Yay, it's finally done! I'm so sorry about the wait, a lot of things came up including my exams and my laptop deciding to break. :(
But now it's fixed and here is the new chapter!
Hope you enjoy, smut ahoy! (hey that rhymes)

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Hot, wet…steamy. Oh god.

A shower sounded so delicious right now that John Watson was practically fantasizing about it. 'Bloody hell man, how can you fantasize about a shower?!' Obviously it was possible because the doctor was doing it right now, imagining about how the water would feel running down his back as if he would never see a shower again.

It certainly felt like that. But no, he couldn't shower.

That meant risking leaving Sherlock alone while he slept in a fever induced stupor, what if he was to wake up screaming again? No, no he couldn't be dealing with that while being only half dressed from the shower. As if the fact of Sherlock wearing nothing but one of his silken dressing gowns wasn't embarrassing enough.

No, no, that would be bad.

So here he sat, shower deprived and still damp from his one-sided affair with the bath, in Sherlock's room. Well, someone had to keep an eye on him didn't they? And it certainly wasn't going to be Mrs Hudson, despite her protests.

He wasn't completely alone though, it's not like he just plonked himself down on the armchair in the corner of the room and just stared as his flatmate as he slept! God no!

John had his laptop with him, balanced neatly on the arm of the chair so if he had to get up in a hurry, it wouldn't cascade to the floor. And what was John doing on his laptop I hear you ask? Well, nothing really.

Actually, that wasn't entirely true. John was surfing the web to see if he could help his fevered friend in anyway. He already had his medical bag (something he'd kept with him from his travels in the army) propped up against the side of the chair and he had sent Mrs Hudson on an errand to the pharmacy, but there was always something else he could do.

Just what? I suppose that didn't matter until he found it.

Watson looked over at the detective where he lay, half in the sheets, half out of them and looking like a passed out stripper wearing nothing but a scanty gown. His face was pained however, and that was never a good thing.

But oh god, John was so tired. Just looking at his flat share's bed (whether it had him in it or not) was making John's weary bones ache in fatigue.

'No, get it together John!'

Sherlock mumbled quietly in his sleep and John froze, searching for any signs that he would wake up shrieking once again. All went silent and John slowly continued with his typing…slowly in every sense of the word.

So far he had found nothing of interest, well, a part from the things that he already knew.

John shuffled slightly in the armchair, thinking over the amount of heat that Sherlock was producing when he last touched him. Was it over 100 degrees? If it was then John would have to chip in, but if it wasn't there was little he could do until the fever naturally broke.

Leaving it a second or two to let the idea to fizz in his brain, John reached beside him to pull his medical bag into his lap. Surely he was bound to have a thermometer in here somewhere?

He was careful not to elbow his laptop to the floor as he unzipped the heavy kit and rummaged around inside of it. It smelt of musk and sand, it wasn't an overall unwelcoming smell but I brought back unwelcome memories.

John pushed them to the far back of his mind to deal with later, now wasn't the time.

After a lot of pushing things around John was wondering whether or not he in fact did own a thermometer until he found it rolling about loose at the bottom. Thank everything that was thank-able that it wasn't broken.

He set the bag back against the chair and, with thermometer in hand, got up carefully and padded towards his sleeping flat mate. Sherlock stirred in his sleep and rolled onto his stomach as if he knew someone was approaching him.

Hell, knowing Sherlock Holmes he probably did know.

Well, it was going to be harder to put the thermometer in his mouth at this angle. John had to think of a suitable replacement. Anywhere where there were any glands or would trap the most heat would do, so John settled for under Sherlock's arms.

John hovered awkwardly for a bit before perching himself on the side of the bed. Just the very feel of mattress under his knees was enough to make him want to sleep on the spot but he pulled himself together.

Licking his lower lip, the doctor slowly and gently took Sherlock's forearm and parted it from his body, peeling the material of the gown over his shoulder so the thermometer could touch his bare skin and not the silk.

'Easy does it John' he warned himself as he edged the thermometer closer to Sherlock's skin, 'You don't want to wake Mr 'Sleeping Beauty' here do you?' No, that would be a bad move.

Sherlock's shoulder was shining with sweat and it made the usually creamy skin look waxy and pasty.

John was trying to be as careful as he could, god forbid Sherlock wakes up again because that might just mean that John will get no sleep whatsoever.

Suddenly, Sherlock moaned loudly and John almost dropped everything.

The doctor froze in his position, kneeling on the edge of Sherlock's bed with his arms gently gripping his forearm and the other holding a thermometer that was hovering inches from its destination.

'Please don't wake up, please don't wake up, please don't wake up…' John chanted to himself over and over in his head. Everything was silent for a while, waiting.

