"Sherlock? Did you take your medicine?" John called as soon as he entered the flat, knowing that the great detective was also a great fussy baby when it came to taking any sort of medicine. John hung up his coat and rolled up his sleeves, and entered Sherlock's room, ready to take care of his next patient. Even after work, John's job never ended.
Sherlock was curled up in a ball under the covers.
"No, it smelt funny." In reality, Sherlock had tried to take it many times to no avail at keeping in down for only a few minutes later would he produce a spectacular show of artificial pink. But of course he wasn't going to tell John that.
John sighed. "Alright." He'd deal with that later. More than likely, nothing was staying in Sherlock's system anyway, aside from pure fluids. "Have you been drinking water at least?" he sat by Sherlock's bedside and made sure his temperature was normal by feeling his forehead. The detective had been suffering cold seats for the past couple of nights. He still looked paler than usual, too. John felt terrible, having to see Sherlock like this. The poor man could hardly look at food, which meant John had to eat far from him.
"Sometimes" Sherlock mumbled leaning against John's hand on his heated skin. It was comforting to know that John was taking care of him. He had sweated through his shirt and the fabric was becoming uncomfortable and clingy. It rubbed against his skin with every small movement he made, but he had no energy to pull it off himself. Instead he curled further in on himself, receding further into the blankets. "I'm glad you're back John." He mumbled.
"Yeah, me too." John replied sincerely. He could hardly focus at work, knowing Sherlock was still sick at home with something worse than a could. John noticed that Sherlock's shirt was damp again. "You want me to help you change out of that?" he asked, motioning to the shirt "I'll bring you another small towel too."
Sherlock simply nodded, he didn't trust himself to open his mouth as waves of nausea were washing over him. Forcing himself to focus he untangled his body from the sheets and into a somewhat upright position. Immediately he regretted it as the room started to spin and he clung to the mattress for support.
"Whoa, there. Slowly, Sherlock. There's no hurry," said John, quickly grabbing of his friends sides as he swayed profusely from his position on the bed, face paled to an ash grey. "Slow and steady, alright?" John watched as Sherlock took a few deep breaths before he left his side and pulled a clean shirt from one of the nearby drawers as quick as he could. "Lift your arms," he instructed Sherlock, making sure not to have him perform any sudden movements. John eased the man out of his shirt, immediately dabbing away the sweat over his Chest. It was evident that the fever had returned. John pulled the fresh shirt over Sherlock's head, pulling his arms out through the sleeves. "Okay, you can lean back. I'll bring you that towel and some more water. We need to keep you hydrated. Small sip every so often, just as you've been doing all along." John reminded him.
Sherlock watched as John got up to leave and began to panic. He desperately grabbed onto John; arm to hold him back. "Please, don't go." He half choked, half yelled at John. He looked alarmed, or so Sherlock thought as he tried to blink away the tears that were welling up in his eyes. A small voice distantly told him he was being stupid, but the more human side of him tore through his doubt, and powered by the fever, his wall came tumbling down. "Don't go again. I need you." Sherlock strained and gasped on the words as he weakly tried to pull John back towards the bed. "Stay." The word came out strangled and he pulled his legs into his chest holding onto his stomach that was churning wildly. His glazed eyes squeezed tightly shut as he leaned forward and began to dry heave over the side of the mattress.
John looked more than alarmed, he looked worried and alert, ready to do anything for his ailing friend. "Sherlock, it's alright." He knelt by the man's bedside and gently urged him to release the grip on his wrist. "Don't strain yourself. I'm fight here. I wont leave you, okay? At lease, for no more than a few seconds. I need you to relax." John felt as though he were caring for a child, a scared boy with no desire to be left alone any longer. It tugged at his heartstrings. He cupped Sherlock's face involuntarily so as to comfort him a little. "I will stay with you and make sure you get better. But in order to help you, I'll sometimes have to leave the room. I'll come right back, though. Okay? Just bear with me. You'll be fine."
