A/N: Hey guys! So first I'd just like to thank all of you that took the time to review and give me feedback, because it has helped me immensely in writing this chapter and mapping out the entire story. From now on, updates will be weekly: every Sunday. I thought about shortening the word count since the updates will be more regular, but I ended up writing my usual 8.5k anyway. So, yay! Frequent updates and high word count! :D It was my intention to upload this yesterday, but life happened and I couldn't, so here we are! Hopefully this lovely, mega-fluffy, cuddle-filled chapter will make up for it.
Enjoy! :)
"Sherlock."
"John, just a minute more and we've got him! Patience." Sherlock says insistently.
"It's cold," John snaps in response, pulling his jacket tighter around him.
The two of them are currently huddled behind several trash bins in an alleyway, staring at a flat building across the street and waiting for a man named Augustus Lloyd to approach the front door. Meanwhile, John is complaining and shivering as if they are in the Arctic Tundra instead of an alley on Ralor Street. Admittedly, the air is a bit chill and the damp floor beneath them is less than comfortable, but all of that is hardly relevant when they are mere minutes from detaining a drug lord.
In Sherlock's opinion, the most thrilling part of this stakeout is the deafening anticipation of apprehending the leader of a drug cartel. Adrenaline laced with excitement roars in his ears and sets his nerve endings ablaze. His mouth is practically twitching with the urge to open wide and spew the hundreds of deductions he's made about this case from the sparse information they found in files alone. Looking through the documents the Yard had collected on the this man—Mr. Lloyd—was surprisingly enlightening, but he'd forced himself to hold onto his brilliant torrent of deductions until the actual apprehension of the drug lord was about to take place. Now, with mere minutes standing between that moment and the present, he can barely contain himself.
However, John does not seem to share the excitement. John would rather worry himself with something as mundane as weather rather than the deliciously intriguing case splayed out before them like a Christmas feast.
"Sherlock, it's bloody freezing and we've been out here for two hours now!"
Sherlock huffs and unthinkingly throws his arm around John's shoulders, pulling John underneath his coat and flush against his body. "There. Warmth. Now hush up." His voice comes out sounding quite typical in its impatience and absentmindedness, which Sherlock finds very impressive considering the internal chaos that immediately breaks out the moment John touches him.
John begrudgingly huddles further into him and stops complaining, which pleases Sherlock immensely.
A rather innocuous-looking mailman parks his truck and emerges with a package. To the uninformed eye he is a mere civil servant taking the late shift to dutifully deliver a parcel—but Sherlock knows better. This man is none other than one of London's biggest drug lords. Sherlock grins, adrenaline coursing through his veins at the prospect wrapping up this case.
"John, in exactly four and a half minutes that man—tall, bearded, and a bit spindly—will walk up to the front door holding what appears to be a package from a relative—he's even gone through the trouble of covering it with all kinds of silly, trite stamps only a loved one would use—and he will place it on the porch after knocking a message in Morse code on the door. Obviously that package contains a variety of narcotics, and the bearded man is none other than the infamous drugs dealer, Augustus Lloyd. If you were wondering, which I am sure you were, I figured out the Morse code bit by sifting through his files and phone history and noticing that despite his frequent correspondence with Pete Carson—a drug connoisseur, if you will, and his current customer—there were little to no actual written words between the two. Many of his habits and tendencies lean towards 'old fashioned' even though he is quite young, so one could only reasonably draw the conclusion that they would use lights, knocking, or any other form of Morse to communicate with each other.
"The message will be a number: the amount of drugs in the aforementioned package and a date which I assume will be a deadline for his payment. This man that we are dealing with is widely sought, well-known, and impeccably guarded most of the time—he typically surrounds himself with several armed men to protect him. Not too surprising if you work in the drugs business—addicts can be messy, desperate things when they're starving for a fix. However we are privy to a rare opportunity; he is currently quite vulnerable as this particular drug exchange is one he thought would be kept very tightly under wraps and wouldn't necessitate body guards. Now that we have him right where we want him we will have the brilliant opportunity to finally capture him and begin the slow process of tearing down his drug empire brick by brick—"
John turns away to cough into the crook of his elbow, the sound rattling and low. Sherlock falls dead silent and turns to stare at him with wide, owlish eyes. After John recovers moments later, he clears his throat and rasps, "Sorry, you were say—"
"No." Sherlock snaps, immediately transitioning from excited to completely sober. "No, that's unimportant now. Why didn't you tell me you were sick? We've been sitting out here in sodding freezing weather on an alley floor covered in germs and you're sick, John!"
John stares back at him, completely thrown by his reaction. "Wha—you said the weather was irrelevant not twenty minutes ago! Why are you worrying over it now?"
"Because, John, you are sick. I didn't know you were ill when I said the weather was irrelevant, alright? It is most certainly not irrelevant anymore."
John starts to reply, but another cough interrupts him and he is forced to once again turn away and hack into his jacket sleeve. Once the painful-sounding onslaught comes to a gasping, breathless end, John runs his hands over his face and blows air out of his mouth in defeat. "Right, yes, I may have a cold."
