John watched Sherlock toss and turn fitfully, feeling his nerves stretch further as he watched his friend captured in the throes of fever-induced dreams.
He'd gotten himself an infection, the clot-head. Didn't properly clean out a wound or something like that. And John had finally coaxed him (dragged him) into hospital when his fever had peaked at forty. John was done when his fever hit forty. Doctors weren't supposed to treat their friends and John wasn't going to try (and potentially fail) on his best one. On any of them, really.
"Sherlock," he murmured, reaching over to shake Sherlock's shoulder slightly.
Thankfully, the hospital had pinpointed the cause that John had, too, and they were able to administer proper care, aka antibiotics. Sherlock's fever was down to thirty-eight point six, which was still impressive in itself, but a lot more manageable, especially in hospital.
"Wake up. You're dreaming," he murmured, tightening his grip around Sherlock's shoulder.
Sherlock slept lightly, at least for now, and awoke with a start. His fever-glazed eyes settled on John's form. "What's wrong...?"
"You were dreaming... fitfully," John added. "Sorry. You looked uncomfortable."
Sherlock sighed heavily, draping his arm across his eyes, and didn't respond.
Further proof to his unwell physical and mental state.
John bit the inside of his cheek and glanced at the door. It was late, past visiting hours but Mycroft's influence got him to stay. It was a private room, double bed...
"Budge over," he said quietly, standing up.
Sherlock didn't move. "What...?"
"Scoot. Nightmares..." John cleared his throat. "Well, I know fever dreams are different, but... physical contact," he said pathetically.
Sherlock moved his arm slightly, staring up at John with the same glazed look in his eyes. He seemed uncomprehending.
John palmed his forehead. It was cooler than before; so, it probably wasn't the fever, but more Sherlock being tired from the whole ordeal. John gently prodded his arm.
"Move over."
Sherlock frowned slightly before slowly shuffling over to the left side of the bed.
"You know I'm only doing this because you did it for me once," John mumbled, crawling into bed. "And you need to get some restful sleep."
Sherlock just sighed and let his eyes flutter closed again.
John would take his temperature soon, after he woke up again. It took a total of about two minutes for him to fall asleep, but John didn't move immediately. He knew how this worked. He'd had nightmares enough to know how it worked.
So, he was letting Sherlock know his presence was there by not moving and he was just starting to doze off when Sherlock turned and cuddled up right next to him.
John knew he liked to cuddle. Of course he knew that. But... he had a fever this time. It wasn't conducive to lowering his body temperature.
"Sherlock," he muttered. He didn't really want to shove him off; it would wake him up. Maybe just a few minutes.
Sherlock's head fell off the pillow and landed on John's shoulder, his dark curls tickling John's exposed neck. He very nearly jumped out of his skin, immediate goosebumps springing up all over his body.
"Sherlock," he hissed.
He got no reply except a breathy snore and a little bit of a snuggle as Sherlock curled more into his warmth.
... People were going to talk.
This time Sherlock needs a little cuddle. :) [Albeit if he doesn't realise he does.]
Don't own Sherlock. Your thoughts would be lovely; thank you!