7
John awoke with a start, sitting bolt upright in bed. His stomach was churning and he swallowed back a groan, fighting off the blankets. He managed to stumble painstakingly to the bathroom to avoid getting sick all over Sherlock's bedroom floor.
It wasn't until he had managed to get back on his feet and rinse his mouth out before he realized that he had been in bed, alone. No Sherlock.
He stumbled into the hallway. His balance was off and he tripped over something, probably his own feet, pitching forward into the opposite wall. He caught himself, but it didn't stop him from sliding to the floor. He coughed slightly, fingers curling around the neck of his shirt. Chest hurt, couldn't breathe...
He let his eyes slip shut, relishing in the cool blackness that quickly encompassed the world.
"John?"
John opened his eyes again, a tremor ripping through his body. Sherlock was standing in the kitchen doorway, leaning against the doorframe for support. He looked... well.
John meant to respond, or maybe he didn't, but all that he ended up eliciting was a groan.
"-think you should be in bed," was what he heard from Sherlock. He was pretty sure he hadn't heard the whole sentence. Sherlock didn't, typically, speak so inarticulately.
'Been in bed' was what John tried to say, although it came out more as a jumbled mess of indecipherable noise.
"I speak English, John. Not 'idiot'."
There was movement in front of him and John forced his eyes open. Sherlock was standing in front of him, holding out a hand. John stared at it.
"Oh, for-" Sherlock started, grabbing John's arm and pulling him to his feet.
"Sh-" John tried to complain, but he didn't have the breath, and from the moment that he was back on his feet, the world was spinning. He toppled sideways and had the immediate, frightening feeling of falling.
"John!" Quickly, there were arms around him, keeping him steady. John blinked slowly, wondering why he wasn't hitting the floor or the wall, before he slowly realized that Sherlock was pretty much his only support.
"... Warm," John muttered, pressing closer to Sherlock.
"Jo- What are you doing?"
"You're warm..." he muttered, clearing his throat a bit in order to speak better.
"That would be the fever affecting your judgement, I believe. Back to bed." Sherlock gave John a little push. John stumbled forward, although Sherlock kept a hand on his shoulder.
"Why ever I have given my bed up to you now, I haven't the slightest idea," Sherlock muttered as John gratefully sank onto the duvet again. He was so tired... So very mentally... and physically... exhausted. He sighed quietly, eyes flickering closed.
There was pressure on his forehead, but he ignored it altogether. He just wanted to go back to sleep...
"John?"
Disgruntled, John opened his eyes yet again, ready to tell Sherlock off for bothering him.
"Take your temperature," Sherlock cut in smoothly, all but forcing the thermometer into John's mouth. John gave a disgusted exhale through his nose, closing his eyes again.
"John, I'm not sure..." The voice he was hearing trailed off, too low for John's ears. He tried to open his eyes to face Sherlock, because who else would it be, besides Sherlock?, but it was a losing battle. He was just exhausted. He was too hot, but he was shaking, although he didn't know what from. He didn't feel cold. Oh, hell, he was confused. There was something cool on his forehead, but he couldn't decipher what it was through the pain. His head hurt... Oh, his head hurt...
Sherlock was standing over him, expression fierce. He wasn't looking at him, he was looking away, but John could see just half of the expression on the detective's face.
"Sherlock?" he asked, his voice cracking. It was too far away, distant and yielding no results. Sherlock didn't move, probably not hearing. "Sherlock?" he tried again, a well of frustration as he received no response.
"Sherlock, what-" He sat up in bed, reaching up to grab Sherlock's shoulder. He tried to persuade Sherlock to look at him, and he did.
He immediately wished he hadn't.
Blood was dripping from Sherlock's hairline, from his eyes, his nose, bubbling up around the corners of his mouth. He was pale, too pale, deathly pale... The light had gone out from his eyes, a desolate look there instead. The fierce look was still on his face, contrary to the look in his eyes, a strange contradiction-
"John, John, John!"
John awoke with a start. His fingers curled immediately around the arms in front of him, the ones that were gripping his shoulders. He realized, belatedly, that it was Sherlock gripping his shoulders, something that looked like panic in his eyes.
"John?"
John felt his fingers slipping from Sherlock's arms as he slipped from consciousness again.
He woke up feeling unrefreshed. He was tired and achy and sweaty, the blanket was sticking to him and his throat was dry. He blinked his eyes open wearily, squinting against the light in the room. He let them close again, licking his lips slightly. He was thirsty... He was probably dehydrated, to be frank.
He placed a hand flat on the mattress to push himself up, but Sherlock's hand was suddenly back on his shoulder. John's eyes flickered towards the detective laying next to him. "Sherlock...?" John muttered, flinching at his hoarse voice. He tried to clear it but couldn't- he really needed that drink.
"... You're actually with me this time?" Sherlock replied, his tone wary.
John frowned. "What do you mean?" He coughed slightly. Sherlock blinked and rolled over, grabbing a bottle of water from the nightstand. "Thanks," John muttered as Sherlock offered it. He popped the cap and took a long drink, looking back at Sherlock afterwards. "What did you mean? About the- the being with you thing?"
Sherlock had sat up, had drawn his legs up to criss-cross them. "You've been conscious, but not awake," Sherlock said. "Dreaming a bit, I think."
