Morning hits and Sherlock's plan to push all thoughts of John away fail miserably. He wakes up, feeling exhausted from his rather emotionally draining night. He looks like a disaster, he realises. Huge bags circle beneath his eyes, his hair lies limp and greasy against his forehead, and his dressing gown hangs precariously on his shoulders.
He shuffles out of his room, not even pretending to feel sorry for himself, because he truly feels terrible. It's like he's coming down from the best high he has ever had. And perhaps that's what John has become to him now; a drug. Because as soon as the man comes into his line of sight, he instantly feels his body gravitate towards him.
John looks up from where he is making two cups of tea. He's in one of his plain white T-shirts again, and it's just too much for Sherlock to handle. All of his thoughts rise up to the surface.
The soft, cheerful smile on John's face drops as soon as he soaks in Sherlock's tired, unkempt appearance. It is quickly replaced with an open mask of care and worry.
"God Sherlock, you look awful."
Sherlock scoffs, the sound coming out a bit choked. "Oh lovely. Cheers, John."
The sudden sensation of John's fingers touching his face startles him, and he literally jumps. The touch is dangerous, it's deadly, it might just send Sherlock to his very early grave. Can't John see what affect he is having on him? Why must he torture him?
"Sherlock," John's frown intensifies. His voice is so soft, so tender, that it causes something to well up inside Sherlock. He swallows and pushes whatever that unnamed emotion is deep down inside, before it can make itself known in the form of his body language. "Look at me, would you?"
He feels the pressure of John's thumb against the sharpness of his cheekbone. It pushes him gently, tries to get his head to turn in his direction. The small touch is so warm that Sherlock can feel his cheeks rising with unwanted colour. He wants to push his cheek up against that touch, get as close to John as possible, but he refrains himself from doing so.
He forces his gaze over to John, and hopes his eyes aren't as wet as he imagines they are. He feels wired, like all of the connections in his mind are coming loose, and this leaves him feeling lost and befuddled. He squints at John through the haze in his deep, cordial blue eyes, and tries his best to focus.
"John?" He murmurs softly, unsure of what the man could possibly be thinking.
"What's wrong, Sherlock? Are you sick?"
Sherlock just simply nods, because he must be sick, mustn't he? His mind is going into a fully blown meltdown, and he feels odd. Odd is an understatement. He feels as though he is experiencing some sort of outer body experience. There is too much stimuli, too many thoughts, and his skull pounds as every one of his senses attacks him.
He swallows dryly, a painful lump rising in his throat, as his Adams apple bobs anxiously. Everything hurts. Nothing feels right. He's so out of his depth, and he's so bloody terrified of what John is doing to him.
"Headache." He manages to rasp out. It's not a complete lie, as he can feel a migraine building behind his eyes, an internal pressure that threatens to crush his skull from the inside out. Behind his eyelids tiny, white flashing lights start to flicker.
John breaths out in relief, though the frown remains. "Right, first things first, I'm marching you straight back to bed." Sherlock opens his mouth to protest, but John is quick to interject. "No arguments, Lock. I'm your doctor, so I know best, right?"
Sherlock isn't able to fathom words. His usually intelligent brain is rendered useless. The headache that is building really is reaching dangerous pain levels, so he doesn't argue with John.
He wonders if John knows he just called him "Lock", and whether he is quite aware how intimate and endearing that nickname is. He is unable to ponder this question for long, as John places a hand on the small of his back, and they amble to his bedroom.
John is so kind, so gentle. The way he tucks Sherlock up under the covers makes Sherlock's heart swell. It's not fair. It hurts. Why can't John seen how much this is paining him?
He is instructed by John to drink some water and swallow some painkillers. He's not sure how he manages this, but he somehow does. Then John closes the curtains, preventing any light from shining in from the outside world, and plunging the bedroom into crepuscular gloom.
When John starts to leave, Sherlock feels wrong, and he calls him back in his weak voice. A sound that is akin to a whimper slips loose from his lips, and he reaches out to the man, his hands flailing about wildly.
"Please," he hears himself say. The 'I need you so much it hurts' remains silent. His voice sounds distant, not like himself at all, and for a moment he wonders if he actually spoke out loud.
But then John is sitting on the mattress next to him, face peering curiously at Sherlock. His hand moves to wipe away an errant curl away from Sherlock's forehead, the action almost like a lover would do, for it was that tender. It makes him want to scream, to drown himself in John Watson, to selfishly admit to what is really wrong with him.
"God, Sherlock. What's gotten in to you lately?"
Sherlock screams inside his mind. You, John. It's always been you. You're what's gotten into me. Instead of saying this, Sherlock reaches across and pulls at John around his waist.
The man falls forward with a gruff grunt, landing in an undignified heap right next to Sherlock. "Jesus Christ, Lock. Pack it in, would ya? I know you're not feeling well, but-"
Sherlock's lower lip trembles, cutting John off mid sentence. There was that nickname again. When would this endless torture stop?
He pulls John closer still, begins to rub his thumb against the softness of his T-shirt, and then he finally manages to find his voice. "Stay," he requests, the word barely a whisper.
John's mask of annoyance drops, and is replaced by a softness that just about kills Sherlock. "Of course," John says gently. "Of course I'll stay with you, Lock."
The mattress squeaks as John re-positions himself and tries to find a comfortable position. There's still space between them, and this simply won't do, so Sherlock tugs and pulls until John and he are trapped in a "lovers knot" position. They are face to face, their limbs entangled with each other, like they're one person rather than two.
He pushes his chest up against John's warm, solid body, and lets out a satisfied sigh. His hands continue to stroke patterns on the cotton. He isn't sure that in this current state he can bring himself to care about the consequences of his actions.
In this moment, whilst he is "sick", he will indulge his silly fantasies. John will not be angry at an ill man, nor will he condemn any actions that are a result of a severe migraine. So he allows himself to be as selfish as he likes, touching John more intimately than he has touched anyone in his life.
Then he feels a pair of solid, smaller hands on his own. He fears that he may have overstepped the mark a little, but instead of the hands stopping him, they just settle on top of his instead. He can't tell whether this is a good sign or not, can barely think past the thumping inside his head.
The hands that are on his squeeze gently. "Go to sleep, Lock. Your head should feel better when you wake up."
Sherlock's head settles against his pillow, all of the tension in his body leaving him. He wishes that he could use this opportunity to deduce John. What a glorious opportunity that would be! But unfortunately the opportunity is missed, as his eyes turn heavy, and he drifts off into one of the happiest sleeps he's had in a while.
There are no nightmares of John rejecting him this time. Only happy images of being completely tangled up with the man he loves, chests rising in perfect sync, hands clutching each other like their lives depend on it. He feels very reassured that John in real life is pressed up against him. His solid weight and the comfort he provides bleeds into Sherlock's dream-state.