Author's Note: This is my first Sherlock fanfic and I decided to make it a quick Johnlock sickfic. Please enjoy. Also, note this is set before the Reichenbach Fall!
"Why did you use that photo?!".
The detective's voice echoed throughout 221B Baker Street, shortly followed by the shattering of a teacup.
"Sherlock! Mrs Hudson won't be happy!" John's voice was loud and slightly high pitched. Sherlock has been exploring John's blog and had discovered the latest photo of himself wearing a deerstalker.
"But they like the hat" John insisted. They being Sherlock's fan base.
"No they don't! Why do they?" Sherlock pouted before letting out a loud, violent sneeze. John raised an eyebrow as the detective sneezed again.
"Stop staring like that, I'm fine" he snapped, his phone blipping.
He picked it up, thumbing the screen to find a text from Lestrade.
"We've got a case. A woman has been found dead in her garden of roses".
* * *
A pale woman with mouse brown hair lay, face down in the roses, her clothes dirty and torn. Sherlock stood towering over her, inspecting, deducing. He had already interviewed both the dead woman's husband and her gardener. It was far too obvious to him, but he loved to keep John and Lestrade guessing. Their vacant faces amused him.
As if on cue, he sneezed once more. His head ached terribly and he wished for nothing more than to wrap himself in his bedsheets. It angered him that his "transport" was now failing him.
"Should always be careful with your jewellery when you work in the garden" he announced, rolling his eyes at John's clueless face.
"It was the gardener. She dropped one of her earrings in the soil as she strangled Miss Cunningham. Also notice the small range of bruises and the gardener's rather small hands-". Sherlock was interrupted by a fit of coughs racking his body.
"Sherlock are you coming down with something" both John and Lestrade asked simultaneously. Sherlock's attempt to mutter an "I'm fine" was interrupted by another set of deep coughs.
"I'm perfectly fine" he mumbled meekly, though it was clear he was not.
"Come on, let's get you home" John replied, mushing Sherlock along as he rested his hand on the small of Sherlock's back.
***
Sherlock was running a fever by the time the pair had returned to 221B. John didn't need the thermometer to tell him that, as he placed his hand against Sherlock's forehead, brushing his curls out of the way.
Sherlock's headache was turning slowly into a migraine, the world spinning slightly as he stumbled up the stairs into their flat. He shrugged his coat off, leaving it fall to the floor, his suit jacket and scarf quickly following. He rolled his sleeves up, fanning himself with a light book he had grabbed from the table.
"That case was such a disappointment" he muttered, trailing off as the room began to spin harder. He gripped the edge of the table hard, his knuckles going white.
"Sherlock, you need to get to bed. Now. Doctor's orders".
Sherlock rolled his eyes, sighing as he followed through with John's demands. The thought of being sick frustrated him. It slowed his mind down to that of an almost average brain. It exhausted him even more than he already was. He allowed himself to practically collapse into his bed, kicking his shoes off.
John followed quickly, carrying his medical bag. Since when could John bring this back to the flat?! He wasn't working at the clinic anymore, as far as Sherlock could remember. But Sherlock couldn't properly remember. His mind was foggy.
John had Sherlock sit upright, helping him unbutton his shirt.
"With a fever like that, you'll want to keep cool. Heavy shirts won't help you" he stammered, blushing profusely. Why was John blushing? He pulled out a stethoscope, as well as wrapping a blood pressure cuff around Sherlock's now bare arm. He inflated it, sliding the disc of the stethoscope under the cuff, listening to the flow of Sherlock's blood through his body. He then pressed the disc to Sherlock's chest, listening to the beating of his heart.
Sherlock in the meantime, watched John intensely, his eyes fixated on John's hand hovering over his chest. He was sweating from the fever, his face felt like it was on fire, his mind screaming John's name repeatedly. John was blushing. John cared for him. And Sherlock wondered, if he cared more than two flatmates usually would.
Sherlock knew in that moment, that he cared for John, a lot more than he first thought he did. He cared for John in a very special way. It made his heart thump faster against his ribs, his breaths coming in short gasps.
"Sherlock?"
His lips were on John's without hesitation. He wrapped his arms around John's neck, pulling him onto his lap in the bed. John was still listening to Sherlock's heart, as it skipped through several beats. Sherlock finally pulled away to catch his breath, allowing John to discard the medical equipment.
"I have one request" John whispered breathlessly. Sherlock's stomach filled with nervous butterflies. Did his little blogger not enjoy their kiss?
"Please catch the flu more often" he mumbled, before pushing his lips to Sherlock's for a second kiss. He chuckled, tugging the blankets over themselves, preparing for a night full of warm kisses.