A/N: So this is my first ever Johnlock fanfiction. This is the longest thing I have written to date, and it took me about three days to complete. I'm not sure how well the title relates to the story, but it is the song that I listen too when I write all of my Johnlock things. I do not own Sherlock, obviously. If I did, there would be no forgiving Mary and Johnlock would be canon. Anyways, hope you enjoy.
John Watson, doctor and the blogger of Sherlock Holmes, had busted through the door of 221b Baker Street with his shoulder, grunting as he did so and trying not to drop the groceries he had procured over the course of this morning. Sherlock wouldn't go out. For him, working on a case was much more valuable than eating. Well, not to John it wasn't. He made his partner eat, and today was no exception. It wasn't going to be a very big lunch John had decided, just some chicken noodle soup. It was cold and windy outside, and little ice crystals had begun to fall from the every greying sky. Jack frost had visited them last night, and the ice had never really fully melted off of their window. John remembered being a little kid and making patterns in the ice crystals on his bedroom window. He closed the door, and setting the groceries down, John Watson looked at the flat he had called home for god knows how long. Months and years and days just seemed to blend together when he was living with Sherlock, and that was maybe because of the adventures they had on a daily basis. When they solved one case, there was always another one to be looked at and examined. It was all a continuous blur for him, but John enjoyed it nevertheless, and he knew the public did too. After all, Sherlock would be nothing without his blogger, and it was because of John that they had gathered so many cases to solve. His blog was their key to cases yet to be solved, and Sherlock's brilliant mind was the little child that was curious as to what was inside said locked room.
But Sherlock wasn't working on the case like he said he would be, which was odd. John just saw him laying on the couch, which was much too small for the detective's long and lanky body. He wore his robe over black clothes like he always did when he had nowhere to go and nothing to do, or when he just didn't feel like getting dressed. Sherlock was stubborn that way; even if they were going to meet the Queen, he would still wear everyday clothing. But Sherlock did have something to do, solving the case Lestrade had placed before them not even a week ago. It was simple enough for John, but he knew that his flatmate was bored of it already. It was a murder, but with no witnesses or clues or leads. A dead end to some people, but certainly not to Sherlock Holmes. John set the groceries on the floor. They could wait, everything could wait until John figured out why Sherlock wasn't working nonstop on the job that he loved. There had to be something awfully wrong for him to not be in his mind palace. But maybe he was? Maybe this was just the position he happened to be in when he stepped inside his gigantic vault of memories. John knew that wasn't it. If it was, Sherlock would be waving his hands around, moving unimportant things aside as he finally decoded a message that others were couldn't see, because they were blind or just ordinary people. John was ordinary, he couldn't see what Sherlock saw, but he could pretend too.
"Sherlock." John said, lightly touching his shoulder. He didn't move, and for a moment a flash of sheer panic arose in his heart, icing his veins over and cooling his blood to the point where it wouldn't circulate and a bout of dizziness washed over him like a confusing wave. What if something happened to Sherlock while he was away? What if an assassin had gotten to the detective, poisoning him right after John had left? But that was silly. Sherlock was smart, and he wouldn't drink tea he had left alone for a couple of hours, and he was completely right to do so. John had started to take that precaution as well after that spite with Moriarty. Who knows what that man would do next? He was out to get Sherlock, and he'd go through John if he needed too. But the doctor saw the detective's skinny chest rising up and down like clockwork, and Sherlock was lightly snoring. There was another odd thing. Sherlock Holmes never snored. John knew that, because he himself was a particularly light sleeper, and all the way up in his bedroom he could hear the late night talk-shows of Mrs. Hudson's. John thought he would have known if his best friend snored. His airways could possibly be constricted.
"Sherlock." John whispered again, delicately shaking his shoulder. Sherlock awoke with a start, turning his body to look at the other side of the room. His black curls were askew, messed up by pressing them into the fabric of the couch for too long. John wondered how long his detective had been sleeping for. Sherlock barely ever slept, and even when he did it was because John had threatened to take away his nicotine patches or possibly drug him. Everyone needed to sleep, and that did not exclude Sherlock Holmes, no matter how many times he vehemently denied it. Every human needed certain hours of sleep before their body shut down, and even though John could hardly classify Sherlock as 'human' he still had the basic needs of everyone else on this planet.
