John was sick. He'd missed two days of school already and had generally spent it lying in bed feeling sorry for himself. He was completely congested, his head felt like it was in a vice and lately he'd been coughing. The mucus-y, painful kind of cough that made him feel like his lungs were on fire and his throat was being flayed. John rolled over in bed, hauling his comforters up around his shoulders and snuffling miserably. He'd thought that today he would have been able to get back to school and finally see Sherlock again, but his cold was worse than ever. After rolling over again, John decided to get himself a cup of tea. He was tired, but he didn't think there was really any chance of falling asleep at the moment. John slid out of bed, wincing as his feet hit the cold floor. He got downstairs quite quickly despite his illness, by half hopping, half walking. The floor down there was even colder than the ones upstairs. John suspected the tile was to blame. He shuffled into the kitchen and put the kettle on. He went to lie on the couch in the next room to wait for the kettle to boil, glad his mother wasn't home to fuss over him. John closed his eyes, sighing. He wasn't worried about falling asleep, if he did the kettle would wake him when it was finished. But it wasn't the kettle that woke John several minutes later. It was the door opening. John sat up, hearing the door into the slush room creak open. He couldn't help but feel just a tiny bit apprehensive. It was only ten o'clock. Harry would be at school for several more hours and his mother wasn't due home until six. The kettle began to squeal and John started, just as the second door opened.
John gaped at the vision before him, the kettle still screaming away in the background.
"That kettle," began Sherlock, "is incredibly irritating." He stomped his boots before pulling them off, scattering snow across the polished floors. He strode across the room, shut off the burner and moved the kettle. Sherlock poured the hot water into a tea pot, scooped some tea leaves into it and replaced the lid. John was still staring at him, not quite able to believe Sherlock was in his house.
"You're not supposed to be here," John rasped finally. "You know the rule. No school, no friends."
"Oh, it'll be fine," Sherlock dismissed him with a wave of his hand. "Your mother is working until at least six o'clock and Harry won't be back until around four thirty. Whereas I will be leaving at three thirty. See, nothing to worry about." Sherlock finished with a tone of utmost finality.
"It's still not a good idea," John complained, crossing his arms and sniffing grumpily.
"Coming to your house is an excellent idea. Those pyjamas, on the other hand, are not. Did your grandmother buy you those?" John flushed hotly and looked at the ceiling.
"I like them. They're warm."
"Your taste in pyjamas is even worse than your taste in sweaters." Sherlock remarked cheerfully, surveying the blue flannel, liberally sprinkled with tiny yellow ducks.
"You know, I could get in a lot of trouble for you being here, so if you just came to make me feel worse you can leave right now." John was displeased, he'd spent the last two days wanting for nothing but to see his flame again and here Sherlock was, harassing him. John wilted slightly, suddenly all he wanted to do was sleep.
"Sorry John," Sherlock replied quickly, fishing out two mugs and pouring the almost forgotten tea into them. "Let's go upstairs," he suggested, picking up the mugs. John nodded and began tromping up the stairs, breath rattling slightly. He stopped at the top of the stairs to cough, feeling for all the world like his lungs were being ripped from his chest. Sherlock stood on the top step, waiting patiently for him to finish. It didn't take them long to reach John's room. The upper floor only had five rooms, three bedrooms, a bathroom and the room closest to the stairs that had served as his father's study. No one went in it and everyone in the family spent a good deal of time pretending the room didn't exist. John had been fascinated with it when he was small, often spending hours just sitting on the floor reading his dad's dusty books. He'd been told that his father had died serving in Afghanistan. When his sister had seen him coming out of the study for the fourth time in half as many days, she told him the truth. Which was that his father had abandoned the family when he was just five. John hadn't set foot in the room since. He spared it only cursory glance as he passed, surprised when he felt Sherlock's hand fall on his shoulder. John smiled wearily at the small gesture, unused to such thoughtfulness. He opened the door to his room, a thought occurring to him as it swung open.
"Sherlock how did you even get here?" It was a three hour walk from town an impossibility in this weather.
"I hmm, borrowed my father's car." John sighed and shook his head as he made his way over to his bed. Of course Sherlock had stolen the car, he could just see it. "And don't worry, your neighbours won't know I'm here. I parked it at the church around the corner." An image presented itself to John: Sherlock speeding towards his house, the black Prius parked outside the brick church, Sherlock stalking through the swirling snow that nested in his dark hair, the anticipation as he stood for a moment outside the house, his breath misting the air. Beautiful. Sherlock slipped into the room after John and shut the door.
"Move over." He commanded. John wiggled to the other side of his bed and Sherlock pulled off his scarf and coat, leaving them draped over the chair next to John's bed. Sherlock climbed into the bed, pulling John close to him. John's head rested on Sherlock's warm chest as he breathed through his mouth and tried not to snivel on Sherlock's purple shirt.
"How are you feeling John?" Sherlock asked lazily.
"Better now," John mumbled, wishing he could smell Sherlock, who always seemed to exude pleasant scents.
"What do you need?" Sherlock asked, voice still languid and slow. John shook his head.
"Nothing I'm fine." Good God was Sherlock going to start fussing over him?
"Seriously John, there must be something I can do," Sherlock said, a trace of irritation entering his tone. John chuckled, that was better.
"Nope," John smiled into Sherlock's shirt, amused by his agitation. It wasn't often Sherlock actually appeared concerned and he was enjoying it.
"Well then what hurts?" Sherlock enquired sharply.
"Head, lungs, head, back." John answered promptly, almost forgetting to tease. John didn't see Sherlock's smile, but he did feel him pull away. "Where are you going?" John moaned as Sherlock sat up.
"Nowhere, now take off your shirt." John blinked uncertainly.
"Why?" He asked slowly, worried about Sherlock's motives.
"Don't ask questions, just do it." John sat up and began unbuttoning the thick pyjamas, shivering as the cold air hit his skin. When he'd finished, Sherlock pulled the shirt off and threw it on the floor. "Good, now lie on your stomach." John sighed and did as he was told. Sherlock straddled his back and John flinched violently at the unexpected contact. "Oh calm down," Sherlock remarked scornfully. He placed both hands on John's shoulders and began to rub them. John moaned into his pillow.
"That's wonderful," Sherlock moved his hands more gently down John's sides, over his hips where he began kneading more firmly. John sighed into his pillow, feeling himself slowly relax and wondering where Sherlock had picked this up from. Sherlock massaged the small of his back, then steadily worked his way back to John's shoulders. John felt his eyelids drooping slightly as Sherlock rubbed his neck. This must be, John thought, the perfect cure for any illness.
Much too soon for John's liking, Sherlock had rolled off him and was beneath the sheets again. John snuggled closer to Sherlock, again resting his head on his chest, letting the rhythm of Sherlock's breaths lull him to sleep and thinking he was probably the single luckiest human in existence.
Epilogue
A few hours of watching John sleep later, Sherlock decided that he would die of boredom if he didn't do something soon. He didn't want to wake up John, who looked like he hadn't slept in days and was snoring loudly, so he quietly disentangled himself, picked up his coat and left, feeling pleased that he'd managed to make John's day a little better. He hopped into his stolen car and sped off towards home.
John didn't wake up until well after his mother was home, he panicked for a moment, hearing her talking to Harry downstairs and wondered if Sherlock was still in the house somewhere. He looked at the clock, realized it was after seven and contented himself with the fact that Sherlock never would have stayed so late, especially if he was asleep. John was a little regretful that he hadn't been able to stay up for Sherlock's entire visit, until he spotted the blue scarf, still draped over his chair. John reached out to pull it into bed with him, comforted by the reminder of Sherlock.