Hey guys! Sorry I was too excited to post the last chapter and forgot to write a note whoops! Thank you so much for reading and I would love some feedback from you guys:) I'm rlly in love with this ship and writing this fic has taken away my writer's block so yay!
The following days were similar to the previous, except John convinced Sherlock to take a case. It involved an elderly woman who on her deathbed revealed to her daughter who had stabbed her, but the daughter could not seem to get the criminal convicted, as he had an airtight alibi. Not the most intriguing case, but Sherlock knew that John was growing tiresome of drinking, and Sherlock was quite aware of his own growing itch to be high. Therefore, they turned to the one and only situation: solving crime together.
The pair soon fell back into their pattern of accepting all sorts of odd people into their flat to hear their stories. Sherlock did not enjoy the monotony of the process: wake up with a cup of tea, solve clients' cases within seconds, then go out for drinks with John. However, he did admit to himself that he enjoyed watching John's amazement every time Sherlock solved a case.
One evening, a man entered their flat in order to tell Sherlock about his dead sister's boyfriend. It was nothing out of the ordinary, but the clearly sick and contagious client seemed to be very emotional. Much to Sherlock's dismay, the man who Sherlock liked to refer to as patient zero, ran to Sherlock once he had solved the crime. He enveloped him in a sweaty hug consisting of tears and snot, as well as a few mucus filled coughs. Sherlock immediately pushed the man off him and out of the door, but it was too late, and Sherlock became one of the many in the area with influenza.
After diagnosing him, John went from the sidekick to a detective to the housewive to one. Sherlock was tucked into bed immediately and ensured that he would have chicken noodle soup by his bed as soon as possible. Outside of his door, Sherlock overheard a conversation between John and Mrs. Hudson.
"Oh, sweetie. You go continue with your cases. I'll make the soup for Sherlock and get him some tea. He'll be better in no time. It's only the flu." Sherlock's ears perked up; Mrs. Hudson's soup was the perfect cure for his illness.
"Er, no. Sorry, it's just that… I'll take care of him that's all." Sherlock's face was incredulous at John turning down Mrs. Hudson's offer to take care of everything. Sherlock knew that John dreaded cooking, cleaning, and being around sick people; John was quite the germaphobe.
"Right. Of course. I'll leave you to it then." Sherlock could practically hear Mrs. Hudson winking. He still couldn't understand. Why would John possibly want to take care of him? He was still trying to understand this whole friendship concept sometimes but he knew logically that no human being would turn her offer down. He was disappointed to not have the pleasure of eating Mrs. Hudson's soup, but it made up for it that he was being cared for by John.
A few hours later, John returned to Sherlock's bedside. He patiently waited, sitting on the edge of the bed next to Sherlock, anticipating him trying the chicken noodle soup that he had slaved over. However, Sherlock's body ached and he felt as if he was unable to move from his position. He expressed his concerns to John who immediately nodded and went to spoon feed Sherlock, holding his hand under the spoon in case any of the hot liquid dripped onto the comforter. Sherlock eyed the noodles sitting atop the spoon which looked quite undercooked to him, but tried his best not to show any sign of disgust. With John's hand under Sherlock's chin as to not let anything spill, Sherlock tried a bit of it, and this time he could not hide his aversion for the chef's cooking. Without thinking, Sherlock spit the liquid out, much of it landing on John's face and hand, including an undercooked noodle. John just raised his eyebrows, an almost comical expression on his face.
"I take it you don't like the soup then." Sherlock looked at John with the most sympathy he could muster; he felt terrible for being so harsh on him.
"I'm an absolute arsehole when I'm sick. I'm sorry, John. I really am." Sherlock felt that this soup meant a lot to John for some unknown reason; therefore, he put real effort into his apology.
"Don't worry about it, I tried it myself and spit it straight into the trash. I wanted to see what you would think." Sherlock was shocked, but relieved.
"But… but… I heard you talking to Mrs. Hudson. It sounded like making chicken noodle soup meant a lot to you, so I figured you'd be upset." Sherlock was confused as to why John was brushing this off as unimportant.
"Oh, Sherlock. I only wanted to take care of you. I don't care about the soup." John rested his hand on Sherlock's arm, a movement that brought hope flooding through Sherlock's chest. Except, he didn't know what he was hopeful for. His right hand trembled as he held John's hand, reminding him of the brush they shared many nights prior. Sherlock was unsure if the tremble was from the illness that currently had full control of his body, or something else entirely.
"I see. Well, in that case, thank you, John." Sherlock gave John a weak smile, and before he knew it, drifted off to sleep. The flourescent lighting in his room faded away and his guard fell as he floated away to his dreams.
When Sherlock's eyes lifted, he was greeted by John's pinkened cheeks. He was wearing a dull green knitted jumper that would normally be hideous to Sherlock, but on John it looked devilishly handsome. John's face was flushed with surprise, and Sherlock noticed how John snatched his hand away from Sherlock's torso, a look in his eyes indicating that he hoped Sherlock was unaware of his action.
"Why were you watching me sleep?" Sherlock maneuvered his body in order to inch his way onto his elbows, sitting slightly up and leaning towards John. He involuntarily grunted in discomfort and winced as the lighting made him dizzy.
"Well… um-"
"John, please turn my light off, it's absolutely dreadful. I cannot believe I ever installed such a high wattage." John practically raced to the light switch to put Sherlock out of his misery. Sherlock sighed in relief as he could already feel the disappearance of the dull throbbing behind his eyes.
"Sherlock… you've never installed a light bulb in your life."
"Oh. Well as soon as I've healed that will surely change." John chuckled and Sherlock assured him that he was not joking. The two sat in silence, staring at each other, both lost in the depths of their minds, or maybe in the sight of each other.
"Do you want me to leave?" John's voice was at a whisper; sometimes a moment called for silence, or near silence at least. Sherlock shook his head, groggy but still aware of the electricity coursing through his veins. John sat and Sherlock scooted over to make more room for him. John pulled up the covers and laid down next to Sherlock; Sherlock could tell that he was exhausted from the day of making soup, but he also did not want to get John sick. Eventually, he accepted the fact that his voice was too hoarse and tired to mention being contagious, and the two fell asleep together.