Without intending to, Sherlock squeezes John closer to him, his gloved hand resting securely at John's waist. "Phone," demands Sherlock.
"What?"
"My phone, I gave it to you, remember? You borrowed it to text someone before we left and I insisted you just hold onto it."
John removes the mobile from his pocket and hands it to Sherlock. "Okay, fine, but why?"
Sent at 10:15pm
Lestrade, John is sick. The address is 385C Ralor Street. Arrest Lloyd and his customer. His only weapon is a crowbar and his truck is filled with around fifty-thousand pounds worth of Cocaine. This should be easy enough even for you lot. SH
"Come now, John." Sherlock says, rising from his crouched positon. He makes sure to keep his fingertips brushing John's shoulder as John stands, partially to ensure he'll be there to catch John should he fall and partially out of the simple desire to maintain contact.
"We're going after him now? I thought you said in four minutes?"
Sherlock adjusts the collar of his coat and ushers John out of the alleyway and onto the pavement. "I texted Lestrade, the Yard can handle it. We're going home."
"What?" exclaims John. "You haven't shut up about this case for three days—why are we leaving before we've caught him? There's hardly anything left to do before this whole thing is wrapped up I'm sure whatever it is you're running to can wait."
"It can't," replies Sherlock succinctly.
"Wha—"
John doesn't have a chance to finish because Sherlock immediately cuts him off by hailing a cab and pulling him inside. Without thinking, he tugs John close to his side, absently rubbing his arms to keep him warm.
"221B Baker Street," he tells the cabbie. John resumes his protesting but Sherlock tunes it out in favor of the frantic, upset thoughts running rampant through his mind.
God—he is such a bloody fool, how had he not noticed John was sick? Yes, admittedly the case was rather engrossing so it isn't too surprising that all else faded into white noise, but surely he should have remained adept enough to realize that John wasn't just complaining for the sake of complaining, he was doing so because he was sick. Sherlock should have paid attention to the sniffles and the coughing and all other signs that clearly pointed to his illness.
"Sherlock, what the bloody hell happened back there that made you want to leave?" John asks, sounding both exasperated and confused.
Sherlock exhales noisily and tightens his grip on John, which John either hasn't noticed or is choosing to ignore. "You are sick, John," he says slowly. "Sitting out there any longer would risk worsening your condition."
"It's just a cold, Sherlock! I'm fine, okay?"
"You're sick."
"But the case!"
Sherlock resolutely looks ahead. "The Yard can handle the arrest just fine. Like you said, the case was pretty much wrapped up already. I doubt even they could muck it up."
When the cab stops in front of their building, Sherlock tugs John from his seat by the material of his sleeve. "Come on, you need to get out of these clothes. They're all wet and cold."
John gives him an annoyed look. Then he glances back at the waiting driver. "Are you going to pay the cabbie or shall I?"
Sherlock huffs an annoyed breath and calls over his shoulder, "Familia supra Omnia."
The cabbie nods once then drives off. John turns to stare at Sherlock in bewilderment. "So, are random Latin phrases and money suddenly interchangeable?"
Sherlock rolls his eyes and marches up the steps to unlock the front door. "Of course not. It is simply a code that Mycroft has given me should I ever require something without having the money to get it. But," he says with a grin, flashing his generously filled wallet, "sometimes it's fun to use just because."
"What does that phrase mean?"
"'Family over everything'" Sherlock deadpans. "How achingly sentimental of him."
As they walk up the steps to their flat, John still seems a bit puzzled about their arrangement. "So you mean to say that works with more than just cabs? You could just waltz into a shop and say some random Latin phrase, and everything would be free?"
Sherlock snorts and pushes open the door. "Hardly. It only works in certain establishments; the cab services of London happen to be one such establishment. Of course, he changes the phrase every day so that some random stranger couldn't use it to his advantage should he overhear me. But, that is unimportant. What is important is you going to bed. Goodnight."
"I'm a grown man, Sherlock, I don't need you to tell me when my bed time is."
Sherlock makes an annoyed sound and sweeps into the kitchen, hands busily shuffling through the cabinets in search of tea bags. "Fine. I won't tell you anything. I will however give you this very considerately prepared cup of chamomile tea that you would be rude to refuse."
John sighs and collapses into his chair. "Fine. Why are you so concerned, though? Surely you know I'm in no life threatening condition right now."
"Of course I know that," Sherlock replies from inside the kitchen. "But right now your body is weakened and therefore susceptible to viruses far less benevolent than a simple cold. I'd rather not risk you getting any sicker."
He can't see John's expression, but from his tone he can tell that is fairly surprised by Sherlock's concern. "Well…thanks. For looking out for me, I mean."
He makes a noncommittal sound in response and busies himself with making tea. It's actually a bit relaxing, so he can almost understand why John enjoys preparing it so regularly. Once the hot water has been poured into cups, the tea bags steeping, and milk and sugar have been added to their respective drinks, he carries the tray into the sitting room. "Drink up."
