10. Pet Names
When Molly opened the door to 221B, she found her consulting detective on his sofa. He was curled up on his sofa in a fetal position, wearing his pajamas and camel dressing gown. He was much paler than usual, sweat glistened on his brow, and he was shaking. When he heard the door open, he moaned, "Molleeeeeeee…" He couldn't lift his head to see her, but he hoped it was her, since it was she he texted when he felt too weak to get up.
"Oh, Sherlock…" said Molly, taking off her coat before approaching him. She knelt down in front of Sherlock and stroked his forehead, brushing some damp curls away. "You're burning up."
His eyes fluttered halfway open. "Molly…" he breathed. "You came."
"Of course I did, love," she murmured, digging into her medical bag for a thermometer. When she had retrieved it, Molly saw that Sherlock was looking at her with his eyes wide open. "What is it?"
"You…what did…"
"Hold that thought," said Molly, taking advantage of his open mouth and sticking the thermometer under his tongue. He groaned in great protest, even as his lips closed around the thermometer. Molly smiled. "Good boy, now stay still for a minute while I get some cold water and a cloth for your head. You'll want some tea, too, I expect?"
Sherlock nodded, and Molly went into the kitchen to fetch all of that.
When she came back, Molly knelt beside him again and pressed the dishcloth soaked in cold water to his forehead. "Alright, open," she said, reaching for the thermometer. He obeyed, and Molly read it with a hiss through her teeth. "One hundred and three degrees…looks like the flu. No wonder John and Mary won't come near you, they'd never risk infecting Emma."
"Molly."
"Hmm?"
"You…you called me…"
"What did I call you?" she asked in confusion, cooling his face with the damp cloth.
"You…" His breathing was labored, but he was determined to speak his peace. "When I said you came…"
Molly thought for a moment, then gasped as she realized what he meant. Oh, God, I used a term of endearment, he probably wants to empty his stomach all over again! "Oh. I'm sorry, Sherlock, I didn't even realize I called you that. I won't do it again."
"No," said Sherlock, wrapping his fingers lightly around the wrist of the hand cooling his face. "I…I like it." His bloodshot eyes were almost glowing.
She blushed, smiled, said, "Let's get you better, love," and kissed his forehead tenderly.
Three days later found a very pale Molly curled up in her own bed with the sweats and shakes. Her fever had finally dropped a degree, according to the last thermometer read. Sherlock entered, carrying a tray in his hands.
"All right," he said almost brightly, sitting down on the bed beside her. "Here is a bowl of chicken soup I made all by myself, an entire packet of saltines, warm water to wash it down since cold water will only give you a headache, and a fresh dosage of medicine to take beforehand."
Molly pouted at him and croaked, "Your fault."
Sherlock rolled his eyes, but his expression softened. "Now, now, Molly, I never asked you to stay with me every minute until I had gotten better."
Molly smirked. "Yes, you did."
A blush briefly crossed Sherlock's cheeks, but the corners of his lips turned up. Gently, he lifted her torso so she rested against her pillows in a sitting-up position. "You're right, dearest, I did," he muttered absently as he brought the tray to rest on her lap. When he looked at her face again, she was staring at him with wide eyes that were overbright. "What?" he asked, touching her forehead to see if her fever had spiked.
She shook her head quickly and blinked. "Nothing, it's nothing."
But Sherlock knew exactly what she was thinking of. He brushed the tear that had escaped off her cheek before kissing it. "Eat, dearest. I worked hard to warm up that soup."
A/N: So, being bedridden with a bug inspired the setting for this little prompt. And if anybody would like to know why I chose those particular pet names, I ask you to bring to your memory what was on the card of Molly's Christmas present to Sherlock. Review please!