John entered 221b Baker Street, merely expecting to see Sherlock at work at his latest exiperment, which sadly involved eyeballs (human) and fungi. Yet, the stillness took him back, just as the closed door did. Sherlock never closed the door. Being an ex-soldier, John immediately was wary, and cautiously opened the door.

"Sherlock?" he called, hoping for an answer. Nothing. Sherlock's coat hung neatly on its peg, and the scarf was there too. So he had been here. John moved into the kitchen, where someone had started to boil some tea. The stove was on, yet the kettle was set to the side. John quickly turned off the stove. "Sherlock, where the hell?" He knew that Sherlock would expect him to deduce, but he was tired, and had no patience for Sherlock's tactics at the moment.

He cleaned up the kitchen (no one else would) and was on his way to his bedroom, when he heard a faint groan. He looked around, searching for the source, only to hear the noise again. "Sherlock?" John went to Sherlock's room, surprised to see his door slightly open. Sherlock almost never went to his room, except to sleep and change. John pushed open the door.

Sherlock was lying on the bed, eyes closed, arm over his eyes. His dark curls were damp with sweat, pasted to his forehead. He had his pajamas on, yet the top was open. He was obivously warm. The blankets were pushed to the side. John realized the man probably had a fever. "Sherlock? You alright?"

"Do I look alright, John?"

"No, you look like shit."

"Lovely," Sherlock said, rolling over on his stomach. John closed the bedroom door, and walked up to the bed. Sherlock's room was cluttered with the day's clothes; pants thrown over near the window, shirt draped over a chair. John picked up the socks by the bed and threw them to the pants.

"What's the matter, Sherlock?" John leaned over, and pushed his curls off his forehead, trying to check his temperature. Definitely a fever.

"I'm dying, John. Quick, take a picture for your blog," Sherlock's voice was muffled, and weak. John sat down on the side of the bed.

"Oh, come on. It's a just mild fever, for now," he said. Obivously, he would have to nurse the man, to assure it didn't get too bad. Sherlock rolled onto his back, moving his arm.

"Mild? Its an inferno," he muttered. John smirked. Sherlock was overreacting, a bit. He certainly wouldn't die.

"Stop being such a drama queen. How about I go make you some tea, and bring you a wet rag? It could help," John was using his doctor voice; calm and soothing. He had a feeling that Sherlock would be a needy patient.

"Please," Sherlock said softly. John got up, stumbling into the kitchen. Apparently, he wouldn't be getting his night of rest as he had planned.

oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo

"Jooooohn."

"Joooooohnnn..."

John Watson sighed. His flatmate was whining his name from the sick man's room. Sherlock's fever had only worsen. John had been up periodically throughout the night to check on him. He was beginning to suspect a slight flu. He had just called in to the clinic, to let them know he wouldn't be in today.

He got up, shuffling into Sherlock's room. "Johhnnnn, help me," he was whispering, rolling his head side to side, eyes closed. He looked damn near pathetic, bright red spots on his cheeks.

"Calm down, calm down, the doctor is in," he says, going over to his friend's bed. "Oh, Sherlock. What's wrong?" Sherlock's chest was rising erradically, and the smell of sweat was stronger. John took the rag by the bed, and tried to wipe some of the sweat off his brow. His skin was hot to the touch, and John knew he must be uncomfortable.

"John," he said, "I... I feel a bit dizzy." Sherlock rolled on his side, his light blue pajama top damp and clinging to his skin.

"Perhaps you need a bath, Sherlock. It would make you feel better," John offered, his hand resting on Sherlock's shoulder.

"I don't wanna get up," he whined.

"Come on," John whispered, "I'll help you." Sherlock moaned, but when John went to help pull him up, Sherlock assisted. Sherlock, being several inches taller than his friend, was a handful to pull about, and being as he could barely stand, he leaned against John's shoulder, almost making John topple over. "It'll be good for you, alright? Come on now, nice and slow," he said softly.

Slowly and awkwardly, the two managed to get to the bathroom, and John leaned Sherlock against the wall as he ran the bath water. Sherlock had his head thrown back, knees bent. After John was done, he went to Sherlock. "Come along, now. You need to get in," he said. John put on his best doctor face, and took off his shirt. He felt awkward about the next part. After living together for so long, this was as much skin as he had ever seen. But Sherlock needed him, so John turned his head, and pulled down Sherlock's pants. He was surprised to see that Sherlock, in a rush to get to bed, obivously had taken off his underwear. Blushing, John directed the stark naked detective into the water.

Being as big as he was, Sherlock could hardly fit in the tub. His knees poked out, and he was slumped over, shoulders shivering lightly. John got down next to the bath, and with a cup, he gently poured water over Sherlock's head, much like one would a child. Sherlock was being incredibly quiet. John could only imagine what Sherlock would have said if he was his usual self.

John had just poured a dollop of shampoo in his palm when he noticed Sherlock was looking right at him, his light green eyes vibrantly shining. "John," he said softly. He leaned his head against John's shoulder, getting him wet. John didn't mind. He was surprised at the affection, and his reaction to it.

"Come on Sherlock," he said gently, "let me get finished and you can go back to bed, okay?" Sherlock slowly pulled his head back, and John began to rub the soap in. Sherlock looked so helpless, the usually loud and assertive man quiet, his knees sticking up, and bubbles in his hair. John felt very bad for his friend. Sherlock rarely showed weakness, and John pushed down the impulse to pull him close again. Rinsing the soap out, John got up and got a towel, and with some encouraging, got Sherlock out of the water and wrapped up in it.

By the time they got back to the bedroom, a trail of water was puddled on the floor. He sat Sherlock down on the bed, and went to get him some clothing. When John turned back, Sherlock was flopped down on his back. "No, no, no, come on, almost done," John went to him, and grabbed his arm, going to pick him up.

Suddenly, Sherlock pulled John down with him, and John landed pressed up against Sherlock's chest. "Sherl-"

"John, please," Sherlock said, turning towards him. John was overwhelmed; he was confused as to why Sherlock would do this. "I just; please John. Stay," Sherlock's voice was low, and quiet. John thought that it sounded like he was pleading.

"It's okay, Sherlock. I'm here," John carefully raised his hand up to Sherlock's hair, running his fingers through his thick, wet curls. He could smell the shampoo, feel Sherlock's damp skin on his skin. Electricity ran through his body as he remembered Sherlock was naked. Pushing those thoughts aside, he began to worry. It wasn't like Sherlock to need affection. "Sherlock,what's wrong? Are you okay?"

"Just hush, John, please. Stay," he said. He was turned into John's chest, curled up. The towel was barely covering his waist, and he moved his leg in between John's, sliding closer. John, realizing that Sherlock wanted to cuddle (Sherlock! Cuddle!), moved his arm underneath Sherlock's head, and pulling him by the waist, adjusted him to his body. They laid that way, silent, soothing, for the longest time, and soon John heard the light breathing of Sherlock sleeping.

oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo