Disclaimer: Characters not owned by me, rest of it is. Woop!
When John wakes, something has changed. The late afternoon light has changed to dull morning brightness, but there's something else. It's something not overly obvious, and he can't quite put his finger on it, but he blames this (that) on the cotton wool that someone has quite inconsiderately filled his head with.
He does feel a little better; not quite so lethargic and out-of-touch as the day before. Although that doesn't mean he's quite ready to jump out of bed and run around the streets with Sherlock after some fiend as per usual.
Sherlock.
John narrows his eyes, and then it registers. He is alone in his bedroom. He fights to keep a wave of disappointment from rising as he realises the detective is gone, but as he shifts slightly, he feels the still-warm bed covers on the opposite side of the bed and the smell that John didn't even know he'd learned to associate with the mad detective. Even John's brain, functioning so far at a base level, can figure out that Sherlock hasn't been gone long, and this knowledge makes that strange, warm feeling in his stomach spread.
Fighting a smile, John coughs loosely, and reaches for the glass of water by his bedside. He takes a small sip, calming his throat, and another, before spilling the liquid everywhere as the door to his room slams open and he jumps. He turns his head quickly to the doorway, before grimacing as the sudden movement sends pain rippling through his temple.
'Sherlock!' John's voice is quiet and croaky, but the irritation is obvious even to the detective who immediately ceases bouncing on the balls of his feet. The excitement, however, is palpable, and much less easy to stem than the movement, and words are quickly spilling from his mouth.
'I've been researching, John! I looked up your symptoms and I've come to the conclusion that you have caught influenza.'
John barely refrains from rolling his eyes, knowing that the satisfaction gained from doing so would not be worth the pain. Sherlock, however, is still talking, and John makes a concerted effort to listen to what he's saying.
'You have a fever, and my research found that you should…well, I believe the phrase is 'feed the fever'.'
John nods tiredly, throat feeling like sandpaper as he coughs, and he fights the nausea building in his stomach, breathing deeply.
'Yes, I know,' he says, voice low and strained. 'Doctor, remember?'
He blinks his eyes open again, then frowns at the uncomfortable pressure in his lower abdomen. John swallows a groan, gathers his strength, and slowly begins to pull himself upright. Sherlock is there beside him before he can get very far.
'What are you doing?' John thinks he hears something remarkably close to concern in Sherlock's voice, but then his vision swims alarmingly, and the thought is wiped from his mind. After a couple of seconds, the world rights itself again and John can speak again.
'Bathroom,' he replies tersely, and Sherlock, for once, wisely keeps his mouth shut. Instead, he loops his arms securely around John's body, levers him out of bed with a strength that belies his lithe frame, and pulls him to his feet, keeping a firm grip on the doctor as John sways somewhat precariously. John shrugs off the arms wrapped around him, pushing away the guilt when hurt flickers across Sherlock's face.
'I can walk fine, thank you… if you'll pass me my cane.' Sherlock frowns.
'That isn't possible. I told Mrs Hudson to get rid of it.'
John pinches the bridge of his nose, and then without speaking, makes a start towards the bathroom, feeling Sherlock's arms wrap around him once more he walks. He feels a little steadier now he is upright. His body still aches and it hurts to move, but John has felt much worse pain, and he's felt the dizziness that comes with profound blood loss, and he feels that he can't reply complain compared to that.
It's the stairs, of course, which present the main problem. The steps are narrow and steep, and even though there are screw marks from where the handrail was, the rail itself is not there. John doesn't even need to entertain any other ideas for what happened to it, and he knows he's right when he glances at Sherlock and a look of slight consternation flickers across the detective's face. The look passes quickly, replaced by that mix of determination and concentration that means he's figuring something out.
Without warning, John finds his world tilting alarmingly to the side, and he groans as dizziness washes through him. He closes his eyes tightly against it, opening them only when the dizziness has stopped, only to find his view has changed. Where he'd seen stairs and carpet, he now sees black material, the smooth, angular lines of Sherlock's face and he smells the same smell that lingered on his bed sheets; deep and intoxicating.