Sherlock moaned again and fidgeted around in his duvet, which almost gave John a heart risked a peek at Sherlock's face to see if he was in any pain. Well, no, but he didn't look happy that was for sure.

Almost as quickly as he had turned onto his front, Sherlock was now sprawled on his back again, that god forsaken robe hung over his porcelain frame just slightly.

John would have been embarrassed at his flatmate's naked form…that is if he had time for that stuff. But for now, his army mind was set.

Mission: get this damn thermometer to take this bastard's god damn temperature already!

Unfortunately he had lost his grip on Sherlock's forearm as he had thrashed onto his back once more, so now he had to make do with the other underarm that had become available.

'Right, now John, you're gonna do this even if this complicated prick is thrashing like a wounded seal' Wetting his lower lip again, he tentatively gripped the other arm of Sherlock's, sliding the cold glass of the thermometer to his underarm.

Holmes flinched slightly at the cold but otherwise made no more complaints.

'God, finally!'

Waiting a second for the alcohol to adjust to Sherlock's heat, John craned his neck to look at the display. 85 degrees, unfortunately this meant there was nothing he could do except nurse his flat share through the worst of it.

Mrs Hudson should be here with some prescribed paracetamol that he would have to get Sherlock to take soon…oh god that was going to be fun.

The doctor had removed the thermometer and placed it on the bedside table and, despite himself, had manoeuvred his form so that he was more comfortable on Sherlock's bed. I mean, he was only human, surely he deserved some sleep? And Sherlock was usefully only taking one side of the queen bed…No, what was he saying? He had to be a responsible doctor.

A wave of fatigue swept over him like an ocean's breeze, making his limbs weak underneath his weight. His eyelids were heavy and John could hardly keep them from shuttering over his blood-shot eyes. Oh, to hell with responsibility, he needed sleep!

The tired doctor perched himself on the very edge of the bed, the side that wasn't being used by Sherlock. Still he didn't want to take any risks. If Sherlock happened to move unknowingly to this side, with all hope in mind John would fall straight off the edge and wake up without the risk of embarrassing situations.

Apart from maybe a headache.

'Just five minutes…just to rest my eyes, that's all…' Of course that's what he told himself as he settled on the colder, unused pillow of the bed. Sleep swept over him in gentle waves of drowsiness until it finally claimed him.

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John was stirred from his sleep by the mattress shifting slightly under him, he ignored it the best he could as his eyelids drooped again. 'No, not yet, I'm not ready to wake up yet, just…'

A moan sounded from next to him and John cracked a heavy eyelid open with much more effort that you would like to consider.

Sherlock was laid on his back, tangled up in his sheets and robe in a surprisingly dignified fashion despite his full frontal nudity. His exposed chest was drenched in sweat and his face was contorted in a scared and slightly pained expression as if he was a five year old in the throes of a nightmare.

John really couldn't be bothered with nightmares, he was almost forty for Christ's sake and he was goddamn tired!

Sherlock let out a strangled cry just as John closed his eyes once more. He sighed and cracked the other open this time. He waited, hoping that it would just disappear without him doing anything.

Holmes thrashed about a bit and sobbed throatily. Watson grumbled and begrudgingly shuffled forwards in the most 'I'm-tired-and-pissed-off' sort of way until he was close to Sherlock.

Hazy with slumber and not caring what he did so long as he got to go back to said slumber, John wrapped his arm around Sherlock's chest, raking the other one through his hair soothingly the way a mother would.

"Ssssh, it's all okay now…" he cooed, his voice barely above a whisper in Sherlock's ear and slurred from tiredness. Sherlock stiffened slightly but eventually softened into the touch, even keening into it at some points.

John didn't care because John was on the blissful border of consciousness and sleep once more and he accepted it with a whole heart.

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The pipes rattled fiercely from Mrs Hudson's kitchen, the noise groaning up to the en suite bathroom in Sherlock's room and waking John from his snooze. Blinking his sore eyes from sleep, he whimpered slightly as he came to the conclusion that he would have to get up now.

The doctor was also surprised to find a very flustered looking Sherlock panting in his arms. John studied the man's face for any signs of discomfort but was slightly confused as to when he found none. He really hoped his temperature hadn't risen while John was sleeping.

Sherlock bucked his head out slightly, rubbing his hot cheek against John's scratchy jumper and let out a moan once more, but this wasn't a moan of pain or discomfort. John's stomach turned cold.

'Oh.'

Now he noticed it, the tent that had formed in the sheets where Sherlock was covered (thank god!) and he felt his mouth run dry. He should move, he should give his friend some privacy, right?

Well, this was difficult for two reasons…

1; Being that Sherlock's head was laid heavily on John's shoulder and if he dared to move, he risked waking the sleeping detective and causing them both a bit of terrible embarrassment.

