In sickness
There were no obvious changes when they got together. They continued to bicker like an old married couple. Experiments were still performed on the kitchen table and body parts still littered the fridge. They still dashed around London chasing after criminals.
To the untrained eye, they were no different. To those who knew them, the changes were profound. Lestrade could clearly see the glimmer of affection in their eyes as they bickered over a corpse. When Mrs. Hudson would tidy up, she could see that the body parts were on a separate shelf from the food. As they ran through the city, Mycroft would grin as he watched them run on CCTV feeds, hand in hand.
When they were inside 221B, there was a lot more affection. They would cuddle up on the couch rather than sitting on their chairs. They would brush into each other accidentally on purpose. They only needed one bed.
John had never been this happy. He could have danced all the way home from work every day. He was on cloud nine and never wanted to come down.
They didn't have to do anything special in the evenings. Sometimes they would attack as soon as John walked in, going at it like rabbits until they fell asleep. Other times, Sherlock would be bent over his microscope when John entered the kitchen. He would press a gentle kiss to the back of his boyfriend's neck. There would be a quiet night of take out and cuddling after that. Sometimes there would be sex, and sometimes they would just fall asleep and wake up on the couch together the next morning.
Eight months into their relationship, John came home one night ready to pounce, but when he entered the flat, Sherlock wasn't in one of his usual spots. Frustrated, he went over to the table. Sherlock always left a note. John, being the hopeless romantic that he was, had saved every single one of them. Today, though, there was no note. A jolt of panic shot through John.
"Sherlock," he called out.
The response was a horrible gag that came from the bathroom.
John raced in and found his boyfriend, normally so composed, clutching the toilet and dry heaving over it.
"Oh, love," John sighed. He walked over to Sherlock and knelt next to him, rubbing his back.
"John, I feel miserable," Sherlock sighed when he had finished.
"I know," John simpered. "What do you need me to do?"
"Just make it go away," Sherlock begged. Normally, John loved to hear his boyfriend begging, but Sherlock got sick so rarely that seeing him in this state was one of the most heartbreaking sights that John had ever seen.
"Come on, then. Let's get you to bed." John gently lifted Sherlock off the floor. His skin was unnervingly warm and clammy.
They slowly made their way to the bed. Once there, John sat Sherlock on the edge and peeled off everything but his underwear. He made to grab his pajamas, but Sherlock moaned and said, "Please no. I'm too hot."
"Okay, my love," John replied, placing a gentle kiss to Sherlock's forehead. He leaned over to fluff Sherlock's pillows and eased him down onto the bed, tucking him in. "I'll be back in a minute, love."
Sherlock nodded weakly.
John placed a wastebasket just over the side of the bed, and then made his way into the kitchen. He poured a glass of water for Sherlock and started a cup of tea for both of them.
"Do you think you could manage to eat some toast?" John called into the bedroom.
"Not now," a weak voice called back.
John popped a few biscuits into his mouth and prepared the tea. Grabbing their mugs as well as the water, John carefully moved back into the bedroom.
"Drink this slowly," John instructed, handing Sherlock the glass of water. He went to the bathroom to grab some pills to help soothe Sherlock's stomach and made his way back. "Take this."
Sherlock obeyed, and then sank back against the pillows. "Thank you," he sighed as John handed him his mug of tea.
John smiled and kissed his forehead. "Finish that."
Sherlock nodded and took a small sip from the tea. Satisfied, John then walked around the bed and switched on the lamp on his bedside table. "Will this bother you?"
"Not at all," his boyfriend answered.
"Good. I'll be back in a minute." John switched off the overhead light and walked into the cluttered kitchen. He snagged a few more biscuits, and then grabbed a medical journal that he'd brought home from work from the coffee table.
By the time John returned, Sherlock was finishing his tea. He handed John the empty mug and smiled up at him. "I feel a bit better now."
"I'm glad." John pressed another kiss to Sherlock's forehead. "Go to sleep. I'll be here if you need me."
"I always need you," Sherlock mumbled sleepily.
John climbed into bed with the journal, smiling. "As I need you, my darling," he replied, stroking Sherlock's curls softly.
Sherlock shifted so John could continue his stroking and wrapped his arms around him, resting his head in the crook between his thigh and his abdomen. "What would I do without you?"
"God only knows," John chuckled.
Sherlock chuckled softly back. Just before falling asleep, he muttered, "I love you."
John leaned down and kissed Sherlock's temple. "I love you too."
A/N: Hi! This is my first attempt at writing something, so I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it! Reviews are appreciated, but please be gentle. I'm a bit fragile, what with this being my first story, and I'm super nervous about putting this up here. If people seem to like this, I'll consider making it longer, and maybe if I get a little more confidence, I'll accept prompts and what not. Of course, I send my apologies to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steve Moffat, and Mark Gatiss for using their characters as if they were my own. I, unfortunately, own nothing, and hope to God that I haven't horribly butchered it. Thanks for reading!