Being Clever
Three damn weeks ago it had started raining and there was yet no end of it in sight. Naturally this did not prevent Sherlock from working cases and neither did it lessen their number, though you might think that bad weather was a reason to wait for a better day to murder.
They had been running around London's streets for hours chasing after some guy, who eventually had managed to escape them. Bloody bastard.
John felt fatigue overwhelm him. He wanted to drop onto his bed, but even total exhaustion could not keep his rather unpleasant nightmares at bay. When John was not preoccupied running after Sherlock, he was at surgery treating his patients or helped his friend with the 'boring' background info' of the case. He was glad the chase was over. For now.
Sherlock frowned at him in disapproval and hailed a taxi. His dark coat flipped around his legs that, unlike John's were not shaking. John winced as he pushed himself off the building's wall. Agonising pain shot up his left leg. He stumbled and fought to blink away the dark spots that danced before his eyes. Bit not good. But as Sherlock shot him a questioning look he flashed a smile at his friend and said "Nothing, I'm fine" in the most convincing tone he could muster. He did not have to see Sherlock's face to know that the world's one and only consulting detective did not believe him.
Sherlock made no attempt to get him to talk though. He simply placed his fingertips together and put them under his chin, elbows on his knees and unnervingly motionless like a statue until they arrive in front of 221B.
Purposely John led Sherlock go ahead. His face burnt hot with embarrassment and anger as he took one stair step at the time. With each step the throbbing pounding in his head got worse. He grabbed the banister, knuckles white.
Maybe he had indeed a slight concussion from when the guy Sherlock knew to be the murderer had shoved him violently against the wall. He heard Sherlock's voice from upstairs; he hadn't noticed John was still on the staircase then. Good. He seemed to be talking to the skull.
Cold sweat ran down his neck and he nearly tripped over his own feet as he reached the first landing. John took of his far too, too warm jacket. Before he could throw it over the back of his chair as usual it slipped through his numb fingers. He staggered across the living room. A cup of tea and then an episode or two of Star Trek would be lovely. Someone said his name. John stumbled against Sherlock, whose lips were moving. But John could not hear a thing. Someone had to have put cotton wool into his ears. The world around him had gone mute. He closed his eyes.
As he opened them again he lay on his bed with his head on Sherlock's lap and someone had covered him in a blanket. He felt was shivering and his back ached, his shoulder was stiff and his shirt stuck to his skin.
"When were you going to tell me that you're ill?" asked the quiet, soft and mocking voice of Sherlock.
John glanced up to read his face, but it was as distant and controlled as always.
"I'm not ill," he croaked defiantly. Confusion spread across his pale face as he heard his own voice.
"You just slept twenty hours straight, shivering like a leaf and muttering in your sleep. Additionally you have had and-" Sherlock placed his hand onto John's head, "still have a temperature. Enough evidence, doctor?"
"Yes, you idiot," said John and looked around the room. The curtains were drawn close and a glass of water and a tea mug had found their way onto his bedside table. "Though it seems like you actually care, Sherlock, I'm worried about you. Maybe you got infected."
He raised his hand and touched Sherlock's cheek. Sherlock swore under his breath in French, but John heard him anyway.
"Shut it, will you. The swearing is my area apart from saving your sweet damn arse. You'd better stick to being clever."
And Sherlock smiled.