Author's Note: It's been so long. I really am terribly sorry. College makes my life more hectic than any life should be. I hope this is decent. I wrote it in between college papers and tests. I tried, guys.
Recap: Sherlock is extremely ill with flu. John is taking care of him. He's currently insisting on putting Sherlock in a cool bath.
When they'd reached the bathroom John started to run a bath of cool water. He glanced back to find Sherlock leaning heavily against the wall. "All right?" he asked.
"Fine," Sherlock murmured, but his eyes were pressed tightly shut.
"Come on then," John gestured towards the bath. "In you go."
John expected Sherlock to ask him to leave, or at least show some amount of modesty, but he did no such thing. He reached up with a low groan and started to pull his shirt over his head.
John's cheeks flushed as Sherlock pulled the shirt off and revealed his chest, which, despite having seen it many times before, John still wasn't accustomed to. When Sherlock reached down for his trousers John's entire body stiffened slightly. He was a doctor, damn it, and he could handle this.
Stripped down to just his pants, Sherlock finally seemed to hesitate for a moment. He must have decided against whatever issues he might've had, because he took the pants off as well and lowered himself slowly into the tub.
"Do you want me to…" John swallowed heavily. "Should I step outside, or?"
Sherlock slumped lower in the water, but provided no answer.
"Sherlock," John said, pointedly looking at his face. And JUST his face, he reminded himself as his eyes threatened to wander lower.
"I'm not a child," Sherlock said, not bothering to even open his eyes.
"Well that's… that's not even an answer to what I was asking," John said with a sigh. He didn't particularly want to leave the man alone, but he wasn't sure he could handle averting his eyes for much longer. And Sherlock had probably already noticed his discomfort. "I'll be just outside. I'll make tea. Yell if you need anything, Sherlock. Please. Anything at all."
"Not a child," Sherlock mumbled again.
John shook his head to himself and left the room, leaving the door cracked open a bit. Just in case. He busied himself by making a cup of tea and sinking into his chair. He tried to relax as he slowly finished his cuppa, but he couldn't stop thinking of Sherlock. It had been a long time, if ever, since he'd seen a reaction to illness like Sherlock's. Mycroft's warning had been far more serious than John had expected. The more he thought about it, the more he worried about Sherlock in the bath.
"All right, Sherlock?" he called towards the bathroom, trying to sound as though he were merely curious.
There was no answer.
"Sherlock?" he said again, a bit more loudly.
Still nothing.
Dread settled low in his belly. "Sherlock?!" His casual curiousness had now become more of a concerned bellow.
No reply.
He could stand it no longer. Images of Sherlock drowned in a bath filled his mind, and John rose quickly from his chair and hurried back into the bathroom. Sherlock could pout about being an adult all he wanted, as long as he was safe. John found the man leaning against the tub, eyes closed. His chest rose and fell steadily. John let out an audible sigh of relief.
"Sherlock, you need to answer me. I know this is frustrating." John ran a hand over his mouth and sat on the edge of the tub, eyes fixed on Sherlock's face. "Trust me, I know. Just, answer when I call, ok?"
Sherlock opened his eyes slowly, and John found that they were glassy and unfocused. "What?" he asked, as if he hadn't understood a word of what John said.
John leaned closer. Sherlock's eyes were vacant. Almost empty. It was like nothing John had seen from the man before this ridiculous flu. "Sherlock… Are you feeling ok?"
Sherlock shook his head slowly, as if trying to clear his mind. "I don't… What?" he asked again.
And suddenly, before John could react, Sherlock's eyes rolled back in his head, and he began thrashing about the tub. He was having a seizure. God, Mycroft was right about the magnitude of this.
"Shit!" John said, plunging his hands into the tub to keep Sherlock's head above water. "Shit, shit, shit," he mumbled, cradling his head as he rode out the seizure.
It was short, only a few seconds, but it felt like eternity to John. When Sherlock stopped seizing he slumped in the tub and his head lolled in John's hands.
John steadied his breathing and snapped into doctor mode. He checked the man's vitals, all stable, and drained the water from the tub. He rolled Sherlock gently to his side, while keeping his hand gingerly under his head.
He grabbed a towel from the rack behind the door and placed it lightly across Sherlock's body. Sherlock's eyes were closed but John didn't try to rouse him. Seizures often caused grogginess, and though a tub wasn't very comfortable, John knew not to wake him until he'd fully recovered. For a few moments, he simply waited, filled with worry, and reassured himself by recalling everything he'd ever learned regarding seizures.
Somewhere along the way he had taken hold of Sherlock's hand, and even when he realized it, he found he didn't want to let go.
"Sherlock," he said gently, when the detective's eyes finally began to flutter open. "You've had a seizure. I need you to stay exactly as you are. Don't try to move. Not yet."
"John," Sherlock's voice was so low that John barely heard it.
