John's shoes clunked up the stairs of 221B Baker Street, he was in a rush to get changed and prep for his date in an hour. A sick girl had needed a house call, and it took longer than expected. The little brat just didn't want to take her medicine. John had eventually gotten her to take it, with the "Mary Poppins" trick. The kid had taken it willingly when he gave her a chocolate bar.
When he opened the door to the apartment, the first thing he noticed was the loud bang and the bullet that shot through the wall next to the door. John glared at Sherlock, who was lounging on the couch with his pistol in his hand. "What the hell are you doing?" He asked incredulously.
"Drawing. Practicing my marksmanship. Being incredibly-" Sherlock broke off in a sniffle, then a coughing fit, then resumed, "-bored."
"Drawing? What-?" John turned to where the bullets had hit the wall. The bullets, if connected like in a children's puzzle book in John's office's waiting room, made a frowny face.
"Do you like it John?" Sherlock asked mischievously.
"Shut it. Why are you bored, anyway? You're the famous Sherlock Holmes! You should be able to get a case easily by now."
"Mrs. Hudson forbids it," Sherlock lamented, setting the gun on the coffee table as he watched his room mate shrug himself out of his jacket and loosen his tie.
John cocked his head at him, "Why?"
"I'm sick," the deducer said simply, falling into another, perfectly timed, coughing fit.
"No you aren't," John called as he walked into his room. "You never get sick."
"I wouldn't be here if I wasn't. I'd be out chasing psychopaths!"
"Like yourself?"
Sherlock screwed his face up and sent a foul look at the door to John's room. "How many times do I have to say it? I am a highly functioning sociopa-" Sherlock quickly grabbed a tissue and sneezed a couple times. He wiped his nose and disposed of the soiled cloth.
"Well, anyway, what's your temperature?" John asked as he walked into the kitchen, passing through the sitting room.
Sherlock shrugged, "I don't know. Mrs. Hudson left an hour ago for her date with a man who's been divorced, or more likely widowed recently, judging by the tan line he has on his ring finger. He has arthritis, a terrible case I'm afraid, and almost certainly he's had a face lift. Judging by his wrist watch, he's trying to impress her with wealth, but it's gilded, so he's not doing much."
"Did you tell her all of that?" His flat mate asked.
"No, I held my tongue. Mrs. Hudson deserves a nice date."
"For once you've got some sense in you. It must be because you're sick," John muttered.
"Mrs. Hudson left you a note by the toaster," Sherlock called, snuggling under the quilt that Mrs. Hudson must have left out for him.
John glanced over to see the familiar loopy handwriting scrawled on the back of a receipt. Her note said:
I'm so sorry John, but I'm going to have to leave him in your care. I tried so hard to nurse him, but he refuses every single one of my efforts. I tried to explain what he must do for himself too, but he's simply not cooperating. I left soup in the fridge so you won't have to cook.
"You don't know how to care for someone who's sick?" John called.
"Knowing such things would clutter my brain, John. I'm rarely sick, so I just get others to care for me when it happens. Mrs. Hudson was trying to use a bunch of wild home remedies, which was ridiculous. I prefer the scientific route. I'll be-" Sherlock suddenly went quiet and looked sort of green. The tall man got up quickly and raced to the bathroom where he promptly threw up his lunch.
"Sherlock!" Watson exclaimed, rushing to his side to rub his back in comfort.
"Like I said, I'll be fine. Go on your date," Sherlock insisted.
"What are you talking about? You're obviously not fine."
"Correct. Yet whenever you have to cancel your dates to help me, you throw a fit because the woman of the hour has screamed at you once again. So please, just go on your date," the brilliant man stood wearily and made his way back to the couch.
John shook his head and followed his friend. "This one time, I won't fuss. You're sick, and a fool."
"You're an idiot," Sherlock muttered in a strangely endearing and thankful way. He stayed quiet while his friend called up the girl and canceled. The girl yelled for a good five minutes before hanging up on John, who was trying to explain.
John shoved a thermometer in Sherlock's mouth before he could make some sort of smart comment. A few moments later, it beeped and the shorter of the two checked it and sighed, "It's good I stayed with you, you're burning up."
Sherlock gave him a skeptical glance, so John muttered, "103.1 is burning up you idiot."
John walked to his briefcase and pulled out a pill bottle and the cough syrup. After finding a spoon, the doctor poured the syrup and offered the spoon to Sherlock. The grown man screwed his face up with scorn for the foul smelling liquid, but knew that his friend was going to sucker him into it, or more likely force him to take it, so he put the spoon in his mouth and took it. John then handed him a pair of small, white painkillers. The doctor figured that the retching and coughing must give him a sore throat, so Sherlock took those too.
The war veteran went to the fridge to get some of the soup to heat up. As he pried open the thick insulated door, he spotted a few items his roommate must have put in there earlier in the day. A severed foot, a few germination containers, a lung, and what looked like a deep-fried finger. John groaned and pulled out the Tupperware container that held the soup Mrs. Hudson had made.
He heated it up and poured it into two bowls for Sherlock and himself. When he walked back in the sitting room, Sherlock was pulling books out of their shelves and glancing at them briefly before tossing them on the floor. "Ah! Lay back down and stop that!" John scolded the other man and shooed him to his seat again, handing off the soup and putting his own bowl on the coffee table. Then he wandered over and began shelving, every once in a while Sherlock would call out a command for a certain book to go to a certain place.
Once Watson was finally seated, he quietly listened to Sherlock's ramblings. He usually ignored half of it while he read or blogged, but now he simply listened to his room mate's brilliance. John would occasionally argue with Holmes's musings or exclaim about his friend's intelligence. Sherlock very much enjoyed his company, smiling soft, barely visible smirks whenever a compliment was payed or John had provided him with good cannon fodder for his own opinions.
After a while, Sherlock was very close to dozing off as he spoke. His fever was at it's highest so far, 104.3, and he was slightly delirious with exhaustion. "It's nice you stayed...you're so nice to have around, John," he mumbled.
The aforementioned man raised his eyebrows, "It was enjoyable."
Sherlock yawned and then muttered, "I lo...you..."
The great consulting detective had fallen asleep, leaving his friend to contemplate so many things. One was why his heart was beating so fast. Another was what Sherlock had said, right before he dozed off, although he was pretty sure he already knew. Finally, he had to battle with his earlier thoughts of "I'm not gay," when he realized that he actually was.
((Please tell me if it was good and/or in character. I still don't really think I'm capturing them right, and I really want to. Please review, they bring me so much joy. Vote on the poll on my profile if you want more JohnLock, and PM me if you've got an idea for anything that you don't/can't write, because I'm going to be bored after work this summer.))