There used to be a joke, one that was almost a superstition, that the most brilliant people, the geniuses and thinkers of society, were plagued with migraines because their brains were stuffed full. John had never believed that-intelligence had nothing to do with blood vessels in your head swelling-but something happened to make him realize that there might be something to those old wives' tales.
It began one sunny morning, when he was awakened by that familiar, deep voice of his roommate calling his name.
Dr. John Watson shot straight out of bed, having never once heard such anguish in Sherlock Holmes' voice before. Not when he was injured, about to fake his suicide, or consoling John about a dead baby. Never.
He opened the door to Sherlock's bedroom, seeing nothing but a tuft of dark curls above a blanket. The room was dark, and he wondered for a moment if his friend was simply asleep, and the voice had been a dream.
"Sherlock?" he whispered, so as not to startle him. He received a groan in response. John went to the windows, to open the curtains, and as soon as the sunlight hit the room, Sherlock groaned louder.
"Shut those damned things this instant, before my eyeballs melt inside of my skull!"
John quickly closed the curtains and went and knelt beside Sherlock's bedside. If anyone had asked him, he would say that the detective could never in a million years look bad, but this morning he looked positively ghastly. His face, normally a creamy paleness that came from leading an insular lifestyle, was the color of yoghurt, and there were dark circles beneath those gorgeous blue eyes of his.
"Oh, no, what did you take?" John asked, expecting to hear the worst.
"Take? I've taken nothing, but someone had better get me something before I die!" Sherlock whined. Usually he only whined when he was bored.
"What is it? What's the matter? Come on, I'm a doctor: I should be able to help you," John reminded him.
Sherlock whined again, a high sound in the back of his throat. "My head. I can barely keep my eyes open. I swear, they are pulsating. And the sun hurts them. My stomach is roiling: I'm half afraid I will throw up. My head is all foggy. Thinking hurts. What's happening to me, John?"
John couldn't help himself: he laughed.
"Ugh. Normally I like your laugh, but right now it makes me want to claw my eyeballs out," Sherlock commented. John filed that comment away for further ponderance. "Why are you laughing at me, you idiot? I think I'm dying, and you sit here chuckling!"
John placed a hand on Sherlock's forehead, not thinking. "Calm down. You're not dying. You have a migraine. For an uncommon man, you've got quite the common illness. Now, you sit and rest. Let me take care of you."
"But...I'm supposed to see Lestrade today."
"Not today you're not. You will stay in bed and do everything I say, or else I'll take you to hospital," John threatened. "Doctor's orders."
Sherlock made a face. "I never liked taking orders."
"Don't I know it. Today, however, you will. Lie back down." John gently placed Sherlock in a better position, noticing how cute he was when he was sick. Running his hand in Sherlock's curls one more time, he stood up and said, "I'm going to get you some things to help your head. If we haven't got what I need, I'm sure Mrs. Hudson will."
John hurried out of the room and into the medicine cabinet. Prescription grade ibuprofen, great. He took two of those, and got a can of Coca-Cola from the kitchen. He went back into Sherlock's room and presented him the pills and the can.
"Take these and try and drink all of this. Caffeine helps migraines," he said.
"I know that," Sherlock muttered, taking the pills with a grimace. He didn't mind taking a myriad of illegal drugs that needed to be snorted or injected, but swallowing pills was an issue. He never ceased to amaze John.
"I'll be right back with something for the nausea." John went back to the kitchen, and remembered a remedy an Italian soldier had told him about in Afghanistan. He said when he had been sick as a child, his mother would toast mozzarella cheese between two pieces of Italian bread and it would settle his stomach.
They had no Italian bread, but there just so happened to be a fresh ball of mozzarella. John couldn't remember why they had bought it, but he was glad for it. While he was toasting the bread they did have, he let his mind wander.
Sherlock being sick was unprecedented. John was surprised that he was being so vulnerable. Usually he was anything but. John smiled, finding that he rather liked taking care of Sherlock. He liked the fact that Sherlock trusted him enough-as a doctor and as a person-to take care of him when he was so ill.
Running his fingers through Sherlock's hair...it was just as soft as he'd imagined it to be. He wanted to do it again. And climb into that bed and cuddle Sherlock until he got better. Gently massage his head and neck, easing his tension, placing light kisses to his cool flesh…
The sizzling of the sandwich shook him out of his reverie. Just in time, too-the bread was this close to being charred and inedible.
