Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. I make no profit off of this. This is strictly for entertainment.
Rating: Oh, anybody could read this.
Genre: Lots and lots of love, slash.

I'M SO SORRY. But this is some kind of series that BEGS for shipping those two.

For Syu, because she's the one who has infected me with Sherlock.

Influenced by textneversent on tumblr. I love it :) !

Stress.

Living together with Sherlock Holmes is the worst kind of stress you could go through.

By now, John Watson had understood it was a fact.

He sighed.
His eyes were following the rainy Baker Street. Having his forefinger stretched out, he moved the curtains aside. To his feet, there were lots of books which his flatmate claimed to be "tidied up". He pushed them carefully away, trying not to knock over the neatly arranged pile.
He leaned his forehead against the window, breathing quietly against the cold glass. It steamed up in an instant. He put one finger on the misty spot, started drawing a smiley on it.
He was bored.
If his flatmate had been that bored, he would've already started his shooting lessons, pointing the gun at his favorite smiley on the wall.
Should he do the same thing? Probably not. No, he didn't want to wake up Mrs. Hudson. Frankly, he knew he should let sleeping dogs lie.

The raindrops crackled against the window.
Apart from that, silence.
You could even hear the softly buzzing light bulbs, the aerator of the laptop (which actually is unusual when it comes up to a MacBook ), the moaning of the fridge. Anyone who knows this kind of silence, certainly also comprehends, how depressing it appears to be.
In the distance a car honked.

It just had been…boring.

A blog entry? Unnecessary. Nothing had happened throughout the last two days. And he even was the main reason for that. He was the one, who confined his partner to bed.

Well, if you believe it or not: Sherlock Holmes, the world's only Consulting Detective, probably the most extraordinary human wandering around on earth, suffered from a so-ordinary flu.
Why?
Because he's an idiot.

"Sherlock", John repeated in his mind, as he was staring at the laptop, having his unfinished report opened. "Sherlock, for God's sake! It's raining dogs and cats outside. Do you really consider running through half London, having no umbrella or coat on, as a good idea?"
That's how he rolled.
The man stared at the clock of the laptop. Nine pm.
He couldn't even recall the last time he went to bed that early. Because of defiance he didn't take his chance.
After staring aimlessly at the wall, he sat down in his armchair.
A few days ago, probably around this time of day, the dark-haired just rushed outside the room. He had been spending the whole day in his special "I'm thinking, don't even consider bothering me"-pose. Every now and then he changed his nicotine patches, or even added some.
He rarely spoke.

"Is it about Moriarty?"

"No"

"It is about Moriarty"

"…"

Nothing. Just a short glance out of the corners of his eyes. No nod. Not even a shake of the head.

And then he just jumped up, leaving the room, the house - and disappeared in the rainy city of London.

Such an idiot.
Seriously.

Now, this was the result.

Fever, cough, arthralgia, …all the nice things, you experience while having a flu, have haunted him already one day ago. But now, he truly was exhausted. Indeed, he even tried objecting bed rest when he was in feverish delirium. Mumbling things like he wanted to solve some case; he wanted to do anything meaningful, he was tempted to do something really, really badly and right now.
No matter what. Just something!
And now, he nearly wasn't able to speak anymore. He just was laying there. Against his will.
He continued not eating anything, even if the doctor brought him soup and bread. He tried appealing to his sense of reason, but Sherlock refused. So he accepted it tacitly.
It was his fault, right?
If he wanted to behave like a child, very well then!

John turned the television on. Or crap-TV, just as his colleague used to call it. Still, he loved it. Especially questions like "Does he cheat on her?" or "Whose child is it?" he answered full of enthusiasm. Afterwards he got upset by the fact he just wasted his time on useless things, how people could be that dumb, and so on.
His friend mostly just smirked, drank his tea and leaned back.
Though, it wasn't bad.
They had been sharing lots of laughter.
That's what… best friends do, right?

Watching TV. Laughing together.
Quite normal. Nearly every average-friendship contains it.

He put his feet on the armchair, using impatiently the back rest as his drum. Sure, it was amusing to watch a few chaves fighting, but it just wasn't the same.
His comments were missing.
A lot.

