Unless You Want a...
Cold.
John had a cold.
He was miserable, really. He hadn't had a cold in a good, long time and he wasn't lamenting that idea. He hated being sick. He was a doctor, so he hated it even more. He was meant to take care of people, not being sick himself.
He sneezed into the crook of his arm, reaching blindly for a tissue.
Sherlock handed him one. Well, more shoved a wad of them into his hand without actually having skin-to-skin contact.
In the midst of this horrible experience, John had learned something: Sherlock was a bit of a germophobe.
"Don't touch my experiments, John!"
"Wash your hands, John!"
"Don't prepare our food! Get Mrs Hudson!"
"I bought several bottles of hand sanitizer, John. Use them!"
"Stay upstairs in your own room and fester within your germs; don't associate me with them!"
It was almost comical, really. Sherlock worked around dead bodies and left dismembered heads in the fridge and worked with his Homeless Network, but, as soon as John got a little cold, Sherlock turned into someone wholly different. John was surprised that he hadn't started walking about with a face mask on.
"Thanks," John mumbled, blowing his nose roughly.
"I just don't see why-"
"Are you going to say that every five minutes?" John moaned, draping his arm across his eyes.
"I just don't see why you can't go to your bedroom if you're only going to lay there and sleep," Sherlock said bluntly.
"I'm not sleeping. I'm just-"
"You could be upstairs, in your own bed, and much more comfortable. Not to mention making me more comfortable."
"Sorry, I'm not really concerned about how comfortable you are," John muttered, rolling over onto his side. "I feel horrible."
"Go to bed," Sherlock retorted, retreating to the window. "You are spreading your germs all over the flat and it's going to be impossible to avoid them."
"You go to your room," John muttered. "If you're so concerned about my germs, lock yourself in your room," he mumbled.
"Why should I have to inconvenience myself for your illness?" Sherlock retorted. "And where did you get sick, anyway?"
John shrugged weakly. "There was a sign in one of the labs that said something about getting a cold..."
"Are you sure that wasn't for the hallucinatory fog? You picked it up in there, after all," Sherlock said, flopping down in his chair.
"Oh, I don't know." John rubbed his nose with his sleeve. "I picked it up from somewhere. Who cares from where..."
Sherlock grunted. There was a pause before suddenly-
John narrowly resisted the urge to cry out in pain. "Sherlock, stop it!"
Sherlock paused in his sudden grating away of notes on the violin's strings. "You should go to bed."
"So you're going to blackmail me with that until I do?!" John exclaimed, glaring at him now. "You know I have a headache!
Sherlock turned his head away and returned the bow to the strings.
John didn't know if he wanted to strangle Sherlock, bury his head in his hands to stop it throbbing, or run upstairs to his bedroom first. As it were, tears of pain collected in his eyes before he could stop them and that was his decision in a nutshell. He wasn't letting Sherlock see him like this, practically doubled over in pain and crying. No one, not even Sherlock, was allowed to see him like that.
He grabbed his blankets and headed upstairs so quickly that he very nearly passed out on the stairs. The violin had stopped abruptly from the moment that he had stood up, but he didn't care. Sherlock had done his damage, got him out of the room, given him a throbbing headache in the process. Good for him.
John buried his face into the pillows, hiding the tear tracks. He wasn't crying. Tears were just a physical manifestation to pain. He knew that. It just hurt his pride a little bit that his body betrayed him so quickly after the amount of pain he'd already been through as a soldier.
He lay, curled up in silence, for an indeterminable amount of minutes before he heard footsteps on the stairs. Oh, not Sherlock again. What was he going to do now? Hurl some insults at him about how inconvenient he was? Say he wanted him to go on a case with him? Well, he could go stuff himself.
Sherlock knocked gently before opening the door. "John...?"
John studiously did not answer. He did not want to talk to him.
