8

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock opened one eye, not moving his arm from his other one. It was later, later in the evening. He didn't know how he could sleep so much and still be tired. He wasn't going to sleep for a week after he was well enough to actually get out of bed.

"What?" he muttered.

"Your fever's gone down..." John was whispering.

"And?" Sherlock replied, removing his arm. He blinked hard, removing his arm. "I was asleep, John," he stated bluntly, sitting up. "You tell me to sleep and then you wake me up."

"Sorry. You've been asleep for a few hours." Sherlock blinked slightly at that statement, but John carried on without noticing. "I figured you might want to have more medicine and get something to drink or something..."

"John..." he muttered, leaning back against the headboard. "I'm only going to say this once, and never again, so, listen. I want to sleep," he said calmly, only pausing to yawn afterwards.

"I know. Sorry. But I figured while it was down again..."

Sherlock carded his fingers through his hair, ruffling it up. He felt generally unsettled, uncharacteristically weak, and annoyingly tired. He was pleased that he didn't seem to be shivering, for now, although his shirt was sticking to his back with sweat.

"Has it broken?" he questioned, peeling his shirt away from his skin with an air of disgust. Disgusting.

"Not quite... It's at thirty-nine even. The bath helped..."

Sherlock noted the exhaustion in John's voice and looked towards the doctor. "Have you slept?"

John blinked slowly, as if he didn't fully understand the question. "What?"

"Have you slept?" Sherlock repeated with mock patience, glancing towards the window. It was dark out. Probably around midnight or one in the morning.

"Uh, yeah. A bit. Not too much. I'm okay."

"Go to sleep."

"No."

"John. The fever's down. Go sleep."

"I'm okay."

Sherlock stared up at John evenly, even if the effect was somewhat lessened by the fact that he was sitting and John was standing. "Go rest. The last thing I need is your immune system crashing, thus you catching this illness."

"If I catch it, I catch it. I've been surrounded by your germs for the past few days, anyway."

"You need to sleep."

"You never sleep."

Sherlock gave a slight huff, his even gaze turning into a slight glare. He would outright tell John to leave if he pushed him that far. Sherlock was craving the silence of his own room, his own thoughts, his own mind. He was grateful for John, but he could only handle so much of constant supervision. Now that he was feeling potentially better, he wanted time to think. He hadn't been thinking enough. He wanted to think and he wanted to sleep a bit, and maybe have a cup of tea. He looked towards John again.

"Tea."

"Huh?"

"I want tea," he said stubbornly.

"You still have a temperature."

"I want tea," he repeated.

John assessed him for a moment before sighing, all will to argue leaving him. It was a remarkable difference; his eyes lost their demanding spark, looked away. His shoulders slumped, his entire body losing the tension that had held his back ramrod straight. He raised a hand and pressed his fingers wearily against his eyes. "Fine. I'll get you some tea."

"And then go to bed."

"I don't want to sleep, Sherlock. I'm not going to sleep when you're sick," John said tartly, slinking for the door.

"You need to sleep," Sherlock said again, stretching slightly. "You're normal; you need sleep."

John muttered something as he exited the room, although Sherlock didn't catch it. He rolled his eyes and stretched his arms far above his head, yawning widely. He ran his fingers through his hair again, kicking the blanket off. He hauled himself to his feet, carefully gripping the headboard of his bedframe just in case. He was quite steady on his feet. Not that he didn't feel sick, because he did, but he did feel better than he had. There wasn't much that could get worse than he had felt, to be quite honest. His fever was almost back to what it had been on the initial afternoon that he had gotten ill. He was generally pleased with his state of health, fever or not.

"What are you doing?" John asked, looking up as Sherlock stepped into the kitchen. The floor was cold and he was regretting not having socks on, but he would nip back to the bedroom before long anyway.

"I'm walking," Sherlock replied shortly. He pulled the fridge open. "Now I'm looking for something to eat."

The door snapped shut moments later. Sherlock looked towards John accusingly, who had his hand flat against the door as having closed it.

"I'll make you toast."

"I'll make toast; you go sleep, John."

"I don't want to sleep, Sherlock."

"I insist, John."

"Really, Sherlock. Go back to bed."

"You go to bed," he countered.

"I'm not going to bed." John turned back to the kettle, pouring out two cups of tea. "You're going to take this tea and go back to bed. I'm going to make toast."

"I'll take the tea," Sherlock said, reaching around John to grab a teacup.

"Go back to bed," John said sharply, gripping his wrist.

Tea slopped over the cup and splashed onto his fingers. It was unpleasantly hot.

John swore lightly, grabbing the teacup from Sherlock and setting it down. "You are so irritating!" John said hotly, grabbing Sherlock's wrist again and all but dragging him the short distance to the sink, wrenching the tap on. Sherlock's (recently burning) fingers were subjected to cold water.

"I didn't spill tea on myself!" he retorted, staring down at John.

"Well, if you wouldn't be so pushy... How are you so pushy? You're still so ill," John muttered.

Sherlock shrugged slightly, watching the water cascade over his fingers. "I suppose it's in my blood."