"Yes, I'm here. Stay calm, Sherlock. You're fine. Everything's fine," John said, his voice strong and steady. He might be scared for his friend, but he was a doctor just now, and he would have to hide any fear.
"You're all right," he said again.
John could almost pinpoint the moment that Sherlock became aware of his surroundings again. Understanding came back into his eyes, and he looked down at his own body, covered by only a thin towel.
"A seizure," he said coolly. He didn't seem to remember what John had told him; he was deducing. John had seen enough deductions to know.
"Yes," John confirmed. "A minor seizure, I think. I'm taking you to the hospital anyway. I've never seen flu like this, Sherlock. Never. And you're terribly dehydrated. Malnourished as well. You hardly eat to begin with."
As John had expected, Sherlock's eyes grew dark when he mentioned the hospital. "I won't go."
"You have no choice," John said. "You're in my care, and I say you're going."
"No."
"If you pitch a fit, I'll call an ambulance and they'll take you, and prod at you along the way. I'm going to drive you. That's what's happening."
Sherlock's brow was drawn together tightly. His mouth quivered, but he said nothing. Finally, with another look down, he glanced back at John. "I'm naked."
"Yes, I see that," John said, willing away any blush that might have appeared on his cheeks.
"I can't go to the hospital naked."
"Yes, obviously you'll have to get dressed first."
"Well I won't," Sherlock said, staring straight ahead, avoiding John's eyes.
"Excuse me?" John asked.
"I won't get dressed."
John squeezed his hands into fists and searched desperately for some untapped patience within him. "Sherlock, please just…"
"I won't get dressed. I won't go to the hospital," Sherlock interrupted harshly.
"You will."
"No."
"Sherlock, you will get dressed, and you will go." John closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. "This is for your own good."
Sherlock was unfazed. "I won't," he said again.
"My god, you are a child," John stood and started toward the door. "Don't you dare move," he said, pointing at Sherlock, and left the bathroom.
"John?" Sherlock called from the bathroom. John ignored him and continued searching through the detective's drawers. If Sherlock wouldn't dress himself, then John would dress him. The man had a seizure, he was terribly dehydrated, and perhaps a hospital would force him to behave himself. This wasn't up for discussion.
He sifted through the clothes and swore under his breath when he couldn't find anything casual. No t-shirt; nothing. Only collared shirts that looked fit for a king, and tight dress pants. He gave up the search and hurried to his own room, where he pulled a large blue jumper and grey track suit bottoms from one of his drawers. Good enough.
Thankfully, by some miracle, Sherlock hadn't moved from his position in the tub. "You can make this easy or difficult, Sherlock," John said, looming over him, clothes in hand.
Sherlock huffed.
"Difficult then," John muttered. He kneeled beside the tub and softly placed his hands behind Sherlock's head. "Come on then," he said, helping the man sit up.
"John,"
"Quiet," John brought the blue jumper down over Sherlock's head and worked his arms through the holes. Sherlock put forth minimal effort, but he didn't fight him, which was something worth rejoicing.
"Are you ready to cooperate?" John asked, once the jumper was firmly on Sherlock.
"Is this yours?" Sherlock said, wrinkling his nose as he looked down at the fabric.
"That doesn't answer my question. Cooperation?"
"Is it yours?"
"Yes."
"Fine."
"Fine?" John quirked an eyebrow.
"Fine, give me the trousers," Sherlock said, still looking straight ahead.
John smiled slightly and passed the clothing to Sherlock.
"No," Sherlock said upon seeing the trousers. "The ridiculous jumper I will allow, though with great disdain."
"You need to be comfortable, Sherlock. We could end up in a waiting room for hours."
"I really do not have hours to waste. Seizure or no seizure."
John's face hardened at the reminder. "You need to be comfortable," he said again.
Sherlock sighed heavily but started to work his way into the tracksuit pants.
"I look positively laughable," he said, once dressed. The track pants were nearly a foot too short. This was what Sherlock got for making it bloody difficult to find his casual clothes. "I look like you."
John narrowed his eyes. "How can you be vain at a time like this?"
Sherlock scoffed and pulled at the jumper. "Do you feel this ridiculous all of the time?"
John felt a smile pull at the corner of his mouth. "Hush, you. Now up you come." John helped Sherlock out of the tub and pulled Sherlock's arm around his shoulder.
"I'm fine, John," Sherlock said, but John could feel him leaning on him for support.
"I know you are. Of course you are. Are your shoes by the door?"
"Yes."
"Good. On we go then."
"John, we don't have a car."
"I've phoned a cab," John said without missing a beat. "It's waiting outside."
"Yes, of course," Sherlock said, and if John didn't know any better, he'd say the man sounded just a bit impressed.
John led Sherlock out of the house and into the taxi, and never once broke physical contact with him.