John smiles and takes the cup from the tray, breathing in the sweet steam for a moment before taking a sip. "Mm, this is quite good actually." John eyes him over the brim of his cup. "Perhaps you ought to do this more often."
Sherlock rolls his eyes and takes a sip of his own tea, reasonably pleased with the flavor. "Yours tastes much better," says Sherlock honestly. "Mine is a bit too perfect, I believe. Too precisely calculated. Tea is apparently suited for imperfection."
John grins. "So you're perfect and I'm not?"
Sherlock returns the smile and nods. "Oh, yes. But I find that your imperfection has its own kind of flawlessness. I like it."
John's smile grows into something lovely and warm, crinkling the corners of his eyes and setting his dark blue irises alight. He doesn't say anything and neither does Sherlock, but they share the comfortable silence in peace, occasionally drinking their tea and exchanging warm glances.
Something delightful and feathery twists inside Sherlock's chest, and if he didn't know better he might even call it happiness. Quiet, content, happiness.
Eventually John rises to go to bed and Sherlock lets him, wondering in the back of his mind if his symptoms will worsen or improve in the morning. Judging by his rattling cough alone, he suppose they will have to get worse before they get better and disappear entirely. Knowing John will have difficulty falling asleep—due to the resurfacing migraine and ache in his chest from coughing—Sherlock stays downstairs and plays him a slow, sleepy ballad on his violin. He doesn't stop until he is certain John has dozed off, hours later.
The next morning, John ambles out of his room looking at bit like those undead creatures from a movie he'd once been coerced into watching (John had insisted it would be absolutely terrifying, but the entire premise was so unrealistic that it moved Sherlock to do little other than scoff).
Within about ten seconds of seeing him, Sherlock deduces that his 'cold' was actually an influenza virus in its early stages. John clearly intends to go to the clinic, which is ridiculous, but Sherlock decides he'd best stay quiet for the moment because John will most likely not react well to Sherlock telling him to get back in bed.
He continues to wordlessly examine his mold spores through his microscope while John stumbles around the sitting room, mumbling about a lost shoe. He says nothing when John puts his tie on lopsided and buttons his shirt too high, exposing about two inches of his abdomen. He even bites his tongue while John 'makes breakfast' in the manner of a blind, drunken person, only intervening when John puts two Tupperware lids in the toaster and nearly burns their kitchen down.
"You alright there, John," Sherlock asks, though neither his intent nor tone poses it as a question. The answer is already quite obvious.
"Mm, just peachy," he rasps, his voice scratchy and low from coughing all morning. "Well, off to work."
"You have the flu, John. You're not going to work." Sherlock announces absently, far too engrossed in his examination of spores to humor John's ridiculous antics. Of course he's staying home. There's no use in arguing over it.
"It's just a little cold, Sherlock. Hardly a reason to stay home," John assures. He walks over to the coatrack, pulls on his jacket, grabs his keys—and then promptly turns around and empties the contents of his stomach inside a potted plant, invalidating any possible claims of good health.
"John!" Sherlock leaps up, sending his precious mold cultures flying in all directions. He temporarily pushes his worry (for the spores) aside in favor of a bigger and more important worry (for John). He's at John's side in seconds, hooking his arms underneath the other man's armpits and helping him stand properly.
"I'm fine, Sherlock, I'm fine!" John insists, swaying slighting on his feet. "Let go!" After receiving several indignant swats for his troubles, Sherlock finally releases John so he can stand unsupported. John puts his hand against the wall to steady himself, aiming for a casual leaning pose and missing it entirely.
John clears his throat and repeats, "I'm fine."
"I believe that plant would beg to differ," replies Sherlock evenly.
"I need to go to work," insists John.
"No, you need to stay home," Sherlock corrects. "You're not going to work."
"Sherlock, I am a doctor I know when I need to—"
"John." Sherlock interrupts, "Are you telling me that vomiting into a plant is something normal and unremarkable?"
"No, but—"
"Right, and are you telling me that it does not indicate sickness?"
"Well, it does but—"
"Thought so. If I just vomited into that plant would you let me run off on a case?"
"Of course not but—"
"Precisely. Then there's one mystery solved: You are sick and therefore staying home."
"But—"
"But nothing. Please get back in bed."
"And if I don't?"
Sherlock flares his nostrils and stares up at the ceiling. Why is John being so difficult? "Then I shall be forced to carry you there. I have no qualms about man-handling you, so do not think I am bluffing."
Oh, if only John knew how true that was, murmurs a wry voice that sounds irritatingly like Mycroft. Shut up, Sherlock thinks. He absolutely does not have the time to daydream about…manhandling John.
John sighs testily. "Sherlock, I appreciate the concern, I really do, but I can't afford to miss another day of work, okay? And don't worry about me being contagious, I don't plan on taking any patients today, just paperwork. I'm sure you've forgotten or deleted this or whatever, but we have to pay bills and rent to live here, and I can't very well accomplish either if I fail to show up at my job."
