A/N: Hey guys! Wow, I haven't written anything in a long while...apologies. I would give some sort of excuse, but there really is none. I've been having major writer's block, that's all I can really say.
This fic is for my lovely, dearest Jess. She was sick a couple days ago, and tends to get sick a lot so I wanted something to cheer her up. She is the John to my Sherlock.
Apologies beforehand. This seriously is just...pure guilty pleasure. There really is no plot, and it's kind of OOC.
Pairings: John/Sherlock
...
Sherlock was nervous – he was never nervous. All these feelings and emotions were so foreign and unknown to him. It made his insides coil and tense up and he felt like he was going to explode at any second-
"Sherlock?" a mumble came from the bottom of the staircase.
The man in question looked up and met the gaze of his flat mate. An involuntary blush crept its way up Sherlock's neck to tinge his cheekbones a soft pink. John looked healthy again, his hair rumpled and sticking up in odd places, and his skin back to it's normal tan color. The blush deepened. "You're feeling better?"
"Yes…erm…did something happen last night? It was a blur…most likely from my fever…"
Sherlock really did try to push down that feeling of dread and disappointment, but it wouldn't go away no matter how hard he tried. Feelings were starting to become something he hated.
- PREVIOUSLY-
Oh, this was brilliant. Yes, this was quite magnificent. Of course no one else would have noticed the faint smudges of blood on the rear area of the officer's shoes. Everyone else was too stupid and dense in the head to assume that maybe a man working for Scotland Yard could ever be a murderer. It was like the taxi driver incident all over again – though, to be quite honest anyone could have caught this obvious trail and all of the little clues – well, everyone except for Anderson perhaps.
A faint, smug smile touched the detective's lips as he recalled the look on Lestrade's face once he accused one of his best officers of killing the lady in cold blood. There had been a lot of yelling and unnecessary violence, but all Sherlock cared about in the end was that the crime had been solved. He felt that familiar euphoria seep through his body after solving a case (mind you, it would wear off soon if he didn't get another one – well, one that was worth his time, that is).
Lost deep in his racing thoughts and detailed Mind Palace, fingers pressed together and brushing lightly against his lips, the pale green eyes of the detective stared at the wall, looking but not exactly paying attention to it.
A loud 'THUD' brought him out of his Palace and Sherlock's eyes flickered briefly towards the door as his flat mate stumbled in, drenched clothes soaked in what was most likely rain. Had it been raining? With a glance towards the window, Sherlock confirmed this was true and that the sky had also turned pitch black. "You were gone for a long time." Was all he said as he focused his attention on the wallpaper once again.
The ex-army doctor trudged through the flat and made his way towards the kitchen, where he started on the task of placing the items from the grocery store away in places that avoided Sherlock's experiments. "Yes, well sudden thunderstorms do cause that outcome sometimes." John replied shortly. "And you didn't answer my texts or calls, Sherlock."
"Dull." Sherlock mumbled, giving a roll of his eyes in annoyance. "Obviously it wasn't Lestrade so why would I bother to-"
"Fine, fine! I was just asking if you needed anything from the-"
"Yes, actually. I need some baking soda and five pounds of peas."
"What the hell- hang on, you expect me to go back out into that rain?"
"John, it is important."
"It's for an experiment…"
"Which is important."
"But-"
"John, don't make this more difficult than it should be. Ah, look! The rain is letting up a tad bit; you should be back within the hour."
Pale eyes met tired ones, and finally after a few moments of a stare down, the doctor finally gave in and shoved his arms back into the drenched coat he had just peeled off of himself. He muttered something along the lines of "bloody", "arse", and "God-awful weather" before slamming the door behind him.
...
When Sherlock opened his eyes, the pale light streaming in through the windows tugged him away from his thoughts. Was it really morning already? Glancing quickly at the time, he concluded that it was around noon. Overcast clouds outside then, explaining why his brain hadn't registered the fact that it was daylight out yet.
