Prelude:
"This way!" Sherlock bellowed in his deep baritone, as he disappeared around the corner of the dilapidated shack, into which the assailant had just run moments before. John sighed, tried to shake out the rain that had already begun to soak into his sandy brown hair, and picked up his pace. Lestrade was not far behind, whispering clipped orders to the surrounding officers, and getting into position. John ran past the side of the house, feet splashing in rapidly expanding puddles as he went, until he finally found Sherlock crouched underneath a windowsill. He quickly dropped low to the ground and crept over to squat beside the lithe man underneath the window. Sherlock motioned to him to remain quiet, pale face intent as he listened to the sounds inside. Only a few tense moments had passed when they finally heard what sounded like the entirety of Scotland Yard crashing through the door. At that instant, the muscles in Sherlock's body sprang to action as he leapt up with a shout, causing John to curse and fall sideways, giving the taller man a wide berth. Sherlock stood firm in front of the window, out of which the assailant was just attempting to escape. Sherlock grappled with the man for a moment, until an officer was able to grab him from behind and pull him back inside the cabin. Sherlock smiled smugly as he turned to John, who was just picking himself off of the soggy ground. John smiled at him reassuringly, and tried to duck underneath an eave, to keep himself dry. Sherlock hadn't been bothered by the weather previously, but now that the case was solved, he looked up questioningly at the grey sky and finally noticed the cold rain that was falling down rather persistently.
Ch. 1
John woke up as the sun fell across his face, shining through his eyelids. He had slept later than normal, as they had only gotten back five hours earlier, despite his protests. Sherlock had wanted to remain outside the cottage, just in case the assailant's brother returned. Lestrade assured them that they had men on the scene, but Sherlock had just snorted derisively and commented on the inability of the Yard to find the criminal if he was standing right in front of them. John had urged him to rethink this, citing the cold rain and the darkening sky, but Sherlock would not listen and simply flipped his thick collar up against the wind, settling in for a long night.
And a long night it was. When they had finally caught their man, John had been completely knackered, not to mention soaked to the skin, and wanted only to curl up in his warm bed—which he did almost immediately, barely stopping to change into dry clothes.
John sat up and stretched, before slipping out of bed and padding to the door of his bedroom, grabbing and pulling on a navy wool jumper along the way. He opened the door and walked out in to the silent hallway, making his way to the kitchen to put the kettle on. After he had his breakfast set and the tea was softly steaming in his mug, he grabbed his laptop and made his way into the living room to settle in for the morning. He stopped dead in his tracks when he was greeted by his flatmate on the couch, still in his clothes from last night, stretched out on his stomach with limbs draping on the floor, sound asleep.
"Sherlock!" John exclaimed, setting his breakfast and laptop on the coffee table. "Sherlock, are you serious? Why are you still in those damp clothes? You'll catch pneumonia." Sherlock stirred briefly but made no response. John sighed heavily through his nose, annoyed at his flatmate for being so careless with his health yet again. He walked over to the couch and put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder, shaking him gently. The taller man's coat was still quite damp and chilled, giving John an indication as to how the rest of his clothes must feel.
"Come on, Sherlock, stop being stubborn, you've got to change out of those wet clothes." John shook his shoulder once again, this time drawing a slight groan from his flatmate as he shifted away from John's hand. This shift caused Sherlock's face to slide further into view, where John saw that it was flushed pink. A cold sensation bloomed in the pit of John's stomach as he caught sight of his friend's rosy and sweating face. "Sherlock?" he said a bit more gently as he reached out to touch his flatmate's forehead. It was shockingly warm.
"Christ, Sherlock, you're burning up!" John pushed his growing fear away and snapped into doctor mode, flipping his flatmate onto his back and easing him out of his long black coat, throwing it to the floor in his haste. He felt Sherlock's shirt, which was also damp and somehow still chilled, even against the man's hot and feverish skin. John hurried out of the living room and down the hall, where he burst into Sherlock's room (a place he would typically never enter without explicit instruction) and opened several drawers of a nearby dresser. He quickly pulled out the first warm clothes he could find—black sweat pants and a thick maroon long sleeved shirt—and ran back to the living room, grabbing Sherlock's slippers as he went. Without even thinking about it and with the precision of a practiced physician, he stripped Sherlock out of his wet clothes and redressed him in the dry ones, carefully securing the slippers onto his freezing feet. In another situation, John might have taken more time to appreciate the scene, but this was not the time. Scanning Sherlock's prone form, he made sure that his flatmate was warm and dry before disappearing again, but this time to the bathroom to grab a few paracetamols and a glass of water. He returned and knelt at the edge of the couch, next to Sherlock's head, and shook him again, this time with more purpose.
