AN - I've only got one for now, so please please please send me more prompts! And review!
And obviously Sherlock belongs to the BBC and the Arthur Conan Doyle people.
John gets ill and Sherlock has to look after him. Sherlock realises his feelings for John because he cares and worries about him. ~ crazylittleblogcalledme
"Come on, John!" Sherlock yelled, bursting into his friend's bedroom, shirt half buttoned, dark curls perfectly messy. He opened John's draws, pulled out the first almost complete outfit he laid his hands on and threw it at the bed. "We have to go now. I'm onto something with this one, and we have to… John?" Sherlock stopped talking suddenly, his eyes roaming over John.
"Go away," John mumbled as he pulled the covers over his head. His throat was burning, his stomach was twisting into knots and his head felt like it had just been a part of one of Sherlock's more explosive experiments.
"You're sick," Sherlock announced bluntly, still staring at John.
"They weren't kidding when they said that you're a genius," John murmured, shifting slightly under the covers. His skin crawled, begging for more heat. "Now go away."
"But… but the case, John," protested Sherlock. He shrugged the shirt up his shoulders, apparently still waiting for John to get up.
"Go yourself," John sighed. He just wanted to be left alone to go back to sleep.
"But I need you on this," Sherlock moaned.
John might have asked about the strangely expressive statement from the cold, uncaring detective, if he hadn't been too sick to care. He mumbled something that sounded vaguely like "Okay, then stay," as sleep drew heavily over him once more.
John's eyes flickered open. The room was dark and warm. He found his headache had cleared slightly, but his stomach was still stirring and his throat protested painfully when he swallowed. The smell of chicken filled his partiality blocked nose. Confused, he sat up slightly. A bowl of chicken soup sat, steaming slightly on his bedside table. He gazed around, almost falling out of his bed as he saw the tall, dark figure of the consulting detective standing at the end of the bed.
"Jesus, Sherlock," he sighed, lying back down.
"I made soup," Sherlock informed the doctor simply.
"So I see," John mumbled. "Why?"
"Chicken soup helps colds and flu," Sherlock replied. "Well, it's a placebo, mostly, but it still helps. So I made soup."
"Umm… thanks," murmured John. "But I'm not really sure I can eat right now."
Sherlock shrugged, staying where he was at the end of John's bed. "That's alright," he assured John, offering him a small smile.
"I thought you had a case," John commented.
"Oh, I got Lestrade to send me some very specific crime scene shots," Sherlock dismissed. "Case very nearly closed."
"You didn't have to stay," John said, a little confused.
"No, but you said stay," Sherlock shrugged. "And you're sick. Problem?"
"No." John smiled slightly, a strange warmth calming his aching stomach.
Sherlock wandered over to the head of John's bed and sat on the floor, gazing at his head. "Are you better yet?" he sighed. "I'm bored."
Sherlock remained by John's bedside as he slept, an odd sense of protectiveness stirring in his chest. He was there to make sure John was alright. To make sure he got better. To ensure he ate at least a little and to get him painkillers when called for. He had an offer for a case that appeared mildly interesting, but found himself turning it away. No one was more surprised than Sherlock. He was married to his work. That was the most important thing. Except, as he sat, watching John sleep, he realised it wasn't the most important thing any more. It had shuffled back to make room for something more important. To make room for John. So he sat, occasionally fetching medicine or food or water, desperately trying to fend off the offending disease as it gripped John tighter.
Sherlock sat beside John's hospital bed, watching him sleep. He'd just kept on getting worse, until Mrs Hudson had insisted they take him to hospital. And now he lay, critically ill from MRSA he'd picked up from work, and Sherlock could do nothing but sit by his side. His hand had slipped into John's hot, clammy one. It lay limp, but Sherlock refused to let go. Cases passed him and he felt a pain in the pit of his stomach as John just got worse. He hated himself for caring so much, not even sure why he was caring. The only thing it did was hurt. And still he sat by John's bedside, holding onto his limp hand. He spoke to him as he lay, dead to the world, talked of the people who came to see him and of old cases John had asked about which Sherlock had never fully explained.
"Why did you do this?" Sherlock asked one day, as John faded still further. "You make me care, you show me it might just help, then you turn around and get this sick. Hurting me isn't very grateful, after all I've done for you. I mean, I'm missing some good cases for you. Get better, would you?" He sighed, shaking his head. "I did say it's a disadvantage, and look where we are now. But I can't help it for some ridiculous reason. I love you, John Watson, so stop being so ridiculously sick." Sherlock swallowed thickly, watching John. His hand was hot and clammy, but, as silence descended once more, John squeezed Sherlock's hand.
