Victor is bristling in the dark corner of Sherlock's room again. This is not unlike every night, but there is someone else present tonight as well. John.
Sherlock stares at him as a wet cloth is suddenly placed on Sherlock's forehead and a warm palm lays flat against his heaving chest.
Victor takes a step forward, concern and the desire to join Sherlock, to take care of him, is written all over the man's face. It would be unwelcome. Cold air would not be helpful while the shivers from fever wrack through his body.
"You'll feel better in the morning, Sherlock. I promise," John says, with a tight smile, the concern on his face making his forehead wrinkle.
It is a horrible feeling, the confusion. Wanting both. The warm hand on his chest feels amazing, but Sherlock would give anything to have Victor in bed with him. Sherlock has to make him know that.
"I'm sorry," Sherlock whispers, looking directly towards Victor and attempting to use his tired, unfocused eyes to convey everything that he can't say.
"What could you possibly have to be sorry for?" John questions, his voice sounding distant in Sherlock's muddled ears. To John, he must look delirious, out of his mind with fever. Maybe he is, but the message must have come across to Victor because he gives him a thin, worried smile and steps back once more.
"Want me to stay with you?" John asks, brushing sweaty curls back from his forehead.
Sherlock nods.
He is cold in a warm bed that night.
Thank you so much for reading! Comments are always welcome 3