Note: I don't own any of the characters from the Sherlock BBC television series, nor any of the characters created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
Pt Jungle Revelation
The time spent waiting before following a suspected criminal could definitely be boring, Sherlock thought. Especially on a cold November evening when you could see your own breath. He appreciated it when John was along. When they had to wait longer his presence seemed to make time go by faster. They could have intelligent conversations or find things to joke about with each other. He could rely on him and trusted him with is life.
It had started to rain, but Sherlock was determined to wait for a while yet to see if their current suspect would show. He insisted John take cover from the rain in a recessed doorway just around the corner of the warehouse this person of interest was in while he would stay at the corner to be able to see when he would come out.
Rain turned into pouring. His hair lay flat, and though the collar on his coat was turned up, or because of it, water ran down the back of his neck. He could feel it trickle down his spine, his shirt already stuck to his shoulder blades. Even though his wool coat was quite water resistant this current not abating onslaught was starting to penetrate it.
John was getting annoyed at his stubbornness, insistently hissed it was "not worth getting pneumonia over a bloody suspect!". John, bless him, concerned for his health, overreacting being a doctor, his friend being protective, loyal John... Sherlock looked back at John huddled in the doorway sending him furious looks. He liked it when John looked so fierce on account of him... What kind of sentiment was it that he was feeling for John, he wondered. Fondness?
His underwear was starting to cling to his arse. Even if their suspect showed he'd be quite uncomfortable and weighed down following him. Then John would get wet too... He didn't really want him to suffer the same amount of miserable wetness. Conceding defeat to the elements, he retreated to the doorway to stand beside John.
"Let's go home. We'll catch up with him some other time."
"Finally!" John huffed in exasperation. He took Sherlock's hand to test his body temperature. "You're freezing! I'm calling a cab! Not going to wait by the curb for who knows how long!" He already had his phone out and gave the address where to pick them up.
Sherlock looked at his hand where John had touched it. John's touch had been warm. He found this physical expression of his concern comforting and reassuring. He looked at John's face. It looked warm now as well, even though he'd been upset with Sherlock just a short while ago. There was this soft glow about his face. How could he look warm when he himself felt so cold?
Their cab showed up a few minutes later. Sherlock got in first, then John. The rain had even run down his legs inside of his trousers, his socks were wet inside his shoes. John took his one hand, rubbed it between his own hands, trying to generate some warmth through friction, also blowing on it. After a few minutes he did the same to Sherlock's other hand. As a result his fingers felt slightly less stiff. When they got off at Baker Street there was a large wet imprint left where Sherlock had sat.
John had glanced at him occasionally in the cab to see how he was doing. Now he held the door open for him.
"Do you want me to help you up the stairs?" John offered kindly noticing Sherlock's slightly shivering gait.
"I'm not an invalid," he snapped, "just wet! - Sorry..."
"Fine. I'll go ahead and pour you a warm bath."
Sherlock took a deep breath before working his way up the stairs holding on to the railing. Every step produced a squishy sound from his shoes, as if they wanted to add insult to injury. John had left the apartment door open for him. He pushed it closed once he was inside. The bath water was already running.
"Bathroom!" John called from inside as Sherlock shuffled towards it.
He tried to open the buttons of his dripping coat, but it felt like too much work.
"Want some help?" John offered observing his struggle.
Sherlock just nodded, exhausted. John had the buttons open in no time and took his coat off him revealing his wet clothes sticking to his well shaped body. He did see John taking notice of his hard nipples and defined upper body muscles, had enough energy to roll his eyes at that. After an only half-hearted attempt at opening the shirt buttons himself he simply held out his arm to John, indicating his request for further assistance.
"Right then," was all John said, licking his lips, reaching to open the button on the cuff. The other buttons were opened and Sherlock's shirt pulled off, joining his wet coat on the floor. The bathtub was full enough now so John turned the water off. He came back to Sherlock who had made no effort to take his trousers off, which earned him a pointed look at his waistband.
"Are you going to take these off? Or you want me to do it because you're not capable, or too lazy?"
Sherlock looked up at the ceiling. "You go ahead. I just can't be bothered." Really, John? I think I know you won't mind taking them off!
John pursed his lips but proceeded to open the buckle and zipper on Sherlock's trousers without hesitation. "What about your pants? Take them off at the same time, so we have to do this only once?" He looked at Sherlock.
It should be obvious to John that, of course, at this time Sherlock preferred to have to lift each leg only once! "Yes, hurry up!" His teeth started to chatter.
John undid the laces on his shoes, pulled down his trousers and pants, then knelt down, choosing not to look at Sherlock's private parts. "Come on, lift your leg." Sherlock steadied himself on John's shoulder, lifted his leg enough for John to pull a shoe, trouser and pant leg and sock off on one side, then they repeated the process on the other side. Sherlock folded his arms around himself as if that could stop the shivering that had started. In a perfect world at this point in time he wished John would carry him over to the tub and gently lower him into it so the warm water would warm up his body. He started taking small steps toward the tub, leaping was out of the question.
John let water from his shoes drip into the sink, then piled the socks, pants, shirt and trousers into it to let them drain while admiring Sherlock's back profile. "Here, let me help you," he came over to help Sherlock get safely into the tub, then put a towel in close reach for drying off later. "If you're going to be okay for a while I'll go make some tea."
"Thanks, John!" The warm water didn't feel as warm as it normally would, yet stung a little. John had left the bathroom door open, probably to hear him better in case he needed anything. Since his knees stuck out of the water he changed position to lie on his front, feet sticking out, to give his knees opportunity to warm up as well. He also tried turning to both sides. They probably should get a longer tub.
When he felt sufficiently warmed he washed up and shampooed his hair, opened the drain, rinsed off, then braved the room temperature air to step out of the tub. He towelled off, rinsed the tub out, hung the tub mat over the edge and his towel up, combed his hair, applied some body lotion, then put on his bathrobe. In his bedroom he put on warmer clothes: thick socks, fresh pants, lounge pants and a cashmere sweater, then joined John on the couch in the living room.
While Sherlock got changed John hung up his wet coat above the tub, then brought the teapot, two mugs and some biscuits to the coffee table.
"Feel better?" he asked when Sherlock settled beside him. He poured tea for both of them and shoved a small plate with biscuits in front of Sherlock.
Sherlock sighed. "Yes, better."
"You eat something!" John insisted.
Sherlock took a biscuit, nibbled at it heeding John's admonition. The hot tea further helped warm him. They spent some time just sitting quietly, John reading a magazine, Sherlock thinking. When he caught himself falling asleep he excused himself. Before retiring to his bedroom he looked at John again. He still had that warm glow about him. John was so caring... What was it that he was feeling for John?
ooo
"Why does my head hurt?" Sherlock complained the next morning from across the kitchen table.
At that, John, who had been staring into space, lost in thought, chewing on his piece of toast, looked at his friend. Sherlock's hair appeared clammy, his face flushed. His piece of toast only had two bites missing, his teacup was still half full.
"My eyes hurt, too. Do something!" Sherlock demanded. He sounded woeful.
"Maybe you're getting a cold from having gotten soaked last night." John got up, walked over to Sherlock's side. "May I?" he asked holding his hand near Sherlock's forehead, waiting for permission to touch. Sherlock nodded. His forehead felt quite warm to John's touch.
"Hm, elevated temperature at the very least. Let me get the thermometer so we can take it properly. Think you can finish your tea? You can make yourself comfortable on the couch then if you'd like."
Sherlock finished his tea as quickly as possible while John went to grab the thermometer from the bathroom, then shakily moved himself to the couch. John came back with the thermometer, motioned for Sherlock to lie on his side so they could take his temperature in the ear. When the beeping indicated it was done John pronounced "38.2 °C," congratulations!, "you've got a fever."
"Noooo," Sherlock whined. It wasn't that he minded the attention John usually bestowed on him when he was sick, he didn't like the actual physical side of being sick. It was plain unpleasant. "I don't want to have a fever!"
"I hear you, hopefully it'll be gone soon. Just rest. Want me to bring you a blanket?"
