Author's Note: I've been on vacation for the last two weeks and somewhere along the way, this fic was born. I just love sick Sherlock. The title comes from a song by The Avett Brothers of the same name.
I plan to have more chapters, possibly one for every day of illness. We'll see how it works out. This hasn't been britpicked, so do let me know if I get anything wrong. Enjoy. :)
Oh, and none of this is mine. Goodness. I wish it was.
When Sherlock woke on Saturday morning his first indication of trouble was that it was nearly 12 in the afternoon. Sherlock never slept past 8. He was efficient, quick to rise, and quick to begin his busy days. His body hardly required sleep, yet today, he had slept in. The very thought was preposterous.
His second indication that something was off was the headache that was making it simply impossible to think clearly. He sat up slowly in bed, stretched his aching limbs, and shook his head slightly. Aching limbs, a pounding headache…
And his throat felt as though someone had taken a hammer to it.
"John," he croaked, looking around the room. Perhaps he'd been injured the night before. He was quite accustomed to waking up and being unable to remember the causes of all his pains. John, however, could always be trusted to keep up with his injuries.
"John!" he called again, a bit louder this time. His voice cracked and his throat protested at the attempted yell. There was still no sign of John. He wracked his brain but found that he couldn't possibly have been injured last night. He hadn't even gone out. It had been an unbearably dull day.
"John!" he tried once more, this time stretching his voice to its limit. He fell back onto the bed in frustration and tried to ignore the throbbing pain that had settled on his entire body.
His closed his eyes and began to assess his symptoms. Pounding headache, aching limbs, sore throat, sensitivity to light. He pressed a hand to his forehead. Definite fever. And a general weakness of the body and mind, he was alarmed to find.
Could be systemic Lupus. The signs were there. His mother had always said that he was a sickly child.
Or possibly Giant Cell Arteritis. More common in women than men, but some men did get it. It wasn't impossible. Improbable maybe, but not impossible.
Could be from something he had eaten the previous day. Something like Brucellosis, or Campylobacteriosis.
His thoughts were interrupted as John rushed into the room, his breathing heavy as if he'd sprinted there. He likely had.
The doctor was naked. Well, not naked, really. He had a towel looped around his waist, though he was holding it tightly as if he was afraid it would fall away. His chest was bare, shining with water, and more muscular than the average man's. He had clearly kept up some of his workouts from before the war.
His hair stood at all angles, as if he'd run his hand frantically through it before it was given the chance to dry.
"Sherlock, what's wrong?" he asked, his eyes wide with… panic? Sherlock had worried him then. Pity. It wasn't truly that important.
"I don't feel well," Sherlock said, sounding a bit like a petulant child.
"You yelled across the flat for me, disturbing my shower, because you… don't feel well?"
"I don't feel well at all," Sherlock said, as if this should excuse his hyperbolic actions.
John started towards Sherlock's bed, then looked down at his lack of clothing and faltered. "Can this 'emergency' wait until I'm clothed?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.
Sherlock sighed loudly. He threw his head back against the pillow but quickly regretted his action as it sent a fresh piercing pain through his head. He tried to hide his wince but John was already in doctor mode, and being far more attentive than usual.
"For God's sake," John murmured with a huff of exasperation. He pulled the towel tighter around his waist and walked into the room. Taking care to knot the towel at his side, John took a seat on the edge of Sherlock's bed
"Now you're not allowed to complain if I get the blanket a bit wet."
"Course not," Sherlock muttered, his eyes once again fluttering shut as he shifted to allow John more space on the edge of the bed.
A cool hand on his forehead brought Sherlock back to his senses and when he opened his eyes, he found John only inches from his own face.
"Sherlock, you're burning up," the doctor said, his face wrought with concern. "You must feel terrible."
Sherlock gave John a pointed look.
"Yes," John sighed. "I suppose it is a good thing you called me, even if you did feel the need to interrupt basic hygiene."
"Dull," Sherlock said, though as he spoke his throat seemed to reject the words and he immediately began coughing violently. His fit ended with his eyes bleary and his head protesting.
"Alright?" John asked, his hand coming to rest softly on Sherlock's shoulder. "You need liquids, lots of them, and…" he glanced down at Sherlock's slightly shaking body. "God, are you cold? Even with this fever? I'll bring blankets. Must be flu. It is that time of year."
Flu, of course. Sherlock always managed to misdiagnose himself. Flu made perfect sense.