A brief spark of panic surges through Sherlock's chest. Yes, it's just the flu right now, but this can easily progress into a much graver, possibly fatal illness if it is not dealt with properly, and there is absolutely no way Sherlock is going to allow even the slightest chance of John's condition worsening if he can help it.
"John. Bed."
John opens his mouth to argue, but Sherlock doesn't give him the chance because he immediately takes advantage of John's unsteady stance and sweeps him up in his arms. Carrying John bridal style, he begins marching him upstairs to his room. Initially, It's not too difficult because John goes limp in disbelief—apparently he hadn't trusted Sherlock when he said he wasn't bluffing—but the task becomes considerably more challenging when the shock wears off and he begins protesting, both physically and verbally. Despite his small stature John is actually rather strong; the only reason Sherlock manages to hold onto him is because the flu has weakened what would normally be some very painful swats.
"Let me down! What the hell are you—how?" John cries, dumbfounded, still batting uselessly at Sherlock's arms. Sherlock pointedly ignores him. "How are you…how are you able to carry me?"
"You're petite," replies Sherlock nonchalantly. It takes every ounce of self-control to suppress the smile threatening to take over his face. He's well aware that John—tough soldier, competent doctor, and unshakable flat mate—will not appreciate being called 'petite' because of the feminine connotations, but in truth Sherlock finds that it is the only word that correctly expresses his delightful smallness. The only other word he can think of that has a similar meaning is far too distasteful and juvenile—cute—so this'll do. Petite. Yes, it has a lovely ring to it.
"What did you just call me?" John asks, indignation coloring his features.
Sherlock clears his throat and bites down another smile. "I said, I'm stronger than I look."
John knows this is a lie, but he doesn't seem too inclined to hear the word 'petite' again, so he just nods. "I don't suppose there's a chance you'll let me walk the rest of the way up myself?"
"I don't suppose there is," replies Sherlock, heaving the two of them up yet another step. Christ, has the staircase to John's room always been this long?
"Sherlock—"
"You can barely stand, let alone hike up a flight of stairs. We're almost there, so hush up."
John ignores him. "I really don't understand why you're carrying me like we just got bloody married and this is our honeymoon."
"Would you rather I tossed you over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes? We've still got a considerable amount of steps left, I can always change positions if you like."
John grunts out a negative response and after a moment his body relaxes in resignation. He sighs tiredly and carefully rests his head against the junction of Sherlock's neck and shoulder. "If you tell anyone that you carried me like this I will deny it till I'm blue in the face, understand?"
"Indeed."
"Wouldn't do great things for the "Intimidating army doctor" image I have going, you know."
"Quite."
John huffs a tired laugh and allows his head to drop entirely against Sherlock's shoulder, his eyelids drooping. "Mm, thank you, though. I don't believe I was in any state to walk up the stairs."
Sherlock snorts. "Of course not. And there you were, ready to go to work. You know, doctors really are the worst patients, always assuming they're the exception to ailments that they'd easily recognize in a patient but refuse to acknowledge in themselves."
John chuckles into his shoulder, but the material of Sherlock's dressing gown muffles the sound. "You're not exactly a joy to tend to when you're sick either, just so you know."
Sherlock sniffs indignantly. "I know for a fact I've only been ill twice in the time that you've known me."
"Ah, yes, but those two times were right nightmares," says John, without malice. His eyes are bright with amusement and fondness. "You didn't eat the chicken soup, flat out refused to get any rest, and wouldn't even lie down in bed until you had at least four spoonfuls of codeine cough syrup in your system."
Sherlock smirks. "If you think that's bad, you ought to tend to Mycroft when he's ill."
"Mycroft? Ill? It sounds strange, but I honestly can't imagine him sick. Seems like he would consider it far too pedestrian."
"Oh, he most certainly does. That hardly makes him immune, though. When Mycroft is sick he is reduced to a blubbering puddle of loud complaints and endless requests for more biscuits. He seems to endeavor to break the world record for whining and bemoaning his own state each time he falls ill. It would be impressive if it weren't so utterly annoying."
John laughs at that, his eyes sparkling despite the faint cloudiness the flu has brought to his irises. Finally, they reach the top of the staircase and ultimately John's room. Sherlock considers putting John down right here in front of the door since he's certainly strong enough to make it to his bed, but then thinks better of it. He rather likes carrying John, so he'll take any excuse available to continue doing so.
He nudges open the door with his foot and walks into the room, a faint smirk on his face as he recognizes how deeply this resembles the post-marital gesture of the groom carrying his bride through the threshold. He relishes the thought in the doorway for a moment before John clears his throat and says, "I think I can manage the next six steps, Sherlock."
Sherlock tries to quickly think of a reason why he shouldn't put John down but to his displeasure, comes up with nothing. With an internal sigh and an impeccable poker face, he carefully puts John down feet first so he can stand on his own.
John wobbles for a second, but immediately recovers. "Thanks for, uh, carrying me…" John says awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck.
Sherlock rolls his eyes as he guides John—without touching him; John doesn't want to be treated like an old man—over to the bed. "Honestly John, it isn't that big of a deal. I've carried you before."