John covered him with a lightweight blanket, for which he was grateful. After a while he dozed off.
ooo
The warm air was filled with the chatter of parakeets and melodies of various songbirds as well as the perfume of many different flowering plants. The very faint smell of salt indicated this place was near an ocean. He found himself on a narrow path that ran through a dense forest. Above it all was a canopy of very tall trees, the steady breeze made their leaves rustle and limbs sway. Tall, medium height, small trees, tree ferns, palms, underbrush and ferns were everywhere. Butterflies, small and quite large ones, fluttered about.
Along the path grew hibiscus, gardenia, oleander, amaryllis, roses, lilacs, butterfly bush, myrtle, canna, orchids, lilies, geraniums... also just behind them climbing plants like dipladenia, bougainvillea, clematis, passiflora, wisteria, jasmine, honeysuckle, gloriosa, hoya... At first look this forest seemed perfect, yet he spotted a few trees further back that were affected by lianas.
His hearing was super acute, he could hear leaves rustling thirty meters above ground. All the sounds together were not loud or overwhelming, though, rather it was like looking at a painting and being able to look at one particular brush stroke, from five meters away, except it was individual sounds he could focus on, if he wanted to.
His vision was also super acute, he could focus on details of flowers and bark, clearly watch insects pollinating flowers, see individual grains of pollen stuck to different parts of their bodies from ten meters away, if he wanted to. Again, this was not distracting or overwhelming, but it was not humanly possible. All the colors appeared brighter, more vibrant than they normally were, and all the flowering plants flowered at the same time, so this was not a real place, he concluded. A dream then.
He decided to see where the path would lead, following the scent of salt minutely getting stronger as he went. Occasionally he had to step across large tree roots that ran across the path. The sounds and sights he experienced were all in harmony, orchestrated for him to witness, giving him a deep sense of peace.
After walking for a while the path spilled into a large clearing at the edge of the ocean he'd smelled. It was covered by grass, in the middle stood a group of three lines of massive megalithic columns, geometric in shape, each ten meters high at least, some were two meters wide only, others several times that. He stepped closer to investigate, touched them - they were all made out of the same metal - and walked around them.
This metal looked gray-white in color, it was solid, the surface like the one of nuggets he'd held when he'd studied the periodic table. He ran both of his hands over it feeling it's smoothness, little dips and raises. This was platinum, its symbol Pt, atomic number 78, a rare precious metal!
The outline of the columns on the ground suggested they were in the shape of letters. He walked around the whole group taking in all the details, then closed his eyes and in his mind's eye pictured what this clearing would look like from high above it, looking down on it. Yes, rising out of the clearing in solid metal columns was the answer to the question he'd asked himself yesterday:
I
LOVE
YOU
He felt elated, wanted to keep looking at these truthful words from above. All of him was happy to have discovered this truth! Opening his eyes in the clearing again, he leaned against one of the columns, felt its solidity. As much as he wanted to stay here longer and marvel at this truly happy truth he needed to tell John...
ooo
Kneeling beside the couch, John was gently dabbing Sherlock's sweaty forehead with a moist flannel when he saw Sherlock open his eyes. "Hey there," he said softly.
Sherlock reached for John's hand, held it tight.
"Hang on, let me put the flannel down," he dropped it on the floor. "What is it?"
"John, I've found the most marvellous truth!" Sherlock was beaming. "I love you!" he confessed.
"That's wonderful, Sherlock!" John touched Sherlock's face with his other hand and held it. "When did you find that out?"
"Just now. I saw it with my own eyes! I swear!" he insisted.
John brought Sherlock's hand that was holding his to his lips and kissed it. "I love you too, Sherlock, you know. - I have for a while now."
John's face looked so soft and warm, there was a hint of sadness in his eyes. He'd hoped this day would come but didn't know if it ever would.
"I love you, John!" Sherlock assured him and pulled him into a tight embrace. John's chest was pressed against Sherlock's, his head in the crook of Sherlock's neck. He felt like crying with relief. Sherlock sensed that John was emotional.
"Look at me," he said, let go a bit of John and tried to sit up more. When he had John's attention he asked very seriously, "Will you marry me?"
Seeing Sherlock so serious, convinced that he meant it, a wide happy smile spread across John's face and his answer was a heartfelt "Yes!"
Sherlock's face lit up with equal happiness. "I love you," he reiterated. "We'll have to get matching pure platinum wedding bands!"
Hmpf, John was kissing him...