"Was I?" John muttered, frowning. He was trying to remember dreaming... He couldn't remember much past falling asleep after taking care of Sherlock, after finally getting Sherlock's temperature to finally drop... "Oh! Sherlock, you should be sleeping, I mean, wait, how long have I been asleep?" John muttered, leaning forward in bed to reach for Sherlock's forehead. He leaned out of the way.
"I'm fine, John," Sherlock said. "The fever has dropped to a solid thirty-eight point six. Your fever, however-"
John cut him off. "Thirty-eight point six? You should be sleeping." John turned his head to cough into his arm. The world shifted dangerously. He stopped moving.
"Your fever," Sherlock continued, "is still at thirty-nine point three. Take more paracetamol." As Sherlock said it, he once again turned to the nightstand to grab the bottle of paracetamol.
John took the bottle, dumping two of the pills into his hand. "What is all that?" he asked, nodding towards the stuff on the nightstand. Water bottles, the bowl of water from earlier and John thought that maybe there were ice cubes in it. The cloth was draped over the side of the bowl.
"You should know."
"The ice would have melted by now, and, really, how long have I been asleep?"
"About ten hours."
John choked on the water he was drinking. "T-Ten hours?" he spluttered, Sherlock's eyes taking on an annoyed, but somewhat wary, look. "I've been asleep for ten hours? Wait, since your fever fell?" He eyed Sherlock carefully, thinking back. Ten hours since he'd fallen asleep on taking care of Sherlock-
He flinched as a sudden, sharp throbbing started in his head again.
"John, I really think you should be laying down."
John shook his head slightly, sitting up. He pushed away from the bed, putting his feet on the floor. He felt... rather disgusting. He needed a shower, although it probably wasn't still a good idea, if he still had that fever that Sherlock said.
"Where are you going?" Sherlock demanded, sliding off the bed as well. He looked prepared to force John to lay down. At any other moment, John might had noticed the fierce look and took heed of it. Right now, he noticed it, but didn't care.
He pushed himself up, swaying slightly as he stood. Thirty-nine or not, he still felt immensely better than he had.
"John."
John gave him a disdainful look. "The bathroom, Sherlock."
"Is that really necessary?" Sherlock monotoned in return.
John frowned, namely in disbelief. "You're- are you really asking me that?"
"All I'm saying, John, is that the human bladder-"
"Okay, I'm going to the bathroom, Sherlock. It won't-" he paused to cough, "won't kill me."
"Apparently not," Sherlock replied sarcastically.
John just rolled his eyes, walking around the bed and to the bathroom door. He paused in the doorway. "You... Well, I could be wrong, but... You weren't taking care of me, were you? Because I thought I sort of remembered you over me with the-the cloth or something."
Sherlock didn't reply immediately. However, when he did look up, he was frowning at John. "Weren't you doing something?"
John blinked before a small smile played along his lips. Of course Sherlock wouldn't own up to taking care of him. Of course he wouldn't.
Of course, John could be conjuring up ideas that had never happened.
But, he liked to think of the alternative. Because it was just very... human. Humanish. Kind of caring. It made him think that Sherlock maybe did care a little about him. Just a little.
He ended up brushing his teeth and washing his face as well before stumbling back to Sherlock's bedroom. Sherlock was sprawled out on the bed, his arms beneath his head. John smiled at his profile slightly. "I'm glad you're feeling better." The five words slipped out on their own, leaving John feeling, oddly, embarrassed after saying them.
Sherlock snorted. "Illness is a despairing waste of time."
John shrugged a bit, pressing the heel of his hand against his forehead. "Ah, well, I'm going back to bed." He turned for the hall door.
"John."
He glanced back, swaying a bit. He needed to sit down...
"The bed's right here."
One second of silence, two seconds of silence...
John felt himself go red.
"Oh, don't be ridiculous," Sherlock said, having glanced at him during the silence. "We've been sharing for over a day now, conscious or not. It's not the time to have your delicate misgivings come to light; you'll never make it up those stairs in your state."
"I'll take the couch," John said.
Sherlock sighed heavily, getting to his feet. He ripped one of the blankets from the bed, drawing it up in his arms. "I'll sleep on the couch. You take the bed. You're still sick."
"So are you," John retorted, losing an inch as he slid down the wall slightly.
"John."
Sherlock looked at him evenly, eyes assessing but stubborn. His mind was made up, then. John looked back at him for a moment, eyes flickering from Sherlock's eyes to Sherlock's cheeks to Sherlock's posture, checking and analyzing, looking for anything that might say otherwise about his state of health.
Of course, John probably would have missed everything of importance, anyway.
He sighed slightly, pushing away from the wall. "Fine. I'm too exhausted to argue," he muttered, passing Sherlock and dropping himself onto the bed. He grabbed the blanket and rolled over, burying his face into the pillow.
Sherlock's bare feet padded away quietly. John heard him pause. But then he continued on, the small noise of movement diminishing as he walked away.
John could have imagined it, too, but he thought he had heard Sherlock tell him 'good night'.
Well... I feel like I should apologize for this chapter.
[Sherlock's nightmares are dreams about John getting hurt. John's nightmares are dreams about Sherlock getting hurt. I, well, I like that part. Very much. And John's 'oh-Sherlock's-rather-conscious-now-I'm-just-going-to-crawl-up-the-stairs-to-my-own-bed' inhibitions make me laugh. And, Sherlock, normal people use the loo. I know you know hardly anything about taking care of sick people, but... seriously, give him two minutes! (xD)]