John settles under the covers and stretches out his limbs. "Sure, but that was when I twisted my ankle that one time. You had to carry me, otherwise we both would've had our legs blown off by the bomb. Hardly the same situation."
Sherlock shrugs. "You just vomited and had already been displaying clear signs of a migraine, meaning that your center of balance was off. Walking up a flight of stairs would have been difficult if not entirely too ambitious in your state. I did what I needed to do."
John looks at him. "I—okay. Thank you, Sherlock."
Sherlock nods and then sweeps his gaze over John to assess his current condition. "Alright, my knowledge of medicine is quite limited, but I'd say you definitely have the flu. The fever has yet to hit, but it should be here soon. For now your symptoms are headache, vomiting, and fatigue, yes?"
John nods. "That sounds about right."
"Yes, well, then I suggest you sleep for now." Sherlock is rather impressed with how assured and confident his voice sounds, considering how utterly unconfident he actually feels towards tending to John. It's one thing to carry him up some steps, but it's entirely another to help him through the towering fever and discomfort he'll soon experience. In all honesty, the task is rather daunting.
John, however, looks more amused than anything else. "Yes, I know. I'm a doctor, Sherlock. I'll shout if I need anything later, alright? For now I believe I will take your advice and sleep for a bit."
Two hour later, Sherlock is downstairs reorganizing his spilled mold cultures when he hears a very long, very unhappy, "Sherlock."
He drops his precious petri dishes (again!) and takes the stairs two at a time. "John, what is it?" He calls, worriedly. The room is too dark to clearly see him so Sherlock flicks on the light.
"Christ, my head…" John groans, throwing his forearm over his eyes. "Turn off the light, please, it's making this headache even worse."
Sherlock immediately flicks off the light switch again. "Better?"
John's form is still visible in the fading daylight spilling from the window, and Sherlock can see the outline of his nodding head. "Yeah, yeah much better. Thank you." He still sounds pained, though, and that makes Sherlock's entire body feel jittery and anxious with the desire to help him.
"John, how do I fix you?" Sherlock pleads, past the point of caring about eloquence. "Tell me right now. I—I remember hearing something about soup being helpful…or a wet flannel on the face or something?"
John coughs, a weak smile on his face. "Yeah, it's chicken soup, and that actually sounds quite nice right now. Probably the only thing I can hold down," he turns his face into the crook of his elbow to cough again. "The wet flannel is supposed to go on your forehead; it's meant to take a fever down. I don't think I have a fever, but I'm not exactly sharp as a tack at the moment so I suppose it wouldn't hurt to double check. Thermometer's in the bathroom cupboard, second shelf."
Once Sherlock has retrieved the thermometer and popped it underneath John's tongue, he stands above him, nervously wringing his hands at the side of the bed. "When will it be ready? Does it ding or something? I know it's electric, but—"
"Sh'lock," John attempts to say around the thermometer. "It'sh okay. I know wha' m' doin."
He nods and waits.
Several hundred decades later, the blasted thing finally beeps and John removes it from his mouth. "Alright, nothing too bad. Thirty-eight degrees; just a low fever. I should probably take some Paracetamol to keep it down."
Sherlock dashes away to get the medicine. When he returns, he anxiously watches John take the pills, illogically expecting the effect to be immediate.
"Sherlock," John rasps, "you act like you've never been around a sick person before. Calm down."
"I've been around several ill people in my life, John, I've just," he pauses, "I've just never attempted to take care of one before. I don't want to do it wrong."
The teasing look fades from John's face and his eyes soften. "You're doing fine."
After a few minutes, drowsiness returns and John falls into another deep sleep. Sherlock carries his mold spores upstairs so he can work with them in the hallway outside John's door, that way he is nearby in case John needs anything.
. . .
When John wakes up again, it's half past five and Sherlock's beautiful mold cultures are restored to their formal glory. "Sh-sherlock" John calls from within the room.
"John?" he says, pushing open the door. "Can I turn on the light?"
"Y-yes."
"Why do you sound like that?" Sherlock asks, immediately concerned.
"I'm c-cold, Sh-sherlock." John stutters, his teeth chattering together as if he were in an icebox instead of his warm bed. With wide, worried eyes Sherlock dashes over to the side of his bed.
"How do I make you any warmer, John? I've already put all our blankets in here and I don't think a hot bath would be a good idea since you said temperature preference fluctuates during the flu. If I put you in hot water, your fever might return and then you'll wish to be cold again. Maybe I could—I don't know—maybe," Sherlock pauses to articulate himself. "Would body heat help? It's temporary enough to remove quickly if necessary, unlike a hot bath or something of that sort."
John nods and reaches an arm out blindly for Sherlock. "Yeah. Yes, c-come here."
Sherlock's eyes widen and he hesitates, frozen in place. In all honesty he hadn't really believed John would be willing to take his suggestion; it was only on a feeling of spontaneity that he decided to voice it at all. The fact that John is now requesting to—for lack of a better term—cuddle with Sherlock is so absolutely incredible that for a single, solitary moment Sherlock's mind is wiped completely blank.