"Something's in your blood..." John muttered, turning off the water. "Now, please stop arguing, take your tea, and at least sit down."

"Right. Fine," he muttered, flicking water droplets from his fingers. He took the teacup again (carefully, and paying more attention to John's movements), blowing on the surface of the tea before taking a sip. It was wonderful. He sighed quietly.

A gentle smile lifted John's lips before the doctor turned back to the countertop. Sherlock didn't miss the smile, but he didn't comment on it, either. Instead, he just traipsed back to the bedroom, sipping at his tea.

He trailed to his window, pushing the curtains out of the way. There were white flakes of fluffy snow gently drifting towards the ground. He raised an eyebrow in surprise. Usually, the snow in London (rare as it was) melted before Londoners really had a chance to enjoy (or loath) it, but it was sticking on the ground. He suddenly wondered if John had noticed the snow at all, or if he had been too busy taking care of Sherlock.

"John," he said, turning when the doctor walked back into the room, "have you seen the snow?"

"Snow?" John looked across the room at him. "It snowed today? I haven't even been by a window..." John joined Sherlock at the window, holding the other set of curtains out of the way. "Snow..."

Sherlock gave John a sidelong glance, assessing the doctor's expression for a moment. He was exhausted; whether or not John admitted it, he was. But there was a new light, a gentle happiness gleaming in his eyes as he looked down towards the alley. It was the snow. John loved the snow. He didn't say it out loud, but the excess of smiling that he did proved it. The small smile that just barely lifted his lips as he watched the white flakes cascade towards the ground showed a different side to John. A calm, tranquil side to the ever-tense doctor.

He ran the doctor ragged, didn't he?

John looked at him, the smile turning into an annoyed frown as he noticed Sherlock looking at him. Sherlock looked back to the window, raising his teacup to his lips.

"You enjoy the snow," he said before taking a drink.

John seemed surprised. "Yes."

Sherlock watched the snow fall for a moment longer. "Why?" he said shortly.

John had looked back at the window, but now looked back at Sherlock. "Why what?"

"Why do you like the snow?"

John stared at him. "You... I mean, it's majestic and powerful and beautiful. And just as deadly, in some circumstances. Not that that's a good thing," he added quickly.

Sherlock smirked slightly. He dropped the curtains, grabbing a piece of toast from the plate John was holding before moving away from the window. His head was starting to pound again. He took another large gulp of his tea, biting into the toast afterwards. He chewed for a moment, sending a contemplative gaze towards John again before sitting down.

"I'm guessing you don't like the snow."

"I am indifferent either way," he said, taking another bite of his toast. "It's majestic, like you say, but it's also very dreadful when one has to venture out into it."

"Well, you won't have to worry about venturing into it." John watched him as he crunched on his own piece of toast. "Oh, by the way, Lestrade texted you. Said 'Thanks for the case help'. Also mentioned 'Thanks for the germs'. I think you've gotten him ill."

Sherlock paused mid-crunch, flickering his gaze to John again. "He has my flu?" With the statement came a certain twinge of smugness- served Lestrade right for bothering him when he was busy being ill.

"Don't sound so happy."

"Well, he was in my face. Assuming I was on drugs," he scoffed, polishing off the last of his piece of toast.

"Well, to be fair, you normally don't act different. And you're rarely sick, I'd imagine, so what else would he think?"

"The correct assumption, frankly," Sherlock replied, drinking the rest of his tea and flopping back onto the bed. The motion redoubled the pain in his head and he resisted the urge to flinch. Sitting quietly led him to forget that he was still ill. Hopefully the nausea just stayed away this time. He rather wanted to avoid that situation again. "I'm going back to sleep," he said simply, grabbing the blanket and pulling it up to his chin.

"Symptoms still bugging you?"

"Headache," he replied shortly.

"Anything else?"

"Body hurts. Most likely muscle aches from the shivering." His voice was half-muffled into the pillow.

"Nauseous?"

"No."

"Sore throat?"

"Not at the moment. Tea and all."

"Cough, runny nose, stuffy nose?"

"No," Sherlock stressed irritably. "But I am tired, John, if you would be so kind as to leave me alone."

A pause. "Right."

Another pause. Sherlock knew John was still there. He raised his head, fixing John with a level stare. "Go to bed."

John looked at him for a moment before shrugging. "Fine. If you insist. I'll be upstairs... Text me if you need me, okay?"

"Yes, fine," Sherlock muttered absently, placing his head back on the pillow. "Goodnight, John."

"Sweet dreams." John's tone was mindless. "Erm, I meant-"

"Yes, I know what you meant. Now, please, go to bed."

"... Right."

John left the room and, in the now silence of his bedroom, Sherlock laughed quietly to himself. Good, old John.

They both really needed some sleep.


Shorter chapter is shorter. Some John and Sherlock fluffy stuff. Some John and Sherlock bantering. Some John and Sherlock being exhausted [mainly John]. Some overall cuteness, in my opinion.

Your thoughts would be lovely to hear, as usual. I appreciate all the reviews. =3 Thanks!