~*~Behold, chapter two. Boy did I have fun writing this. I hope you have fun reading!
Musical Muse: My every growing Sherlock playlist.
Warnings: No swears (I think…) but rampant fluff. But rampant fluff is the best kind, so it's all good.
Disclaimer: I don't own John's cuddly jumpers, 221B, or anything mentioned in this piece.
Once again, I shower love and Twinkies upon my beta/Lady Liaison Kat.

~*~Domesticity is Bliss~*~
~*~Chapter 2~*~

Brushing Sherlock's hair turned out to be an adventure in itself. After pulling John's jumper over his half wet/half dry head, those long curls were hopelessly mussed and tangled, making John and his comb feel like they were losing the battle. To make matters even more fun, Sherlock turned out to be as squirmy as any four-year-old (no surprise there), and refused to stop long enough for John to do a proper job. Eventually he sniffed loudly and shook his head wildly, curls flipping in John's face.

"Enough, John. You can't tame my hair, no matter how hard you try. It's impossible." He tried to stand and wound up tripping over the blankets and spare clothes bunched around his legs. John caught him and pushed him back on the couch.

"Oh no you don't." John huffed. "You've avoided your tea long enough; drink it. If you get sick, I'm not taking care of you." John turned away before he saw Sherlock's look: Heavy skepticism with a hint of challenge. Picking up his own cup, John took a deep sip and smiled into the cup when he heard Sherlock do the same.

John decided to mark the previous events down as a success. Sherlock was dry(ish), he was drinking warm liquids, and showed no signs of a cold, yet… unless Sherlock developed a sniffle or cough later that evening, John was going to celebrate this small victory by finishing his tea and watching telly.

Of course, John's celebrations came to a screeching halt the next morning.

Sherlock had seemed fine when they had retired around midnight. He'd been maybe a little drowsy, but nothing alarming by any means. John had slept soundly through the night and the next morning descended the stairs with a light heart and clear head, ready to face a normal day at the clinic.

He really should have known better. Normal was not something that happened in 221B.

He was halted at the bottom of the steps by the most anguished groan he had ever heard in his life. And it was calling his name.

"Joooooooooohhhhhhhnnnnnn…" It was either a Canadian bull moose that had somehow learned to speak and found its way into Sherlock's room, or Sherlock himself. John actually found himself wishing for the latter as he opened the door into his flat mate's darkened lair. The curtains were drawn, and the room gave off a closed-off musty feeling, even though Mrs. Hudson had cleaned it just last week. In the middle of Sherlock's bed was a blanket-covered lump, presumably the detective himself, but John was still holding out hope for a moose because he had a bad feeling that his worst fears were about to be realized…

"Jaaaaaaaaaaawwwwwwwwwwnnnnnn nnnnn…" moaned the lump. It twisted to and fro like a caterpillar for a few moments, before a familiar angular face emerged from a fold. It regarded John with a look that demanded pity. "I'm dying." Sherlock mournfully informed his doctor.

John stared at him from the doorway, face determinedly blank. Inside, of course, he was raging, despairing, wishing he had never gotten up, never gone to investigate the noise. But then, that wouldn't be him. His friend was in trouble, however severe trivial it was, and it was his responsibility to care for him. His good mood dashed, he mentally began prepping for a tiresome day caring for Sherlock.

"You're not dying Sherlock. Now, knock it off." John decided that he would put up with a sickly Sherlock if he must, but he was in no mood to handle the dramatics. Lord, hadn't the man ever had a cold before?

John's train of thought smacked solidly into the cow of bad implications. Surely he must have, sometime in his childhood, but who had taken care of him? Not Mycroft, surely, and he could estimate enough from the brother's interactions that whatever parental supervision there had been was minimal. Maybe the only attention he ever got was when he was sick, or he used it as an excuse for attention. Whatever it was, it obviously carried over into adulthood, if Sherlock's current behavior was anything to go by.