2; The poor bastard obviously hasn't experienced something like this before as he seemed to be trying to get friction from the flimsy sheets. That made John feel a little bit sorry for the poor sod, I mean he had seen this sort of stuff before in the army but at least the guys there had the good sense to find stronger friction.

Well, he was a doctor and he had had to do much worse, right? And there was no harm in helping out a friend? Oh hell, what was he saying?! Was he seriously considering helping his flat mate get off!?

You know what? He should just leave now, just squeeze his way out, get up and go have a long think about himself in the living room. At least he would have but the more Holmes attempted to find release in thin linen, the more breathless moans that spilled from his mouth and frustrated growls rose in his throat.

He was making this decision a very hard one for John. Oh now wait, what was he saying?! He wasn't gay-oh hell with it, he wanted to get his friend off. Might as well admit to it John Watson.

He breathed heavily through his nose, controlling this new and quite confusing sensation that had drowned his senses. Which was tough because suddenly his senses were filled completely with Sherlock, his strong sent of musk and testosterone washed through his nostrils and made the blood leave his brain and pool in his stomach.

Not going anywhere, just pooling in his gut, giving his belly a warm and floating feeling as he watched his friend's stomach muscles flutter as he bucked up into the sheet. Sherlock again tipped his head back and John could feel the sleuth's breath and empty growls pant out against his ear, making short ripples of pleasure shoot down his spine.

'Oh god, no John, what are you thinking?!' It didn't matter what he was thinking right now because right now, he wanted Sherlock and that was all he knew. Even the idea of involving himself sexually with another man didn't hit him, at this moment in time he didn't even see Sherlock as a man. He saw him as a person.

Not a gender, at the moment he desired this person, Sherlock Holmes. And he just so happened to be a man.

Holmes croaked a moan breathlessly into John's ear, his hips thrusting up once more in a futile attempt of friction. Watson was perfectly still, his arm draped lazily over Sherlock's chest, watching as the muscles shifted beneath his skin when he moved. It was beautiful but also very arousing.

John could feel the blood that was pooled in his gut slowly move south to his groin and it was suddenly difficult to make decisions for himself anymore.

'Okay Watson, now what? You just toss off your friend? You've never even given a hand job before you nut case!' John sighed lightly and a little shaken as Sherlock unknowingly whimpered against his earlobe. 'Oh does it matter?! Just do something before you change your mind!'

The doctor lightly splayed his hand against the expanse of Sherlock's chest, relishing as he felt the muscles move and twitch, hot under his palm. His skin was silky despite being moist with sweat and as John slowly graced his fingers over Holmes' stomach the muscles there tightened and shivered. His skin broke out in small goose bumps.

Sherlock whined against John's neck, his hips giving a few more frantic thrusts before he growled in frustration once more.

John's mind was moving his body on his own now. His hand was caressing the fleshy skin of Holmes' stomach, his fingers just barely fluttering over the sheet that concealed his clothed erection. The detective squirmed into the sheets, his white knuckles gripped the material besides of him and yet another moan tearing from his throat and vibrating through John's spine.

Without thinking, John shuffled about a bit on the mattress. His member was now hard with arousal and excitement as to what he was doing, so much that it was beginning to become painful.

John had never gotten this hard in such a small space of time before, it was altogether a new experience to want to be touched so badly when nothing has even started yet.

The detective panted and rolled his hips up as John's hand ghosted over his erection and down his thigh. The sheet was smooth and hot under the doctor's fingertips and he sheepishly grabbed it, preparing himself for what he was going to see.

As he pulled the sheet back and exposed Sherlock's body, the one word that was playing over in John's mind was 'beautiful'.

Because that was a perfect word to describe the sight before him: Sherlock's thighs were a pale white, his legs long and well-shaped for a man's. His lower abdomen was strong and an elegant trail of fine, black hair led from his naval down to his member where it branched out into heavier curls. Bedded in the hair was his engorged erection and the very sight of it made John's stomach flutter and his own erection twitch with need.

The doctor had never seen his friend in such a state, he also never realised how much he needed to see him like this until now.

John swallowed, his mouth had gone dry and he forced his mind to catch up to the situation he was in. Did he really want this to happen? He could walk away right now and not have any guilt or any strings, he could just walk.

Because, after all, what if Sherlock woke up and decided he didn't like what was happening, he could most definitely do him for rape. But that wasn't even the most important thing on John's mind right now.

Of course he cared if he was sex offender, who wouldn't? But the main problem was if Sherlock would even look at him again. Could he even bare to speak to him again, live with him again? This was something that had our good doctor petrified. Why did it frighten him so much you ask?

Because John had had a feeling for a while now, a constant pull in his muscles and a thought in his brain that he would frequently push back, over and over. At first he wasn't sure what it was, he had a good idea of course, but he wouldn't let it settle in his mind for long until it was gone again.

