disclaimer: I don't own the characters.
(A/N) Sherlock and the hardships he has to face for being so small!
It's a few days later when Sherlock gets a text from Lestrade and John is woken to the feeling of the whole bed shaking, he groans loudly and hears a rather amused giggle in response. Opening his eyes he sees Sherlock, bouncing at the end of his bed, dressed and ready to go.
"Hurry John! Someone's been killed!"
For the life of himself John is all too grateful that he figures Lestrade probably texted Sherlock, otherwise the smile on the kids face might have given him the chills. He obliges to 'hurry up' and soon he's locking the door while Sherlock ineffectively tries to call a cab, John ends up doing it for them. Sherlock hops into the seat and hurriedly spouts off the directions, the driver looks at John who nods his assent and they pull away from baker street, what a way to start the weekend.
They're dropped off near a maze of warehouses, the sky above is full of clouds and they can hear the dull roar of morning goers behind them. They spot Lestrade and his men not long after walking in and John watches Sherlock sprint ahead, his coat billowing out like always. Sally doesn't even have to raise the caution tape, the little detective ducks under it and he hears Anderson say something but he can't make out the words. Immediately Sherlock wheels on him, he sees the kid's head dip then raise and he's pretty sure Sherlock is making some accurate deductions about the man as he walks up.
Lestrade has to play mediator and Anderson stalks off to the edges of the scene. John takes his place on the other side of the body as Sherlock gets on hands and knees to observe, a couple gunshot wounds to the chest. The man is laying a pool of his own blood but there's nothing else that John can see that would indicate he had a weapon himself.
"You called me out here for this?"
John raises an eyebrow and looks to Lestrade who, even though he tries to hide it, looks a little guilty.
"I just thought-"
"This is hardly worth my time Lestrade, we're leaving."
Sherlock is already stalking away, shoulders hunched and Lestrade drags a hand over his face in exasperation before gesturing to his people to get on the scene. John doesn't stick around and jogs to catch up to his flat mate.
"Care to explain?"
"It was a simple drug deal gone badly. Lestrade was humoring me," Sherlock nearly shouts.
"Oh."
"Did he honestly think I wouldn't notice? The audacity of some people!"
He smirks and they head out to the main street. The streets are busy but he doesn't see any cabs going their way so they keep walking. Eventually John feels a hand worm its way into his and he glances down, Sherlock is looking ahead and he smiles at the little detective. He squeezes the cold hand and they keep walking. It's another ten minutes before John finally drags them into a café, its bloody cold outside.
John can't help but smirk as he leaves Sherlock to sit, with his feet dangling off the chair, at one of window tables looking so childlike and innocent. Sherlock watches John as he stands in line, looking up at the menus and kicks his feet absently. Waiting is boring, watching John wait isn't though. He likes the way John furrows his brow as he thinks hard about his decision and then on occasion licks his lips, he isn't sure John even knows he's doing it.
Most of all, he likes walking around London with John, he likes sitting next to him and he likes the way John smells and he even likes John's silly jumpers. Before he knows it John is back and Sherlock stares at the drink that's been placed in front of him. He can't see the liquid underneath the whip cream on top of it and John has a cup of coffee for himself.
"What-"
"Just drink it."
He stares at the drink before picking it up, it's warm and he can smell chocolate as it draws near and Sherlock practically purrs when he takes a sip of it. John smiles and waits for his to cool off a little, he enjoys watching the little detective, Sherlock is more expressive than he used to be. They finish their drinks and set off down the sidewalks again and Sherlock says he wants to check on the homeless network again, see if there are any leads as to where the woman who had cursed him might have disappeared to.
Once again John is amazed to see his flat mate navigate the streets of London without so much as a map or a peek at his phone. By the third contact John is sore from all the walking and it's been drizzling since the first and even though Sherlock protests, he calls them a cab when they walk out of an alley way. Opening the door John waits and bites back a laugh at the sight of Sherlock, arms crossed, curly hair plastered around his face and looking defiant till the end.
The cab driver tells them to hurry up and John makes the choice for Sherlock, he grabs the kid under the arms and drags him into the back seat and shuts the door. Like a cat that doesn't want to be held, Sherlock twists and yowls at John for hindering his information gathering while John has to practically shout their destination to the driver.
"Sherlock!"
It's been awhile since he's had to use that voice, but John isn't afraid to fall back on his military training to control the little hellion. Icy blue eyes glare at him and then the boy becomes 50 pounds of soggy dead weight and flops against John's chest.
"Do you want me to stay like this John?"
"What? No! Of course not, why would you think that?"
"My homeless network may have valuable information and you're keeping me from it."
Letting his head fall back against the seat John sighs, "Christ Sherlock, that's not it at all. You don't know when to stop that's why. I know being like this is inconvenient, but your body can only take so much before even you succumb to fatigue or sickness, and I can't have you running around London soaking wet."
Sherlock looks down at his hands, they're tipped red from the cold and even though he's wearing a heavy coat, his ears and nose are cold as well. So maybe John was right, but…he just really wants his body back. Sighing Sherlock crosses his arms again, partly to warm his hands up in the folds of wool and partly to show his displeasure for John's accurate reasoning.