"Sh-Sherlock?" asks John, into the silence, his hand still outstretched.
"Right." He walks over and settles himself beside John in the bed, leaving a few inches between them, and wonders how he should start this. Does he just…just reach out and pull John to him? Or should he lay across John's chest? Or…?
"Shut up," says John.
Sherlock is shaken from his contemplations at that. He looks over at John in alarm. "What?"
"Your overthinking is getting a b-bit loud over there." And with that, John reaches over and pulls Sherlock into what could be considered a hug, except for the fact that they're laying horizontally. John curls himself into Sherlock, his forehead pressed into Sherlock's collarbones. Carefully, Sherlock splays a hand across John's back.
"Is this better?" He asks tentatively.
"Mm." John replies, nuzzling his face against the silky material of Sherlock's dressing gown. "Closer. You're so warm," John mutters sleepily. He reaches around to wrap his arm over Sherlock's back and tugs him closer, squeezing him as if were some kind of giant stuffed animal. (Not that Sherlock is complaining, of course.)
The increase in proximity leaves Sherlock with the option of either resigning himself to leg cramps later, or tossing his left leg over John's and allowing himself to stretch. John snuggles even closer—Jesus, any nearer and they are going to melt into one being—and Sherlock decides that since John seems willing enough, he might as well get comfortable. Without further thought, he hooks his leg over John's and adjusts himself so they fit together like puzzle pieces.
Even though John is dozing off—or possibly already asleep—Sherlock wonders if he can hear his heartbeat, considering how loud and frantic it currently is. This is wonderful, absolutely wonderful, but a part of Sherlock aches for even more, which is greedy since this precious bit of intimacy should be more than enough. This of course isn't to say he is not grateful—because he truly is—but he can't help but yearn for John to do something like this when he isn't half asleep or sick or so hopped-up on fever medicine that he'd just as likely cuddle with bloody Mycroft. The simple truth of the matter is this: He wants John to want him. Really want him.
He knows John is an affectionate person by nature, so he's always tried not to take moments like this as anything more than they are, but sometimes he finds himself questioning if perhaps they do signify more than platonic fondness. Though he himself has never bothered with ideas of what is normal and what isn't, he's socially-aware enough to know that typically, male friends do not engage in such intimate actions with each other. A solid clap on the back is one thing, or perhaps a quick, gruff hug now and then, but Sherlock is fairly certain that normal, platonically-involved blokes don't cuddle in bed with their limbs intertwined like vines.
Then again, his friendship with John has always been several shades from 'normal'; even at a passing glance, their strangeness is easily exhibited through their dangerous lifestyle, collective quirks and oddities, and the fact that John would be more surprised to find fruit in the crisper than disembodied thumbs and mold cultures. Their lack of normalcy isn't too surprising: one is an unsociable, former drug addict and self-proclaimed genius and the other is a danger-hungry invalidated army doctor with a penchant for jumpers and handguns. They are an odd pair by nature, so he supposes it only makes sense that their relationship would be a bit different from everyone else's. They can't help the fact that being very close to each other—physically and figuratively—is what comes natural.
It is because of these moments of thoughtless, easy intimacy that people always assume they are 'together': John's fingers laced with Sherlock's as they run, a hand at the small of John's back to usher him forward, or the generally close proximity they always keep between each other.
And Sherlock does not mind it one bit—he rather likes when people assume they're a couple and makes a point never to correct them—but he can't help but feel a slight pang in his chest every time he hears it. He is well aware that it is greedy to want more than the easy going, intimate companionship he currently has with John, but the heart wants what it bloody wants and no amount of cool logic will quell it.
John mumbles something in his sleep and tightens his grip around Sherlock. "Mm, warm…"
Sherlock smiles into John's hair and decides that if this is all he is going to get for now, he'll damn well make the most of it. With a languid sigh, he pulls John closer and allows his eyelids to flutter shut. He only intends to have a quick kip, but the smell of cinnamon and the delicious, lazy warmth of this embrace lull Sherlock into a deep, pleasant slumber right along with John.
The third time John wakes up, the fever has broken and the color is beginning to return to his cheeks. However, the headache and remains, so Sherlock diplomatically pops down to Mrs. Hudson's to ask what he should give John next. Her solution happens to be three bright-colored pills that will eliminate the headache entirely and allow John to sleep easily.
However, there is something else rather notable about the Third Time John Wakes Up: in between his waking up and Sherlock's visit to Mrs. Hudson, the two of them are rather intimately intertwined. Sherlock wakes up in the same manner he always has—abruptly conscious and instantly alert—and he uses every moment of sharp focus to categorize and stow away every aspect of this moment. He builds an entirely new room in his mind palace dedicated solely to the feeling of waking up entangled with John.
Eventually John rouses too, but surprisingly he doesn't seem even slightly perturbed by their position. Instead he just mumbles "Move. Need to pee," and then rolls out of bed.
