7
"John..." he murmured. "John..."
He snaked his fingers up to his head, knitting his fingers into his hair. Pain... too much pain...
"John..." he repeated, squeezing his eyes shut. He ought to stop repeating John's name. Where was the point? John was somewhere else... not in Sherlock's room... and Sherlock couldn't bring his voice above a whisper.
Pain.
His head was throbbing. Dark spots were creeping in front of his eyes in time to the pounding in his head and he blinked them away irritably. He couldn't pass out. He thought that there might be something bad in that.
His throat felt raw. That fact didn't make much sense in itself, seeing as how he had been asleep, rarely talking, and he hadn't even been sick in the the last few hours. He couldn't swallow; technically speaking, he could, except it hurt-
"... at me. Sherlock."
Sherlock realized that someone, probably John, was speaking to him. He wrenched his eyes open, staring warily up towards John. It was amazing. John was always there. Sherlock could barely speak, barely get John's name off his lips without breaking the silence, but John was always there.
John looked fainted annoyed. Moreso worried. Sherlock realized, belatedly again, that John was speaking.
"Talk. Tell me something," John was saying. "Sherlock."
"... John," he muttered, almost moaning his flatmate's name. His voice was gravelly. His throat hurt...
"Okay. Good. I'm here."
Sherlock's eyes fluttered closed again. He was too tired to keep them open.
There was something saying keep your eyes open, Sherlock Holmes. There was definitely something demanding that he do that. It may have been John demanding that of him, to be honest, but Sherlock wasn't entirely sure. He couldn't really... focus...
"Sherlock."
John's voice was far-away, distant, and majorly concerned. Sherlock definitely wanted to tell him to stop worrying; it was annoying. He couldn't find the strength to open his eyes again, let alone open his mouth.
There was something against his lips. He caught John saying something about his temperature, so Sherlock assumed, slowly, that it was the thermometer. He sighed lightly, letting his lips part and the medical instrument slip under his tongue.
Fever... Fever, right, he had a fever. It had gone down. But, it had to be back up now. He had a feeling that he had been asleep for awhile, so it wasn't morning. Afternoon, perhaps? It could not be evening yet. Nonetheless, his fever was back up. Dangerously high. It had to be.
His body trembled hard from a cold chill. The motion sent pain shooting through every nerve ending. He inhaled with a slight gasp, noting that the thermometer started to beep at the exact time. Perhaps for the best.
"Sherlock? Sherlock, what hurts?"
Sherlock gritted his teeth together, folding his arm over his eyes. He wondered, vaguely, if this was what a murder victim felt like right before they died.
He shivered hard again. He bit his tongue against the rush of pain this time. He tasted blood a moment later.
"Oh..."
Sherlock barely heard John's slight inhale of breath. It didn't bode well.
"What?" he spat, his fingernails biting into his scalp to distract him against the building pain. The throbbing noise. Like a drum. Impairing his thought process.
"Your fever... It's at forty point two..." John paused for a moment.
Sherlock could anticipate his next thought. "No."
"Sherlock, it's-it's at forty point two."
"No hospitals..." Sherlock muttered, shivering yet again. "Fine..." He coughed, his fingernails biting harder into his scalp at the resulting pain tearing down his throat. It travelled straight down to his chest, settling into a ball of grinding pain.
"Sherlock."
Sherlock waved his fingers slightly, in a general go-away motion. Even if he had been calling for John out of reflex, he didn't want anything to do with the doctor if he was going to try to force him into a hospital bed.
"Sherlock, please." John's voice broke.
Interesting
, Sherlock thought to himself, twisting his fingers into his hair, John's sentiment is breaking him down. It was an interesting concept, Sherlock supposed, but... He sighed heavily. He couldn't... think.
"My mind palace is..." he paused, fishing for a word, "is deteriorating..."
"Sherlock, we need-" John paused. "Well, I don't know what we need to do rather than get your fever down."
Sherlock gave a noncommental grunt, pressing his fingers against his eyelids.
"Okay. Okay," John repeated. "Okay, get up."
At this, Sherlock peered over his arm. "What...?" Get up? Get up? He didn't want to move at all, let alone get up. It sounded like a terrible idea to him, except... he couldn't exactly trust his mind right now.
And that was the most frightening part of it all.
"Get up. You need to have a shower." John pulled Sherlock's arms away from his head. "Sit up. Sit."
"No, thanks," he mumbled, trying to cover his eyes again.
"It's not an option. I'm not asking." Sherlock was suddenly subjected to the world shifting. It took him a moment a moment to realize that John was pulling him up, and that it hurt.
