Just a bit of fluff to celebrate series three finally reaching America! Rated T for John's language and sexual innuendo. Cowritten with Quadrophenia73. Enjoy, everyone!

Disclaimer: Not ours!

XXXXXX

"I'm going to kill you, Sherlock."

John Watson huffed as he let himself into the building where he lived with his husband of just six months. Sherlock had used the last of the milk yesterday for an experiment and of course forgot to inform John, forcing the older man to venture into the snowy December air for a gallon of milk from the grocery. But of course it hadn't stopped there. While he was gone, he received dozens of texts, each with an item or two Sherlock 'needed'. Now his arms were full and he was struggling to get inside.

His shoes were slick from the snow tracked in and someone had forgotten to wipe their feet earlier, creating a puddle on the landing that John missed. His right foot slid and before he could catch himself, he hit the floor with enough force to knock the wind from his lungs.

Sherlock was upstairs when he heard a thud followed by what he assumed to be cracking eggs and a broken jar, then a groan. He quickly made his way down the stairs. "John, what are you doing?"

The older man groaned and winced. Having the wind knocked out of him was extremely unpleasant and he couldn't seem to call out to his husband.

"John?" Sherlock knelt beside him.

"Fell," he finally wheezed. "Back..."

"Oh. You also seem to have damaged the groceries. Let me help you up."

John flinched and stifled a groan when Sherlock pulled him to his feet.

Sherlock wrapped an arm around John's waist. "Lean on me."

John silently obeyed and together they made their way up the stairs.

By the time they reached their door, John was lathered in sweat and his face was red.

Sherlock was almost carrying John and lowered him onto the couch. "What do you need?"

He moved until he was semi-comfortable on the couch. "Old injury," he finally spoke through gritted teeth. "Have to...try to stay still...for a few days..."

"I'll retrieve painkillers and a heating pad."

"Heating pad. No meds."

"Why?"

"Can't stand them."

"That's absurd."

John grimaced. "Maybe. But I won't take them."

"Have it your way."

He huffed and pushed the Union Jack pillow under his head.

Sherlock found a heating pad and plugged it in, then carefully stuck it under John's back.

Within a half hour the older man was more settled and his eyes closed.

"You can sleep. I'll be in the kitchen if you require anything."

"Okay," came John's quiet reply.

"Would you rather sleep in the bed?"

"Fine here. Rather..." He yawned deeply. "Rather be close to you."

"Ah. You and your sentiment."

"Mm hmm."

Sherlock hopped onto his beloved armchair, steepling his fingers beneath his chin as he stared at John's prone form.

John was quiet for a long time. "Come here," he suddenly whispered, breaking the silence of the flat.

"Alright." Sherlock sat down on the couch.

John patted the space beside him, encouraging his husband closer.

Sherlock adjusted his long body on the couch until he was between the cushions and John. "Better?"

"Much," he murmured sleepily as Sherlock began rubbing his chest.

"Good. Now I suggest you go to sleep."

Chuckling, John closed his eyes and easily dozed off under Sherlock's watchful gaze.

To Sherlock's dissatisfaction, John only slept a few hours and when he awoke his eyes were bright with pain. He shifted uncomfortably and hissed.

"Do you want some tea?"

He nodded. "Tea's good..."

"Very good." Sherlock disappeared into the kitchen. He returned several minutes later with a mug of tea.

He took the mug and swallowed a few sips. He was thirstier than he realized and the mug was quickly emptied.

Sherlock took the mug and set it on the sidetable. "Anything else?"

"Some biscuits?" he murmured hopefully.

"Very well. Mrs. Hudson brought some over earlier." Sherlock left the room again and placed several biscuits on the plate.

John devoured most of the biscuits before setting the plate aside. The pain was easing, to his curiosity.

"You seem more comfortable," Sherlock noted.

His gaze turned suspicious. "You...you drugged me!" he sputtered.

Sherlock feigned hurt. "John, I'm waiting on you hand and foot, and you make accusations?"

"God damn it, Sherlock!" He grabbed a biscuit and flung it in Sherlock's direction.

The biscuit hit the wall, four feet in the wrong direction. Sherlock snickered.

"You knew I didn't want drugs!"

"You were moaning in pain. When the full effect takes place, you'll be in a better mood."

Groaning, John turned over and buried his face in the couch.

"You'll forgive me soon."

"Fuck you."

"That, too."