"Oh, John, it's just you." Sherlock replied drowsily, and he looked around him, seemingly confused. He was looking for something, John concluded, when the detective started to pat himself down, mumbling as he did so. Soon he pulled out a crumpled piece of paper and on it danced black words the color of midnight. It was a little hard to read, but John could make the title out. It was a newspaper article that Sherlock had printed off for research. He didn't like paying for ink, but John had to admit that it was better than hiding a decapitated head in the fridge, or a bag of frozen detached thumbs in the freezer. Even though he was accustomed to Sherlock's mad habits and ways, John didn't always agree with them. But, in the end, the case was always solved and they always got paid a fair amount, so he couldn't really complain. After all, they did make the world a safer place. Granted, Sherlock Holmes was not the safest person to be around, but he did save the greater part of London. "I uh, I fell asleep while reading." Sherlock said, looking up at John. Beads of sweat were curling around his hairline, grasping onto little dark strands the way dew might cling onto green grass in the early hours of the morning.
John, naturally, was concerned. Sherlock didn't look up to his usual standards. There were circles under his eyes, and his rose looked all red and puffy, and his voice sounded a little clogged. His skin was the colour of cream that was just at its expiration date. So being a doctor, John naturally felt his friend's forehead, checking for any abnormalities not found in everyday people. "You're hot." He concluded after taking his hand away. But seeing as Sherlock might take it the wrong way (everyone else did, and he never denied it.) way, John shook his head, making his eyes go all wide. "No, not like that. I mean you're burning up. As in, you are sick. I'm not gay."
Sherlock grunted, obviously contradicting the last statement that he made. They were not a couple, much to people's surprise. But that didn't mean that John did not love Sherlock. Oh he most certainly did, but he wasn't show how much he loved him. Brotherly love? No, that was already taken by Mycroft, though they hardly showed it. The two Holmes' brothers didn't show much affection towards each other, love was a thing foreign to them both. But John knew that Mycroft looked out for his little brother, and Sherlock did the same for his big brother. Maybe what they had was just merely friendship. But that didn't make sense either. Their state of affairs was much too close to lovers than friends. That made sense to John, and he knew it made sense to Sherlock, but John still wanted to deny it like Sherlock denied eating and sleeping. "Sherlock, I'm not gay." John said again, a bit more forcefully. He was also telling himself that too.
"Your tone says otherwise." He mumbled, sinking his face back into the patterned pillows. Sherlock's back was towards John again, his legs bent comfortably at the knee. John couldn't let him just lay on the couch when he was sick like this, it didn't look very pleasant even to John, who was about a foot shorter than Sherlock. So John grasped Sherlock's wrist and tried pulling him up. But the detective was dead weight, stubborn as a mule and not willing to get up. John, though strong, only managed to get half of Sherlock's chest and left calf to sag off of the couch. "What are you doing?" He asked.
"Getting you into bed. You're sick, Sherlock, that couch is much too small for you and you need to rest. People rest in their beds." John said, his voice strained as he tugged once more. Sherlock became free this time, but merely rolled onto the floor like a fish out of water. He just laid there, moving his shaky hands around, looking for the paper that he dropped. John sighed, rolling his eyes and putting his hands on his hips. "The case can wait." He said, once more grabbing for Sherlock's arm. The detective finally complied, and stumbled getting up. With John right by Sherlock's side, making sure he didn't pass out from pure exhaustion on the way to his bedroom. Being sick took a lot out of you, but Sherlock especially. John was going to stay by his friend day and night until his raging fever was cooled down and he could get up and walk without the pace of a snail.