This didn't excuse Sherlock's actions, but it did lend itself a little of John's sympathy. If it was to be unavoidable, so be it. Sherlock was still staring at him with glassy eyes, unaware (or maybe totally aware) of John's thoughts. "John, you clearly don't realize how serious this affliction is. I'll be dead in a matter of hours." His voice was so serious, so resigned, John almost believed him. But then Doctor John, with the force of all his medical instructors behind him, gave him a sharp mental slap.

"You're not going to die Sherlock. I won't allow it." John informed him sharply as he crossed the room to the windows. Throwing back the curtains, he forcibly opened the windows, wincing at the resulting squeal. Had these particular windows ever been opened? He wasn't sure.

"John! What are you doing, trying to kill me faster?" Sherlock shouted from the bed. John turned to him with his hands firmly planted on his hips.

"You need fresh air; it's the stuffiness in here that made you sick. Now, I'm going out to pick you up medicine, and when I get back I'll make tea. You will be out of bed by that time, and will drink both, and there will be no argument or negotiation." With that, John marched out of the room, completely missing the look Sherlock sent after him. It was puzzled, and yet strangely happy. Bossy John was fun.

Sherlock considered remaining in bed, just to see how John would react. Would he barge into the room and physically force him from his bed, or would he succumb to any pleading demands Sherlock could muster? At much fun as that could turn out to be, for the moment Sherlock wasn't sure he could trust his pleading to be anything but sincere, so he decided not to risk it.

The next step, then, would be to get out of bed – a truly daunting prospect. It was COLD out there, especially since John opened the window. He considered his usual sheet robe, but that was simply too thin and uncomfortable for him in his fragile state. Bathrobe and pajamas? Surely not enough to convince John of his life-threatening ailments.

Suddenly, an idea dawned on him, and he lifted the sheets to stare at the article of clothing that he had held close through the night. Well now, why not?

The sight that greeted john when he returned, bearing orange juice, fever pills, and cough syrup – that even he as a doctor had to admit was noxious – was a solid wall of fabric (some patterned, some not), creating a solid foam barrier between himself and his what he presumed was his sick flatmate. The couch, John's chair, and John presumed every other seat in the flat was conspicuously missing its cushion, the padding lending itself to the creation of Sherlock's hiding place. He really is like a child, John thought and shook his head as he went to the kitchen. A glance over the shoulder showed him where the entrance to the cushion and pillow cave was, and he wondered if it was even worth trying to get Sherlock to come out and sit at the table.

When he turned round again, after putting the kettle on, he saw a rather bleary pair of blue eyes peering out at him from the fort. John blinked, put off for just a moment, because there was something strange about what he was seeing. As if there wasn't anything strange about your partner in a pillow fort. He shrugged mentally at the thought, before realizing that what was putting him off was that Sherlock was back to wearing his jumper. Again. A sheet robe or even his bathrobe John could see Sherlock dressing in for a sick day, but hanging on to John's jumper…

It wasn't…unexpected, not odd, but something about the sight was poking at John in a way that didn't feel quite normal.

But since normal itself wasn't normal…John stopped himself before he went down that mental road. He wasn't quite ready to go there.

Shrugging it off for the moment, John turned back to the immediate problem. Sherlock didn't seem to be willing to leave the pillow pile, so John poured a glass of orange juice, grabbed a packet of pills and the disgusting cold medicine, and approached the cushion castle.

Sherlock scuttled back from the opening, leaving John no choice but to crouch down and stick his head in. He was stuck with unexpected admiration at Sherlock's fort conducting abilities, for it was actually slightly roomy and less claustrophobic than he expected. Sherlock sat in the far corner, a king in a cuddly jumper and sitting on a throne of pillows, the ones off of his and – John winced – John's bed.

There was no way to avoid what would happen next, so John grit his teeth, shoved his pride firmly into a corner, and asked, "Permission to enter?"

Sherlock smiled. "Of course John," his deep voice – as sickly-soundly as the rest of him appeared – seeming somehow out of place coming from a pillow fort. "Just leave the cold syrup outside; I won't touch it."

~*~And…that's it. The end. Thanks for reading!
Yeah, right. Kidding. I can get another chapter out of this. At least. So please review.