Sherlock desperately tried to hold back the sobs that were ripping through his chest. He blinked through his tears as he reached up to the hand that was cupping his cheek and squeezed it though it were a lifeline. He look up into John's eye's and knew that he could trust him, that he wouldn't just leave him like anyone else would. Still shaking, he bit his lip and whispered "Okay." He let his hand fall from John's and buried himself into the sheets again as he watched John leave the room hurriedly. Hopelessly he tried to wipe away his tears with his wrists to no avail, for as soon as one lot of tears was gone a new set replaced them. In the end he contented himself his hiding his face in the pillow.
John couldn't believe it. Sherlock was crying. It broke his heart into a million pieces. He grabbed everything he could manage and felt he needed immediately, taking it back to Sherlock's room in a heartbeat. "Do you feel like you're going to vomit again? Any abdominal pain? Headache?" John returned to Sherlock's side, pulling down the covers gently to reveal the man's face somewhat. John tilted his head slightly as he urged Sherlock to turn away from the pillow. "You don't have to hide from me, you know? I understand how terrible this feels. You're tired, in pain, feverish, and you mind must be melting from sheer boredom. I know how intellectual inactivity makes you feel." He brushed away a mass of curls from Sherlock's forehead. They were sticky. Apparently, he was properly hydrated since his tears were flowing freely. That was a good sign. John wiped a couple of them away. "I'm actually sort of thankful for these, in a way. It means my patient has been listening to me."
Sherlock choked back his tears and the corners of his mouth twitched up slightly. When John brushed his hand through his hair again, it felt cool and comforting against his hot skin. He wanted to lean into the touch but before he could it was gone. Confused he lifted his head from the pillow to look at John. He was so lucky to have him. John, at least, understood how he was feeling. Words still hitching he said. "Answering you questions. Yes, no, and yes." He took a shaky breath, "I'm so tired, I don't want to be sick." Again he squeezed his eye's shut trying to stop the steady stream of tears. "I just want to get better." He whispered pathetically.
"I know. You will. I promise."
XXX
John tended to him as best he could, wiping away his tears, gently brushing back his hair, giving him water, adjusting his pillow, and giving him medicine to stop the vomiting (which Sherlock seemed eternally thankful for). After a few hours, a cat nap, and John talking to Sherlock for a while so as to keep him entertained, the doctor wondered, "Still feeling nauseous?" The medication should have already begun to take affect. John's hand ran over Sherlock's head as he spoke. Somehow, he had become comfortable with this sort of physical contact. Perhaps it reminded him of the way he used to love bing treated as a child whenever he got sick.
"A little," Sherlock replied honestly, "Certainly not as bad as is it was." He smiled weakly at John, who was still running his hand through Sherlock's hair. He fumbled with the sheets for a moment before his own hand emerged and took John's mid stroke. He close his eyes as they intertwined their fingers and let out the breath he didn't know he had been holding. He felt John squeeze his hand in a comforting gesture as their locked hand fell limply onto the mattress between them. "Cuddle with me?" Sherlock mumbled, near incoherently.
"Wow. You really are sick." He teased nervously, never having seen this side of Sherlock before. He was so...vulnerable and sweet and fond of physical contact. Not having the heart to say no, John appeased his friend. "Anything to make you feel better." John was already outstretched on the bed, opposite Sherlock. He scooted closer the man and hesitantly wrapped an arm around him. "Like this?" He asked, wondering how or when the two of them had crossed some sort of friendship boundary into a whole new territory.
"mhhh." Sherlock mumbled as he wrapped his own arms loosely around John's waist. He then rested his head on John's chest, and with his eyes still closed, he listened to John;s steady heartbeat. He could feel the calming effect spread through him. Something in his subconscious told him he would remember nothing of this when he woke. And he knew that being his 'heathy' stubborn self, would never have this exchange again. Sighing he whispered "You're my best friend John. Thank you." Before he found himself slipping into the folds of much welcomed sleep.
Despite his unusual behavior and willingness to cuddle, John was still taken aback by Sherlock's expression of gratitude. "Yeah. Sure. You know I'm...I'm here to help you. My friend." He caressed Sherlock's shoulder protectively until the man fell deeply asleep. John too, soon found himself drifting off after a time. The work day had been demanding and lack of sleep from helping Sherlock of the bathroom floor every time he had the urge to vomit the past 48 hours really took it out of John. Sleep was warmly welcomed for both.
End (For now...)