Had John already made his morning tea and went to his boring, mundane job? No…the tea kettle hadn't been turned on and there was no sign of a dirty mug on the counter or in the sink. John's jacket still hung on the back of the door.
"John?"
When no response came from the silent flat, Sherlock unfolded his long limbs from the sofa and ignored the slight ache building up from lying there for so long. Calling his flat mate's name once again, the detective silently made his way up the stairs towards the other man's room. The door was slightly ajar, shoes carelessly kicked off upon entering. Sherlock slid his fingertips along the wood and pushed it open. "John?"
Sherlock was hit with a gust of warm, damp air and the smell of…oh.
His eyes landed on the sprawled out figure under the covers, drool seeping from the corner of his mouth and onto the pillow, eyes closed in deep sleep but darkened shadows under them revealing a hard, sleepless night.
Sherlock pursed his lips.
John was sick.
How boring.
With a long, exasperated sigh, Sherlock made his way back out to the hall. A sickly, gargled cough stopped him and he stole a glance back at his bed-ridden flat mate. John rolled over on his back, wincing. "Sherlock…?"
Shit.
"Yes, John?"
More disgusting noises came from his nose this time when John sniffed loud, making Sherlock's own nose wrinkle.
"Mmm…I'm…sick." The doctor mumbled in a faint voice.
"Yes. Brilliant deduction. Lestrade has texted me, I'll be off soon." Sherlock said.
"Mmkay…can you get some cough syrup while you're out?"
Another long sigh escaped the raven-haired man's lips. "Shopping is dull, John."
"Right…okay…"
...
Crime scene, yes. This is just what Sherlock needed to brighten his day and get the sick John off his mind. He really hoped he cured himself soon – though the detective would never admit it out loud to anyone that he missed John's presence at times like this.
Blood on the bottom corner of the door, obvious. Dragging the body out into the hallway, blood accidentally smeared there.
Sherlock wondered briefly what John would think of that…
Red trail leading down the stairs, but wait…he stooped down and flipped out his magnifying glass. No, the smears were all wrong. They weren't being carried down the stairs…up the stairs then? Retracing his steps he went back into the room he just exited. No body.
Sherlock could just hear John now. "Maybe he, I dunno, stuffed the body in the closet?"
This made the consulting detective give a snort and Lestrade glanced at him with a funny look. Sherlock's grin faded and focused back on the scene in front of him.
Right. Body dragged up the stairs, not down. The pool of blood in the center of the room was perfectly clean though – no trails to the window, or to any of the closets. Where was it then? Sherlock scanned the room, noting every detail every-
The ceiling! Ah yes, this was genius! Why didn't he see this before? Stupid, stupid, stupid! "Lestrade, look." He motioned with his hand to the attic door. "The body was lifted up into the attic. It must be sealed tightly – no blood is dripping. The murderer cleaned up well then, clever. If your team had searched the house long enough you'll probably find that he killed in the basement and then proceeded to make his way up the stairs. You said he was caught in the act? He was probably still on the first floor when one of the neighbors barged in, blood covered his hands and all over the stairs. It would look like he carried it downstairs, then. Never trust what a suspect says, Lestrade. I would have thought you learned that by now."
Lestrade looked horrified, then tired. "Right…bloody hell."
Sherlock smirked. "It was no big leap."
"By the way, Sherlock," the inspector said as they made their way out of the house while his team gathered the body. "Where's John?"
"Sick in bed." He said with a wave of his hand, peeling off the white gloves and tossing them in a trash bag.
"Poor bloke…"
"It's quite boring, really."
"Boring – Sherlock! Aren't you taking care of him?"
"Why would I do that?" Sherlock raised a brow, eyes widened a little in horror. Him taking care of a sick person? It was so…mundane! "John is a doctor; shouldn't he be able to take care of himself?"
Lestrade gave him a look that said 'God sometimes you can be so stupid'. Sherlock hated that look.
...