"Ow, stop it," he hissed, pulling his arm away from John. "Let me go back to sleep..."
"Shower. Now." John's demanding voice again. Doctor voice. An order.
"Too tired..." he murmured, reaching for the pillow again.
"Okay. Bath, then." John paced away. "I'll run water. Stay awake."
Staying awake didn't seem to be a good choice, nor one that was particularly pleasant. Sherlock flopped back onto the blankets, pressing his arm over his eyes again. He would much rather sleep; he couldn't feel the pain of the illness while he was asleep.
What seemed like seconds, but was actually probably several minutes of half asleep stupour, later, John was shaking him awake again.
"... you not to go back to sleep. Get up."
"No," he replied curtly, trying to pull the blankets over his head.
John grabbed his wrist. "You are a getting a bath."
"Stop trying to..." he trailed off, losing his train of thought. He was tired. His brain wasn't working correctly.
There were suddenly arms around his middle. Sherlock had a slight moment of panic and the notion to argue when he was suddenly, once again, subjected to the world whirling. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment before he blinked them open again, suddenly finding himself in John's arms and above the world.
"Put... me down...!" he demanded. "John!"
To be completely and utterly frank, he was just the slightest bit surprised. Even if John was trying to prove a point, to get Sherlock to take a bath, Sherlock hadn't expected John to actually do anything about it. Like picking him up. Carrying him, stumbling, into the bathroom.
John stumbled into the wall. "Jeez, Sherlock..." he breathed. Sherlock had been set on struggling against John's arms, but now instead locked his fingers tightly around John's arm just in case the latter was liable to drop him. "For never eating... you are heavy." John took another step, finding his balance, carrying on into the bathroom.
Sherlock had decided then that he wasn't going to struggle, because he felt like hitting the floor would be... unpleasant. Just... just mildly so. His entire body ached now as it was. However, he was vaguely interested in how the tips of his ears felt hot, compared to the rest of his freezing body, almost as though he were embarrassed. Annoyed, yes. Surprised, marginally. Embarrassed? He didn't get embarrassed.
John shifted his hold on Sherlock. "I'm going to put you down..."
"Really?" he asked with sarcasm, gripping tightly onto John's arm as the doctor carefully set him on his feet. His legs were going to have none of this standing lark, however, it seemed, and he ended up half clinging to John and half clinging to the countertop in order to keep himself on his feet.
"Careful..." John murmured, gripping Sherlock's arm. His eyes were worried.
It really wasn't necessary to worry that much. It just wasn't.
Sherlock leaned back against the counter, releasing his grip on John and closing his eyes. He vaguely felt like he was about to be sick again. Too much activity, he was sure...
"Can you manage on your own or...?" John trailed off. Sherlock opened his eyes again, looking back at John. John gestured helplessly towards the bath, looking back at him afterwards.
"Oh," Sherlock said after a moment. "I can manage."
John didn't move. The concern in his eyes was making Sherlock feel even more sick.
"Really, John..." he muttered, carefully removing his fingers from the countertop and fumbling for the drawstring of his trousers. "I'll... be fine..." he finished, clumsily untying the drawstring and looping his fingers against the waistband to pull them down.
John's face tinged pink as he quickly looked through the door to Sherlock's bedroom. "You'll understand if I'm hesitant to leave you..."
Sherlock chose not to answer, instead stumbling the few steps to the bath and stepping into it.
His feet were immediately assailed by ice cold water.
The swear word from before actually vocalized itself this time.
"What?" John asked quickly. His voice was panicky.
"I-It's cold...!"
"Oh. No, no, it's just lukewarm. Trust me."
"Trust m-me," he stammered, slumping against the wall and refusing to sit down into the frigid water. "I-It's cold."
"It just feels cold to you. I couldn't actually put you into a cold bath. That would be... unhealthy."
Sherlock paused for a moment longer before gingerly sliding down into the water.
Definitely not a good idea.
Didn't trust John.
John was wrong.
It was freezing.
He clenched his teeth, trying to stop them from the chattering they were insistent on doing. Goosebumps had sprang up where the water touched him. He curled his hands into fists.
It was good. It had to be good. Right. Because his body was too hot. Anything cooler than his body temperature would help. Had to help. Would fix his fever. Get his brain working again.
He shivered so hard that it probably could have been considered a convulsion.
"Sorry." When Sherlock glanced absently towards the sound of John's voice, he found John leaning back against the countertop. He was staring determinedly at a point just over Sherlock's head. His face was red. "It's really not that cold. I made sure. But I don't know what else to do..."