Boredom.

Again.

Suddenly the blond haired felt a vibration in his pocket. Certainly Mycroft wanted something from them – again.
Sherlock was sleeping. Doubtless. It couldn't be otherwise, because of all the exhaustion that had piled up within the last days. His fever, his starvation, the nights, he didn't spend in bed. Well, summarizing it, there's only one conclusion: You reap what you sow.
So, the man just ignored the text message. He tilted his head, leaned it against his hand. His elbow was resting on the back rest.
About one hour passed by.
He nearly slept in, until his cellphone vibrated and a dull tone sounded. So he gave up. It must've been something truly important then.
His hands slid into the pocket, then raised the mobile phone.

Two new messages
Sherlock Holmes
09.13 PM
09.45 PM

He twitched as he heard a cough next door. Alright, so he had been awake for real.
When he was asleep you almost couldn't hear him coughing.
However, now being fully awake, his subconscious wanted to let people know that he was ill and awake.
Within a few seconds John checked his inbox.

He's not the father. It's obvious. You can tell that only by listening! It's that easy. Why do people even spend their money for DNA-analysis?- SH
09.13 PM – Sherlock Holmes.

John raised one eyebrow.
Terrible. He even had been right. It turned out his rival in love was the true father.
Quickly he chose the second text.

Boring. Truly boring. I've even eaten your soup, John. It is too salty. Is it because of the girl you've met at the kiosk? She's married. Are you going to come over now, totally enraged? I would be less bored then. –SH
09.45 PM – Sherlock Holmes.

Such
an
idiot.

Alright, so this girl had been truly nice towards him, but, frankly, they didn't match. Well, why not?
He always felt bad while being with her. She once reached out for his hand, but John pulled it back, feeling guilty in two different ways. God, the stress!
Since being on duty in Afghanistan he hadn't experienced it again – not until the detective was around.
He felt guilty towards the woman, because he didn't let her hold his hand, just backed off and stroked sloppily through his hair, patted his neck, scratched it.
Something like this happened to be his usually fad by now.
Just when she touched his hand, he started thinking of Sherlock.

The date was ruined immediately then. No matter how, he always spoiled it for him. In his head, or with his stubborn head.
Within the last months he had invited himself pretty often, because they had been busy with investigations. Then he just had been sitting next to them, having the victim's pocketbook open, or placed even more abstrusely things on the table, he better not listed.
Right, woman attracted his behavior. Totally.
Or - even worse – it truly interested them. So the young observer quickly was in the center of attention of John's date.

Right as he stood up unwillingly, turned off the TV, a jingle sounded again in his hand.

Bring nicotine patches. –SH
09.42 PM –Sherlock Holmes

"Anything else?", the male nurse grumbled annoyed, whereupon he poured tea into two cups and refined them with milk.
Afterwards he was standing in front of the door case, staring at the ill person in his favorite pose, sitting on the bed. His hands nuzzled together, having them close to his lips and nose. Between them, his cellphone was located.
Slowly he raised his head, cleared his throat and carked "Sit down", then nodded to the chair placed in front of the bed.
Carefully John closed the door with one foot, put down the tea cups next to the soup he had eaten wholly. To his surprise, he even ate the two pieces of bread.
Had he really been hungry? Or was this his typical "Hey, look, I do like you"-fad?

Whatever.

Sherlock followed with his eyes every single movement his friend made. His light blue dressing gown was an extreme contrast to his rosy cheeks, on account of the fever. The light of the bedside lamp lit his face a little.
He stayed pale, no matter how high his fever was.
The doctor sat down right in front of him, handed over his tea. The other man received it thankfully, took a sip immediately.
"Blanket yourself properly", John demanded, having his voice lowered. He didn't like how his flatmate sat on the bed; ignoring the fact he was terribly ill. He had probably kicked the blanket away, just like children do. Well, it fit him.
"I'm drinking", the other man answered with a hoarse voice.
God, his voice. He might have been through the worst part of his illness, but most of it wasn't survived yet.

So John surrendered and accepted playing his game. He'd cover him with the blanket. Alright, if he truly wanted this, he would do this. Once.
He wouldn't mind it, as long as this would be over soon. He was worried, obviously. And something was missing.
He was missing in the room while watching TV, eating dinner; and so on.