He looks up into pale eyes, and there must be something interesting in his expression, because the eyes crinkle slightly at the corners in amusement. John opens his mouth, but finds himself cut off.
'It is logical, the only really logical course of action, John,' Sherlock says. His voice is serious, but John can hear something different, something unusual in the way Sherlock speaks. He closes his mouth in defeat, because really, it is logical. It would have taken him a long time to negotiate the stairs by himself. At least, this is the reason that John tells himself. The fact that he gives in so easily has nothing to do with the warmth of Sherlock's arms wrapped tightly and securely around him, and it has absolutely nothing to do with the shivers racing down his spine at the contact.
Really. It doesn't.
There is something truly, gloriously selfish about being carried, John finds, as he rests his head lazily against Sherlock's chest and relaxes into the rocking motion as the detective pads carefully down the stairs.
The bottom comes entirely too quickly in John's opinion, and he inwardly prepares himself for the shift of being put back on his own two feet, but it doesn't come. Instead, he's only held tighter as Sherlock walks towards the bathroom.
'This is quicker,' Sherlock intones, before John can even open his mouth to say anything. 'And I don't have all day.' The words seem impatient, and a little harsh, but John accepts them in the concerned way he knows Sherlock doesn't know how to express.
It's only a few steps to the bathroom, and John is set down inside the doorway. The room, surprisingly, doesn't tilt with dizziness, and John moves carefully towards the toilet. His hands are at his trousers before he realises Sherlock is still standing at the open doorway. He raises an eyebrow.
'I may be ill, but I'm not a child.'
Sherlock rolls his eyes before pulling the door almost-shut. John knows that Sherlock is still standing just the other side of the door, but he also knows that the door pulled-to is as much as Sherlock is going to give. In fact, John is relatively impressed he managed to achieve this without more of a fact-filled, one-sided argument that he stands absolutely no chance of winning.
When he's finished, he moves carefully to the sink and washes his hands, pausing before lifting his eyes to the mirror. He doesn't look as bad as he feels, and for some reason John is absurdly pleased; absurdly, because he hasn't really thought or cared about his appearance in a long time.
Before he can delve deeper into this interesting new revelation, the door to the bathroom swings open, and Sherlock's eyes meet his in the mirror.
'Vanity is a waste of time, John.' The words are typically cutting and John winces: not because of the words as such, but because he knows he's been caught. He doesn't reply, but instead dries his hands and walks slowly and steadily back to the door.
He vaguely expects it, but it's still a rush when Sherlock sweeps John into his arms with a strength the doctor still struggles to believe. He doesn't rest his head this time, but watches Sherlock's face as he walks and as he negotiates the stairs. Going up, obviously, is a lot harder than going down, and John feels some sort of relief when the pressure tells on Sherlock's face in small, detailed lines around his eyes, but the journey is still quick, and a lot less painful than if John had walked himself.
He is deposited carefully on one side of the bed, and Sherlock leaves the room as quickly as he entered it earlier, before John realises that the water he spilled earlier has seeped all the way through the duvet. It would have been fine, he could have coped with it if it was down one side, but the wetness has spread across a large section, and John frowns. There are footsteps in the hall, and Sherlock reappears, arms laden with blankets and another duvet that John quickly recognises as the one from the man's own bed, the bed that John has seen only once through a crack between door and door frame.
The offending duvet is quickly snatched from the bed, and each additional blanket Sherlock bought is flicked out and spread across. John lifts his head and catches Sherlock's eyes.
'Thank you.' He murmurs as he crawls under the blankets. The warmth quickly wraps around him, calming shivers he hadn't even felt, and Sherlock's face is impassive as he nods his head. The warmth is captivating, and John's recent excursions have worn him out entirely more than he expected. He finds sleep pulling at him insistently, and he doesn't have the energy to resist.
He lets it drag him under, wondering sleepily if the soft pressure of lips on his forehead is just a creation of his fevered imagination.