"Between diving into the nearly frozen creek last week and falling into the snowbank yesterday, not to mention the fact that you insisted on not warming up after doing both of those things, I really don't know how you're surprised that you're sick," John said, pulling the thermometer from its lazy angle on Sherlock's lip.

"I'm not surprised."

"So you expected to wake up this morning and fall over when you tried to stand? You have a thirty-eight degree fever."

"I didn't fall over."

"I had to pick you up. That counts as falling over."

"You didn't pick me up. You merely assisted me in standing."

"Yes, because you fell over." John smiled smugly at the Glare he was receiving from Sherlock's pasty face. Sherlock didn't take care of himself if he wasn't paying attention. When there was a case or anything else that was very interesting to him, his priority list became a bit worrying.
John had seen Sherlock when he was suffering from much worse than a cold- they had been outnumbered, by six in fact, and Sherlock had valiantly taken a schoolyard style beating- so the slightly more disheveled man wasn't that big of a deal.

It was even a little cute -the rumpled pajamas, the overall sloucheyness of him, (which made him less intimidating and definitely not as douchey) and not to mention the mussed up, spilling out look of the black curls that topped his head like a big ploofy-.

Wait.

This was his flatmate. His flatmate whom with which he had a completely heterosexual and relationship. And he was definitely not just thinking about how adorable he looked right now.

Definitely.

John shook himself a little, coming back to the present, and realizing that the present was him staring nearly unblinkingly at the other half of his completely not-gay relationship. Sherlock had his head tilted a little, staring back with the determination and slight confusion that only a spontaneous staring contest could bring.

"Erm," John cleared his throat. "Want some tea then? If there's anything tea can help, it's a cold," he spouted, reciting the mantra that had been embedded in his head since he was six.

"Please," Sherlock answered, looking away and wrapping the duvet more comfortably around him. And now he looked positively hilarious, a big gray-ish cloud with Sherlock's head sticking out the top of it.

He has a really nice neck... and jawline... and cheekbones... and his eyes. Okay, eyes bad. John snapped his neck the other way and hurried from the room, clattering tea together in the kitchen.

A mug of tea was something he could handle.

John left the tea makings on the counter as he turned to retrieve his phone from his bedroom upstairs. But of course he wouldn't get that far. Sherlock was waddling innocently towards the sofa, the duvet held like a cape around his shoulders.
That bastard.

Seeing John's look of what he took as confusion, he merely said, "I thought it would be better if I were out here," and promptly plopped down onto the cushions. The affirmative response from John was there somewhere. Just not in an audible somewhere. Watson swiftly left the room, padding up the stairs with practiced ease. He robotically stepped through his room, avoiding the furniture and other things automatically. The whole time, a confusing stream of thoughts swam through his head.

Well I'm not gay. At least I don't think so. I've had girlfriends in the last few months. But Sherlock turned him down at their first meeting -not that he had been asking then because he was most definitely not his date- But would it be so bad if he was? He knew for a fact that almost everyone at the precinct and the surgery thought they were dating. He had stopped denying the rumors a long while ago.
But Sherlock was fascinating. He was intelligent and moody and sly and mysterious and more than a little bit crazy and all the things that John wasn't. John was still pondering this, phone in hand, when the kettle whistled loudly downstairs.

He rushed back down, hoping that talking to Sherlock would help him figure this out.
The patient still lay somewhat pathetically on the couch, surrounded by the comically large blanket. As John sat on the coffee table, he pressed the thermometer between Sherlock's lips, and surprisingly he didn't protest.

"Thirty-nine point sixteen. Your fever went up. You need to take off your pajamas." He stuttered a bit. " I mean... You need to- um- you need to put on some cooler clothes. Ahem, and take a cold shower, maybe take some Asprin." Sherlock smiled, swinging his legs over the edge of the couch, if not a little shakily.

"It's strange to see you being a doctor out of the surgery."

"I don't know why. I've fixed your sorry arse countless times," John sipped at his own mug, smiling into the rim. Sherlock stood, his flamboyant nature causing him to sway a bit, but he recovered quickly and spun towards his room. John chuckled as Sherlock fell into the doorway a little, shutting it behind him with a click.

