The next morning, John woke up to a faceful of dark curls and a consulting detective holding him close. Sherlock was still half-asleep, but when John moved to get out of bed his arms tightened around his waist.

"No . . . NO! I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, don't leave me, John. I do have friends, I can be nice, please, please don't leave me, don't leave me, not like them . . . Everyone leaves me . . . not you as well . . . "

John brushed a hand over Sherlock's forehead, now covered in sweat. "It's all right, Sherlock . . . I'm right here. Come on, wake up . . . "

Sherlock's eyes fluttered open, but just as quickly they shut. He shivered and pulled John closer. "Please, don't go. They all leave me in the end . . . "

"Not me, Sherlock, I promise," John vowed. "I will stay with you. But you're feverish and I'm worried. I'm going to get Clara, okay? Clara and I will stay with you."

He moved to leave again. But Sherlock tightened his grip and would not release it. John stretched his hand towards the nightstand and his phone, straining as hard as he could before finally grabbing the cellular device. Settling comfortably back into bed with Sherlock, he tapped out a message to Clara.
Come as quickly as possible. Sherlock is acting odd. He won't let go of me and I'm afraid that he's sick. - JW

He set the phone down and snuggled against Sherlock. A few seconds later, it buzzed.

On my way, I'll bring you some breakfast as well : )

True to her word, Clara appeared ten minutes later, her wet hair neatly braided, wearing a freshly laundered blue jumper-dress and tights. Her bag was slung over her shoulder and she carried a tray with scones and tea on it.

"Lemon ginger tea and blueberry scones," Clara hummed, setting the tray down. She turned to Sherlock, pushing his damp, sweat-matted curls out of his face. "Sherlock, love? Open your eyes. It's all right. It's all right."

"No," Sherlock whispered. Clara placed a hand on his forehead and looked worriedly at John. "He's feverish, slightly delirious . . . This is worse than I feared. I've never dealt with something this severe on my own, I - I'm scared, John," she whispered.

"Hey, you forget I'm a doctor as well. I'll help you, Clara," John smiled. "Don't worry about it. What do we do about Sherlock?" He tore a corner off of a scone and popped it into his mouth.

"I need him to calm down, I need to get medicine into him," Clara said. "I could always try . . . Ah, that'll work. Do you think that if I sang to him - "

"That's a wonderful idea!" John mumbled through a mouthful of scones. "Sing to my dying boyfriend."

'He's not dying!" Clara said. "Not yet." She hummed quietly under her breath for a few stanzas and then began to sing. It was quiet and weak at first, but grew steadily stronger.

"Calm down
Don't panic
It's all right
It's okay,
I'm here
You're safe
Nothing will happen
As long as we're together
So close your eyes
And sleep in peace tonight
It won't be long
Until we see morning's light."

Sherlock rolled onto his back and exhaled deeply. John scooted off of the bed and watched Clara wet a rag and place it on Sherlock's forehead. "Hopefully, he'll sleep off a good deal of the fever. It's a good thing I know a lot of Gaelic lullabies."

John slid out of the bed and headed into the living room with Clara. 

"I think it's just a temporary bug - seems to be going around. Anyway, John - we need to talk about you." Clara leaned forward a bit in her chair, looking uncharacteristically serious.

John gulped; he knew Clara as a gentle soul, someone who enjoyed art and music. She was slender and pale, an almost ethereal girl with a light touch. But now she looked serious, with eyes darkened by the storms of thought swirling in her mind.

"John, I've seen cases of male pregnancy before. It's rarer than the rarest of rare but it can happen. And it takes a massive toll on the carrier. In most of the cases I come across, the carrier dies, and the baby usually goes along with."

John gulped, hand drifting down to his stomach. The thought of a new life there seemed almost unimaginable, and now Clara is telling him they might both be lost? His heart and stomach - and maybe something more than his stomach - lurched with worry.

"I've been analyzing Sherlock's formula all night. It seems a lot stabler than what other men have taken. But I have to warn you: you will need to be carefuller than careful if you are pregnant. The slightest little thing could make you lose the baby, which may or may not be there. I need to get you an ultrasound as soon as possible."

"I cannot leave Sherlock now," John stated. "He's sick and he'll panic. Besides, I want him there when I find out."

"Well, I mean, if you want to find out, you can just take a pregnancy test in the bathroom. I have some in my bag, I picked them up when I went grocery shopping last night." Clara offered a box of pregnancy tests from a plastic shopping bag. John took them, and as he left, Clara called out, "Take like three at once, just to make sure."

John stood in the bathroom, peeing on the fourth stick. The other three sat balanced on the sink. He could hear Sherlock mumbling to Clara, and then he was rushing out at the sound of yelling.

He almost started laughing. 

Sherlock was sprinting (it was more like a quick, awkward shuffle) away from Clara and a bottle of medicine. She caught him easily and forced the medicine down his throat.

Coughing and gagging, Sherlock threw himself at his boyfriend. John laughed and sat down on the couch. Sherlock's head flopped into his lap. John carded his fingers through his curls.

Clara, brewing tea in the kitchen, was humming, spinning with light, airy steps. Her stocking feet floated over the wooden floors, and lilting Scottish flowed from the other room. 

"What is she saying?" Sherlock asked sleepily.

"It's a song, Sherlock. I don't know, I assume it's just a random song." 

"Scottish folk song, actually," Clara called. "It's about a man killed in a war, telling his lover that he'll make it back to their favorite lake before she does even though they'll never meet each other there in person again. Dreadfully sad, but beautiful - like most of the best things are, I suppose." 

Sherlock scoffed. "Love after death. It's perfectly ridiculous, all of it. Just a load of waffle." 

"Sherlock!" John scolded. Clara seemed not to notice, however, bringing in a tray with tea, three teacups, and a few leftover scones from the night before last. She was still humming under her breath as she set the tray down and poured three cups of tea. Sherlock and John took theirs, while clara added a few drops of cream and a few heaping spoonfuls of sugar. 

"That's not particularly good for you," Sherlock commented drily. Clara glared at him and pointedly maintained eye contact as she stirred the tea and took a large sip. 

"Suck it, Holmes," she muttered, breathing in heavily through her mouth to cool it after the scalding tea. John laughed so hard his stomach hurt; Sherlock simply snorted and looked away, affronted. 

"Oh!" John called suddenly, after a few moments. "I have to go and check on the tests now, I'd better - "

"Relax, John, I can go check." Clara set her teacup down and darted away to the bathroom. Sherlock, sitting up now, leaning against John's shoulder. Within a few minutes, Clara had wandered back into the room, shell-shocked. 

"What? What is it?" John sat up, concerned; Sherlock glanced over, bored, but his attention was quickly captivated. Clara was holding for pregnancy tests in her left hand, held out to display their results. Three of them bore positive pink lines, and the fourth (the one that John had dropped when Sherlock yelled) was slowly developing a bright pink "+".