John knew that under other circumstances he would not be allowed in Sherlock's bedroom. He understood that there were secrets that must never be told to anyone, and never shared to the eyes of the ordinary. But he was, after all, a doctor, and doctors knew best. He was thankful that Sherlock didn't complain when he opened the door, all he did was sniff and wipe his nose with the sleeve of his robe. John didn't even take the time to properly gaze at Sherlock's chamber, and he suspected that Sherlock didn't want him too. He wasn't drugged or unconscious, so he could protest or fight back at any moment. Yet he didn't. He had let John open the door without a single word of caution or hinderance, John merely shrugged at the thought of Sherlock being trustworthy. He didn't even trust Mycroft or Lestrade with information, why should Sherlock trust his blogger?
Once they were in Sherlock's bedroom, he merely fell onto the bed, crumpling up the already messed up sheets even more. John sometimes hated the fact that Sherlock didn't clean up after himself, but there was really nothing he could do about it except tidy up a bit. Of course, this resulted in a fight between the two, as John would occasionally misplace Sherlock's nicotine patches (though not on accident) or he'd lose a flash drive here or there that held the secrets to an underground facility that Sherlock was currently investigating for any signs of terrorist threats (though not on purpose). But John Watson couldn't stand messes, that was all. His entire life had once been neat and orderly until he had met the consulting detective, and then it just became a jumbled mess of tangled yarn that was incredibly hard to undo. Except, John didn't want to undo it. He knew that he loved this life with Sherlock, and he also knew that he would stick by Sherlock's side through thick and through thin. So knowing that, John pulled the covers over his best friend until they went up all the way to his chin. Only his face was uncovered. "Stay here, I'll be back in a moment." John said, and he momentarily paused to brush Sherlock's black curls out of his face, revealing his closed eyelids.
"Where're you going?" Sherlock mumbled. He was so tired, and so ill, it pained John to see him like this. He was never like this, not even on days of coffee. Sherlock Holmes never crashed. He was like a brilliant, well oiled machine that never needed tending too and never ever broke down, Usually he was so reliable to get things done, and you could always count on him to be a narcissistic asshole who knew nothing about human nature. But he did fail, and it happened very rarely, but when it did and Sherlock fell, John Watson would always be there to catch him.
"To make you soup." John replied, and he was about too, except his body betrayed what his mind wanted. He sat down at the edge of the bed, stroking Sherlock's sweaty mop of hair over and over again. He knew Sherlock was miserable, but he overall was glad that the stubborn detective didn't put up a fight. Maybe this sickness had drained all of the assholeness out of him for the time being, and that was good for John because it allowed him to take care of him. Also, it was an opportune moment to get actual feelings out of Sherlock. The detective was never good with feelings, especially feelings that didn't have to do with cold heartedness and being an asshole to everyone he came within a five mile radius with. So John assumed that his walls and defences were down, stripped to the bare minimum of what was Sherlock Holmes. Just a child, scared and afraid and alone, that was the entity of it.
"Not hungry." Came the muffled reply from the pillows and sheets. John rolled his eyes and checked Sherlock's fever once more. It hadn't gotten any higher nor lower. It was the same, unlike their daily lives, which were always changing like the sea in the middle of a raging storm. If it were anybody else, John would have concluded that his patient was delirious, but this was Sherlock Holmes, he was delirious most of the time. Eating just wasn't in his regimen of things to do.
"Have you been throwing up?" John asked, curious. If he had been, then there was no way he'd make Sherlock eat. The flu bug was nasty, and nastier still if you ate something it it just came back up again in less appetizing forms. But if he wasn't throwing up, then he'd eat, John would make sure of it.
"No." Sherlock answered sleepily. John smiled sadly, all the hard lines of annoyance erased from his battle scarred face for the time being. His mind was made up right then and there. Sherlock would eat soup and drink tea and stay in bed to rest until he was well enough to get out of bed without wobbling and his hands stopped shaking like a leaf on the breeze. Of course, Sherlock wouldn't have to face this all alone, John would be there with him as he always was. He and his girlfriend had broke up a couple of days ago due to the fact that Sherlock demanded so much out of John twenty four seven. That was okay, because John was loyal to the consulting detective, and he wanted to please Sherlock. But his ex-girlfriend thought otherwise, and that was the end of that.
