Sherlock's eyes fluttered open and he blinked several times at the bright light streaming in the window. It took him exactly 2.65 seconds to observe that he wasn't at home and John was pressed close against him. He sifted through the foggy memories of last night. He scowled as he remembered how stupid he acted, before and during the drugs. Coricidin…I really am stupid sometimes, he thought miserably. He scooted away from John to go to the bathroom.
John growled in his sleep, squeezing him. Sherlock frowned and pushed away harder. John's eyelids fluttered open and then closed again as he growled and squeezed harder. Sherlock's stomach rolled like the ocean as John squeezed him. He flipped over, pushing John under him and started retching over the side of the bed. Nothing came up, as his stomach was painfully empty, but he retched anyway. His whole body was shaking and rolling with the effort. Finally, it died down and stopped and he fell down on John whose eyes were now open.
"You ok?" John whispered in his ear.
"Uuuuggghhh," Sherlock said in response.
"Sherlock, if you're ok, now, you need to get off me," John said in an urgent, but gentle voice.
Sherlock was fine, but there was no way he was getting up.
"Not ok," Sherlock mumbled.
"Wh-what's wrong then?" John asked shakily.
"Stomach," Sherlock moaned pitifully.
"If you get off, we c-can go fix that," John insisted.
"Why so urgent?" Sherlock muttered, shifting slightly.
Sherlock froze and John blushed underneath him.
"P-please get off now," John pleaded.
"Why are you aroused?" Sherlock questioned.
The man below him squirmed uncomfortably and his face grew even redder.
"I d-don't want to t-talk about this with you," John answered unevenly.
"Why not?" Sherlock turned his face to look at John, "Aren't we best friends?"
"That's exactly why not!" John shouted.
Sherlock opened his mouth to question what John meant when he was flipped over onto his back. He sat up on his elbows in a hurry, but John was already out of the room. He groaned loudly and flopped back on the bed. That jarred his stomach which just made him feel worse. He rolled onto his side, clutching his stomach and moaning in a pretty pathetic way. God, how he hated that stupid snake machine. He lay there for a bit, wallowing in pain and misery. Then someone sat on the bed next to him and nudged him.
He looked up to see John holding a bowl out to him. Sherlock lifted himself up and raised an eyebrow at him. John's face was red, but he was steady in holding the bowl out to Sherlock. Sherlock sniffed the aroma coming off the contents of the soup. Chicken noodle soup, really? How dull, Sherlock thought as he rolled his eyes.
"There's a reason it's given to sick people, love," John said, apparently reading his mind, "It's good for stomachs. Now eat it. I'll lift up the bed so you can lean back."
Sherlock's face tinted pink as he heard John call him "love". He tried to deduce what that meant, but his heart was pounding too hard against his chest. He took the hot bowl from John, their fingers brushing. He laid his hands, bowl and all in his lap. Suddenly, Sherlock didn't feel sick or in pain at all. In fact, he felt as fit as he ever had, as John leaned over him to press the button that lifted the bed up.
"Eat," John instructed as he settled back down, "Now."
"I'm too weak," Sherlock tried, "I need help."
John frowned at him and took the bowl back. He scooped up a spoonful of the soup and lifted it to Sherlock's mouth.
"Open," John commanded.
"Yes, Captain," Sherlock whispered, before opening his mouth wide.
John's face went beet red and his hand faltered. He sputtered out something incoherent, before dropping the spoon back in the bowl and jumping off the bed. The bowl jumped with him and the contents sloshed on his hand. He frowned down at mess and rapidly reddening spot on his hand. Then he turned on his heel and marched out of the room. Sherlock smirked, but the scowled. What am I doing? He demanded of himself. He paused for a moment, considering all options. Maybe it would be beneficial to explore these "feelings". Perhaps understanding what John is feeling will be helpful in the future, he suggested. He chose to ignore what he was feeling.
John returned with a fresh bowl of soup and once again offered it to Sherlock. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him and then opened his mouth. John hesitated, his face burning red from embarrassment. Then he sat down and shoved a spoonful of soup into Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock swallowed the soup, but frowned at John.
"Not so hard," he whined.
"S-sorry," John sputtered, "Having trouble paying attention."
Sherlock smirked, proud of his being able to distract John. He opened his mouth again, prompting John to lift the spoon back to his lips. This time John tipped the spoon so the soup slid into Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock almost missed John shoving the spoon in his mouth, but he didn't say anything. He simply sat still, swallowing the soup as John poured it in his mouth a spoonful at a time. It didn't take long for the bowl to empty. Sherlock scowled down at the empty bowl.
"Do you want some more?" John asked, "You look like you're mad that it's gone."
John laughed a little and shook his head.
"I've never seen you mad that food was gone," John said in an amused voice, "Usually you're glad it's gone, so you don't have to eat any more."
Sherlock opened his mouth to say he just wanted John to feed him, but he closed it back, frowning at that. John reached forward and placed his palm against Sherlock's forehead.
"Are you feeling better?" John questioned in a concerned voice.
"No," Sherlock grumbled, "I want to go home."
"Sorry, love," John sighed, "You gotta stay until you're better."
Sherlock's heart fluttered at John calling him "love" again. He hoped it would become a habit. John leaned back, taking his hand off Sherlock's forehead. Sherlock frowned at him,
"Then I'm better," Sherlock insisted, "Whatever gets me out of this stupid place."
"Places can't be stupid, Sherlock," John answered, "They're inanimate."
"Whatever," Sherlock muttered, crossing his arms and looking away.
"Can you tell me you won't have another relapse?" John asked gently.
"Can you tell me you won't ever leave me?" Sherlock spat back at him.
"Yes," John said firmly.
Sherlock's head whipped around to look at John in surprise. He'd expected John to say something along the lines of "I can't promise anything." He gaped at John, who was looking away.
"Seriously?" he whispered.
"Yes, Sherlock," John said in a tired voice, "You saved me. You have no idea how much I needed you when we met. I'm not leaving you."
"Even if you get married?" Sherlock tested.
"I can't get married," John answered quietly, "No one wants me."
Sherlock wanted to scream that he wanted him, but he didn't. Instead he glared at his hands. Stop being so stupidly sentimental, Sherlock. It's not like he actually means that. Someone will come along and grab him up. You're never going to be good enough; you're always going to annoy him. He needs someone sentimental and gushy. All you are is a cold, hard machine. So just stop this feeling nonsense!
"Sherlock?" John's voice broke through his silent berating.
Sherlock looked up at John's wide, concerned eyes.
"What?" he breathed out with a shaky voice.
"Are you ok?" John questioned, "You look upset."
"I'm fine," Sherlock muttered.
He turned away, looking at the wall. He sunk deep into his mind palace, thinking of butterflies. He was vaguely aware of John curling up on the bed next to him and going back to sleep. But absolutely he did not look down at the other man's sleeping face. And he most certainly did not lean down and kiss John on the cheek. No, that would be sentimental and…and…he smells like soap and water. Who smells like that? So clean, John, even when you're away from home in a strange place. He sighed at his thoughts and pressed his leg closer to John, trying to absorb the warmth of the other man. Eventually, he gave in and lowered the bed back down, wrapping himself around John.
"Good night, John," Sherlock whispered.
He kissed the ear he whispered in before settling back down on the bed.