John sat in his usual chair, holding his paper in front of him as usual. He coughed into the pages, making them flutter.
"You have a cold" said Sherlock from the kitchen, where he was dipping what seemed to be a finger into a bowl of something clear.
"Yeah, thanks, Sherlock" John said, coughing again.
Sherlock looked up at John, who had gone back to his paper. He was confused as to what John had meant by his last comment, so opted to say nothing. After a few minutes, John spoke again.
"Y'know what, I really feel awful. I'm going to have a lie down" he said, heaving himself out of his chair. He folded up his newspaper and made his way slowly down the corridor to his bedroom, coughing and snuffling all the way. His limbs felt sore, and he stiffly manoeuvred them under his sheets. He hadn't lied about feeling rotten, and suspected this cold was only going to get worse. Knowing the best thing at this stage was to rest, he shut his eyes and let his paper drop to the floor.
John was running. He could hear gunshots all around him, and the heat was stifling him, making beads of sweat trickle down his forehead, but he had to keep running or they'd kill him…
"John"
John opened his eyes to see a face looming over his bed. He screamed and pulled himself away from the figure, but when his tired eyes finally focussed on it he realised it was just Sherlock.
Sherlock.
In his bedroom.
The concept was so alien that John nearly screamed again. Sherlock's eyes widened with concern – John wondered if he was still dreaming – and he held something out to John.
"I…I just came to give you this" he said. It was a handkerchief, folded into a strip that was about ten centimetres wide. John took it.
"For your…head". Sherlock gestured towards John's forehead, which was coated in sweat.
"Oh" John replied, lifting the handkerchief and awkwardly placing it on his forehead, "thank you"
"I was just wondering if there was, uh, anything else you…needed"
John looked at the other man. He wondered how far Sherlock was willing to go for him…
He decided to chance it.
"Could you get me some paracetamol from the pharmacy?" John asked, "And a glass of water?"
Sherlock nodded curtly and left the room. John could hear him shrugging on his coat and pulling a scarf around his neck. He wondered idly why Sherlock was being so nice to him, but couldn't come up with an answer. Oh well, he decided; best to enjoy it while it lasts!
John woke up from another nap just as the door opened. He could hear glasses clinking in the kitchen and the sound of cardboard ripping. Sherlock came through his bedroom door holding a saucer with a glass of water on it. He handed it to John.
The saucer had on it what seemed to be every paracetamol pill in the packet: there must have been at least fifty. John tried to restrain his laughter but his mind focussed on the image of Sherlock popping out each pill individually. Dying kittens, he thought, traffic accidents...phew. He'd never laugh about something like that in Sherlock's face: he knew how mortifying it would be for the other man.
"Thank you" he said, putting a tablet in his mouth and swallowing it down with a gulp of water. Sherlock's eyes followed the pill on its passage from the plate to John's lips, then looked expectantly back at the plate.
"Ah." Said John, realising what Sherlock was thinking. "You don't actually need to take every tablet in the packet, Sherlock. One or two at a time is usually OK. But," he hastened to add, "it was very kind of you to…give me all of them. Really. Very…kind" again John had to force his laughter down, and instead smiled a slightly manic grin. Sherlock smiled back quickly and left, leaving John to bury his face in his pillow and finally let his laughter loose.
Later, when John was sleeping off the last of his illness, Sherlock peered around the door into his bedroom. He walked to his bed and watched his face as he slept. So peaceful. So child –like. So perfect. He nudged the plate with the pills and now – empty glass on under John's bed and bent down. He kissed John's forehead softly and stood up, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. John's eyes started to flicker, and Sherlock left, smiling sadly as he left the room. One day he'd tell him.