"... I realise now that I was probably in the wrong for trying to get you out of the room. I do prefer that you keep your germs to your own bedroom, and while I'm not very comfortable being here around you, I don't have the time to be ill, I think I... should have handled it in a better way."
Despite how horrible John felt now... he couldn't not respond to that.
"Wow," he said sarcastically. "Is this Sherlock Holmes apologising?"
Sherlock shifted - John could hear the fabric of his trousers brushing. "... I made you tea," he said shortly. "I put honey it in, so it should help your throat."
John frowned. As much as he didn't want to associate with the git, tea sounded great and something to help his aching throat sounded even better. He shuffled over onto his other side, sitting up slightly. He hoped his eyes were dry. "Give it, then."
Sherlock handed over the mug silently. John took it without a word, curling his fingers around the mug for warmth.
"Is there..." Sherlock cleared his throat. "Is there anything else you need?"
"The tissues from downstairs." John flicked his gaze back to Sherlock, wondering how far to push this. Or rather, how much Sherlock would take before he went back to grating away on his violin out of annoyance. "And maybe the paracetamol?"
Sherlock bobbed his head once in a nod. "Back in a minute."
John raised his eyebrows at this easy-going, compliant Sherlock, but he wasn't about to complain. He certainly didn't feel like doing anything for himself... It was nice to put Sherlock into the 'sidekick' position. Make him into a caretaker.
He sighed heavily over his tea and took another drink.
Footsteps on the stairs signified Sherlock's return. He peered into the room seconds later. "You're almost out of tissues," he said, tossing the half empty box onto the bed. "Paracetamol's here," he said, placing it on the nightstand before retreating two steps back. "Anything else?"
John shook his head. "No. Thanks, though. You can go back downstairs," he said, a bit humorously.
Sherlock nodded. "Alright." He turned and left the room, pulling the door shut behind him.
John shook his head slightly, picked up the tissues to set them next to the paracetamol (he wasn't due to take it yet), before returning to his tea.
He had just finished his tea and was about to curl back up to try and fall asleep when he heard footsteps on the stairs again. What was Sherlock up to now?
Sherlock knocked twice and pushed the door open with his foot. "I'm not sure how beneficial, but I thought a hot cloth might... help the headache. It seems to help migraines sometimes."
"Get many of those?" John asked, although he was somewhat surprised. Sherlock was giving him treatments that he didn't ask for. That was... surprising. And good. Really good, John thought, as he took the damp cloth.
"Once in awhile. More like, overload," Sherlock muttered, "rather than migraines, but it all is rather unpleasant."
"Huh. Well, thank you," John said, unfolding the compress to drape over his eyes as well. "It's good. Really good."
"Hm." Sherlock was quiet for a moment. "I'll just... leave you to it, then."
John nodded, not moving the compress to look at him. "Thanks."
"I'll bring you lunch in a bit," Sherlock said, moving away from the bedside.
"Are you serious?"
The frown was practically audible in his voice when Sherlock spoke again. "Yes? Why wouldn't I be?"
"You never cook."
"Sometimes, John, I think you forget I'm capable of menial tasks like cooking and cleaning."
"You've never proven that you are capable," John muttered.
"I'll prove it, then," Sherlock said. "But, for now, get some sleep. I'll wake you when there's food to be eaten."
John smiled faintly, drawing the duvet closer. "Don't wake me up with your violin."
Sherlock sighed. "I won't be trying that again, no. Good morning."
"Good night," John muttered, even though it was barely past eleven in the morning.
The door closed quietly behind Sherlock and John sighed again, relaxing into the warmth that had, in such a surprise to him, come from Sherlock Holmes.
Old school Sherlock! (If I can call Hounds of Baskerville 'old school' now, with the new episodes :p) Had this in my head since I watched the episode two years ago and was continually reminded each time I watched it... and started writing it, forgot about it, picked it up again and finished it. I mean, I know the sign was there (assumingly) because of the leaky pipes and the fog, but this is good, too.
I do not own Sherlock. I look forward to your reviews! Thanks~