John remembered that night, and he was pretty sure Sherlock did too. He had come home late, and his eyes were sad and wet, though the tears hadn't spilled down his cheeks just quite yet. She could've been the one, but she wasn't. None of them were. And John was heartbroken once again. Sherlock wasn't much help at the beginning, and that was okay with John because he knew that he didn't understand human emotions as well as other people. That was just a side effect of his curse (or a gift, as some saw it.), it seemed. But there came a time after the unbearable silence where Sherlock actually comforted John, wrapping his arms around his waist and pulling him in for a hug. They hardly ever hugged, but John liked it. He liked the human side of Sherlock that wasn't convinced that human lives were nothing more than a blip on a map, though that hardly ever showed. Maybe I should get dumped more often, John thought as his cool hands were curled in Sherlock's blackened hair. Quite quickly after that, John had snapped out of the memory just as soon as he had entered it. His mind shouldn't be elsewhere, because currently his most important job was taking care of Sherlock, and he suspected that would always be his most important job, however tedious it would seem. Being a doctor that look at people everyday with the same bloody symptoms was boring, but being Sherlock Holmes' right hand man and blogger, the only person besides himself that he trusted, that was always the adventure worth living.
"Then I'm making you soup." John said, and with that, he got up and exited Sherlock's room and went into the kitchen. He looked at the clock and saw that it was almost one. The sky outside hadn't changed, it was the same grey colour it had been twenty minutes ago. That was the thing about London, you could always count on the weather to be cloudy and slate coloured and drizzly. The sun came out, sure, but not like in Afghanistan where it bloomed like a great giant fire flower, its petals of heat blazing across the backdrop of blue, warming John up even when he was suited up in heat attracting clothes. He liked the coolness of London compared to the blistering heat of the war zone he was in. He started to unpack the long forgotten groceries, looking for the can of soup he wanted to prepare, the other perishables could wait, they weren't anything that would spoil if not put away right when you got home. John put the can of soup in a pot and started to warm it up. He looked around the kitchen, seeing if anything out of the ordinary, and he expected there would be.
"John!" Sherlock cried from his room just as the other man had begun to clean up the kitchen that was filled with unnecessary rubbish like empty bottles that were once filled with deadly chemicals that had long since been used up. John rushed down the small hallway to see Sherlock curled up into a ball, his knees hiked up to his chest, making him smaller than he actually was.
"What, what is it?" John asked, coming in through the door once again.
"I'm b-bored. What do bored p-people do when they're s-s-sick?" Sherlock stuttered. John faintly recognised the fact that Sherlock was getting worse and not better. His pallid coloured skin was bright with sheen even from a distance, and John's heart broke. He hated seeing Sherlock sick, and he knew it wasn't any fun. You couldn't chase down the baddies or do science experiments. You were stuck in bed, basically, with books and if you were lucky enough to have the attention span for it, a movie marathon. But those two things were out of the question when it came to sick Sherlock Holmes. John had predicted that he had already read every single surface that was covered with words in the flat, so reading was out, he'd get bored before he got past the 1st paragraph. And T.V... Well let's just say that was an adventure John wasn't willing to go on again. It was a wonder they hadn't gotten multiple noise complaints that night, seeing as the walls were paper thin and almost literally stuck together.
So John smiled weakly and walked over to brush Sherlock's bangs out of his eyes again. He did that a lot, it seemed, but it looked like Sherlock liked it, or was at least comforted by it. John wanted to ease his suffering, though deep down he knew that the prig had suffered far greater and survived much worse than this. Still, his best friend should never be sick, because that was the worst kind of torture you could place on a human such as Sherlock Holmes. "They let their best friends take care of them until they're better." He simply replied, and he could see Sherlock roll his gunmetal blue irises. He just stared at the sick person lying in bed bed, like he was memorising everything about his intelligent face. Every line, every freckle. John didn't know when his last day with the sarcastic detective was going to be, and he wanted to make sure he'd never forget his unique face. His last day, it could be tomorrow. Sherlock could get blown up into a million peices and John would never see those eyes again. Those eyes were how John knew that Sherlock was human, if only a little. The irises held mild compassion for living things, no matter how small it was.