Sherlock shifted a bit, only the slightest hitch in his breathing giving away to the level of cold he felt when the water rushed up over his chest. He settled back, resting his head against the wall as he focused on breathing normally.
"John," he said after a few moments of letting his body get (somewhat) used to the temperature.
"Yeah?"
"Why-Why are you em-embarrassed?"
"Huh?" Their eyes met for a moment before John once again quickly looked back to the wall. "I'm not embarrassed."
"Y-You're red in the face," Sherlock said stubbornly. "Y-You- oh, hell." He took a deep breath and focused on not stuttering before picking up the sentence. "You won't meet my gaze. A-And I'm the one who is naked, so I don't-"
"Sorry, Sherlock, I don't care to, erm, observe everything like you do," John interrupted evenly. "Not to mention the fact that people already talk as it is."
"Oh..." It was more an exhale of breath than a solid realization, because he still didn't understand it. It was trivial. But, he had been told before that he had a complete lack of and disregard for privacy, so perhaps that was why he didn't quite understand. Perhaps it was just the fever. Part of him suspected that he didn't get it simply because he didn't really care.
He closed his eyes. He was still shivering, but it had become somewhat tolerable. He just focused on not moving, not letting the water rush around him and cascade on otherwise dry parts of his body again.
He was tired. He probably could have fallen asleep then and there if he hadn't been so cold. The cold was the one redeeming factor keeping him awake. Perhaps it was a good thing. John might have gotten more upset if he fell asleep in the bath...
"I'll be back in a second," John said. Sherlock didn't both to open his eyes again.
... John really was a good doctor. However he found the patience, Sherlock had no idea.
"Drink. Please." True to his word, John was back only seconds later. Sherlock opened his eyes to find John offering him a bottle of water. The doctor was still staring at the wall.
Sherlock had the childish notion to laugh. He ignored it, settled for smirking, and took the ice-cold bottle.
Moving that slightest amount jostled the water and it rushed up to his neck again. He closed his eyes for a brief moment before unscrewing the cap off of the bottle, pressing it to his lips. Steeling himself. More cold. He closed his eyes and let the water rush into his mouth. Yes, ice cold. He didn't doubt it this time. Refreshing to a point, but also mind-numbing cold.
He only paused in drinking when he ran out of breath.
"I didn't say you had to drink it all," John muttered.
Sherlock gave a half shrug and screwed the cap back onto the bottle, carefully setting it on the edge of the bathtub.
Silence descended for awhile. Sherlock's perception of time was skewed, so he couldn't honestly guess how many minutes had went by. Probably not a long by the time that John drew him out of his semi-relaxing state by uttering his name. Sherlock glanced towards him questioningly.
"I think you should probably get out now."
"Fine." He sat up abruptly, the water cascading down his back and chest, dripping quietly into the collected water in the back. He ignored the temperature difference- water and air- fumbling to push himself to his feet and grab the towel. He wrapped it around himself tightly, shivering again as he stepped out of the bath.
"I'll just be right in your room," John said, casting a quick glance at him before exiting the bathroom.
Sherlock dried off, using the countertop as support once again, re-clothing his bottom half again afterwards. He grabbed the water bottle and, taking a deep breath, drank the rest of it down before stumbling his way back to his bedroom.
"Right... Lay down, no blankets," John said, stepping out of the way. Sherlock gave him a dirty look. It was too cold to not have blankets, especially after that bath that John had insisted he take. "Just until your fever goes down. I have got to make sure it drops, Sherlock."
Sherlock scoffed quietly, brushing by John and once again taking a seat on the bed. He was still shivering. John watched him for a moment before walking out of Sherlock's line of sight, reappearing back a moment later with Sherlock's otherwise-designated-as-pyjama-shirt shirt.
"Shirt at least, then. I can't stand to stand here and watch you shiver yourself to sleep..."
"H-How considerate," Sherlock muttered, fumbling to get his arms through the correct sleeves.
"I thought so," John replied. "Back to sleep, then, Sherlock..."
"I'm always sleeping..." Sherlock complained, but curled up in bed once again. "I'm too tired..."
"It's just the fever..."
"I know," he replied dryly. He paused for a moment before closing his eyes. "John?"
"Hm?"
"... Thank you."
There was a long pause before John finally responded. "Seriously, just go back to sleep."
Sherlock was helpless to ignore his doctor's orders.
Sherlock's pretty sick, so keep that in mind before you wonder why it got a bit less... this-is-my-sociopathic-mask-that-I-wear-all-the-time in this chapter.
Always eager to hear your thoughts. Thanks!