Once he returns he tumbles back under the covers, pressing into his temples with a pained expression. "Christ, this headache. There isn't much else to do, I left my stock of powerful pain medication at the clinic yesterday, so we don't have—"
Sherlock splays open his palm, wherein three pills sit in the center. "Mrs. Hudson said to give you these."
"Bless that woman," John mumbles, accepting the colorful capsules eagerly.
"They're quite powerful so you'll feel a bit, er, 'not yourself', I believe were her exact words."
"Yes, most pain medication will do that. Especially ones that contain antihistamine, like this. Oh well." He pops the pills into his mouth and then chases them with a large gulp of water.
Sherlock stares at him, waiting. John notices and rolls his eyes, "Sherlock, I'm not going to go loopy seconds after taking the medicine. It'll take away the pain and make me a bit drowsy later. Nothing more."
. . .
What John failed to explain was that "a bit drowsy" is actually code for "completely barmy".
Sherlock first notices something is wrong an hour after John has taken the pills, when he solemnly asks Sherlock, "Has that painting always spoken French?"
Sherlock glances away from his experiment and stares at John. "What?"
"There, right there." John points to the drab painting of a wheat field hanging against the wall. There isn't even a person in it.
"Er, John? What are you talking about?"
John tosses himself on his back and stares up at the ceiling with a dreamy smile. "Not sure. Was I just speaking French too? Sherlock, can you speak French? I know you can, I've heard you arguing in French with your brother, Microsoft, before."
Sherlock stares at John, the puzzle pieces falling together: the medicine is apparently making its grand appearance at last. With that figured out, he plucks his phone from his shirt pocket and gleefully composes a few texts.
Sent at: 7:05pm
John has a delightful new nickname for you. I quite like it. SH
Sent at: 7:06pm
Though, I'm not sure if you'll care for it, Microsoft. SH
Then, he tucks his phone away and returns his attention to John. "It's the pills, John. They're making you feel a bit odd. That painting is not speaking French, and neither are you."
John nods and settles himself further under the covers, almost like a little kid gaily wrestling in his freshly tucked-in bed sheets. "Tell me a story, Detective," he requests. "Make it a reallyreally good'n." His words start to slur a bit, and Sherlock cannot tell if it's due to the medication or his impending slumber.
He slowly moves over to John's bed, wondering what on earth he is going to tell him. When he finally settles himself at the edge of the bed, John taps his own forehead. "Pet my hair back while you tell the story. It's relaxing."
Sherlock obliges, raising his cool palm to John's warm forehead and stroking back into his soft, salt-and-pepper blonde hair. John hums appreciatively and melts into the bed, his eyes fluttering shut in contentment.
It hardly matters what he says since John won't remember any of this, so he just starts talking. "Once upon a time there was a very lonely boy. He was a genius and a scientist and he knew endless facts, but no one liked him very much. He didn't care, though; their approval wasn't important. The lonely boy grew into a lonely man and he still believed he didn't need anyone, up until the point when he met a brilliant, beautiful army doctor with an unnecessary cane and a mad addiction to danger." Sherlock smiles, threading his long fingers through John's hair soothingly. "The two of them rented a wonderful flat with a motherly landlady, and they went on many adventures together. For the first time the genius didn't feel alone, because unlike the others, the kind doctor stayed.
"Then, one day, something strange happened. Something warm and fuzzy started building in the genius's chest, something he'd never felt before in his life. It took him a very long time to realize that it was—" Sherlock bites the inside of his cheek. "Love. But he wasn't sure if the doctor felt the same, so he locked it up in his mind and kept it a secret," he pauses, "the…the end, I suppose."
John frowns sleepily and stops Sherlock's moving hand with his own. He doesn't push it away, he just holds it within his hands near his chest. "That isn't a happy ending."
Sherlock sighs. "Not quite."
John holds up Sherlock's slack hand and blearily examines it. "I hope the doctor loves him too," he says, drowsily. He smiles dreamily and presses an earnest kiss to the center of Sherlock's palm. "Night."
Sherlock blinks for a few moments in surprise, allowing his limp hand to stay sandwiched between John's. "Yes, I hope so too," he finally says quietly, minutes later.
The medicine has a longer lasting effect than Sherlock originally imagined, because two hours later when they are curled up on the couch watching telly, John is still quite drowsy and delirious.
He managed to coax John out of bed and onto the couch, where John immediately demanded to watch something "action-y and explode-y", which was Sherlock's first hint that the pills had yet to wear off.
Sherlock had obliged, only to be stuck watching the stupid thing by himself since John fell asleep almost immediately after the film had started.
He can't begrudge his current position too much though, since John is curled up beside him like a wonderful, soft pillow. He happily ignores most of the movie in favor of brushing his fingers through John's hair and nuzzling the top of his head.
Onscreen, the ridiculous explosions finally stop, and the main bloke, the one with the steroid-induced muscles and three day old stubble, turns to face the leading woman with something Sherlock assumes is supposed to be lust. Although, with all of that lip biting and squinting, he seems to be in pain more than anything. The action music stops and in its place a cheesy, dramatic ballad begins to play. In painfully tedious slow motion, they run at each other, each shouting the others name in an overly-exaggerated manner. (Does it really take that long to say "Lucy" and "Ryan"?)
