~*~Oh dear, I seem to have stumbled into the wrong fandom. I'll just leave this here and go back to my non-updated webcomics and cheesy singing TV shows.
Or maybe I'll stay here and enjoy my new obsession. I like that better.
Musical Muse: My Sherlock Playlist. Yes, I have a Sherlock Playlist.
Warnings: I'm afraid John has a bit of a dirty mind. Few swears and such. Also, rampant fluff.
Disclaimer: To my great regret, I'm not any of the amazing people involved in the show.
Major Thank You to my amazing BFF/Lady Bromance Partner/Beta Kat.
~*~Domesticity is Bliss~*~
He should have been surprised. Shocked, dismayed, angry, exasperated, something! But no, being surprised would mean that the situation he was faced with was unexpected. And really, at this point, he came to expect the unexpected, the impossible, the sheer, bloody unpredictability that was life with his partner. The unpredictable and unexpected were normal, and normality and patterns are something to beware of.
All that said and understood, it didn't make the unexpected/impossible/unpredictable easier to deal with, and it didn't make the inevitable fallout look any more appealing.
John was stuck in the doorway, leaning against the doorframe like it would protect him from what was about to happen. But there would be no delaying it, not for much longer. He shivered from the rain-wet clothing sticking to his skin, and knew that the only way to prevent a cold was to take them off and dry off. Sherlock, in true Sherlock form, apparently had deleted that simple bit of information, if his appearance was anything to go by.
He was lying face-down on the couch, his coat and scarf abandoned on the floor. His hair was flattened to his head and glistened by the light of the lamp. John could see – even from the door – that his shirt and pants were also soaked. And he was just lying on the couch.
He may be the most brilliant man John had ever met, but he could be such an idiot sometimes.
John didn't want to say anything, because he knew he would only get a sulky response about the human condition or some other insufferable genius answer, but he was a doctor, damnit! He wouldn't just allow Sherlock the opportunity to catch a cold, not while there was an easy solution to the whole bloody thing.
He finally levered himself away from the door, so he could walk across the flat and deposit his bag and coat on the dining room table. He ascended the stairs to his own room, casting a glance over his shoulder to see if Sherlock even noticed his presence. Not even a twitch. Not that surprising.
John undressed and dried off in his room, while assembling the items he needed. Sherlock wouldn't like what would come next, but he certainly wouldn't like a cold very much if one developed. Sherlock Holmes with a cold…John quailed at the thought. He could handle bored Sherlock, he could handle detoxing Sherlock, but sick Sherlock? No thank you.
Finally physically prepared, John took a moment to psych himself up for the task, which would probably include some manhandling. He certainly wasn't looking forward to that. Not one bit.
He made a good deal of noise as he went down the stairs. Perhaps Sherlock would rouse himself on his own and take care of his own bloody mess. But John could see his hopes were in vain, as Sherlock was just as recumbent as he left him. Well, if that was how he was going to play this… John simply dropped one towel on his partner's head, and another over his shoulders and upper back. His bottom half was covered with the large blanket that hung over the back of the couch, half-pinned under the unresponsive body.
Laying the rest of his supplies at Sherlock's feet, John proceeded into the kitchen, where he busied himself with making tea. There may have been a slight rustle of activity when the kettle started whistling, but when John glanced over his shoulder, his flatmate was exactly as he left him. Wait…no, he wasn't. John realized Sherlock's feet, thankfully shoes-and-sock-free, had found their way under the pile of cloth at the end of the couch. John smiled to himself as he added sugar and milk to their respective drinks and brought them on a tray over to the couch. Placing it gently on the coffee table (hopefully not interrupting any serious experiments), he sat on the edge of the couch by Sherlock's knees. He reached over and placed a hand on the bony shoulder blades, through the towel, and shook gently.
"Sherlock? Sherlock if you don't sit up properly and drink your tea, I'm going to get cross with you." Yeah, like his opinion had ever made Sherlock alter his activities before.
"Don't want tea." Oh god, please let his voice just be muffled by the cushions, not by congestion. If he was already sick there would be no help for him, and the horror would begin.
"What do you want Sherlock?" John inquired, wondering how hard it would be to lever a protesting man into a sitting position. Absently, his hand started rubbing Sherlock's back, feeling the towel grow damp from the still-wet shirt. He hoped this was indeed helping, not serving to distract or anger his partner.
Sherlock mumbled something, but it was impossible to make out through the thick fabrics. John stopped his rubbing and reached up to remove the towel from Sherlock's head, but the head in question shot up in protest. "I said keep rubbing!" he snapped angrily. The consulting detective's eyes were closed, and he had a rather cross expression on his face. John paused, wondering if he heard correctly. Of course he had; there was no other way to interpret that remark. Maybe he was doing some good after all.
"Do you mind if I move to your head?" Sherlock seemed to consider, or at least his brow furrowed like he was considering, then nodded and laid his head back down. John's gentle hands smoothed down the towel properly over the springy black locks, then just as gently started buffing them dry. Sherlock may or may not have moaned at the sensation.
John relaxed into this rhythmic work, relieved for the moment. Sherlock was cooperating, he was getting dry, and wasn't showing any signs of having caught a sniffle. However, he'd feel a lot better when Sherlock was in dry clothes.
As if reading his mind (not the first time it seemed that way), Sherlock moved his head enough so his voice could be heard clearly and asked, "Is there any chance you brought some dry clothes for me to change into?" John smiled happily at the request.
"I did, but I hope you don't mind, you don't really have any warm-ish shirts…" John trailed off when Sherlock abruptly turned and sat up, towels flopping off left and right. His hair was a dreadful mess that hung in his face as he sat forward to inspect the clothing items John brought down. He picked up the top item, studied it, and then turned to John with a face that said his thoughts quite precisely.
John tried not to blush, and firmly fixed his 'don't argue with me I'm a doctor' look upon his face. "As I was saying, you just have tees and dress shirts, nothing warm like jumpers. I'm letting you borrow one of mine." Sherlock turned his gaze back to the article in his hands, rubbing the tips of his fingers in the thick wool. He stared at it for a long moment, eyes following the pattern woven from cream and red threads. "I suppose…you're right John." He intoned in his thick voice, eyes not straying to where his partner still perched awkwardly on the edge of his seat.
It sounded like those words alone just about killed Sherlock to say, so John didn't tease him like he usually would.
John looked away, blinking happily. This all went better than expected. "Well," he said as he pushed himself up, capturing his teacup as he moved to give Sherlock some space. "I'll just, um, find you a comb. Your hair's a bit of a mess." He moved off to the bathroom, hoping to recover something useful from the somewhat scummy mess.
Behind him, unseen, Sherlock watched him leave, then buried his nose in John's jumper. He inhaled deeply and smiled.
~*~Another chapter or two? Maybe/possibly/probably. Please tell me what you think!