"God, I'd rather A-Anderson be my partner for one of my cases than be s-sick." Sherlock said, tearing his gaze away from John's and looking at the ceiling. John felt a lump in his throat, and for a moment it was hard to swallow, but somehow he managed.
"You don't seriously mean that?" John whispered. It was a silly fear that he had, being replaced. He craved Sherlock's company like moths were attracted to light. He couldn't stop being Sherlock's partner even in death. There were probably a spot reserved in hell for men like Sherlock Holmes, and John would have to follow him someday, and he wouldn't mind in the slightest.e
Sherlock looked at him and chuckled. "No of course I don't, J-John. I can't stand Anderson, he's a p-prick, not to mention he's more dumb that M-Mycroft, which is saying something." John let out a sigh of relief. "I would never replace you. I'd be lost without my blogger."
"I'd be lost without my detective." John said quietly, and then he did something that under any other circumstances would not be deemed appropriate, and he suspected quite clearly it wasn't appropriate now, but he didn't care. Gently, John kissed Sherlock softly on the forehead. It couldn't even be classified as a kiss, it was more like a peck, really. He released after only a couple of seconds of contact. He didn't want to get sick, after all. Viruses spread quickly, like fleas on a dog, and the last thing John wanted was to get sick. It was all fun and games when you were a child because you got to miss school, but being sick as an adult completely sucked more than having a gun pressed to your head. "I'd, uh, better go get you your soup then." John said, though he just made eye contact once more with Sherlock, just to look into his eyes and see the reaction.
Sherlock was shocked, that much was clear to John. His irises were wide set, and though hidden by a veil of water produced by the sickness that plagued and ravaged his body, John knew he had made the most self assured man of the 21st century rethinking his entire life. Without another word from either of them, John Watson exited the room once again. He paced in the kitchen, running his hands through his short sand coloured hair. Thoughts traveled through his mind at what seemed like the speed of light. Oh gods, what have I done? I just ruined our relationship. Sherlock probably thinks I'm gay. I'm not gay. I'm not gay. But that was kind of hard to believe when you just kissed your best friend. John hurried up with the soup and carried it back to the bedroom, where he heard light, somewhat congested snores. Sherlock had fallen asleep again, too overwhelmed to deal with anything that the outside world had to offer him. His back was faced towards the door.
The bedside table was cluttered with papers and trinkets, some of which John was completely complexed as to why Sherlock even had them. Some, like old wrappers that still faintly gave off the scent of strong nicotine, were not out of the ordinary. John had tried to get Sherlock to kick his addiction, and he thought he had been doing really well, but here was evidence that Sherlock just hid things behind his back. Oh well, that would be something they would talk about on a later day when they were both feeling up to it. Some things, like questionable petri dishes laid about scattered on the dark wood surface. John picked them up with the very tips of his fingernails and placed them to the side.. He wasn't sure what was in them, let alone if they were poisonous.
"Sherlock, hey, you've got to wake up now. Your soup is ready." John said softly, shaking his friend's shoulders lightly, as if the bones could break at any given point in time. Sherlock soon after turned over, and John noticed the red that had crept up on his cheeks while he had been away those few moments. The fever was still blazing inside of Sherlock, never releasing him for a moment of rest. But that was okay, because once Sherlock had the megar broth down he could rest and fight off the sickness in his mind palace. Sherlock coughed, his whole body racking with the same heaving motion that John had seen in tuberculosis patients.