"Your blog entry, have you already finish-", however, his voice broke off before ending the sentence. So, he coughed again, threw himself on the bed enervated.
How he hated it.
The boredom.
Not being able to talk.
Even if he had his skull inside of the room as some kind of pacifier (it was smiling at him from the bed table) he couldn't express his thoughts without being able to speak.
Boring.
Everything was boring.
"Relax, Sherlock… no, I haven't finished it yet. But, I've left out mentioning your illness, just as you wished. I don't even know what you've found out. The only thing I know is you've been successful. So?"

The addressed remained silent.
He wanted to answer, but it didn't work. He tried using the hot tea as medicine for his sore throat and voice, but it was all to no avail.
Eventually silence took over. John leaned back on his chair and sighed, scratched his nape and closed his eyes shortly.
He would stay for a little while. Well, long enough until Sherlock slept in again.
Seriously: he felt incredibly stupid while doing so. He hoped to calm down a little, even if he knew what kind of germs and bacteria were celebrating a festival in this room.
Slowly he put his head back.

Suddenly his phone vibrated.

John opened his eyes, whereupon he looked into the by the cellphone lit face of the detective. He was staring spellbound at the gadget's display.

John. –SH
9.59 PM – Sherlock Holmes

"Very expedient", the other man said, while he put his legs down on the bed. "Seriously, very expedient. Especially writing your acronym even if you're texting right in front of me"

Habit. Just ignore it, if it is bothering you. – SH
10.00 PM – Sherlock Holmes

"Be happy that you've got a text message flat rate. Otherwise you'd be terribly annoyed that your acronym would cross the 160-symbol limit pretty often, for sure. And then you've got instead of only one text… two"
John laughed a little, as he was looking into the other's face. He seemed to be focused on his cellphone. Only when his friend answered, he eyeballed his face critically, like he'd try to find out whether he was telling the truth.
Within a few seconds his attention wandered back on the screen of the mobile phone. In his eyes, the picture of the opened text messaging program was reflected.

You've got dark circles around the eyes. Have you really been awake the whole night long? – SH
10.04 PM – Sherlock Holmes

Yeah, damnit. He had been. The whole night long he had been worried about his friend. Over and over he changed the wet hand towel on his forehead. In exchange, he had been nearly sleeping all day, but set the alarm to check on his fever. Well, he felt like his temporary mommy who was treating her children in an overprotective manner. But he didn't want to risk losing the man.
He had clearly lost enough people in his previous life.
And this, his home, he had built with him – he had to look after it.
It was stressful, yes. However…

"How could you know? You passed out after behaving that way. Said, you wouldn't be ill, wouldn't need help", the doctor replied. Though, he wasn't accusing him.
He was already used to his tics. Used to his craving to show he was intelligent. That he could see through anything and anyone. That he could read him, like in an opened book.

I know it. Just wanted to assure it. Wanted to hear it out of your mouth. –SH
10.09 PM – Sherlock Holmes

Before being able to answer, John watched how Sherlock started writing a text over and over again, but erased it in the end. He repeated this a few times.
Again, silence took over, which was drowned by the clacking sound of his old cellphone.
When the man turned around and a few curly hair strands peeked out of the blanket, the blonde man was pretty sure he slept in.
By now he also hid his hands underneath the blanket. The excited typing had vanished.

John yawned quietly.
No matter how much he had slept during the day, he still had been pretty exhausted. No chance changing that.
Again and again he nodded off, once nearly fell off the chair. Another time he woke up on the bed of his friend, having his cheek nestled against the wood of the edge of the bed. It left behind a distinct visible red line on his skin.
So tired.
So exhausted.
He needed sleep. No matter how or what.

After all, the dark haired seemed to be sleeping by now, so he'd go upstairs, to rest as well. Or just claim the armchair as a place to sleep for one more night.
However, right after getting up, his cellphone rang loudly.

Thanks. –SH
10.10 PM – Sherlock Holmes

Obviously surprised, the war veteran stopped in front of the door. A restrained text from about an hour ago?
He turned his head around, watched Sherlock's hand pressing a button. And suddenly, a wave of unsent text messages broke loose.

