3

Two hours of complete silence did nothing to help John. His head just increased in the pounding, he got colder, his shivering intensified, and his throat started to ache worse. He had the notion to get up, make some tea, put some honey in it and go back to bed, but he didn't want to get up. He didn't want to move.

Sherlock had fallen asleep on the couch, but he had woken up again in the past ten minutes. He had just been laying there, staring at the ceiling, clutching the one blanket that he had (John had taken the rest for fear of Sherlock's temperature skyrocketing) and never moving. John could see him shivering, and see him breathing, but he never moved otherwise.

John felt the tickle in the back of his throat a half second before he started coughing. And it wasn't just one of those little coughs, a hide-behind-your-hand cough, but one of those long-winded spells that left you breathless.

And he... couldn't... stop... coughing!

"John..." Sherlock moaned weakly.

John relinquished his grip on the blanket, instead snaking his arms around his stomach and doubling over in his chair.

"John... stop..." Sherlock muttered, pushing himself up.

"Can't... breathe...!" John forced out, pressing a hand over his mouth afterwards. Breathe through nose, breathe, breathe, he had to breathe...

"Breathing is essential..." Sherlock mumbled vaguely. John felt his eyes on him. "What am I supposed to do?" Sherlock asked abruptly, exasperation and something the closest to human worry that John had ever heard leaking into his voice.

"... H-Honey..." John rasped, pressing his fingers into his chest.

"Excuse me?"

John shook his head, unable to get the words out again.

"Ho- oh. Honey," Sherlock repeated. Footsteps told John that Sherlock was retreating. What seemed to be so many painstaking moments later, Sherlock returned with a spoon and the honey jar. "It... uhm, it helps with cough, right?" Sherlock murmured.

It took three minutes for John to get his breath back, because, thankfully, the honey did help. For now. This time.

"... Thanks..." he whispered, sinking low in his chair. His stomach hurt, his chest hurt, his throat hurt, his head was pounding, and he was dancing precariously close to unconsciousness. He was just... tired.

Sherlock had been hovering close to him, had actually slumped against the back of the chair in waiting for John to catch his breath. Now, as John looked back at him, he realized just how pale Sherlock was.

"You okay...?" he murmured, twisting slightly in the chair.

Sherlock nodded slightly. He looked apt to speak, so John gave him a few seconds of silence as a prompt, which worked. "You..." He cleared his throat. "You need to have more paracetamol."

John blinked in surprise. Whatever he had expected, it hadn't been that. "Yeah... maybe," he murmured. "You, too."

Sherlock shook his head slightly.

"Sherlock..."

"I'm intolerant."

"What?" John frowned, shifting a bit more to fully look at Sherlock. "You- intolerant? To paracetamol?"

"Give or take," Sherlock muttered, his body giving a shudder as a chill must have run through him.

"Oh- what do you take, then?" John said, pushing himself out of the chair. He could order it for Sherlock, as long as it wasn't some obscure drug. He couldn't get, and wouldn't get, certain things, especially for Sherlock.

"Oh, Nurofen Plus," Sherlock replied, his voice taking on the tone of nonchalance.

"N-Nurofen Plus?" John repeated, looking at him. "No."

Sherlock frowned. "Why not?"

"Codeine, Sherlock. Codeine," John said. "I am not giving you that. I'll get you Nurofen Express, and that's the best that I can do."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose slightly but sighed afterwards. "Fine."

John looked back at him, pausing as he walked around the kitchen table. The fact that Sherlock wasn't arguing was enough to make John believe that he needed to get that Nurofen quite quickly. "Let me get your temperature again, Sherlock..." he murmured, tracking back to the bathroom. "And then get some ice water."

He grabbed the thermometer and returned to the living room, where Sherlock had once again retreated to the sofa. "Here." Sherlock took it simply, although he did give John the depraving look that he had before. John returned it with a weak smile, raising a hand and pressing it flat against Sherlock's forehead. Sherlock stiffened, looking up at him. John expected a livid glare. What he got was unhappiness and confusion and probably what would have been the Sherlock equivalent of puppy eyes. It was just... vulnerability conveyed in one glance.

"I'll get down to Tesco's," John murmured, removing his hand.

Sherlock apparently tried to respond because John got a lot of 'mmmph' in return to that statement. When it beeped, Sherlock removed the thermometer. "You're unwell," he said.

"And that's the second time that you've said that, Sherlock," John muttered, prying the thermometer away from Sherlock. He ignored the fact that it was covered in saliva and peered at the reading- thirty-nine even. It wasn't much worse, but it wasn't any better. He needed to get that medicine or Sherlock's temperature was going to skyrocket come nightfall.

John turned away, but Sherlock grabbed his shoulder. He was standing now, and he spun John carefully around and pressed his hand against his forehead. John blinked, again, in surprise, looking up at the detective.

"Thirty... Thirty seven," Sherlock muttered unassuredly, frowning. He removed his hand and, before John could predict any other movement, the detective had leaned forward and pressed his forehead against John's.

"Wha- What are you doing?" John stammered, only holding his breath after that. He didn't want Sherlock's germs, but he didn't want Sherlock to get his, either.

"You're so warm..." Sherlock murmured. His breath was delightfully warm across his face, and John got a whiff of peppermint and tea. "I-I can't tell- I'm freezing but you're warm, and, w-well, I know you're warm, because you're sick, but you feel warm to me because I'm sick..." Sherlock stammered. He removed his forehead from John's, his fingers circling around his wrist.

