John doesn’t rest.
He goes into watch dog mode.
Picking up his blanket, he drapes it on top of Sherlock’s, keeping the angel warm.
John unbuttons his shirt, and hangs it up near the fireplace to dry.
The gauze wrapped around his torso from an old wound reopening, is pink. His leg aches too much to the point where he can’t pace.
John decides to sit next to the fire to try and dry.
Resting his head against the brick of the mantle, he falls asleep without his permission, still in that tense guardian position.
When Sherlock woke up, his wings had already gone dry, but he felt weaker. Even if he was a bit affected from the ward signs Mrs. Hudson made, it was something more. However, there was no point of thinking about that right now.
As he turned to the fireplace, he saw John with his eyes closed and breathing evenly. Still asleep, then.
With the blanket still draped around his shoulder, he approached John’s sleeping figure and his eyes caught the stained patch from his shirt. Without question nor permission, he touched John’s wound, healing it quickly and at the same time, robbing the tension from John’s body that he was sure accumulated since the man was sleeping in an uncomfortable position. And just about he’s going to help John with his leg, something happened.
His healing powers seemed to have shut down.
No. It can’t be. He pulled his hand and looked at it. There was no light nor warmth appearing from it. Is this true?
He began to cough. One after another, stronger than another. He tried to keep it to himself but to no avail, he laid on the floor as he held his chest.
He’s losing his radiance one by one.
John jolts awake at the feeling of his chest being on fire.
Beneath his still damp shirt, the feather burn is glowing faintly.
John sees Sherlock on the floor and without a second thought, he jumps to action, determined to help.
He hoists Sherlock up onto the couch despite his throbbing leg and runs a hand over the angels back.
"Sherlock. Sherlock look at me. Can you breathe?"