John, John, John. You put your heart and soul in being a military surgeon. Always staying with your comrades, attending them well. -SH
10.15 PM – Sherlock Holmes

Then, again.

Mrs. Hudson told me, you've been drooling while sleeping on the armchair. Had been a nice sight, for sure. –SH
10.20 PM – Sherlock Holmes

Oh, surely how it was.
Especially the drool stain on the armchair was pronounced. A truly glorious stain.

You're sleeping, right? You think I'm sleeping. No, I'm feeling ashamed of myself. I'm truly sick. The stuff I'm writing. Truly sick. I should never get carried away by emotions like this again. Delete it. Everything. –SH
10.29 PM – Sherlock Holmes

John had to smile. He couldn't choke it down. Slowly he moved back, sat down, again. His gaze remained on the picture of misery which was huddled underneath the blanket.

If you've not erased the messages by now, this text should remind you of doing so. Delete all of it! –SH
10.31 PM – Sherlock Holmes

How many texts would follow? Well, these were absolutely enough to make him feel a little flattered. Seriously, if Sherlock wanted to tell him something particular, he should get to the point.
The man cleared his throat, leaned back, until his display flashed up again. Another text. He wondered how many he still had in stock.

You haven't deleted them, have you? You know I'm getting sentimental, do you? It's your fault, John. You're making me sentimental. It's disgusting. It's so… ordinary. So: stay. The skull wouldn't even reply to my texts. And if I infect you, I'll be the one taking care of you. Promise. –SH
10.56 PM – Sherlock Holmes

The doctor sighed, sank his hand embracing the cellphone.
Speechless he stood up, left the room. He could hear how Sherlock got up and stared at him, dumbfounded.
Wasn't he expecting this?
Slowly John put his pyjamas on, left his everyday clothes hanging on a chair. Afterwards he carried the blanket out of his sleeping room. Seconds later, he scuffled into his friend's room. Immediately Sherlock turned off the light. However, the blonde haired could identify a soft smile adorning his lips through the lights of London's streets which were illuminating the place.

"Sherlock", the ex-soldier whispered and sat down beneath him. Then, he slowly stroked the hair on his forehead aside. Finally he took his temperature. Thank God, the fever had sunk. He seemed to be on the mend.
"Mh?", his friend replied, sliding a little closer to the other.
"You're terrible!", his counterpart laughed, stroking through his curly hair briefly. Why he did this?
He had no idea.

Somehow you've got to jolly sick children along.

"Mh…", Sherlock mumbled, a little more relaxed. The young detective raised his gaze to look at John. Hereupon he pressed on the send-button for the last time.

I like you. A lot. Weird, isn't it? – SH
11.35 PM – Sherlock Holmes

The doctor swallowed. He didn't know how to react on this. He felt how his blue eyes rested on him, expectantly.
Alright.
He'd react.
Eventually he bowed down to his sweaty forehead, just to place a careful kiss on it. Then he laid his fingers down on his cheekbones, caressing them softly.
For a while Sherlock enjoyed how the hands of the other massaged his hurting temples. It was the best thing that could've happened to him right now.
They remained quiet.
The rain was pouring.
They were lying on the bed.
A car honked.
It wasn't boring; it just felt weird… doing such things among friends. A certain pressure overtook the situation. However, one showed the other in his own way, it'd be okay.
That it'd be okay this way. Touching each other carefully would be truly OK.
Nobody would have the chance to talk about this.
Nobody could see them.
It wasn't bad. Nothing bad among best friends.

John closed his eyes. He was warm.
Sure, he was warm! After all, he had fever.
It was enjoyable anyways, lying next to him.
Sure, it was enjoyable. He hardly slept the last night!
It smelled like him.
It was enjoyable.
Sure, of course, after all…

…Sherlock Holmes had become home for John Watson.

No matter how stressful it might be. No matter, what was going to happen.
The feeling.
It remained the same. It even grew stronger while being close to him.
Acceptance.
No matter what was going to occur.
Trust.
And, on top of that, no place for boredom.