"Sherlock..."

"Your pulse is accelerated, so there's a definite sign of a f-fever." Sherlock's teeth were chattering. John wanted to get him back to bed and get medicine in him. "Your face is flushed and you're shivering. You've been coughing..." Sherlock removed his fingers from John's wrist, instead splaying a hand across John's chest.

John should have been bothered by the exam that Sherlock was giving him. He, probably, rightfully, should have been. But, he wasn't. He couldn't, he just... he didn't care. He didn't care what his temperature was or how his pulse was or what his breathing felt like under his jumper. He just wanted to make sure Sherlock was going to be fine.

"Sherlock."

"I kn-know that you've had a h-headache and- and that you were nauseous, s-so it's probably relatively high, higher than it w-was, so, thirty... thirty-seven point eight?" Sherlock removed his hand, worrying his lip between his teeth. "I could be off anywhere from f-four to s-six degrees..."

"Sherlock," John said, gripping Sherlock's arms. "It's fine. I'm fine. Go back to bed. I'll be b-back soon. You need rest."

"You need r-rest," Sherlock repeated stubbornly.

"A doctor takes care of a patient first."

"I'm not a patient."

"Yes, you are." It was the rapid-fire response that Sherlock was looking for, John knew it was, but he couldn't help it. He didn't want to explain. He just wanted to get down to damn Tesco's and but the medicine, get another cup of tea, and definitely go back to bed. He wanted to have some toast with honey, but the toast made his stomach turn. He wanted to take a long, relaxing shower, except the hot water would do more harm than good. And he couldn't fathom taking a cold one right now, he just couldn't.

"No, I'm not!"

"Stop arguing!" The shout tore a whole new fresh path of utmost pain down John's throat when he yelled it. And he hadn't even intended to; it just happened. He shocked himself with his exclamation, Sherlock even flinched, and a look that John had seen once (and only once) before crossed the detective's face. It was... kind of a desolate look. John immediately regretted his outburst. "I'm sorry, Sherlock." He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I'm..." He threw his hands up. "I'm sorry. I'm tired. We're both sick. We need rest."

"Right."

"Sherlock-"

"It's fine, John."

He tried again. "Sherlock-"

"Leave it alone."

John frowned, resisting the overwhelming emotion rushing through his body. He didn't know if he wanted to laugh or cry or scream, really, in that moment. Sherlock had turned and was stumbling back towards his room. John watched his retreating back, finally settling on something dangerously close to a mental breakdown.

He didn't have time to dwell on it, thankfully.

Sherlock stumbled sideways into the kitchen table, nearly falling over the chair.

"Sherlock," John said, crossing the room and placing a hand on Sherlock's back. "Come on..." Together, they made it back to Sherlock's bedroom without taking any plaster out of the wall or receiving any bruises. Silence enveloped the room for a long while.

"I'm sorry that I shouted at you," John said quietly, after some time.

"Sorry that I'm terrible," Sherlock mumbled.

John looked at him. "What?"

"'m stupidly hard to handle..." Sherlock leaned sideways against the headboard, resting his head against the wall. "Sally's right..."

"What?" John repeated. Sherlock wasn't really saying this, was he? Because all the crap that people said just rolled right off his back. Insults didn't bother him. Did they?

"Freak..." Sherlock mumbled.

"Oh... oh, God, Sherlock, that's not true," John said. "You're, well, you can be uncooperative and tactless and rude, but..." He shook his head. "That's- what they say isn't true. You're a good person." He didn't know how to explain it. He had never thought about it. He had, of course, noticed (and been annoyed) every time that a rude remark about Sherlock came out of someone's mouth, but he hadn't thought that he would ever have to explain- not to Sherlock. "You can't listen to them, they're not... they're just idiots. They don't know you. I know you, and... I know it's not true."

It was only then that John realized that he wasn't getting a response. "Sherlock?" He leaned over, looking into Sherlock's face. "Sherlock?" He caught Sherlock's wrist between his fingers, checking the pulse. It was racing, product of the fever, most likely. Sherlock had fallen asleep.

John eased Sherlock away from the wall, got him into bed in the proper position before retreating from the room. He needed to get to Tesco's. He needed that medicine for Sherlock. Fever be damned, he was going to Tesco's. He might regret it later, but not now... Not when Sherlock was spouting nonsense about himself being a freak, about actually listening to Sally and Anderson and most of the rest of the community...

He stepped into his shoes and clumsily worked his arms through the sleeves in his jacket before heading to the door. He'd be back before Sherlock even woke up. He would be here when Sherlock woke up. He would be. Even when no one else would, John would always be there.

Oh. I really like this chapter. This is the nice thing about sick!fics; I've written a bunch, and I've never touched on such extremes of vulnerability and care as I have here, in my opinion. Anyway, I love a) the idea of John shouting at Sherlock and Sherlock being affected by it because John's the only one who really accepts him, b) Sherlock admitting that the insults get to him, and c) Sherlock trying and failing to (correctly) analyze John's illness due to his own. Oh, and d) Sherlock being intolerant to paracetamol because of his past, implied drug habits.

Readers have to understand that there is a level of illness here that is influencing certain actions and thoughts, and that I'm trying to stay in character as much as I can with the addition of the illness. Hopefully, the readers like it, and don't think it's atrocious.

Thanks for following the story!