"We've seen loads of it at the office," John continued, "I hope I haven't brought it right to you. I really should be more careful about the patients that I see. It won't do to have you sick."
John broke off and looked down at Sherlock. Their eyes met, and for a moment, no one spoke.
They were just here, in Sherlock's bedroom, on his bed, together. With Sherlock just as ill as he'd ever been, and John, wearing only a loose towel around his waist. As usual, they made quite the pair.
"I'll go get you water then," John said, shifting his eyes quickly away from Sherlock's. He hopped off the bed with speed, as though he were trying to outrun something. "And blankets. And, um," he faltered and glanced down at himself, "perhaps I'll throw on a jumper." He once again pulled the towel tighter around his waist. "And trousers," he added with a small smile to Sherlock. "Suppose I'll put on some trousers, too."
He was out of the room before Sherlock had the time to reply.
When John returned to the room he came carrying a small table and chair. He set them down beside Sherlock's bed, and then left the room once more. He then returned with a tray that contained several bottles of water, a cup of tea, assorted biscuits, a bowl of soup, and two pieces of toast. "I wasn't sure what you would feel up to," he said, as he set the tray on the table.
"That won't be necessary. I've decided that I'm fine," Sherlock said, sitting up further in the bed. In the time that John had been absent, he'd realized how utterly boring being sick was, and had decided that he wasn't quite in the mood for it. "Perhaps I can persuade Lestrade to give me a case." As Sherlock started to rise from the bed, he was stopped quickly.
"Oh no you don't," John grasped Sherlock's shoulder and pulled him back down onto the bed. "You're sick, Sherlock."
"I'm not," Sherlock whined.
"You said you were earlier."
"I lied."
"You never lie."
"Sometimes I lie."
"About what?"
Sherlock's eyes flickered downward. Being married to his work, lacking emotions, not having any feelings for his flat mate… His mind whirled with the lies.
John pursed his lips and shook his head. "You're being ridiculous. If you try to go out instead of staying in bed, you're only going to be ill longer. Best to stay in bed a few days until it's cleared up. I am a doctor, you know."
Sherlock groaned. "A wretched one."
"Don't be rude," John said.
Sherlock huffed and started to turn over in bed, in order to pout properly, but as he rolled he erupted into another fit of coughing. When he'd regained control of his body, Sherlock looked up to find John with a slight smirk playing on his lips.
"Now, tea or water?" he asked.
Sherlock wasn't prepared to quit so easily. "John, you must understand. There's work to be done, crimes to be solved." He paused and lifted an eyebrow elegantly. "Danger to be had."
"You think you can mention danger and I'll just forget all good sense?" John asked, his forehead heavy with lines.
"It's worked before."
"Well, not this time. Looking after you while you're feeling ill is danger enough for me, Sherlock," John said with a quiet laugh.
"Please, John. I'm bored already. Let's call Lestrade. Get a case." Sherlock gave John his saddest expression. He widened his eyes and tried desperately to appear vulnerable.
John, of course, saw right through his act. "Stop that," he said. "Water it is. I'll have the tea for myself."
"I want the tea," Sherlock said, dropping his wounded puppy act in an instant.
John ran his hand over his mouth in frustration. "Of course you do," he said, his tone indicating that he would like to hit Sherlock in the face rather than give him the tea. But, ever the giver, he handed over the cup with no hesitation.
"Thank you, John," Sherlock said, in a voice so low that it was barely audible.
"Yes, fine," John said, taking a drink of the water he was left with. He took a seat in the chair beside Sherlock's bed.
The room was silent as Sherlock took small sips of his tea. "You're not really a wretched doctor," he said finally.
A small smile spread over John's face. "Drink your tea," he said, affectionately.
"You don't have to look after me."
John set his drink down and leaned forward to rest his arms on the bed. He propped his hands in them. "I'm your friend, Sherlock. That's what friends do."
"I'm irritable," Sherlock said.
"I'm well aware," John answered, his eyes wide.
"I'm more irritable when I'm ill."
"Most people are," John shrugged. "No one should have to suffer through flu alone. These are only the early symptoms. It gets much more miserable."
"I've done it before. Alone," the detective said.
Compassion flashed across John's features as he studied the man in the bed. "You won't have to do it again then, will you?" John leaned back in the chair and crossed his legs, finding a comfortable position. He clearly wasn't going anywhere.
"John?" Sherlock said, his voice weak.
"Hm?"
"I'm cold."
John gave a small sigh and left the room to hunt for more blankets. It was going to be a long week.