But now, exposed to such a personal and vulnerable condition of the detective, John was letting his mind dwell on it. By vulnerable, he didn't just mean his current…state. The whole ordeal of John having to mother over an ill and fevered Sherlock Holmes had bought emotions out of him that he thought he had buried away.

So now he considered, holding his hands up in defeat, did he love Sherlock Holmes?

His thought train was stilled almost immediately as one of Sherlock's thrusts caused his lower back to grind into John's now half hard erection. The doctor had to supress a loud moan as his mind was pulled back, kicking and screaming, into the hazy mist of arousal once more.

Slowly, overly cautious of how to go about it, John brushed his fingertips over the head of Sherlock's cock.

The reaction was almost immediate, Sherlock's hips made yet another powerful thrust that ended in nothing but wicked, taunting friction for John. John's head fell back and his mouth snapped open, almost like he had no control over his reaction whatsoever.

Sherlock continued to grind, whining for that lost sensation he had felt only seconds ago and meanwhile doing nothing for John's self-control as his back created devilish friction against John's concealed cock.

The doctor composed himself the best he could to bring his head off the pillow. Sherlock's breath consequently appearing back in his ear once more: ragged and panting, mingled with short, sharp moans of sensual pleasure.

John breathed deeply through his nose, controlling the overflow of intense, rapturous emotion that was surging through him like hot oil, washing over him in waves of carnal heat that prickled up his spine. Sliding his calloused hands over Sherlock's smooth skin once more, John found his erection and gripped it with confidence at the base.

Sherlock's whole body stiffened and seemed to arc upwards, his mouth opened in a wide 'o', his cupid bow lips creating an almost heart shape to his expression. Startling green-blue eyes fluttered open momentarily before slamming closed again. John paused to wonder if he was actually awake or if that was just a reflex on his body's part.

As it happened, Sherlock was still sound asleep. Something that John felt both relieved and guilty about. Wasn't this counted as rape? It's not as if Sherlock verbally consented to any of this. However he didn't seem to be thrashing in discomfort, so obviously he wanted some part of it. But wasn't that what all rapists said?

'He was asking for it your honour, he was sporting an erection so obviously he had consented despite him being semi-conscious of the whole thing and unable to protest.'

John could already see the court case, maybe the best step to take would be to wake Sherlock up. In fact that seemed like the best idea, however it wasn't the easiest.

What John really wanted to do was pump this gorgeous man to completion until he was screaming his name in that ridiculously luscious, baritone voice of his and then maybe go and wank somewhere private without much more bother. However, this also happened to be the wrong thing to do.

Suddenly, interrupting his train of thought, there were two warm hands reaching gently up to cup his face. Looking down, John was drowning instantly in tepid, desirable and yet slightly disconcerted eyes.

"John…?" the detective's baritone voice cracked out "What are you doing in my bed?" he continued to croak, apparently unaware that he was naked, aroused and that John still had his bloody hand curled around the base of his cock.

John's mouth went dry, how on earth was he going to get out of this?

It was one thing knowing that you were just about to toss off your other male flatmate, despite the fact of you protesting multiple times that you weren't gay, but it was another thing to know that you were going to do it while the other couldn't protest.

"I, um…" John started, trying to stealthily move his hand from Sherlock's erection without him noticing, which was impossible of course. As soon as his hand moved even so much as an inch Sherlock's brow furrowed intensely, his mouth hanging open.

John could see Sherlock deducing the situation, which meant that the fever had gone down but also meant that John was well and truly fucked over from this moment on. And not in a way that he'd like to be.

"J-John, what are you…?" Sherlock squirmed, his hands still gripping intently onto John's face, trying to angle his head so he could look down his body and see what was going on.

Sherlock gasped.

"What the hell do you think you're doin-AH!" John went to move his hand away guiltily, apparently doing nothing for Sherlock's still evident arousal. "Stop it John!" he snapped, his fingernails now digging into the sides of John's head as his gaze glowered at his once more.

The good doctor had no idea what he was going to do, he was panicking so much that he'd now developed tunnel vision and was seeing Sherlock's angry face through a montage of his own heart beat battering against his sternum and his heavy breaths that were wheezing out of his closed up lungs.

He had been caught, caught red handed and now Sherlock was angry. And he had every right to be damn angry! John was an idiot, he was a filthy and perverse abomination to the male human race and now he had to face the consequences.

The doctor continued to gawp down at Sherlock, frozen completely with a heavy, twisting feeling wringing his intestines until he wanted to cry out in pain.

"John…" Sherlock's voice growled, gravelly and deep, like a warning sign to a mentally weak murderer. John swallowed and blinked but it still wasn't helping his frame of mind or condition even.

"Get off me before I call the police."

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Thank you so much for reading!
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