221B was quiet - for once without the shrieking melody of the violin or the moans of being constantly bored. The cold wind and frost that covered the world outside was practically invisible from the warm haven that John and Sherlock currently lay in. Blankets strewn everywhere, the heating was up, trying to keep the cold demons out. A fair haired doctor was standing at the counter, using the steam of the kettle to keep him warm, two empty cups stood patiently next to eachother, waiting to be filled with tea.
'John...' A faint sigh came from the right-most door, the distant sound of shuffling being heard from the room
'No Sherlock, you're not in a well enough state to be getting up now. You've got to wait for your fever to come down...' John said impatiently, hearing several sneezes coming from the door.
'John, I want chicken soup' Sherlock mumbled, consonants being muffled by his blocked, red nose.
John felt a chin on his shoulder; thin, clammy arms coming up around his waist. The kettle squealed quietly, almost as if it too was being affected so much by the cold. The hot burst of steam that followed made Sherlock shiver, sneezing lightly into John's shoulder. John gently pushed Sherlock away, huffing as he poured hot water into the mugs.
'Well, tough, you're having tea now. I swear to God, if you make me sick, I won't share your bed for a week.'
'But John, you know chicken soup makes me better...'
Sherlock grumbled, groggily picking up the cup of tea and shuffling over to the sofa. He tucked himself under a few blankets, leaving a noticeably sized John-shaped hole next to him.
'No Sherlock. Chicken soup is the only thing I can get you to eat after a 2 days 'hard-caseing' as you call it. There is a definite difference.'
John sighed, picking up his tea and dropping down onto the sofa, pushing several heavy tomes off the table to rest his feet. Sherlock had fallen ill a few days ago, a first he was like a 5 year old, or at least, more than he usually was. Currently, he was in the needy stage, expecting John to provide him with everything.
He heard soft snores coming from beside him, an arm coming around his waist and holding onto him tight. Peeking to his left, the dark haired detective had his head rested on John's shoulder, one of his legs coming over John's, resting peacefully on his shin. John smiled for a second, kissing Sherlock lightly on the head.
'Come on Mister, time for bed. You don't want to get cramp in your neck again... I remember that day horribly well...'
Sherlock mumbled, some incoherent, the last catching of 'John' on his lips. The army doctor helped him onto his feet, letting his dead weight rest on his side. They stumbled along the hall, one of Sherlock's feet getting caught on that hideous rock doorstop he insisted on having, and pushed the door into Sherlock's room. John had been spending increasing amounts of time in the detective's room; they had taken to sitting in their early in the morning, enjoying the heat when summer had been around.
John lightly dropped the detective onto his double bed, throwing the covers over him lightly, pressing a kiss to his sweaty forehead. The silence of the room was broken by the light beeping of Johns phone in his pocket, the Mission Impossible theme song playing, suggesting it was Lestrade.
'Probably another case, but Sherlock is really in no fit state to do this one...' John pondered to himself quietly, wandering into the lounge so he didn't disturb the sleeping sociopath.
'John Watson speaking.'
'John! It's Lestrade, we need you and Sherlock to come in, we've got a big case – major profile, could cause a lot of hassle...'
John thought this sounded like someone he knew rather well, rubbing his hand over his face in desperation.
'Put Mycroft on the phone, Greg, I know he's there...'
It was half 8 in the morning, which practically confirmed the suspicions concerning the Inspector and the 'Other Holmes'.
'John. What a surprise it is!' Mycroft said, a hint of anxiety sounding foreign in his voice.
'Enjoyed Greg's place last night then?' John said, the light teasing tone prominent.
He heard some shuffling and light whispering coming from the other end, the voice getting heated, all of which John could hear perfectly over the line.
'John, come to bed!' Sherlock moaned from behind the door. The doctor felt heat run through his cheeks, knowing exactly how that would sounded to Mycroft and Lestrade.
'So, enjoying Sherlock's bed this morning then?' Mycroft said light-heartedly over the phone, hearing Lestrade's chuckle in the background.
'Hmm. Well.. Sherlock's sick, so he's not going to be able to come in. Sorry folks, it's a no this time.'
A surprised sigh came over the phone; John hastily ending the call and getting back to Sherlock, picking up his book and reading glasses on the way. He crept into the room, pulling the thick covers lightly over him, trying not to disturb the sleeping detective. He had clearly just drifted off, his body moving closer to John's back, him becoming the larger spoon.
John abandoned all hope of reading, settling down on his pillow and holding Sherlock's hand, wound protectively around his hip.
The familiar sound of the Mission Impossible theme song played again, this time shorter. John carefully picked up his phone, settling into the now readjusted detective to his side. All that was there was a single line.
'Hope Sherlock isn't too 'sick'.'