As the sandwich cooled, John made Sherlock a cup of peppermint tea and brought his sick friend a tray. As he knew he would, Sherlock tried to wave the food away, but John plopped right onto the side of his mattress, and said, "I'm not leaving until you eat at least half of that."
"Then I'll never eat it," Sherlock commented, but did as the doctor ordered, slowly. "That tea is very good." He rolled his neck, but moaned. "It hurts so badly. How could this happen to me of all people? I thought my mind was above this unnecessary, mundane drivel."
"It's a headache, Sherlock. Not the end of the world. Now, lay back down and try to rest. In two hours I can give you another pill to ease the pain." Sherlock laid back down and John covered him with his blanket, gently caressing his back as he did so. Never had he touched Sherlock to deliberately or gently, although he had always wanted to. He should have been ashamed of himself for using his friend's illness for his own pleasure, but he couldn't muster up more than a slight flush of the cheeks.
"John?" Sherlock mumbled. "Will you stay with me?"
As John looked into those pleading aquamarine eyes, he knew he couldn't deny that request. Going for the chair in the room, he pulled it closer to the bed and took a book off of Sherlock's cluttered desk. "I'm right here, don't hesitate if you need anything."
Sherlock muttered something unintelligible before John heard his breathing even out. He watched his friend's face relax, and thought how beautiful and nearly angelic he looked when he was in repose. He remembered a song lyric he'd heard years ago, coming back at just the right moment, "You used to captivate me by your resonating light". How he still captivated him! From the moment he'd laid eyes on Sherlock Holmes, the man had held him prisoner with his charms.
Through the good, and the very bad (Moriarty, the faux suicide, Mary, Moriarty again), Sherlock had held his heart in some sort of cage. John had minded at first. He had always assumed he was straight. He had never been attracted to a man before he met Sherlock. But for a long time his mind was in a quandary over what to do about his emotions. He never said a word.
When he thought that Sherlock had died, he cursed himself for never saying anything sooner, for never letting him know how much he loved him. When Sherlock returned, it had been too late. He was proposing to Mary. Why hadn't Sherlock stopped him? He had to have know, had some sort of inkling, about what could happen?
In any case, it was all too late. Now Mary was gone, and Moriarty was God knew where. It was just the two of them. Again. The hurt about his daughter had faded, and now all he wanted was to have his heart full again. Full of love. And only Sherlock Holmes could fill the gaping hole he had.
After all these years, how could he say anything? How could he even broach the subject without it being awkward, possibly the end of their friendship? He couldn't, so he loved in silence and solitude, just pleased to be in his presence as much as he was.
While he was thinking, Sherlock shifted in his bed and held his hand out to thin air, as if groping for someone or something to hold onto. Without hesitating, John grabbed his hand and held it as whatever nightmare Sherlock was having faded away. Sherlock did not let go for quite some time, and John felt pleasure and love surge while he held him.
When Sherlock woke the next morning, his head was completely healed. He could barely remember the debilitating pain that had had him writhing in his bed, begging for John's assistance. He looked over to see John fast asleep in his chair, a book in his lap.
He let himself smile at the picture. John was so cute when he was asleep. People automatically assumed that Sherlock was asexual, when he was anything but. He had simply been...uninterested in both sexes for most of his life because romance was a matter of the heart and he was a man who put the needs of the mind before the needs of the heart. It wasn't that he couldn't get aroused, it was that he didn't want to. Until he met John Watson.
That man changed everything Sherlock had ever thought, had ever felt. He changed his entire life simply by existing. Sherlock valued and loved John more than he could ever express.
One might wonder why Sherlock had never said anything to John, or made a move to advance their romance beyond pining glances across the sitting room. Sherlock knew, had always known, that John loved him with equal fervor, but he had never once allowed their relationship to blossom as it rightfully should have.
That was not because he had no heart. It was not because he was afraid. It was because he felt that John deserved better. Sherlock was an addict, an asshole, condescending, rude, and many other things, on top of his sociopathic tendencies. How could he subject John to a life alongside him? How could he ever corrupt John's nature with his darkness?
He had told Moriarty that he was no angel, and he had told John that he was no hero. Both of those statements were true. John was far too good for him, and deserved a person filled with light, who would fill John's life with light. He did not deserve Sherlock, no matter how much they loved each other. Sherlock was poison, and he would not let himself hurt John. He hurt everyone he ever knew (just recall what he did to Janine), and he would not permit himself to let John get close enough to him for him to really break his heart.