"Sherlock," he urged, trying to wake the fevered man, "Sherlock I need you to sit up for me, okay?" Sherlock's eyes pressed together tighter and he moaned softly, trying to face away from the noise. "Come on Sherlock, I know you can hear me. You are ill and you have to drink this." Sherlock weakly tried to push John away, muttering something that could have been "no."
"Please Sherlock," John plead, starting to feel his worry creep back in. At the sound of his genuine entreaty, Sherlock sighed softly and turned his head slowly, looking over at his flatmate with glassy eyes. He saw John's face, etched with concern, only a few inches from his own. At the sight of Sherlock's opened eyes, John smiled with relief. "I need you to take this for me, okay? They're going to lower your fever."
"Boring," Sherlock muttered softly, unable to put much force behind it. John handed over the medicine packets and the glass of water. Sherlock's long fingers brushed against his own, causing a pang of heat to cascade through him. He had knelt much closer to Sherlock than he had realized, in his worry. He watched his flatmate carefully take his medicine and started to stand up, only to feel a warm hand grasp his own from below. John turned around, surprised, to see Sherlock looking up at him, now shifting to sit up. "Wait—" Sherlock began, but stopped and looked away in discomfort, hand still locked onto John's. John looked at him with confusion until realization slowly fell across his features.
"Is it okay if I sit out here for a bit?" John asked kindly, not wanting to force Sherlock to ask for the comfort he so obviously needed. Sherlock looked relieved, though exhausted. He just shrugged noncommittally and moved his legs off of the couch, to give John room to sit next to him. John plopped down on the couch and grabbed the remote to watch some telly. Sherlock had settled in deeper against the couch, closing his eyes. John watched the colorful advertisements flit across the screen, unable to concentrate while feeling the heat coming off of Sherlock in waves. Suddenly, he felt a heavy weight against his shoulder and looked over in surprise. Sherlock's soft, dark brown curls tickled against his face as he discovered the source of the weight. His flatmate had fallen asleep against him, snoring softly and nuzzling deeper into the warm woolen fabric of John's jumper. John's astonishment slowly faded into contentment as he watched his friend sleeping peacefully against him. He smiled and turned back to continue watching whatever show was playing, not paying attention to it for a moment.
Ch. 2
Heh-haatchhieww! Sherlock sighed after sneezing for what seemed like the hundredth time that hour, grabbing a few tissues from the box in his lap. He heard clattering in the kitchen, where his flatmate was making tea.
"Bless!" came a call amidst the sound of teacups chiming together. Sherlock sniffed petulantly, angry at his own predicament. He hated being ill. He hated even more that he was not able to master his symptoms and hide his illness from his friend. He still felt a tickling sensation at the back of his sinuses, creating a delightful addition to the pounding in his head. He blew his nose angrily, if it were possible to angrily blow one's nose, and threw the tissues in the bin, his face returning to its previous scowl. He had been sick for three days—actually 3,840 minutes and 48 seconds, but who's counting? His fever had broken, much to John's relief, after a day and a half, so now he was just left with the completely average and tedious symptoms of the common cold.
"Boring, completely and utterly boring," Sherlock muttered thickly, sniffing again. He leaned back against the couch, fingers steepled under his chin, scanning his mind for any successful cures for the common cold—nothing. He sighed deeply, closing his eyes until he heard John enter the room with steaming mugs of tea with honey.
"Here you are, Sherlock" John said as he handed over one of the mugs. He settled himself in the armchair across the room and took a sip of his own tea after blowing softly across the top, eyes calmly skimming the newspaper for any interesting tidbits. Sherlock held the warm mug in his hands, basking in the steam for a while, before sipping carefully on the hot liquid, feeling the honey soothe his scratchy throat almost instantly.
Heh—heh—seriously? Heh, hitchxch! Sherlock stifled another sneeze into his elbow, attempting to balance his mug to keep it from spilling with his jerky movements.
"Bless" John repeated with amusement, his eyes taking in his rather pathetic friend, as he struggled to hold his tea and grab tissues at the same time. "How are you feeling?"
"Bored. Miserable. Tedious," came the curt reply from across the room. "Lestrade won't return my texts about new cases. I suspect my dutiful brother has something to do with this" he added darkly, shifting into a position that can only be described as 'pouty.' John smiled gently, remembering his own call to Lestrade to persuade him to ignore Sherlock for the next few days. Keeping him on the couch was work enough, let alone off a case.
