Between the Raindrops- Damn Flu
"Sherlock?" John called from his place on the couch, his throat dry.
Sherlock practically sprinted into the sitting room, his long limbs bending to kneel beside his flat-mate. "Yes, John? Are you alright?" Sherlock let his eyes sweep over the army doctor, his calculating gaze taking in every detail and trying to pinpoint the exact source of John's seemingly pained tone. His hands grazed over John's arms, feeling just how warm the blogger was.
John sighed, "Yes…" He gasped to breathe and let Sherlock's hands take his. "I just wanted to ask for some water," he choked, the dryness in his throat becoming unbearable.
Sherlock nodded and sped off to the kitchen, returning with a tall glass of cold water in his grasp. He handed the glass to John and watched John drain it within seconds.
John set the glass down and leaned his head back, shutting his eyes.
Sherlock sprang into action and gently lifted the bloggers head so he could place the Union Jack pillow under his head. His fingers grazed John's forehead and he frowned. "John, you are burning up."
John sighed, "It's the flu, Sherlock, of course I'm burning up." He leaned into the cold fingers pressed against his forehead, feeling relieved at the cold.
Sherlock smiled and flattened his hand out on John's forehead, receiving a positive hum from John in doing so.
John felt his stomach churn and twist, bile present at the back of his throat. He shot up and made a bee-line for the bathroom. He positioned himself in front of the toilet and began to empty his stomach contents into the porcelain bowl.
Sherlock heard John vomiting violently and rushed into the small bathroom. He knelt down beside John, who was slumped over the bowl, his head resting on his arm and his mouth directly over the bowl, and moped at how a man who had always been strong could look so weak and frail. He tentatively reached out and began to make slow comforting circles on John's back, feeling the heat of his high fever through the fabric of his jumper.
"This is awful," John moaned, having to swallow after speaking as he felt more vomit rising.
Sherlock sighed, "I know, I've had the flu before, John." Sherlock continued making small circles on the doctor's back, his hand gradually going higher. He soon found himself lost in the calm of the silence, the heat against his fingers, the slow repetitive circular motion…
"Sherlock?" John raised his head slowly, his eyes coming to rest on the curly haired detective's face.
Sherlock snapped out of his dazed state and immediately met John's gaze. "Yes?"
"I don't want you to feel like you have to stay with me all day. I don't want to be keeping you from your work," John mumbled, exhaustion from the flu overtaking him.
Sherlock laughed softly, "John, you and I know that, no matter what I've said in the past, my friends come before my work."
John blushed softly and lowered his head. "Thanks."
Sherlock smiled and stopped the slow fluid movements on John's back, this causing John to look up at Sherlock again. "I'll make you tea." He stood and waited for John to stand. When he didn't, he furrowed his brow. "Can you stand?"
John sighed and pushed himself up, using the toilet to help get to his feet. He stumbled, and Sherlock caught him.
"Guess not," Sherlock smirked slightly.
John sighed, "Just a little dizzy…I'm fine."
Sherlock's smirk became deeper and he positioned John's arm around his shoulder. "Come on, I'll help you to bed."
The pair slowly made their way to Sherlock's bedroom and Sherlock helped John into the bed.
John laid back and closed his eyes. "This is your room."
"Yes," Sherlock stated, not knowing why John was stating the absolute obvious.
"Why am I in your room?" John put his arm over his eyes to shield the light away from his eyes.
Sherlock drew the curtains, hiding the light to ease John's discomfort. "Would you like to climb all those stairs in your condition?"
John pondered for a moment, "No, I guess not." He frowned, "Where are you going to sleep? Wait, never mind…You don't sleep."
Sherlock smirked at how he hadn't needed to correct John because John knew him so well. "I sleep, but not regularly. Besides, tonight will be spent making sure you get well again."
John smiled, "Thanks, Sherlock."
Sherlock nodded, "You're welcome, John. Now, how about that tea I promised?" He swept to the kitchen and prepared the kettle. He poured the boiling water into the teacup and mixed the tea, adding a splash of milk –the milk that wasn't for his experiment. He held the cup firmly as he padded back into his room, pausing in the doorway at the sight.
John was passed out, his body curled into a tight ball, one arm flung over the side of the bed.
Sherlock smiled softly and placed the warm cup of tea on his nightstand, pausing a moment to take in the (adorable) sight. He leaned down and kissed John's feverish forehead, his lips cool to the touch. He retreated and exited the room, shutting the door softly behind him.
John cracked an eyelid open and smiled, reaching for the teacup. He took a warm gulp and swallowed, feeling the tea soothe his aching throat. He set the cup down and reached up to the spot where Sherlock's cool, and surprisingly soft, lips had made contact.
"Maybe this flu isn't such a bad thing…"
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