John had taken such wonderful care of him, he was so loving and so tender. His touch was so sweet, so soft, that Sherlock craved more, even more than he had ever craved a fix of one of the drugs he had been addicted to. John was a much better addiction, in his opinion, and much more dangerous. So, in the middle of the night, Sherlock had feigned a nightmare to have John hold his hand. Childish? Perhaps. But he could not help himself. He had to soak up as much John as he could, while he could.
He quietly got out of bed, but John woke anyway. He rubbed his eyes, letting the book drop to the floor, which startled him. God, he was even cuter just waking up!
"Sherlock, you look much better," he said, standing up and smiling that sweet smile. "Are you better?"
"Completely; your expertise cured me quite well, Dr. Watson. ...Thank you." Sherlock looked down at him, wondering if he should shake his hand or…?
"You don't need to thank me, Sherlock," John said. "I couldn't leave you so ill. You had me scared there for a bit. That was one of the worst migraines I've seen. I'm glad it went away so quickly."
"So am I," Sherlock said.
John paused, and said, "Sherlock, is it just me, or is this awkward somehow?"
Sherlock was tempted to do what he did best-lie-but he couldn't. Maybe he was weak still from his malady, but he couldn't seem to hold back the well of pure, unadulterated emotion that welled up from somewhere deep inside.
"John," he said, "I am about to do something very foolish. If in fact you don't approve, you have my permission to slap me, headbutt me, whatever you please. Just...don't hate me."
"You pretended you died on me, and then let me marry a killer. I have been strapped to bombs because of you, been arrested, and countless other things. If I was going to hate you, I'd have hated you already," he commented.
"True."
Before either man could blink, Sherlock held John's face in his strong hands and pressed his surprisingly soft lips against John's in an urgent kiss. John stood rigid for a few seconds, before melting into the kiss. Sherlock held one hand on the back of his head while wrapping his other arm around his back and pressing his body close. he felt John's arms wrap around his waist, fingers digging into his back, as if he couldn't get close enough to suit him.
It was John who deepened the kiss, his soft tongue probing at Sherlock's lips. Sherlock let him in, and as the kiss went on, their weight shifted and Sherlock was on his back on his bed, with John straddling him. Sherlock needed breath, so he broke the kiss, but John didn't stop. He moved to those dangerously sharp cheekbones, before Sherlock felt his mouth dip lower, to lick and suck on his long neck.
That broke Sherlock, and he moaned deeply as his hips rocked up against John's. John's fingers went to Sherlock's pyjama top, and started to undo the buttons, revealing his soft, pale body, thin but with wiry muscles that John wanted to lick. He did just that, slowly making his way down.
"John-wait."
John stopped his slow descent down Sherlock's torso to look up at the man he had desired for so many years. Sherlock's eyes were half-lidded with pleasure, and his lips were swollen. Bruises were already forming on his neck. John had never seen him looking more desirable.
"What is it?" he asked impatiently.
"John, my love." Sherlock's hand caressed his face, cupping his chin. "You need to think about this before you go through with it."
"What is there to think about? You initiated this!" John said.
Sherlock nodded. "Indeed I did. Because I cannot control myself. You are my addiction, John. Not drugs. Not the cases. You. I love you. You fill my every being. But I cannot be with you."
"How come?" John demanded. He really was so adorable when he was indignant!
"Because you don't deserve me! I am-"
John held up a hand for silence. "I know damn well what you are. I could make a list. Trust me, no one knows your faults better than I do. But I love you, not in spite of your faults but because of them. Your eccentric ways make you who you are, and I love who you are. Every quirk. Every weird thing. Even when you keep body parts in our kitchen. I love you, and have loved you.
"You're right: I don't deserve you. In fact, no one deserves you. There is no one on this earth great enough to deserve William Sherlock Scott Holmes. No one wonderful, charming, or clever enough. I am just very grateful and humbled that you will give yourself to me. There is no man on Earth more fortunate than the one who receives your heart."
Sherlock looked surprised, but the look passed as he pulled John closer into another heated kiss. John pretended not to notice the tears in Sherlock's eyes, falling down his cheeks.
"I love you, John."
John looked at him, his own eyes also watering, and said, "I know, you idiot."