Disclaimer: Not mine. Wish it was. *sigh*

It takes another two days before John feels well enough to venture downstairs into the kitchen by himself; partly because of the aches he's been suffering and the slight weakness he still feels in his arms and legs, but also because he's never too sure what he's going to find – he's always had a weak stomach when ill.

He makes his way down the stairs slowly, but he's able to move much more easily and with less pain than he'd expected. It's the first time in a long time that he's able to move without Sherlock watching his every movement, but it's only because the man in question has had to go shopping. By himself.

John smiles as he remembers the muttered complaints about shopping being 'boring' and why Mrs Hudson couldn't do it, and Sherlock's face as a voice had drifted up from the flat below;

'I'm not your housekeeper, Sherlock!'

The look Sherlock had sent the door would have turned the landlady to stone, but John had just lifted his cup of tea to his lips to cover his smile before shooing the detective out of the door. The house was now blissfully quiet. As much as John was thankful, and more than a little surprised, at Sherlock looking after him these last few days, he is very grateful for the moment of respite, some time where he can just relax for the moment without worrying about how Sherlock will interpret each particular facial expression.

'Ahh, TV!'

John grabs the television remote and falls gracelessly into the one comfy armchair, flicking the 'on' button with his thumb. John pauses for a second, eyebrow cocked as he watches colourful characters running around the TV landscape, before shaking his head and flicking through the rest of the channels and settling on something more age appropriate and suitably mind-numbing.

John makes a determined effort to pay attention, but the lines between the programmes blur. He's not sure for how long he sits in that armchair, and at what point he succumbs to sleep, but he finds himself jerking back awake at a noise from the TV and as his eyes slide open, the room is darkened; the only light is from the still flickering screen. He groans a little as he rolls his neck.

'You really shouldn't have fallen asleep in a chair.' John yelps in surprise, twisting and finally locating Sherlock in the gloom leaning against the wall near the window. 'Especially considering your recent illness.'

John frowns.

'How long have you been back?'

'38 minutes,' is the precise reply, and John's frown deepens as he brings a hand up to try and massage away the pain in his neck.

'You didn't think to wake me up?'

Sherlock looks surprised. 'Why would I do that?'

John just sighs. 'Never mind.' He mutters, and pushes himself to his feet. It seems that the caring Sherlock of the past few days has departed, and John can't help but feel disappointed as he shuffles to the kitchen. There has been something different about Sherlock since the detective had pulled him from the icy waters of the Thames - as he'd all but stripped the cold, wet clothes from him, wild-eyed with something approaching fear. There is something almost careful in the way he's been moving around John, all soft touches and disconcerting, calculating glances.

John stops mid-step and mid-thought at the warm hand on his arm, turns, and looks up. Sherlock is so close, closer than he expected, and John's breath catches as he looks into those pale eyes. He is caught for a moment, then the hand on his arm shifts, and he looks away.

'What….?'

'Food is in the microwave.' Sherlock says, voice quiet, and John thinks he hears a little uncertainty underneath the normal 'bored' attitude.

'Some kind of ready meal.' John glances at the microwave and smiles slightly.

'Probably safer than cooking,' he mutters, catching the look of relief flash across Sherlock's face before he walks to the counter. He presses a few buttons, and the machine whirrs into life. The scene is surprisingly domestic as they move together in silence; John finding a bag of salad in the fridge and assembling food, Sherlock picking cutlery from various drawers and setting a small dining table he's unearthed from a mountain of paperwork and books.

When he brings the food out of the kitchen, John pauses in surprise.

'A candle, Sherlock?'

'Yes, John, a candle. I'm glad to see the 'flu hasn't impaired your intelligence.'

John smiles at the snipe. Sherlock's whole body is locked with tension as he sits very straight and still i his chair, and it's clear that this kind of meal is something Sherlock hasn't done before, so John doesn't comment. Instead, he sets the plates down on the table and asks Sherlock about the case Lestrade had asked for help on that morning. It works, and Sherlock flies into an explanation, throwing in the occasional remark about Anderson's very unwelcome input.

The case isn't anything special, and John is glossing over the facts, as he uses the conversation as an excuse to watch Sherlock, his face darkly animated as he explains his deductions. John can't help but be amazed. He's known the detective for months, but the level of detail, and the way Sherlock thinks is still a wonder. His amazement must show on his face, because Sherlock finishes his food and leans back.

'You're doing it again.' Sherlock states.

John blinks innocently, but doesn't hide his amazement, because Sherlock doesn't receive praise – expressed or otherwise – often enough.

'Doing what?'

Sherlock narrows his eyes, and studies John's face for a moment. Then he moves, standing in one fluid motion, and picks the plates from the table. John shakes his head, and stands as well, following Sherlock in to the kitchen, because he knows that the detective won't even think about washing up.

He's right. Sherlock abandons the plates by the sink, next to the myriad of unwashed mugs and cups, and John meets him at the doorway, blocking his exit.

'Expecting the washing-up fairy again?' He says mildly. Sherlock just raises an eyebrow.

'Maybe I spoke too soon,' John tilts his head questioningly to the side. 'When I said the 'flu hadn't affected your intelligence,' Sherlock explains.

John rolls his eyes, and moves to push past the detective, but the body in front of him pushes back, and John finds himself pressed against the doorframe. He pulls in a deep breath and feels the warmth of Sherlock's body pressing against his own, feels the heat of those eyes burning into his skin.

John drags his gaze up Sherlock's body, sees the tension is back in his limbs, and when he meets Sherlock's stare, he finds he can't look away.

'John...' Sherlock's voice is low and intense and John feels himself shiver in response. He knows Sherlock feels his reaction; the detective's body presses closer and John's breathing is becoming unsteady as he feels the heat of Sherlock's breath on his ear.

He can't help his hands sliding across Sherlock's body, round to his back and pressing him forward against him. He can't find the words to say anything and he thinks he's glad about that, because it would spoil whatever this is, but he has words and thoughts flying through his mind until one movement, and he can't do anything except feel.

Lips press cautiously against his own. John vaguely registers that Sherlock shouldn't do anything cautiously, and then the tentativeness is gone. Cautious becomes heated and frantic, and it's like something has snapped, because neither man can even comprehend slowing down, or stopping their frantic explorations and movements, and all John can think is why did it take this long?

They stagger gracelessly to Sherlock's bedroom, and John knows there will probably be all sorts of awkward conversations when this is over and they're both able to think, but right now - right now he doesn't care. All he cares about is the feel of Sherlock's skin against his, and the small sounds that Sherlock is making in the back on his throat that he doesn't think he will ever be able to get enough of, and the hazy look in Sherlock's eyes that means that he's well on his way to losing his ever-present control.

It's awkward and vaguely clumsy because John has never even thought of doing this, and Sherlock – well, John doesn't think Sherlock has had sex. With anyone. Ever. But Sherlock's hands somehow turn clumsy into incredible, and John would think it was amazing, except that the hands twist just right, and John gasps into Sherlock's mouth, body arching into the intensity. Sherlock bites down on John's bottom lip as their movements become erratic, then slow gently, until John can catch his breath.

Sherlock stays still for a moment as the sweat dries on his cooling skin, then his arms give way, and he tumbles onto the sheets next to John.

'That was…' Sherlock breathes.

'Unexpected?' John fills in, turning his head to look the man next to him. Sherlock closes his eyes.

'For you, maybe.'

John just smiles, and as he drifts down towards sleep, he feels fingers entwine with his own.