Watson groaned a bit as he stood and made his way back to the kitchen, collecting two pills and a glass of water. When he turned around, Sherlock was sidling out of his room towards the couch. And he had changed clothes. into a ratty t-shirt and boxer shorts.

And okay, no don't drop the water that's bad.

Stop looking at him. Stop looking at him. Stop looking at- okay come on he could have at least put on trousers. Stop looking- you are not gay. Stop- don't. John no don't. Well shit, I'm gay aren't I? Fuck.

"Just take those, and then maybe take a cool shower. I'm gonna- ahem. I'll be back... In a moment." Sherlock watched curiously as John hurried up the stairs again. He downed the pills with a gulp of the water, and with a smirk, he carefully stood up for the second time in a few minutes.

John often noted that Sherlock completely disregarded sickness if it wasn't convenient for him, and this was one of those times. Holmes padded up the wooden stairs silently, slipping up to John's bedroom door and putting his ear against the wood. When he didn't hear any sound, he carefully opened the door, slipping in and sliding against the wall. He choked back a laugh when he saw the state of his flatmate.

John was sprawled across the bed, stockings hanging over the head board and shoes collapsed together on the floor beneath his feet. His face was pressed into the pillow and a low groaning sound echoed through the room.

"John?"

"What?"

"Why are you... comatose?"

"I am not- ugh," he turned his neck awkwardly to look up. "I am not comatose. Why are you in here?"

"I wanted to see why you were hiding out in your room." Sherlock stepped over to John's bed and sat on the edge.

"I'm not hiding. Why are you not wearing pants?"

"You said light clothes."

"That doesn't mean your underwear."

"Is it bothering you?" Sherlock shifted backwards and rolled down next to John.

"Not... particularly. What are you doing?"

"Laying next to you."

"I can see that, yes." John reached up and pressed his hand to the other's forehead, who barely flinched. "You're warm. Do you feel feverish?"

"A bit."

"Come on then, you need to take a cold shower." John moved to get up, but Sherlock grabbed his wrist. "Wha-?"

"You're cooler."

"We established that a long while ago, Sherlock." He almost heard the eye roll that came from the feverish one.

"You know what I meant."

"I think you're feverish."

"I'm not... Come here." Sherlock tugged gently at John's wrist and once he was laying down, pulled him into a closer embrace.

"You're going to heat up too much. We'll have to take you to the hospital and I know how much you hate that," John chided, not putting too much force into his attempt to unhook himself from Sherlock. He buried his face in the crook of John's neck.

"You smell nice." Sherlock crooned.

"Okay we're taking you to the hospital." John breathed, blushing as Sherlock pulled him closer.

"Come on, get off, your fever is obviously-" John made another move to get up, but as he did, Holmes' strong arms pulled him back down, flipping him so they were both facing each other. John's eyes widened in surprise as the detective's narrowed mischievously. John held his breath when Sherlock leaned in, and he could feel the heat on his skin and see the freckles on his nose.

"Sherlock, wha- what are you-?"

"John."

"Yes."

"You are... wonderful."

"Um, thank you, Sherlock. But we need to get you somewhere and get your fever down."

"You're such an amazing doctor, my doctor, my John," he muttered dreamily.

"Sherlock-"

And then he was being kissed. Sherlock's skin was radiating heat, and his hair brushed John's forehead.

Okay, this is bad. I mean. Okay not bad per se. This is nice. This is good. Okay I like this. I'm gay. I'm definitely fucking gay and I'm completely fine with it. I am gay. Sherlock is hot, there I said it. Oh my god, I'm kissing Sherlock Holmes.

And then Sherlock pulled away, and he looked a little concerned that he had done the wrong thing. But then John smiled, and Sherlock smiled a little timidly, looking positively goofy.
"I like you John."

"I like you too, Sherlock."

"You're pretty, John."

"Okay, how about we go to the hospital. That's definitely a good idea."

"Very pretty, John." And that's when he started laughing. Started laughing because he was laying in bed with the world's only consulting detective. He laughed because he was kissing a man with a possibly dangerously high fever who was complimenting him like a five-year-old. John Watson was laughing because his life was positively ridiculous, and he loved it.

See it's funny cause Sherlock's sick but I still torture John.

I have a problem.

Also my lack of proper research is appalling. I have accepted this.