Compassion

NOTE: Inspired by how sick I am right now.

Words: 939

Rating: K

Spoilers: N/A

When John heard the knock on his door, he felt a deep sense of trepidation—the kind that Sherlock hadn't instilled for many years now. I mean, it was a start that he was knocking at all. But at the same time, the door was locked—

No, that made no difference. He could've picked the lock and chose not to, which was some sort of consideration. Maybe that meant he felt a teensy bit bad for John and was going to let him take it a little easy when he forced the doctor from his bed.

John had been feeling the sickness coming on for a few days. Just average symptoms, but he knew there would be a day of misery to come with it—when he woke up this morning, he knew it had arrived. Fever, pulsing headache, nausea, aching throat; to say the least, it wasn't pleasant.

He'd known it was coming on for more reasons than that he was building symptoms. Sherlock had been sick just a few days ago, so when John started feeling anything at all, he knew it what was coming.

You would think that because Sherlock had the same illness first it might instill some sort of sympathy towards John's condition.

You'd be wrong.

See, Sherlock worked through his illness and acted as if nothing was wrong. He didn't slow down for a second, physically or mentally. So now Sherlock was going to expect the same behaviour from John—but John, quite obviously, wasn't Sherlock. He was a normal human that wanted to stay in bed for a day when he felt like seventeen elephants had trampled him.

But Sherlock obviously couldn't allow that.

"Go away!" John tried to yell—but it came out as a pathetic rasp. Sherlock may or may not have heard. It made little difference.

"John, let me in."

"No."

"I'll come in anyway."

"Obviously," he complained under his breath. This was doubly frustrating because half of him wanted Sherlock to come in. When you're sick, you want your boyfriend to take care of you, usually. But Sherlock wasn't that type of partner, and when he came in, it would be a whirlwind of case case case. And John didn't want to—possibly couldn't—handle that right now.

But there Sherlock was wrestling with the lock. It was taking a little longer than it might usually, but that just made John feel a little satisfied as he pulled the blanket over his head.

The door opened and John was glad he'd hid under the covers, because he heard Sherlock click on the light.

"John—"

"Leave me alone."

"I—"

"I can't go out today, Sherlock. Not when I feel like this."

"Listen—"

"I don't care how interesting the case was or that you worked through it just fine. I need a little—"

"Please, John, listen!"

It was the please that stopped John from interrupting. It wasn't really Sherlock's style to do the please thing. And by that John meant that Sherlock would rather iron his hands than say please on any normal day.

When John stayed quiet, Sherlock continued. "I didn't come in here to make you go out."

This made John blink and then slowly come out from his hideaway. The light hurt his eyes, but before he could make any sort of reaction, Sherlock flipped the switch again.

There was still enough light from the window to see Sherlock—but John was starting to wonder if he was delirious.

There Sherlock was, standing in his doorway with a cuppa in one hand and a wad of blankets in the other. No wonder he had trouble with the door. He had no hands.

"What…?" was all John could get out, as groggy as his brain was at the mo'.

Sherlock walked slowly—timidly, even—to the side of John's bed and set the mug down. Then he said, his voice uncharacteristically subdued, "I felt terrible when I had this same bout of nasopharyngitis, but I've too much pride and passion for the work to admit it. I knew that you wouldn't be as… well, stubborn as I was. And if I weren't me, I probably would have appreciated some help. So…" He seemed unable to think of anything else to say, so he just held out the blankets a little bit, as if in offering. "I'm likely not your first choice of help, as I'm not experienced in the—"

"Sherlock," John said, fondness in his voice as he smiled through his physical misery. Sherlock met his eyes. "You're always my first choice."

Sherlock's mouth just barely quirked up on one side and he laid the blankets over the ones John already had. "Anything else, then?" he enquired.

"Yeah, stupid. Get in here with me."

This time the smile wasn't as reserved and Sherlock climbed under the covers and John nestled into his side.

"Yeah. Quit trying to make tea; you're rubbish at it."

Sherlock grunted in frustration. "Then get better so I don't have to."

John wrapped his arm more tightly around Sherlock's middle, shutting his eyes. A smile found his lips. Only after another minute did Sherlock relax against him, letting his arms—maybe subconsciously—go around John in return and his chin rest on John's head.

"You know, next time you get sick, I'm giving you the same treatment," John warned, as if being kind was actually a threat. To Sherlock Holmes, maybe it was.

But then again, maybe not. Because Sherlock responded sardonically, "Cuddle with you all day? I'll never survive."

John just grinned as he drifted off to sleep.