2
"John..."
John could only make out the slightest calling of his name, although whether it was in his unconscious, or conscious, he couldn't tell.
"John..."
John pried his eyes open slightly, blinking hard against the morning light streaming in the sitting room. He'd ended up falling asleep on the sofa- insomnia had overtaken him as well as sickness, and he had spent the better part of the night pattering between his room and Sherlock's room before he had flopped, exhausted, onto the sofa. From there, he must have fallen asleep.
"John...!"
Not in his unconscious, then.
"Yeah!" he called- or tried to. His voice gave out on a particularly nasty wheezing sound; he was overtaken by a coughing fit not seconds later. Oh, this was going to be a doozy.
Massaging his chest and taking deep breath through his nose, he trudged back to Sherlock's room. The detective was half-sitting in bed, looking bedraggled and unkept. Half of his face was hidden behind a hand, his fingers rubbing at one of his eyes.
"You okay?" John rasped, trying to clear his throat. He needed tea, but Sherlock had been oh-so-subtly demanding his attention upon waking.
"I... I feel a bit... I'm fine," he eventually said, shoving the blankets off.
"Sherlock..." John started, but not before the lanky detective had made the effort to stand. It didn't go over well, just as John had predicted, and Sherlock staggered. On reflex, John shot forward to prevent him from falling, but... that movement didn't go over so well with him.
The world decided to spin at the oddest angle, twisting everything in Sherlock's room up into one big blur. He squeezed his eyes shut and clung to Sherlock's dressing gown, for support of his own now, fighting the overwhelming notion of his stomach trying to turn itself inside-out.
It took all of what seemed to John to be a long, five minutes (it was probably only about thirty seconds, really) for the silence to break.
"You're unwell," Sherlock stated blandly.
John laughed, only the slightest noise escaping his mouth as he forced himself to back away. He risked opening his eyes before he did- the world seemed to have steadied itself remarkably, so he took the chance. He didn't fall over, so that was a good sign. "Sorry about that... You're sick, too."
"I'm not..." Sherlock trailed off, fumbling for words that had obviously slipped his mind. "I'm not..."
"Don't bother trying to say that you're not sick, because the facts state otherwise," John replied, taking Sherlock's arms and guiding the man back into a sitting position on the bed. "You need to rest," he stated, with as much authority as he could muster over a hoarse voice and a pounding headache. "I'm going to make some tea..." he finished calmly, turning and making for the door.
He shivered his way through making tea, but managed it slightly better than Sherlock had last night; he didn't break anything, at least. He relished in the initial warmth of the first sip of hot tea, like last night, mentally sighing at the predicament. Of course he would be sick when Sherlock was sick. Of course he would be sick when he had to take care of Sherlock.
And, of course, Sherlock was going to be a bloody awful patient.
When he returned to Sherlock's room, the detective was gone. But John found him quickly enough, risking a glance into the bathroom as he heard running water. Sherlock was at the sink, and as John watched, he spat out a mouthful of water before dropping his toothbrush on the counter. He noticed John's gaze just as he was rubbing his mouth with the back of his hand.
"I thought I told you to stay in bed."
"Mouth was... unpleasant," he stated calmly, carefully edging back to the bed. "Being sick provides a wide range of unpleasant..."
"Tastes?" John supplied, passing over a cup of tea to Sherlock.
"Unpleasantness in general," Sherlock finished, raising the cup to his lips. No more than had he taken a small sip of it did he stiffen. John paused with his cup halfway to his lips as he noticed the colour draining from Sherlock's face, the reflexive swallowing, the slightest tightening of his lips...
Sherlock sat the cup down quickly before curling onto his side, wrenching the blankets over his head.
"Sherlock, please, if you're going to be sick, go to the toilet," John stated quickly, watching the unmoving lump under the blankets. "It's not healthy."
A thin "stop" wavered out from under the blankets. John sighed and sipped at his own cup of tea, watching the blankets for a moment longer before he trudged back to the kitchen. Hopefully, Sherlock would stay in bed, and John could catch a few more hours, too. Of course, he knew this was almost physically impossible, but he also thought, what with the sickness, maybe the unexpected could happen.
He pressed his cold fingers tighter against the mug, wondering just how high his own fever was. Oh, right, stupid- he should have taken Sherlock's temperature before giving him the tea. Oh well.
He retreated back to the sofa, sinking down heavily.