The song reaches its crescendo as the two kiss, the camera panning around them and catching every meeting of their lips. Sherlock fights the urge to throw the remote at the telly.
The woman on the scene tosses her head back in a dramatic show of ecstasy as the man licks his way up the length of her throat. Then, he latches onto the side of her neck and sucks—yes, actually sucks like a bloody vampire—and she groans rather obscenely, forcing Sherlock to temporarily glance away in embarrassment.
"Does that actually feel good?" Sherlock asks aloud, staring back at the screen with mild disgust. "I mean, really, sucking the skin of another's neck sounds more repulsive than anything."
Sherlock isn't actually expecting a response since John is sound asleep, so when he hears a drowsy, slightly slurred, "Yeah, feels super great," seconds later, he's quite surprised.
"John?" Sherlock attempts to readjust himself so he can see John's face, but the sudden movement causes John's limp body to fall across his, leaving John's head in his lap. John opens his eyes blearily before settling his gaze on the underside of Sherlock's chin.
"Morning," John mumbles, absently petting Sherlock's chest.
"It isn't morning, John," corrects Sherlock, "It's eleven at night."
"You're right; you're a genius!" exclaims John, eyes widened in awe. "Of course you are, you're Sherlock! Sherlock Holmes. The consulting baker of Detective Street," he pauses and thinks it over, giggling. "Oh, that's quite wrong. I meant the only consulting baker. Only one in the whole world."
Sherlock stares down at him and debates whether or not he should force John back to bed or enjoy this while he can.
"You're quite pretty for a baker," muses John, reaching up to clumsily pat Sherlock's cheekbone.
"Thank you," replies Sherlock politely, immeasurably grateful that John is too delirious to recognize the dark, rosy flush spreading across his face. So…John's bedtime can wait a bit, yes? Because how often is it that he'll get to hear something like that?
They sit in silence for bit, Sherlock attempting not to think about John snuggled in his lap while John dozes on and off again, muttering nonsense under his breath and wriggling about restlessly. Finally after ten and a half minutes, John sits bolt upright, nearly knocking his head into Sherlock's in the process. John raises his eyebrows to his forehead, his expression a hyperbole of earnestness. "I broke things off with Laura, ya' know. Yesterday."
Sherlock scoots away so he can face John on the small, slightly cramped sofa. This is certainly news to him. "Yes?"
John nods his head so hard his teeth audibly click together. "Yup. She didn't fancy you one bit. Said you were—" he yawns,"—bad for me. Bad for my health because of all the dangerous bits during cases and bad for my social life because you 'repel future relationships'." John rolls his eyes exaggeratedly. "Her words, not mine. She also called you a clod—or was it cod? No wait that's a fish…" John puzzles over this with studious concentration, his brow furrowed in thought. After a minute's deliberation, John gravely concludes, "You may have been called a fish, Sherlock."
No longer bothering to hide his amusement, Sherlock smirks and makes a 'go on' gesture with his hands.
"Yes, anyway, after she said those mean bits about how you were bad for me, I told her that she was bad for me and you were just fine. Then I broke it off."
A warm, saturated glow blossoms in Sherlock's chest and he finds himself inordinately pleased. A large, ridiculous grin is threatening to spread across his face when it occurs to him that perhaps he ought to feign sorrow for John's sake. That is typically what one does when a friend's relationship has ended, yes?
"Er—I'm quite sorry about that, John." Then he reaches out and pats John's shoulder for good measure.
John stares at Sherlock's hand on his shoulder. When he looks back at him, the silliness in his eyes has been replaced by something sincere. "I'm not sorry. Not one bit. She made me choose between the two of you, which was really stupid of her because I will always choose you."
Sherlock blinks. Instead of responding, he flexes his grip on John's shoulder, digging the pads of his fingertips in deeper, almost possessively. His mouth feels dry and his mind is a useless blank slate capable of processing only a single word: "Really?"
John nods drowsily, the medicine catching back up to him. "Can I have a hug now?" he manages to slur out. He begins leaning towards Sherlock without an answer, though Sherlock suspects this is due to his weak, sickened state and not his disregard for Sherlock's consent.
"Yes." Sherlock leans back against the far arm of the sofa and gathers a nodding-off John against his chest. When John is completely pressed into him, warm and pliant and ridiculously soft, Sherlock rests his chin on top of John's head and sighs.
All in all, Sherlock decides, this whole day has not been as difficult as he imagined. That isn't to say he'll join a queue for medical school any time soon, of course, but Sherlock certainly does not mind playing doctor as long as the day ends with his doctor folded within his arms and smelling delightfully of cinnamon.
A/N: And there you have it folks: Chapter five! Again, I have to thank you guys so much for reading, bookmarking, and reviewing this story. It honestly means the world :) As always, feedback is delicious encouragement that I welcome with open arms, so feel free to share!
Thanks for reading, loves, see you next Sunday! X0X0