To Sherlock's smug satisfaction, John eventually relaxed and turned onto his back to stare up at the ceiling.

"Are you happy now?"

His eyes were glazed. "Kind of hungry. And horny."

"I'm sure you are," Sherlock chuckled in amusement.

"I want a cookie."

"We don't have any cookies."

John pouted. "Fine. A baby."

"And how do you expect to obtain a baby?"

"You're the genius. Obtain me one."

"I can't, because stealing a randomly selected baby would be child abduction, which would place me in prison. I can't physically produce a baby, because I don't have a uterus. You need to think of something else you desire."

"Cookies."

"I already told you that we don't have any."

"Fine. Two babies."

"I also told you that I can't obtain a child for you at this time."

"Then get me a fucking cookie!"

"I truly doubt that cookies engage in intercourse, therefore I cannot do that."

"God damn it, Sherlock..." He unzipped his trousers and wiggled his hips.

"What are you doing?"

"Since you're failing to do your husband-ly duties, I'll do it."

"I'm not failing to perform my duties. Your requests are completely senseless."

"You're senseless," he retorted as he slipped his hand into his pants.

Sherlock simply shook his head. "You're amusingly high."

"And you're an ass."

"It took you far too long to make that fact known."

"Shut up. I'm trying to concentrate."

"On what?"

"Well, I have my hand in my pants, you won't give me a cookie... Be a fucking genius!"

"Self stimulation won't produce a batch of cookies or an infant, John."

"Fucking prick."

"Your language is atrocious."

"So's your refusal to get me a cookie an' a baby."

"I can't get those. I would if I could."

He sighed and pulled his hand away, sinking back into the couch. "I don't feel so good..."

"What do you need? I'll walk out of the room if you say a cookie or a baby."

"No..." He suddenly leaned over the edge of the couch and threw up.

"Oh." Sherlock cringed. "You should let me take you to the bedroom. You would be more comfortable."

He heaved again and allowed Sherlock to pull him to his feet and around the mess. He had to stop in the loo to vomit again, then the next thing he knew he was warm and comfortable in their bed.

"I'll be back in a minute," Sherlock assured once John was settled. He left long enough to clean John's mess and retrieve a glass of ginger ale.

By the time he returned, John was on the verge of sleep. He shuffled in the bed and grabbed Sherlock's pillow.

"Drink this. It will help."

He looked uncertain but sipped at the ale slowly.

Sherlock sat down on the bed, placing a hand on John's chest.

He was only able to drink half of the liquid before he handed the glass back to Sherlock. "Painkillers...make me sick," he said miserably.

"I see." Sherlock was beginning to feel guilty for giving John the medication against his will, but he tried not to let it show.

John sighed and buried his head in Sherlock's abdomen.

Sherlock rested his hand on John's head and started to comb his fingers through the older man's blond hair.

"'m tired..."

"Then go to sleep."

"Okay." His breathing evened out and he was sleeping peacefully just a few minutes later.

Sherlock adjusted their positions on the bed until they faced each other in a way that he could lightly massage John's back with one hand. "Sleep well, John."

XXXXX

Sometime during the night, they had both shifted until they were tangled together comfortably. John began to twitch uncomfortably in his sleep.

"Shh," Sherlock mumbled sleepily, pulling John closer.

He shuddered and whimpered incoherently.

"John?"

His limbs thrashed and he jerked, causing more pain throughout his body.

"John, settle down!"

A hoarse scream tore through his chest.

At a loss, Sherlock firmly caught John's lips with his own.

At first John froze, his limbs shaking and jerking underneath Sherlock's protective grasp. After a few moments, he began to relax.

"Are you okay?" Sherlock whispered.

His eyelids flickered until Sherlock could see his dark irises. "Sher...?"

"I'm here. Are you alright?"

"N-Nightmares..." He pressed his face to Sherlock's chest.

"About what?"

"W-War...you..."

"Oh. Everything is alright now." Sherlock tucked John into his side.

He was becoming more coherent as his shaking slowly subsided. "Can't have some painkillers...make me sick and give me nightmares..."

"I'm sorry."

He nodded slightly. "'s okay..."

"I assumed that you were simply being stubborn. I didn't know what effect they would have on you."

"I should have told you..." He relaxed even more when his husband held him tighter.

"I'll try to refrain from drugging you in the future."

"I'd appreciate that. But Sherlock..."

"Yes?"

"I still want a baby."

The End!

A/N: Thanks for reading, everyone, and please review!