Sherlock barged into the flat, slamming the door behind him with a quick thrust of his foot. The flat looked the exact same way since he had left it, which meant John had not even come out of his room. The bristled detective set the plastic bag down on the kitchen counter and stared at it like it was poison.
No, he took that back. If it was poison, it would be interesting. This was not interesting. It was dull. The last thing he wanted to be doing was taking care of a sick person when he could be formulating five different experiments in this very room.
He carelessly dumped the bag's contents out. Three bottles of cough syrup, five boxes of tissues, herbal tea, some cans of soup, hand sanitizer, two bottles of aspirin, and an apple. He pursed his lips and stared at all of them, wondering again why the checkout lady gave him an odd look.
"Sherlock?"
The man in question glanced over at the sound of his name. John leaned against the doorframe lazily, eyes tired but confused, clothes rumpled. Wait…
"Weren't those clothes the ones you wore yesterday, John? Why—oh." It all clicked in his head. The rain, the clothes, John. "You're sick because of the rain."
"No, I'm sick because you made me go out into the rain." John replied, snatching a box of tissues and ripping the plastic off. "This is all your fault, Sherlock."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh please, John. If you had taken extra precautions-"
"Extra pre—oh for the love of…never mind. Just…never mind." And with that, he stormed (as best as he could in his state) off up the stairs again, cradling the tissues to his chest.
Sherlock stared blankly after him. What had he said wrong?
...
"John, you need to eat."
"Not hungry."
"…you need your strength."
"…"
"John."
"What Sherlock?"
"Eat."
"I'm not eating anything you made."
"Oh for God's sake, John. It's from a can. I know how to read directions."
"…"
"Fine. Starve." Sherlock set the bowl down on the nightstand and stood up. "Who knew people could be so aggravating and stubborn when they were this weak." He muttered.
John mumbled something incoherent into his pillow.
"What was that?"
"I need aspirin…" he said when he turned his head sideways, looking up at Sherlock. He looked so fragile. Sherlock felt a pang of guilt. It was sort of true…if he hadn't made John go out again in that kind of weather they wouldn't be in this mess in the first place.
After his flat mate painfully swallowed the aspirin with a few gulps of water, Sherlock watched him snuggle down into his warm blankets and close his eyes. "Mmm…night Sh'lock." He slurred a bit.
"It's only four in the afternoon, John…" Sherlock replied absent-mindedly.
"Shut up." The other man responded in a faint whisper before sleep overtook his tired body.
If anyone asked, Sherlock would definitely and most certainly deny that he had watched John sleep that whole night. And if anyone kept prying, he would say he lost sleep because John's loud snoring kept him awake and distracted. Why hadn't he done any experiments or got out a cold case, then? Sherlock would mutter a lame excuse and ignore them.
No, Sherlock thought as he pulled his knees up to his chest while he sat in the chair watching John sleep peacefully - he was definitely not softening up towards his flat mate. At all.
...
Sherlock was just finishing mentally listing off the different types of riboswitches when John stirred in the early hours of the morning, sheets twisting at his feet.
"Sherlock?"
"Tetrahydrofolates, purine, lysine-"
"…Sherlock."
"-Glycine, SAH, TPP-"
"Sherlock, what the hell are you going on about?"
"Hm, what?" The detective glanced over and saw John looking at him with an amused, quizzical stare. He had guessed that John would be at least 50% better by now, but if it was possible he looked even worse. Sherlock stood and walked over to the bed, pressing the back of his hand to John's forehead. "Your fever has risen considerably. John, you need to remove your clothes."
Sherlock watched in slight amusement as John coughed and spluttered, yanking back from the other man's touch. "Excuse me?"
"Your clothes, John. Those are the clothes in which you became sick in. I would have thought you would have removed them by now, but given the fact that you're brain process has slowed down much more than what it normally is-"
"Yeah, yeah. Okay. I get it. Off with the clothes." Before consent, or even with a blush to his cheeks, John slid off his jumper and shirt.