Again John has to carry Sherlock up the stairs after Mrs. Hudson lets them in out of the rain. She flutters around them, opening the door and John lets her deal with a groggy Sherlock while he goes to change. Coming back, the windows are blurry with sheets of rain and Mrs. Hudson has the little detective swaying sleepily by the couch while she fetches his dressing gown. John takes over after a moment, reassuring her they'll be fine. Yawning he grabs a blanket from his chair and sinks into the couch unfolding it as Sherlock takes the spot next to him. The TV is turned down low and even though they haven't eaten lunch yet, they both doze.
The next time John wakes it's for just a few moments his neck is starting to hurt, shifting to lie down he coaxes Sherlock to join him and they fall asleep again to the sound of rain and reruns on the TV. What wakes John the next time isn't a crick in his neck or some sound, its Sherlock, and he's shivering. It's a little strange, they have the blanket and the kid is still wrapped up in his gown, John wipes the sleep from his eyes before pulling his flat mate closer and its then he knows what's wrong. The second Sherlock's forehead hits his throat he can feel how hot he is.
Pulling back John feels his stomach drop, the kid has a fever, chills and he's sure the rest of the symptoms will be quick to follow. Looking around John thinks of what they have in the bathroom or anywhere, but neither of them gets sick often, so their supplies are on the little to none side. He feels Sherlock shudder awake and John feels his heart sink too, the kid looks haggard, pale and so fragile.
"John," and that does him in, Sherlock sounds so small.
"Hey."
"I'm so cold John."
He nods, "I know, you have a fever and chills."
Sherlock gives a small whine and buries his face into John's chest, trying to take as much warmth as possible. Curling closer to the boy John runs a hand through damp curls and sighs.
"I don't think we have any medicine here, I'll have to go get some."
A hand curls into his button up but John is already moving away, tucking the blanket more firmly around his flat mate.
"Don't need any medicine," Sherlock mumbles into the couch.
Rolling his eyes John goes to get his wallet and jacket, the corner store isn't too far away.
"I'll be back soon; I'll send Mrs. Hudson up to watch over you alright?"
All he gets in return is a faint groan and John is hurrying down the stairs. Sherlock hears him go and squeezes his eyes shut. Even with all the blanket to himself he shivers, his whole body aches and the fever makes his thoughts muddled. He can hear Mrs. Hudson in the flat, she says something about fluids and rest and not to worry John will be back soon, but that doesn't comfort him. Inhaling, he can still smell John and Sherlock falls back asleep without meaning to.
He doesn't know if it's been hours or minutes but Sherlock wakes to the feeling of the couch moving, opening one eye he peers up to see John looking down at him. The man is exuding worry; it's etched into the lines of his face along with the practiced eyes of a doctor.
"John," he whispers from behind the blankets.
His flat mate smiles and holds up a bowl of something steaming, "Let's get something into you before I have you take the medicine."
Sherlock nods sniffling because now his nose feels stuffed up and his throat feels raw from the sickness cloying at his body. Sitting up means moving from the nest he's created and his joints ache and his face heats up a little more when John holds out a spoonful of broth for him. He obliges though and leans forward to eat it and the warmth feels heavenly on his throat.
They get about half the bowl into Sherlock before John grabs the medicine for kids and the little detective scrunches his nose up at it. Its, unfortunately, the liquid kind and cherry flavored and he can smell how horrible it's going to taste.
"Come on Sherlock, this will help. I mean, it's bad enough you don't take any vitamins, how do you expect to get better without some help?"
Once again John holds the little plastic cup out, a cup of water in the other to wash down the syrupy concoction. It's a full 3 minutes of Sherlock staring at the cup before the boy actually moves and John chalks it up to the fever making him so amenable. The reaction is instantaneous, the second his flat mate downs the cup like a shot glass he's coughing and clawing for the cup of water in John's hand and downing it too.
"Don't ever," the boy growls softly, "make me take that again."
"Only if you agree to do as I say."
"Fine."
"Good, now get some rest before dinner, I don't want to see you anywhere near your experiments today."
John stands up and smiles down at the kid, even with his red nose and eyes rimmed pink he can work up a mean glare. Depositing the dishes into the kitchen John comes back and is about to sit in his chair when Sherlock makes a noise, still sitting there looking thin and oh so small. John takes a place on the couch and the little detective is quick to crawl into his lap, dragging the blanket with him so he's bundled into the doctor's arms, warm and content.
The flu lasts the weekend and into Monday, wrecking the boy with chills and nausea and John is ready to call into work but Mrs. Hudson tells him to get out of the house and not to worry. Sherlock lays in John's bed all morning and when he does get up, he roots around in the doctor's dresser and claims a jumper to keep him warm when he goes down to check on his no doubt ruined experiments.
It takes another day before Sherlock feels healthy again and John is just thankful to have his flat mate feeling better, though now the kid has taken to stealing John's shirts and wearing them around when he leaves and when he comes home. They don't even fit the kid, the sleeves are too long and it looks more like a dress than a shirt and honestly it means more laundry, but he lets the little detective wear them anyway, it's cute and makes Sherlock happy, so why not, anything to keep him happy.