John shivered beneath his thin blanket as another cold flash hit him, the silence of the sitting room seemingly amplifying his chattering teeth.
As much as the doctor hated to admit it, he was ill. Extremely so.
This was obviously some form of flu, John had decided, due to the aforementioned cold flashes, the fever, his aching muscles, and a long list of other symptoms he didn't care to review.
Yet he still determined that all he needed was a nap; that had been four hours ago, and now John Watson was practically paralysed on the couch, his eyes squeezed shut as he tried to ignore the absolute misery he was in. In the back of his mind, he could
tell that his fever was probably reaching dangerous levels and that he should probably take care of it. But at the same time, moving seemed to be such a labour-intensive task. He would rather stay in his foetal position and shiver than move his sore
and tired muscles one more inch.
Sherlock had left a while ago for the morgue in order to gain some new experimental specimens to put into the refrigerator for later use (much to John's chagrin), and for that, the doctor was equal parts grateful and resentful. On one hand, Sherlock wouldn't
fall witness to the quivering mess that John had turned into and be disgusted by the very sight. But then, what was John to do if he couldn't move and take care of himself? Die from a silly fever?
He'd survived Afghanistan. He wasn't willing to let himself get killed by the bloody flu.
But that seemed to be the prognosis at the moment.
John shakily brought the blanket wrapped around him up to his chin, unfortunately resulting in his feet being exposed to the cool air of the flat.
It felt simultaneously amazing and awful.
John went with the first, as he was too tired to reach down and place the garment back over his feet.
He heard a door slam downstairs, and his head throbbed from the sound. It had been so long since he'dlast been sick, he'd forgotten how sensitive every part of the body became when the immune system was fighting off a virus.
There were footsteps trudging up to the flat, and John was desperately wanting to move. He didn't like being reduced to such a shabby state, even in the presence of his own mother, much less a friend's or stranger's. But for the life of him, he could
not muster the strength to get the hell up.
The footsteps moved inside the flat, and he heard a rumbling voice say his name.
"John?"
Present, John thought to himself, thinking that if he were in full control of his currently clenched jaw, that would be how he would respond.
That same voice said his name again, this time sounding a bit more concerned.
It was a deep voice; a soothing baritone, rather, that sounded as smooth as butter. And that could only mean...
"'lock...?" the ill doctor involuntarily mumbled.
"What's wrong, John?" he heard Sherlock ask him, sounding quite disconcerted and urgent.
The question was followed by a cool hand on John's forehead, feeling the warmth emanating from the doctor like a radiator.
John leaned into the soft touch with a pleased moan.
Oh God, how loud had he been? Did he do that? Did he make that sound?
"You're ill," Sherlock stated.
No shit, John wanted to say, imagining the sardonic look he might give his friend.
But nothing came out.
He felt Sherlock's hand leave his forehead, and he so desperately wanted it to come back. But soon enough, it had returned, along with a cold metal tip being shoved beneath his tongue. The latter John did not approve of.
Sherlock's hand rested on John's head for a brief moment before there was a shrill beep, making the poor doctor's head pound even harder.
Once again, Sherlock's cool hand left.
"My God, John," the detective said.
John moaned, not liking the fact that he had practically no clue what was really happening anymore.
"It's alright," Sherlock soothed, "You'll be fine. But we need to get your temperature down immediately."
Shite, John thought to himself.
He was afraid this was the case, because a temperature that was too high meant two things: 1) That a hospital stay might be very necessary in the near future, and 2) That John was going to have to get up.
Number two was a bit more daunting at the moment.
"Come on, John," Sherlock urged.
John felt the detective's wiry arms wrap around his torso and lift him into a sitting position; the whole process was excruciating, John's aching muscles protesting the movement and a wave of vertigo hitting him as he changed his position from a horizontal
one to a vertical one. He moaned in pain.
"Shh, John, it's alright," Sherlock told him.
John was aware that his right arm was being wrapped around his flatmate's shoulders and that he was being lifted onto his feet. But the weakness he felt in his limbs only made his knees buckle beneath him. Thankfully, however, Sherlock kept a firm hold
on the doctor, preventing the smaller man from falling to the ground.
The detective hookedhis fingers ontoone of John's belt loops to keep the doctor's lower body lifted up while he used his other hand to keep John's right arm in place around his shoulders.
After what seemed like ages, Sherlock had successfully dragged John to the bathroom. He sat him down on the toilet seat and went to turn on the bathtub tap.
John nearly toppled over after his flatmate's strong hands left him, but, not wanting to appear even more helpless than he already was, he used every last bit of his strength to keep himself upright. His chest and abdomen shuddered from the effort.
He heard the water from the tap barrelling down into the porcelain tub, sounding as powerful as a waterfall on jagged rocks. But soon enough, the water stopped, and he felt Sherlock's hands touching him once again.
"I'm going to remove your jumper, alright?" Sherlock informed the doctor.
Under any other circumstances, John would have resisted his friend. But he felt so hot and cold and tired that he didn't have the energy to care.
Sherlock slowly lifted up the doctor's arms and pulled the jumper up and off, tossing it in the hamper behind him.
"And now your trousers," Sherlock said.