Not having a choice in the matter, Sherlock's body responded quickly. His cheeks flushed with embarrassment, a faint shiver ran up the length of his back which he blamed on the cool current from – oh hell, what was wrong with him? Sherlock stood up immediately, a little too quickly, and stepped back several feet towards the door. "You'll also need to take a shower, that'll rid you of any germs and such. Don't faint, if you feel unsteady on your feet make sure to yell for me. I'll…I'll be…" Sherlock winced. Oh now he was stumbling over his words? "Downstairs."
Before John could even say a word, the flustered detective was flying down the stairs and trying to get the image of that creamy white, bare, slightly-muscular chest completely deleted from his brain.
...
To say that the next couple of days were easy-going from there on out would be a complete and utter lie straight from the pits of hell.
John had successfully taken a shower by himself, but felt so weak afterwards that Sherlock had no choice but to dress him.
Throughout the day, John was running a fever so high that Sherlock had to keep making him teas and forcing glasses of water down that swollen throat to keep him hydrated. This resulted in constant trips to the bathroom, to Sherlock's horror.
That night John started to have nightmares.
Sherlock, having dozed off in the chair from so much lack of sleep, was startled at the yell that abruptly woke him. He easily slipped onto the bed and calmed a thrashing and whimpering John. Later, he would wonder why calming and soothing John had come so easily to him – with no practice or such. The detective's cold, elegant hands gently but firmly held John's head in place, forcing their eyes to meet. "John, calm down…it was just a nightmare…" The look in the other man's eyes was foreign to him. John looked genuinely scared. "Shh…" He bent so their foreheads touched, and Sherlock noted his fever had dropped a couple degrees during the couple hours they had slept. Sherlock murmured soothing words over and over, sometimes not forming them coherently at all so they turned into soft noises.
John's muscles finally relaxed back into the mattress and he closed his eyes, breathing roughly through his mouth. "Mmm...sorry, Sherlock. I'm…fine. I'm fine now."
Sherlock watched him with interest, his fingers trailing over the warm, soft skin by John's jaw. "Go to sleep. I'll be here."
...
By now, making tea had become a regular thing and Sherlock was quite good at it. He knew exactly how long to leave the tea bag in to make John give a content sigh when experimentally sipping it, and what temperature it should be at before handing the cup over.
While he was making John's third cup that day, the phone in his pocket buzzed.
New case today. Can you come? –GL
Sherlock felt a grin spread across his face and excitement leaped in his chest. A case! Without a second's thought, Sherlock had slipped on his coat and slammed the door behind him in a rush.
...
The consulting detective opened the door to 221B and walked in, flinging his coat on the couch and making his way to the kitchen. The case was harder than the last one, that was for sure – but it took him less than two hours and immediately he wished for another.
As he prepped his microscope and slides of the blood he had gathered from Molly, Sherlock's eyes briefly wandered to the other side of the counter. A cup of tea sat there, obviously cold by now, and untouched. Why would John leave-
Oh. Oh. Sherlock gave a long sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose. John.
He reluctantly put the blood away and turned off the light to his microscope, then continued to make John another cuppa.
The sun was setting now, and by the time Sherlock had reached John's room he was fumbling for the lamp switch that sat on the table beside the bed. Flicking it on and setting the cup down, the detective sat on the edge of the bed. "John?" He poked the blanket-covered lump. "John."
The other man rolled over and looked up at him blearily, eyes adjusting to the light. "How was the case?"
Sherlock saw that the dark circles had not disappeared from underneath John's eyes. "Did you not get enough sleep while I was gone?" he asked, ignoring the question.
John's eyes slid away from Sherlock's and instead focused on the spot behind him. "Not much."
In a split second, Sherlock knew that he had been having more nightmares. Guilt washed over him as he chewed on his bottom lip. "I…apologize."
Their eyes met again and John gave him a weak smile. "Don't be absurd. It's not your fault."
...
