"Sherlock, I don't know what to write," John moaned, head down on the desk.
Sherlock looked up from where he was sprawled on the couch. "Write about the case! That's what you always do."
"It was short," John whined. "It was boring. I can't think of a single way to make another missing persons case seem interesting, especially not one that just turned out to be just another death."
"Just another death. Lovely," Sherlock chuckled. "You sound like me now."
"God forbid anyone sound like you," John muttered.
"No, no, I rather like it."
"Then I promise never to do it again." He paused and rubbed his eyes. "But really, Sherlock. What should I write?"
"That's not my job," said Sherlock, flipping through an issue of The Skeptic.
"No, your job is making fun of people who actually do useful things."
Sherlock made a face. "Yes, writing about Sherlock Holmes on the Internet is so useful. It's integral to society."
"Well, not to society," John acknowledged. "But to some people."
"To a few. To a weird, sick few."
"Weird? Sick?" John glared. "What are you talking about?"
Sherlock snorted. "Do you really think any well-adjusted human beings want to read about two men gallivanting about London?"
"Fine. Be rude. Mock me," John replied, returning to his work. "Mock our main source of clients. I'm used to it."
"It's silly, John! It's just silly. What else do you want me to do?"
"Honestly?" John asked. "Motivate me."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "How?"
"Somehow! Anyhow! Come over here!"
"Fine." Sherlock bounded across the room. "I have no idea what you want me to do."
"You're Sherlock bloody Holmes! It's not really that hard for you to come up with ideas."
"Providing motivational seminars for errant bloggers isn't really my area of expertise," he smirked.
"Just… just force me!"
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Force you?"
"Yes! Be intimidating! Be… you!"
"All… all… right," said Sherlock skeptically. "I have an idea."
"I'm all ears."
"It goes something like this," he said, and grabbed John's wrists.
"What are you doing?" John yelped, pulling away.
"Forcing you!" Sherlock replied, tightening his hands around John's wrists and pressing them to the laptop keyboard. "Write," he growled in John's ear.
"You're making me keysmash!"
"I said write!'"
"All right, I'll write! Just let go!"
"Fine. Good."
Sherlock released John, and stood behind him triumphantly. John typed a speculative title. Then he paused. He looked up.
"Actually, can you do that again?" he asked.
"What?"
"Just... hold my wrists."
"Why?"
"Just… just do it, Sherlock. Please?"
"What if I don't?"
"Then I won't write."
"If you don't write, I'll hold your wrists down until you... oh."
John held up his hands.
"Fine," Sherlock said, taking his wrists again. "But only until you're done."
John carefully resumed typing.
Half an hour later, John clicked "post".
"You can let go of my wrists now, Sherlock," he said.
"Or..." Sherlock got a funny look on his face. "Or I could just keep holding them."
"You could," John conceded, eyebrows raised, "if you wanted to terrify me in an entirely new way."
"They're so warm," Sherlock murmured, flexing his grip.
"Yes. I have blood in them. Blood's warm. That's generally how it works."
"No, they're really warm."
"What, do you think I have a fever?" John asked, worried.
Sherlock's eyes lit up.
"Fever!" he crooned.
"So... you... do think I have a fever? Why are you singing?"
"Never know how much I love you, never know how much I care—"
"Why are you singing?" John sputtered.
Sherlock ignored him.
"When you put your arms around me, I get a fever that's so hard to bear."
"What are you on about? Are you making this up?"
"You give me fever when you kiss me, fever when you hold me tight. Fever! In the morning, fever all through the night."
"Sherlock! I don't kiss you!"
Sherlock stopped singing. "It's just a song," he replied.
"What song?" John snapped.
"It's called Fever."
"No shit."
"It's a great song!" Sherlock exclaimed. "Ella Fitzgerald sang it!"
"If Ella Fitzgerald wore a ridiculous hat, would you?"
"Yes," said Sherlock, picking up the deerstalker and putting it on. He grinned, mischievous. "I would. And I'd start singing this song. 'Sun lights up the daytime and moon lights up the night. I light up when you call my name and you know I'm gonna treat you right.'"
John put his hands over his ears, which were turning an alarming shade of pink. "Sherlock, you're embarrassing me, and yourself."
"Romeo loved Juliet, Juliet she felt the same. When he put his arms around her he said, 'Julie, baby, you're my flame.'"
"Sherlock, if you are in any way comparing us to Romeo and Juliet..."
"You were the one who asked me to hold your wrists!" Sherlock laughed, and gleefully went back to singing. "Thou giveth fever when we kisseth, fever with thy flaming youth. Fever! I'm afire, fever, yeah, I burn, forsooth."
"Oh, dear God." John stood up. "I'm going to bed. I don't know what's gotten into you, but I assure you, I wanted you to hold my wrists so that I didn't get carpal tunnel. Not because—"
"Right, yes, whatever, shut up," Sherlock muttered, standing up and grabbing John's waist.
"Now you've listened to my story," he sang softly. "Here's the point that I have made. You were born to give me fever, be it Fahrenheit or Centigrade."
John tried to pull away but Sherlock yanked him closer. Looking away, John let out a deep breath, and then turned and stared back into Sherlock's eyes.
"You give me fever," John whispered, relenting. He brushed a dark curl from Sherlock's forehead.
"Fever when you kiss me," he continued, half-singing as his hand moved down from Sherlock's forehead to his cheek, pulling him down closer.
"Fever if you live and learn," whispered Sherlock, bending his lips towards John's. "Fever till you sizzle."
He kissed John with an open mouth. Pulling away, he cupped John's face in his hands and stared into his eyes.
"What a lovely way to burn," he whispered.