

When John gave him a blank look, Sherlock sighed impatiently. "At the airport? What happened?!"

"Moriarty." John whispered in a barely audible voice.

Sherlock growled impatiently. "Speak up John!"

"Moriarty!" John yelled, and then watched the impact of his words hit Sherlock.

Sherlock went pale, and then red with anger, and then normal, all within the span of 30 seconds. He fixed worried grey / blue eyes on John. "Are you alright? Did he hurt you? Or touch you?" He demanded, grabbing John and running his hands over him to make sure he was alright.

"I'm fine Sherlock. I only saw him I didn't get too close. But…" He hesitated, wondering if he should mention Moriarty's actions.

"What John? What did he do? Tell me!"

"He winked. And blew me a kiss," John said finally, confused.

Sherlock frowned in confusion. The same question running through their heads:

What?