That night Sherlock lay beside John in bed, neither of them sleeping or talking. John was bundled up in the covers while the other lay on top of them on his back. It was an odd sort of arrangement, but so many things had already happened in the past few days that Sherlock had brushed it off and went with it anyways. His presence would allow John to sleep through the night with no nightmares.
Sherlock turned his head to assess John's state. He was tired still, eyes starting to droop. His fever had gone down considerably and was most likely going to break that night. Sherlock could tell by his breathing patterns that his body was starting to slowly heal.
"Thank you, Sherlock…" John muttered to the ceiling.
"For what?"
"For taking care of me…"
Sherlock allowed a small smile to touch his lips. "Did I have a choice?"
A laugh escaped John's throat and he looked over at the detective. "No, I suppose not."
They stared at each other for a few moments until Sherlock rolled over and faced him, reaching up to feel John's forehead, even though he had just checked it only a few moments ago. "You'll be considerably better by morning."
Maybe it was the lack of sleep, or perhaps a quick experiment to see how John would react. Or maybe it was even just a spur of the moment when his heart had skipped a couple beats when he looked into those gorgeous, mesmerizing eyes that belonged to his flat mate. But whatever the cause, Sherlock was suddenly leaning in close, breathing in John's scent, basking in the hot breath that tickled his cheek. "You're fever is still high though…"
"I-I suppose…suppose so…" he heard a breathy reply, causing both of them to shiver (was the window open?). "You'll catch whatever I have…if you…stay this close to me."
Sherlock smiled and wrapped a hand around the back of John's warm neck, not having a clue what he was doing. "Ailments are dull, John."
John's chuckle was drowned by Sherlock's lips pressing against his softly. John's lips were chapped, and Sherlock wasn't quite experienced, but it didn't matter because it was perfect in every sense of the word. The doctor's hands were tangled in the dark curls, Sherlock's hands stroked his neck and jaw, and limbs were sprawled lazily over each other with blankets tossed everywhere as lips slipped lazily over each other in pure bliss.
Reluctantly, Sherlock pulled away a fraction of an inch. Their breath mingled and all of the shared oxygen caused them both to feel light headed. John looked gorgeous beneath him (when did that happen?), with swollen lips, flushed skin, labored breathing, and half-shut eyes. Sherlock pressed his lips to John's jaw, his neck, and back on his lips. "What are you doing to me, John?" he whispered in a low voice, causing the man below him to shiver.
"The same could be said on my behalf…" John replied, ending the sentence with a long, sweet-savoring, breath-stealing kiss.
Sherlock pulled away once more with labored breathing, resting his head on John's chest. "For God's sakes..." A low rumble was heard beneath his ear as John laughed in response. Fingers wove their wave through his hair, curling their way to the back of his neck and massaging there.
Sherlock had no idea what this was, what this was going to be, or what the outcome was – all he knew was that this was John, his John, and all he wanted was to be with him. It was scary, but like he had said – this was John. The only man he put his trust in, and the only human being that ever succeeded in melting and stealing his heart.
-PRESENT DAY-
John was still waiting for a response, Sherlock realized, as they stared at each other. John raised a brow. "So nothing happened last night?"
Sherlock forced a shake of his head. "No, nothing."
How was he supposed to tell his flat mate that he had snogged the living daylights out of him while he was sick and on the verge of breaking a fever? How would that sound to John?
"Nothing?" John walked over to him, crossing his arms. "Nothing…of importance that I should know about?"
Oh, nothing, John. I just basically confessed to you, snogged you, maybe fondled you a bit – oh, and you were sick too, so technically I was taking advantage of you. That's all, John.
"John, you're starting to repeat yourself." Sherlock snapped, lifting his chin up a bit. Instead of a small frown appearing on those lips he had ravished last night – a grin broke out.
"What?" Sherlock muttered.
John laughed and leaned forward, placing his arms on either side of Sherlock's chair. "Do you really think I'd forget about last night?"
Sherlock glared at him. "You git."
A giggle escaped John right before he was yanked down onto Sherlock's lap and silenced roughly by another pair of lips.
FIN
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