[Author's Note: I just re-watched the 'Rub Some Bacon On It' video by Rhett and Link, wherein the answer to all life's problems is 'rub some bacon on it.' "Sherlock and John won't snog." I thought. An image of Sherlock licking bacon grease off John popped up... =X
PS! Sherlock with a cold? I will have to write that...]
It was morning in 221B. John had woken up late, made some bacon, and turned on the electric kettle. Now he sat with his newspaper, munching on his bacon and waiting for the water to boil. He cast a glance out the window. The sky was a dark grey and rain was falling with a vengeance.
"I wonder where Sherlock is," He thought, turning to the crime section. "It's raining like hell now and I'm sure the bastard didn't think to bring an umbrella." The image of a cranky Sherlock with a cold leapt into his mind. He grimaced. He'd never seen the Great Counselling Detective sick before; he was sure it would be an absolute nightmare.
There was nothing interesting in the paper. John finished off the bacon and was about to check up on the tea when the door was thrown open. A very cold, wet, and miserable looking Sherlock stood in the doorway. He walked in, throwing his sopping coat and scarf to the floor.
"Complete waste of time," He said through gritted teeth. "Wouldn't even let me near the body, and they kept making the stupidest comments..."
John winced. "Sherlock, the floor is not the place for wet-" He started, but stopped when he noticed the look on Sherlock's face. The man stood stock-still in front of the open door, wearing an expression of blank shock.
"Sherlock?" John asked. "Sherlock, what is it?"
"Is that bacon?" Sherlock asked in an almost sighing voice.
"What? Yes. Yes, it- I mean it was bacon." John said, slightly confused. "Why, what was in-" He stopped when he saw Sherlock walking towards him. "Oh god, maybe it was an experiment." He thought in terror.
"Sherlock, why wasn't I supposed to eat the bacon?" He asked, his panic beginning to seep into his speech.
"The bacon? Fine. Absolutely fine." Sherlock responded distractedly. He kept taking slow strides toward John. As he came closer, John could see that the man looked very cold. His lips were blue and and his jaw was clenched to keep it from chattering. He was now only feet away. John could now see Sherlock's minute shivering, an undoubtedly annoying involuntary movement to the detective. Sherlock leaned down and put his hands on the chair's armrests.
"Sherlock, why are-" He started before Sherlock moved in, closing the gap between them. Sherlock's lips were startlingly cold and John could feel the other man's tongue drift over his mouth. John felt his own heart skip a bit and was about to pull away when Sherlock drew back and walked into the kitchen to turn off the now-boiling kettle, leaving John to stare blankly at the wall.
Sherlock came back into the the room sipping his tea. John realized dully that this was the first time he had ever seen him make something for himself.
"Sherlock," He said slowly.
"Hm?" Sherlock hummed over the rim of his cup. John noticed that his lips were no longer blue and that his shivering had stopped.
"You forgot to shut the door." He said lamely. Amazingly, Sherlock moved to shut it. Then he flopped back down into his chair, kicking off his shoes and tucking his feet beneath him. There was silence, only punctured by the patter of the rain outside.
Finally, John could take it no longer. "Why did you ...kiss... me?" He asked, staring at Sherlock, who looked completely unfazed.
There was a pause. "You smelled like bacon." Sherlock said, as if it were the most logical thing in the world.
"I- excuse me?" John spluttered. Sherlock looked up at him in mild surprise.
"I smelled like bacon," John continued, "So you thought it was a good idea to snog me."
"Yes." Sherlock said with the same calm air.
"Oookay." John said. A second went by. "Couldn't you have... I dunno, shaken my hand? Licked the plate? Congratulated me on my fantastically bacon-ish sent?" He burst out.
"Did you mind it?" Sherlock asked.
"Did I- that's not relevant!" John shouted, feeling glad for the the opportunity to be angry about the situation.
"Yes it is." Sherlock said, fixing him with a level gaze. "And you didn't seem to mind it that much. ...Besides," He said, a bit more quietly. "I was cold."
"YOU WERE-" John made himself keep his voice down. Mrs. Hudson was the LAST thing he needed in this conversation. "You were cold, so you took it into your head to go kiss your colleague." He finished in a lower voice.
"Well, not in so many words-" Sherlock tried defensively, before he was cut off.
"YES, in so many words!" John said, his voice rising again. "Those words and a just a few more!"
"Really, John. It was just a taste." Sherlock said calmly.
John made a frustrated noise and leaned back into his armchair. He didn't want to be reminded about the tasting.
"If it makes you feel any better, my body temperature has risen slightly." Sherlock added hopefully into the uncomfortable silence.
"I'm sure it has." John shot back. There was another awkward moment in which Sherlock swirled his tea and John stared fixedly at the earmuffed moose skull hanging on the wall. It was Sherlock that finally broke it seconds later.
"John," He started. "I wish to apologize for my invading your personal space earlier."
John gave a half-amused grunt.
"And I would like to say that bacon tastes delicious on you." Sherlock continued.
John shot him an exasperated look, holding Sherlock's gaze until the man began to look uncomfortable.
"Are you hungry? I think there's still some-" John started.
"Bacon?" Sherlock finished for him. "That would be splendid."
John got up and moved into the kitchen, thankful to be away from the uncomfortable air of the sitting room. He finished frying up more bacon, scraped it onto a clean plate, and walked back into the room with it. He set the plate down on the table between them and watched as Sherlock ate the bacon with his fingers. He wondered when the detective had last eaten; he had been gone for about 24 hours. It occurred to him that he must still be cold. His hair was wet and the room had lost some heat thanks to the door being left open.
"I'll fetch you a blanket." John offered and moved toward his room. As he was mounting the stairs, he heard Sherlock mumble something.
He came back with his warmest quilt and draped it over Sherlock's shoulders. He couldn't help but notice how he pulled it closer around him, almost like a child holding onto a favorite stuffed toy.
"What did you say? A moment ago." He asked, sitting in his own chair.
"I said thank you." Sherlock said almost sheepishly.
"Oh. You're welcome." John said. There was a peaceful moment full of the sound of rain and Sherlock's munching.
THE END