One small question before you carry on reading, please could you R&R at the end and tell me whether I should continue this story or not? Thank you!

John stared mindlessly at the bubbling water boiling in the broken kettle. His eyes were glazed over with tiredness. Tonight he and Sherlock had been on a particularly trying case, sprinting across London, dashing through buildings, up stairs, even at one point climbing up a rope ladder. That had been amusing. They hadn't stopped. He glanced up at the lopsided clock dangling from the kitchen wall. It was 4 o'clock in the morning. What he needed now was coffee, and sleep. He poured the remains of his supposedly 'secret' stash of coffee into a chipped mug. Sherlock must have found it. Not that he was surprised, he should have none. He was drawn out of his reverie by the satisfying click of the kettle. Picking up the kettle, he shouted with surprise when he turned around and Sherlock was standing right behind him. His smiled quickly disappeared when the boiling water from the kettle sloshed all over the front of his shirt. John reacted quickly, his medical instincts kicked in; this would be a nasty burn.

"Ow." Sherlock stated clearly, acting coolly, but it was obvious he was in pain.

"Sherlock, we need to get that shirt off now. I need to treat your wound." John didn't even bother with buttons; he ripped off the shirt, tossing it aside. This would be awkward. "Go sit down, quickly." John commanded with as much authority as he could muster, he wasn't used to bossing Sherlock around. Surprisingly, Sherlock complied complacently. John ran a dish cloth under cold water, and pressed it over Sherlock's burn, which was a nasty scarlet shade of red. Sherlock had a nice chest. God, he was being a pervert. Stop thinking about that. "Go run the burn under a cold shower." Sherlock walked off without saying word. John resisted the temptation to follow him there.

John woke up with a shock. He had been leaning against the bathroom door whilst Sherlock was in the shower, waiting for him to finish. How long had he been dozing now? Too long. He'd better check if Sherlock was ready.

"Sherlock? Have you finished?" No reply. John had an overwhelming suspicion that something wasn't right. He knocked, repeatedly, harder. He didn't want to accidentally invade his privacy. He couldn't live through that if he did. "I'm going to come in now." He slowly opened to door, and peered around. He saw Sherlock curled up, sitting in the shower, unconscious. Shit. Hypothermia must have kicked in. God, this was his entire fault. He shouldn't have fallen asleep. Grabbing a towel, he switched off the freezing shower, and hauled Sherlock out, damn the fact that he was stark naked. He wrapped a dry towel around him and did his best to place him lying down on the sofa. Sherlock was confused, muttering to himself. John ran around the flat in a frenzy, collecting every possible blanket and hot water bottle available, even his duvet. Sherlock was still naked, except for the sparse towel covering the essentials. John wrapped him in a combination of blankets dispersed with hot water bottles, and then very gently, picked up the living teddy bear that was now Sherlock, and slid under him. It is essential to share body heat when someone is in hypothermic shock, he thought reassuringly to himself. Well this was going to be awkward. Then, Mrs. Hudson came through the door.

"Hello dearies," she said cheerfully, before spotting them. She seemed slightly perturbed, seeing John cuddling what appeared to be an enormous teddy bear on the sofa, but he managed to explain it all to her.

"Oh dear, John. Thank goodness you're a doctor then, isn't? Do you need anything?"

"You might have to change the water bottles for me please Mrs. Hudson." and for once she didn't complain. John's day was practically uneventful after that, Sherlock regained consciousness several times, still in a slightly disillusioned state, but he was warmer now. Mycroft visited, he had somehow managed to find out, although he had no idea how. John spent most of the time cuddling the teddy bear, as he now referred to Sherlock, which he hoped would stick as a nick name. He and Mycroft chatted pleasantly for a while, and then he left, leaving them alone again. At one point John actually fell asleep with Sherlock, and it was probably the best sleep he'd ever had, although he didn't admit it. He hoped Sherlock didn't remember that.

When Sherlock regained full conscious later that day, John had his arms wrapped around his entire torso, his legs curled around his. John was day dreaming, stroking Sherlock's blankets absentmindedly.

"John, what are you doing?" Sherlock sounded amused, but also dazed and slightly startled.

Oh, Sherlock, you're awake." John quickly disentangled himself, although Sherlock was still on top of him. "Do you remember anything?"

"Vaguely," That was the only reply Sherlock gave. He attempted to sit up, and then fell back down again. John was nearly winded.

"I think you might need some help getting those blankets off, I need to examine your burn."

"Oh yes, that thing. You did put quite a lot on, didn't you?" Sherlock chuckled.

"You had hypothermia."

"I know that. Thank you for the offer, but I think I can manage fine by myself," and with that Sherlock was up, and he waddled of to his room, trying to hold all the blankets and maintain his dignity at the same time. It was the most hilarious sight that John had ever seen. He tried to suppress the laughter, fists in his mouth, tears rolling down his eyes, smothering his face in a cushion. When Sherlock closed his bedroom door, he burst out into fits of laughter, rolling on the floor. He should have taken a picture.

"John?" Sherlock called. "I'm ready!" John dragged himself up from the sofa and started walking towards Sherlock's bedroom. He was slightly apprehensive. He hadn't been in Sherlock's room before. He didn't know what to expect. Bomb site perhaps? Or maybe he kept a morgue in there. That would explain a lot of things. Slowly, he creaked open Sherlock's door. The room was surprisingly tidy. Sure, the wall was covered in seemingly random pieces of paper, there were several empty cups of coffee scattering the floor and the bed was unmade, but that was tidy, for Sherlock. John was freakishly neat. Sherlock was sitting on the end of the bed, no shirt on, the burn blistering and bright red, it looked nasty. John closed the door behind him. Sherlock looked up.

"That looks nasty," John commented lightly.

"I suppose it does, doesn't it?" Sherlock chuckled slightly, licking his lips, which of course John didn't see. John produced a roll of cling film and began to wrap it around Sherlock's wound. Well this was going to be extremely awkward. John felt nervous for some reason unbeknown to him. But you do know his subconscious jibed. Oh just sod off will you. Great. Now he was having an argument with his conscious. "I do not have any feelings for Sherlock Holmes!" he shouted, but before too late, he realised he'd said it out loud. Shit. How could he get himself out of this one? Sherlock was looking up at him, startled.

"John..?"

"I'm sorry Sherlock..." but before he could say another word, Sherlock had pulled him in and gave him a gentle kiss. Well that wasn't what he had expected.

"How long did you know?" He inquired gently.

"Since you poured the water over me,"

"Wow. That quickly." Sherlock nodded wordlessly and pulled him in for another kiss.