Sherlock looked across the room at his friend, who was absorbed in his newspaper, and took in the older man's broad shoulders, usually hidden within thick sweaters, but now displayed rather well in a thin t-shirt. His gaze raised to drink in John's tanned skin and dark blue eyes, scanning intently on whatever article had caught his interest. Suddenly those eyes rose and locked with his own, causing an icy bolt of fear to shoot through his abdomen. Sherlock fought the feeling and kept his gaze firm, haughtily returning the eye contact.
"Yes?" John asked after Sherlock said nothing.
"Just observing," Sherlock answered with another sniff. John rolled his eyes and continued with his reading, a soft blush rising to his cheeks, which did not go unnoticed. Sherlock licked his lips and rubbed his aching temples, giving in to the pain that he felt there.
"Headache?"
"It's getting rather annoying," Sherlock replied grumpily. Surprised that he hadn't received a sarcastic quip, John moved from the chair to sit next to Sherlock, gently touching his head with the back of his fingers.
"Well, you don't have a fever. It could be sinus pressure." John carefully put his hands on either side of Sherlock's head, brushing aside his unruly curls, pressing firmly and rubbing in slow circles. Sherlock leaned into the man's strong hands without complaint, finally feeling some relief from the unrelenting pressure. They stayed like this for a while, when suddenly Sherlock pulled away, causing John to look at him with concern.
Heh-hatchEEEW! Sherlock sneezed to the side, away from John, causing both men to jump. "UGH!" Sherlock groaned loudly and plopped headfirst across John's lap, causing the older man to stiffen and look down at him in alarm. Sherlock said nothing further but settled in, wrapping one arm around John's waist and resting his cheek on the man's muscular thigh. John slowly placed his hand on the other man's back, rubbing soft circles of comfort, musing about this development. Sherlock hummed softly with contentment, soon drifting off to sleep. John was left alone with just the sound of Sherlock's soft snoring and his own thoughts. His memories drifted, as they usually did, to a few weeks back when their friendship had taken a drastic turn.
"JOHN!" Sherlock called as he came in the door, slamming it shut behind him. "John! Where are you? I solved the case!" He burst into the living room with a clatter, dropping his things as he went. He found John making dinner in the kitchen, who greeted him with a smile and asked for the details. Sherlock happily explained the results of the case, with John listening intently, tending to their dinner and taking it off the stove. As John moved away to grab some plates, he accidentally brushed close to Sherlock, causing the tall man to stiffen and back up. John looked up at him questioningly, uncertain as to why he had caused this reaction. Had Sherlock looked- scared? No. Sherlock had quickly returned to an air of nonchalance as he sat down at the table, silently watching John put away the extra food and turning around to regard him.
"Sherlock, I've been meaning to ask you something," John began with a forced air of calm. He had noticed this reaction in Sherlock for a few weeks now and was preparing to enact an experiment of his own. He slowly walked closer to the younger man, watching his face intently. Sherlock's eyes widened at his flatmate's approach.
"Wh-what are you doing, John?" He asked nervously, his eyes searching the other man's, trying to piece together enough evidence to understand. John continued to move forward until he was looming over the seated man, staring down only a few inches from him. Sherlock looked up expectantly, grey eyes meeting dark blue. John bent down to make his face even with his flatmate's and stopped, watching the man's reaction. Sherlock furrowed his brow in confusion but didn't move away, licking his lips. John smiled softly and moved forward, pushing his soft lips against Sherlock's own. The feeling of John's lips against his own shot a bolt of lightning through Sherlock so strong that he jerked backwards, almost falling out of his chair. John pulled back, anxiously awaiting his friend's reaction. Sherlock looked up at him with wild and confused eyes. He stood up to his full height, now looking down at his close friend—his best friend, who was watching patiently. Sherlock, thoughts and scenarios running through his head at full speed, cleared his throat and finally spoke,
"Interesting," he said simply, causing his friend to frown slightly.
"Interesting?" John asked with confusion. "That's… it?" He hoped he managed to suppress the disappointment from his voice. He hadn't. Sherlock watched him silently before raising a hand to brush the curls from his face.
"Well, John, I can't make any deductions before I have enough evidence." He smirked, bent down to John's height, pressing his lips against the older man's more firmly than before. He felt John's lips smile against his own as he returned the kiss, running his strong fingers through his flatmate's curly hair.
Return:
John was interrupted from his reverie by a grunt from his sleeping friend, or lover, or whatever they were these days. He looked down fondly at Sherlock and continued to massage soft circles into his back. John leaned his head back onto couch and closed his eyes, savoring the warmth from his friend, as he too drifted off to sleep.