"Aimer, ce n'est pas se regarder l'un l'autre, c'est regarder ensemble dans la même direction."
-Antoine de Saint-Exupéry
(Being in love is not looking at one another, but looking together in the same direction.)
John was only a little surprised when Sherlock got sick.
He'd been half expecting it – almost as soon as the detective had stopped working on the McKinney case, the stress he'd been putting on his body with too little food and sleep and too much adrenaline caught up with him. John wasn't unfamiliar with this; he saw it regularly at the surgery, and had seen it often enough in the army as well.
He woke up in the middle of the night with Sherlock's skin burning up against his. The detective was shaking and sleeping fitfully, shifting restlessly against the sheets and murmuring snatches of incoherent sentences. John reached out and turned on the lamp nearest to him, squinting in the sudden light. Sherlock groaned and blinked himself awake as John rolled over, grey eyes were bright and somewhat glassy. John pressed the back of his left hand against Sherlock's forehead and each of his cheeks while Sherlock watched him, looking miserable. John hated to wake him, but he needed to get some fluids into him and take his temperature.
He was running a low-grade fever, nothing serious. John fetched some ibuprofen and a glass of water, helping Sherlock drink slowly before smoothing a cool flannel on Sherlock's forehead. His hair was damp around his temples and plastered to his skin.
"Go back to sleep," John murmured. "It'll help."
Sherlock gave an exhausted nod and his eyes drifted shut again. John checked the clock before turning the light off – just a little after one-thirty in the morning on Wednesday. He'd been home for a day and a half, and now he was on double duty as a physician, although Sherlock wouldn't be too hard to care for. The virus would run its course; it was just a matter of keeping him drinking liquids and eating whatever he could.
In the morning, John set up the sofa so that Sherlock could sleep there as easily as he could in the bed. The doctor piled it with pillows and blankets and put a box of tissues on the small table and a dustbin for the waste next to the couch. He stocked their fridge with ginger ale and made sure to leave a can open on the kitchen counter at all times to lose its fizz. Sherlock didn't like the carbonation and wouldn't drink it otherwise. He actually tried to, for John's sake, but John saw him fighting not to gag.
"I know you're trying," John said, crouching down beside the sofa where Sherlock was curled on his side, half-hidden beneath the blankets, his hair a dark smear against the white pillowcases and his pale skin. John ran a hand into his husband's damp curls and Sherlock closed his eyes. He hadn't lost the circles rimming his eyes – if anything, they were deeper, almost purple, like he'd been bruised. "But you don't have to drink something you can't stand for me. It won't help. I'll let it go flat and make you some tea in the meantime."
Sherlock nodded once, a tired movement. By the time John came back with the tea, his husband had fallen asleep again, pale lips parted slightly, features relaxed. John left the tea on the small end table, along with a small glass pitcher of orange juice. Before leaving for work, he enlisted Mrs. Hudson's help to check on Sherlock periodically and make sure he had enough to drink throughout the day.
The detective spent the day asleep on the sofa and the following night asleep in their bed. At first, he'd tried to insist that he sleep upstairs so John wouldn't get sick, too, but John had vetoed the idea. He had a strong immune system and rarely got sick – and he lived in the same flat. It didn't much matter that they were sleeping in the same bed.
Besides, they'd spent enough time sleeping apart recently and John wasn't keen on doing so again. It wasn't particularly restful for him, but he also knew it helped for Sherlock to have the additional body heat when the fever gave him the chills. He curled up against John and the doctor would wrap himself around the trembling detective. It made it easier for Sherlock to sleep, which was what he desperately needed.
But the low fever and the chills persisted for four days and he developed a cough that threatened to settle into his chest. John's plan to force Sherlock to eat heavy, calorie rich foods gave way to chicken broth, toast, and weak tea. Sherlock ate whenever John made him, but he always did so slowly and couldn't finish his meals. John kept a sharp eye on that, but he knew the difference between someone who wasn't eating because he didn't want to and someone who wasn't eating because he couldn't.
What concerned John more was that with the fever suppressing his appetite, Sherlock lost two more pounds. That brought him down to eight and a half pounds underweight and he looked alarmingly thin. His pyjamas hung off of his pale frame and John wondered if his clothing would fit properly when he was well enough to dress again. He'd have to start cooking heavy food when the detective's appetite went back to normal. And getting a lot more take away.
On Friday afternoon, John stopped on his way home from work and bought a sturdy and simple gold chain. He took Sherlock's wedding ring and made him wear it around his neck, worried about how easily it slid from his finger. Sherlock hadn't had any extra weight to begin with – now he looked about the same as he had coming home from the hospital after the crash, minus the bruises, cuts and the cast. Sherlock didn't like being asked to wear the ring around his neck but consented. He slept with his left hand curled around it.