"White clouds," Sherlock almost inaudibly mumbled, his lips barely moving against the fabric of the silken pillow. John didn't understand. He didn't understand most of the things the astute detective said, but those two words were so completely out of context. John helped Sherlock sit up, and then he himself sat on the edge on the bed. Their hands were close to touching. Great. He's gone delirious. John thought as he guided the silver spoon that held yellow broth to his partners mouth, prompting for him to open up. Sherlock wasn't a kid, John wouldn't treat him like one, though it was very tempting not to make him feel like a 5-year old. Sherlock, with his quick mind and spiteful words of careful choosing, always made John feel inferior. But when it came to medical concerns, John was the expert, and he finally could show off, though he never would. That was the main difference between him and Sherlock. John would always be modest and humble to the end of his days, Sherlock, only to the end of the day.
Sherlock got the soup down easily enough, though John was doing most of the work. Sherlock's eyes were halfway closed, giving him a more drugged appearance than a sick one. Maybe the drugs that he took were part of the problem, but John couldn't dictate everything that Sherlock could or could not do. The detective wouldn't allow for that to happen. No matter how much it pained John to see Sherlock ruin his body the way he did, he couldn't say anything. He could hide the nicotine patches and cigarettes, sure, but he knew that Sherlock would find them in five hours flat. "John..." Sherlock whined after the soup was gone and John had gotten up to walk back to the kitchen. He felt Sherlock feebly grasp for the engraved pattern of his beige cardigan.
"Yeah, Sherlock?" John asked, stopping in his tracks. He watched as Sherlock licked his cracked, dry lips, trying to form the words that he needed. Well, there wasn't any hurry. As far as John Watson was concerned, Sherlock Holmes had all the time in the world to say what he needed to say.
"Stay with me?" It was a request, not a command like so many other times.
John was only happy to comply. He set the bowl down on the table and grabbed a tissue from a box. He didn't want Sherlock to be all stuffed up, as it caused for restricted airflow and made you breathe through your mouth, which would eventually dry your tongue out, making it feel like sandpaper between your teeth. John put the tissue over Sherlock's nose. "I'm not going anywhere, you daft bastard. Now blow."
The other hesitated. "I'm not a child anymore, Mycroft." He said, his voice which could yield whole police forces with a single shouted word now reduced to something just barely above a shrill whisper. John felt his forehead. Still raging like an inferno, though the red spots on his cheeks had started to go pale, which was a good sign. But Sherlock was still delirious, that much was obvious even to a five year old.
"I'm not your brother, Sherlock, I'm your doctor, and I'm telling you to blow your nose." And Sherlock did as he was instructed to do, which made John happy. It wasn't everyday you got to see the mighty Sherlock Holmes bend down to your will, as if his being was grass beneath your feet. He threw the used tissue into the garbage, John could feel Sherlock getting restless, and to calm him down put his body on top of his so that his head rested on his shoulders. This way, John could stroke Sherlock's hair as much as he pleased. "Go to sleep." He told him.
Sherlock weakly shook his mop of black curls. "The. Case." He practically moaned, and almost sat up if it hadn't been for John pushing him down again and securing Sherlock to his chest using his arms. The Detective wasn't going anywhere, and it wasn't just because of his poor state of health. John wanted to spend actual, quality time with him, and this seemed like the only way to do so. Sherlock coughed again, and John only held him closer, afraid that the cough might be his last. Which was stupid, but worries and doubts had filled his mind. Sherlock would live, this was just a stupid cold.
"Yeah well the case can wait. Right now you need to focus on getting better." John said, slowly rocking back and forth to subdue Sherlock into submission. He could feel his arms going slack, and his head becoming less and less tense as he floated off. After a couple silent moments, Sherlock finally fell asleep, and John beamed, happy with what he had accomplished today, He had managed to tame the wild tiger that was Sherlock Holmes. John just kissed the side of his cheek, and stroked his black curls and he never got tired of the repetitive pattern. He suspected that when Sherlock awoke, John would be doing the same thing.
A/N: I can't say I'm too pleased about the ending, it kinda leaves some open ends and isn't as final as I would like it to be. But that can't be helped. If convenient, review. If inconvenient, review anyways.