In Which Sherlock Learns the Hard Way

John:

"Lie down, Sherlock."

Sherlock, his hair sweat-drenched and clinging in damp curls to his forehead, shakes his head vehemently and crosses his arms like a fussy child. "No!"

"For God's sake, Sherlock!" I close my eyes, take a breath. I don't know why it's so easy to be the ever-patient doctor with everyone else, and near impossible with Sherlock. I think it's because he knows just the proper way to annoy me and then commences to do so with undisguised glee. "You've got a fever of nearly thirty-nine degrees." My voice is calm, placating. "If you don't get some rest, it'll go higher and then you'll have to have a stay in hospital. You don't want that, do you?"

Sherlock narrows his eyes. "I'm not a child, John," he hisses, looking every bit of twelve years old. "Don't use that patronizing tone with me."

"Right," I grit, my teeth clenched, "because reasoning with you like an adult has been working so well for me."

"Just leave me alone!" he cries, hopping up from his bed again and bolting out into the sitting room. I follow him hurriedly, catching his wrist before he can slip down the stairs.

Pulling Sherlock to me, I growl, "It's not even five degrees out and you're in pyjamas and stocking-feet. If you go outside right now you'll catch your death. Go. Back. To. Bed."

"As soon as you let your guard down, I'll be gone. Don't think you can trap me here forever." Everything about his posture, his voice, the glow in his eyes…it all comes across as a challenge.

Stupidly, I take the bait. "Keep making threats like that," I say, and I find that I'm smiling, "and I'll happily restrain you."

"You wouldn't."

"I would, and I will." I tighten my fingers on his wrist like a promise. "Bottom to bedsheets, now."

He shakes his head, the movement so slight as to be almost imperceptible, and I make up my mind then and there. "Right," I say, bending at the knees and grasping him around the thighs. Sherlock's up and over my shoulder before he even thinks to fight back. (I don't delude myself into thinking I'd ever catch him off guard if he weren't sick as a dog, but I still allow myself a warm little stab of pride at having managed it all.)

"Put! Me! Down!" Each word is punctuated by a punch to my back, but I don't relent. It's all I can do to keep my grip on him; the damn fool won't stop twisting about and kicking, and God he's heavier than he looks. For someone who never eats, his weight on my shoulder (the bad one at that, but I wasn't thinking about that when I'd put him there) is solid and pressing. I fling him down on to his bed unceremoniously, and when he instantly tries to spring back up I kneel down on the bed beside him and press my palm to his chest, catching my breath as he struggles.

"You're weak as a kitten right now, Sherlock," I gasp out, a little breathless. "And you forget: I was a soldier. I can and will keep you in this bed until you're better. So why don't you do us both a favor and lie still, for Christ's sake?"

I know he's getting desperate when he goes still and croons: "I'll call my brother! He'll make your death look like an accident!"

"Oh, stop it," I smile, pulling the top-sheet up to his chin (and frowning as he immediately flings it off). "Now, then. Are you quite done? Because I'd like to fix some tea and get some medicine in you, but I can't very well leave you if you're going to hop out of the window or something."

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock groans, as if the sight of a thirty-something year old man flailing about to avoid bedtime isn't the exact image of the word. "I would go to the roof. Jump over to the next building, use the fire escape to get down. You'd still be looking for me in the alley below my windowsill and I'd be two blocks away."

"Of course." I pat his knee, noting the rising color in his cheeks and the droop of his eyelids with mild concern. I want to take his temperature again, and I want to get him another blanket, but I think it's probably best to let him drift into sleep, so I wait.

Just as it seems like he's nodding off, his eyes jump open. "You threatened to restrain me!" His voice is quiet but accusatory.

I wipe his sweaty hair from his forehead with the back of my hand. "Yes."

"Did you mean it?"

"Yes," I smile.

He smiles, too, his eyes hazy but clearly pleased. "I could get out of any restraint you managed to assemble within a minute."

Laughing, I shake my head and tuck the sheet up under his chin again. "You really don't want to test that theory, Sherlock, not in the state you're in."

"No, you're right," he sighs, letting his eyes settle closed. "But when I'm…myself again. We should try that."

I'm glad Sherlock's eyes are closed so he can't see the look on my face. God, it's no wonder people talk about us. Shaking my head, I give his knee another little pat and walk to the door, stopping there to turn back and look at him. His chest is rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm, his lips lightly parted and his face shiny. I laugh a little at myself and the sudden wash of feeling that rushes through me. If he'd only let me, I'd go on trying to fix him for the rest of our lives.