John sometimes slept with Sherlock during the day, or at least lay with him while the detective slept. After finishing his errands Saturday morning, he managed to arrange them on the sofa so that Sherlock was snuggled on top of him under the mass of blankets. John stroked Sherlock's hair and back, watching his sleeping husband's face, trying to find some hint of colour in there. Sherlock was still too pale and too bruised looking around the eyes. He was sleeping too much – of course, since he rarely slept at all, any increase seemed drastic. It was too hot with Sherlock and all of the blankets on top of him, but John didn't care.
He settled one hand on Sherlock's hip and let the other one stroke Sherlock's back slowly. Sherlock's lips were slightly parted and his breath was warm on John's face. His hair tickled John's skin and the doctor was suddenly aware of how close they were. He shifted himself slightly, drawing one leg up alongside Sherlock's hip, and wished that his husband wasn't sick.
It had been almost a whole month since they'd had sex, he realized. He missed it terribly but argued with his body that now was hardly the time. Sherlock was ill and fast asleep. Even if he weren't sleeping, as sick as he was, it was unlikely to be pleasurable for him.
"Stop looking at me, I can't sleep," Sherlock mumbled and John's lips stretched into a smile.
"You were sleeping fine a few minutes ago," John whispered.
"You're looking too loudly," Sherlock murmured and his eyes fluttered open. He met John's gaze and the doctor was glad to see that his eyes were clearer and his gaze sharper. There was less fatigue in his expression as well and the faintest of quirk at the edges of his lips that was reminiscent of the Sherlock John knew and loved. He put the back of his hand against Sherlock's forehead and was pleased to feel that it was significantly cooler than it had been that morning.
"Your fever's going down," John commented. Sherlock sighed and shifted restlessly and John winced.
"Careful," the doctor admonished. Sherlock just huffed and settled down again but kept his eyes open. John watched him carefully – they'd spent a lot of time the past four days curled up together, mostly because it made Sherlock feel better. But they hadn't done a lot of talking other than Monday evening and part of Tuesday. In a way, John was glad to get some space from it – he didn't want to hash it out endlessly any more than Sherlock did, but they couldn't avoid it forever. He had no desire to fall back into old patterns and let this happen all over again.
"I booked two weeks off at the beginning of September," John said. Sherlock tilted his head enough to meet John's eyes.
"Did you?" he asked. His voice was still tired, but less so.
John nodded.
"I want to go to Frontignan."
At this, Sherlock tensed slightly as John expected he would. He dropped his eyes and traced an absent pattern on John's chest with his fingertips.
"Are you all right with that?" John asked. Sherlock was silent for a long moment, then stopped his tracery and splayed his palm on John's chest.
"I'm not concerned with memories of my mother, John," he said and John watched his husband intently, trying to evaluate if that were true. "Not entirely, at any rate." He hesitated, then exhaled slowly. John could feel the warmth of his breath through his cotton shirt.
"What is it?" John asked.
Sherlock sighed again.
"John, if we go away and have a holiday, we will have to come back eventually. You'll have to go back to work. I'll have to go back to work. It may seem relaxing while we're gone, but our lives are here."
John nodded.
"You're worried it will seem easy there and harder back here," he said.
Sherlock nodded in reply. John combed his fingers absently through his husband's hair. It needed to be washed and was oily, but he didn't care. Sherlock would probably be able to manage a shower today without feeling exhausted afterwards and without risk of falling asleep standing up and cracking his head on the tiles or the tub. John had made him change pyjamas once a day, so at least his clothing was fresh. He'd even consented to give Sherlock a sponge bath once. Sherlock had muttered unhappily about that until he'd dozed off part way through.
"We'll just have to be aware of that," John said. "I think we could use the holiday. If we don't expect things to be perfect and relaxing when we get back, then we're being realistic. But the time away would do us good, I think."
Sherlock considered that for a few minutes, then nodded slowly.
"Are you sure?" John asked. "We could go somewhere else if you want. If it's too soon."
"No," Sherlock replied, frowning slightly. "I have no desire to go somewhere else and stay with strangers. It's my holiday home, too, John, not just my mother's."
"All right," John said, pressing his lips into Sherlock's messy hair. "I'll book our flights later today."
Sherlock nodded again and then closed his eyes. John stroked his hair until the detective fell back asleep. He lay with his husband, content to do so, feeling more confident about things than he had in a long time. It was nice to simply watch Sherlock sleep without needing to worry about his health. John knew Sherlock was right – they would eventually both be back at work and their normal lives would resume. But they both knew what had to change in their normal lives and John thought a holiday to get that started was just what they needed.
He smiled to himself and closed his own eyes, dozing off for a bit, enjoying the enforced laziness of a late Saturday morning.