His head was pounding, matching the steady beat of his heart in his chest. He was cold and his body was trying to make up for it; his shivering caused the the surface of his tea to ripple. He felt like he'd woken up on the bad side of an intense hangover, a hangover that had started and ended with him spending a night in the snow. However, he knew that his body was really too hot and that it had been brought on by rain, not snow. He also figured that he was probably going to get dehydrated- planning ahead, unfortunately. His stomach hadn't felt quite right since he'd woken up, but he hadn't been about to abandon morning tea. He grabbed the blankets that he had dragged down from his bedroom and promptly curled up in them. There, that was... nice.
He took another drink of his tea, unhappy to find that the warm drink was almost gone. He didn't want to get back up- he was comfortable and the blankets might make him feel a bit warmer, after all. So, he just carefully sat the mug down on the coffee table, leaning back with a heavy sigh afterwards.
He did a bit of what seemed to be dozing for an uncertain amount of time. He was woken up by shuffling in the kitchen. John persuaded his eyes open, looking wearily into the next room.
"What are you doing, Sherlock?" he murmured, before he had even fully look up.
"I..." Sherlock's voice was distant, no hint of any dedication in it. John frowned at him. "I don't know..." Sherlock finished.
"You need to sleep," John muttered, clearing his throat again. He fought his way out of the blankets, fighting the exhaustion that wasn't leaving. "You need to stay in bed..." He stood unsteadily, ignoring the steady ache of pain as he stood. He hadn't been entirely non-sore before, but now he just felt like he'd been run over by a truck. He risked a glance at the clock, noting that he had been sleeping, sitting up, for the better part of an hour and a half. No wonder his neck hurt now.
He picked up his mug and walked to the kitchen. "Oh, you haven't had anything to drink, yeah?" he said, remembering the fact that he wanted to take Sherlock's temperature.
Sherlock shook his head. "Need more tea..."
"In a sec," John replied, turning to the hall. "I need the thermometer..."
In the time that John walked to the bathroom, dislodged the thermometer from behind the hydrogen peroxide and his toothpaste, and walked back into the kitchen, Sherlock had retreated to the living room and had swathed himself in the blankets that had, until recently, been John's. The only thing that John could see of Sherlock was his nose up.
"Oh, please don't wipe your mouth on my blankets..." John muttered, crossing the room. He pulled the blankets away from Sherlock's mouth and down past his neck. "Take your temp," he said, holding out the thermometer to Sherlock.
"Oh, please-"
"Take your temperature."
"Around thirty seven."
"Sherlock," John muttered, grabbing Sherlock's wrist and pressing the thermometer into his hand.
Sherlock sighed heavily through his nose, bringing the thermometer up to eye-level as he inspected it. After a moment, in which he seemed pleased with the physical state or well-being, or whatnot, of the medical instrument, he placed the thermometer under his tongue.
"Thank you..." John muttered.
A few seconds later, John took the thermometer from Sherlock's mouth when it beeped. He eyed it briefly, expecting to see a variation of the thirty-sevens. Instead, thirty-eight point eight. John frowned as he paused in walking back to the bathroom.
Best not let Sherlock know he was wrong, for now, anyway.
More paracetamol.
"Anything wrong?" Sherlock muttered, voice muffled. John imagined that he had pulled the blankets over his mouth again.
"... Nauseous," John replied shortly. It wasn't entirely a lie.
He carried on back to the bathroom, grabbing the opposite thermometer from the cabinet. They had two. John had long ago since decided against putting anything that had been in Sherlock's mouth, in his own. Separate mugs, separate toothbrushes (obviously), separate thermometers. It made perfect sense.
Oh, hell, no, it didn't. Nothing about their... partnership made sense at all.
He took his own temperature and arrived at an even more unhappy conclusion when he found that it was thirty-seven point five- chances were, he'd get worse before he got better.
Nonetheless, Sherlock was worse off right now, so John would take care of him.
John would always take care of him...
Warm hearts [I haven't gotten to the cold fingers yet! Haha.] This chapter's a bit shorter. Blame my other Cabin Pressure sick!fic. [Either way, Ben's character is the one getting ill. Totally different characters, but... I like sick!fics! And Benedict! xD]
For those who have said that John should be sick and Sherlock should be taking care of him, I don't know where the story will evolve to just yet, but I've already written a doctor?!Sherlock fic. [And it's mildly difficult to make Sherlock care...]
Thanks for the support! I appreciate it greatly!