John blushed both from his high fever and embarrassment. Nevertheless, he let the detective undo his belt, button, and zipper and pull off his pants, then followed by his socks.
John shivered in his boxers.
"John," Sherlock said.
The doctor sighed internally when he realised what came next.
The underwear.
Swallowing hard, John let Sherlock remove his boxers, just trying to focus on his breathing which he found was worryingly laboured.
Soon enough, Sherlock was lifting John's naked form off of the toilet and lowering him into the cold tub water. John bit back tears as the water stung his skin.
"Shh, shh," Sherlock hushed him. "It's alright, John."
John wanted so badly to tell Sherlock to get out, that people would talk; but he was just so exhausted and ashamed. He simply laid still in the tub.
He felt a tear roll down his cheek, seemingly leaving a trail of fire in its wake.
Sherlock rolled up his shirt sleeves and reached his hands into the water, scooping out handfuls of water and splashing it on John, not missing the doctor's hisses of pain and discomfort.
"This is for the best, John," Sherlock told his flatmate.
John knew.
I'm a bloody doctor.
The water felt so good and so horrible at the same time.
Being ill was awful; John had forgotten how truly awful it was.
John was forced to stay in the tub for a good hour while Sherlock monitored his temperature, regularly splashing water on his chest and face. When the detective wasn't doing either of those things, he was rubbing soothing circles on John's torso.
Bloody embarrassing, John thought, not wanting to admit how comforting the touch of his friend was.
He made a small noise of pleasure in response to the hand massaging his chest.
"Does this hurt?" Sherlock asked, stopping the movement.
John lazily shook his head.
With a small smile, Sherlock continued to rub the doctor's chest before taking his temperature again.
"It's still rather high," Sherlock said, "But at a manageable level." He began to drain the tub. "Stay here; I'll return with pyjamas."
John snorted, wondering how in the hell Sherlock thought he was going to go anywhere.
As the water drained, John felt himself shivering again as air hit his bare skin.
Thankfully, his flatmate returned in good time with a pair of pyjamas in tow; a top with short sleeves and a pair of long bottoms. Sherlock thought the combination would balance out John's internal temperature well without leaving the man freezing cold.
The detective set down the pyjamas and grabbed a towel from the rack on the wall. With the towel he leaned down and enveloped John, lifting the doctor up. He used one arm to wrap around John's waist and keep him upright while he used his other hand holding
the towel to dry off John's trembling form.
"Sh'l..." John moaned.
"I know, John. Just allow me to dry you off," Sherlock said.
Sherlock ran the towel down John's waist and legs, soaking up the droplets of water lingering on the doctor's skin.
When John's body was mostly dry, Sherlock moved to his wet hair. He tousled the man's hair with a towel, easily absorbing most of the water.
He then tossed the towel aside and grabbed the pyjamas, proceeding to put them on John. He didn't bother putting underwear on the man, as that would only trap more heat; and that was the last thing John needed. One leg at a time, Sherlock put on John's
pyjama bottoms. What should have been a relatively simple task was only made difficult by the doctor's unsteadiness on his own two feet.
But eventually, John's bare lower half was covered, and Sherlock could move on to the easier task of putting on the smaller man's shirt.
John was knackered by the end of the struggle, the floor looking like a rather comfortable place to sleep to his hazy eyes.
"Come, John," Sherlock said, resuming the position he and John had placed themselves in order to make it to the bathroom an hour prior.
The detective mostly dragged his companion to the nearby bedroom, and both he and John were equally satisfied when he let the doctor down on the bed.
"Soft," John mumbled as he collapsed back on the pillow. "'n cool." But not too cold.
Sherlock nodded and pulled back the large duvet, manually placing John's legs beneath it before draping it back over the man.
The cool, soft sheets and pillow made John's preexisting headache considerably better. Though he desperately wanted to cling to consciousness, he was losing his battle.
He felt Sherlock's palm again, caressing his forehead.
"I'm still concerned about your fever," Sherlock said. "I believe a cold compress is a necessity in order to keep it under control."
John, much too tired to respond, simply let his friend do what he thought was best. He knew he was in no place to be the doctor.
He hardly registered Sherlock's absence, for a compress was produced as if out of thin air and placed over the doctor's flaming brow.
It, like the bath water had been, was freezing in contrast to the fire seemingly raging inside his body. But he put up no fight against it. After all, unlike before, he had a warm blanket to balance out the cold sensation.
Sherlock's hand pressed into the compress, forcing the cool cloth onto John's skin. Using his other hand, the detective felt John's cheek, and he frowned at its warmth.
"You really should avoid getting sick, John," he said. "It's an inconvenience to both you and me." He placed his bony fingers on John's carotid artery. "And I can't stand to see you so incapacitated by a virus."
Sherlock began rubbing his friend's chest again, still keeping his other hand on the compress.
"Water? Paracetamol?" the detective asked. "What else do you need?"
John let his mind be subdued by exhaustion.
"Tired," John muttered. "Sleep."
Sherlock nodded.
"Very well. I'll be here if you require anything else."
John cleared his throat and nestled into the pillow beneath his head.
"Th'ks."
Sherlock smiled.
"Of course, John." He brushed a strand of wet hair from John's sweat-covered forehead. "Now focus on getting well again."
And that was exactly what John planned on doing.