Chapter 5

When Sherlock woke up the next morning, he felt as if someone had stuffed his head with cotton wool. His throat was sore and his eyes hurt when he tried to open them. The light irritated them and it made him sneeze violently.

John was still cuddled up against Sherlock, and the first he noticed was that the other man wasn't cold at all anymore; rather he seemed to be burning up.

The sneeze tickled Sherlock's throat and set off a fit of coughing, that just wouldn't stop.

John turned on his back to give Sherlock more room and to look at him. "Are you okay?" he frowned.

"I'm fine," Sherlock answered between coughs. Finally he got them under control and sat up. Then he groaned. His head felt like it was about to split down the middle.

"You don't look fine," John said, giving him his don't-try-to-fool-me look.

Sherlock staggered to his feet. "I just need a shower and some tea."

John nodded. "I'll put the kettle on," he said, looking at Sherlock with hesitation. "Don't faint in the shower. If you're not in the kitchen in 10 minutes I'm coming to find you."

Sherlock muttered something that might have been "is that a promise?" as he shuffled off to the bathroom.

John decided - mostly for his own mental sanity - that he had misunderstood Sherlock and stretched. As he opened the bedroom door to go to the kitchen, the smell slammed him in the face and he groaned.

The hot water over his aching body was so nice. Sherlock closed his eyes and hummed to himself. At the back of his mind something was nagging, but he didn't want to know what it was, so he let his head fill with soothing music, a new melody he was composing.

When the tea was ready, John looked at his watch. He had been serious that we would go get Sherlock in the bathroom if he took too long. Who knew in what state the idiot actually was.

Feeling much better, Sherlock turned off the water and went to dry himself off. His nose was stuffy and his throat a little sore. He looked around for his robe, then realized he had left it in the bedroom.

"Sherlock?" John asked from the other side of the door. "Everything okay?"

"Sure," Sherlock answered, and then added, a little embarrassed: "Could you get me my robe? And maybe some underwear?" "Oh. Yeah. Of course. Just a moment." John tried very hard not to think at all while he got the clothes.

Sherlock wrapped a towel around his waist. While he waited for John to return he studied himself in the mirror. That nagging thing was back. Something about last night. He pushed it away and reached for his toothbrush.

John walked in, taking in the sight of Sherlock's naked back as he was standing in the direction of the sink to brush his teeth. Realizing that he was staring, he quickly looked away. "I'll put your things here, alright? I'm in the kitchen, just come when you're ready, tea's getting cold." He quickly left the bathroom again, suppressing the urge to run a hand over Sherlock's back.

John seemed tense, Sherlock thought. Was he still upset about the experiment? The smell hadn't seemed so bad this morning, but then again, Sherlock's sense of smell was probably compromised at the moment. He put on the clothes John had brought, and went to join him.

"Your tea," John said as the other man came in, unnecessarily shoving the cup to Sherlock's side of the small table. "I'll make breakfast in a minute. Anything you'd like?"

Sherlock sniffed, trying to determine how bad the smell really was. Considering how much he could still pick up, it must be pretty bad for John's unclogged nose. "How about I take you out for breakfast instead?"

John gave him an incredulous look. "That would mean that you'd have to get dressed," he pointed out.

Sherlock looked down at himself and chuckled. "Give me five minutes."

"Really? You are getting dressed because otherwise I would sit in the smell for breakfast? You must have meant what you said last night."

"Meant what?" Sherlock asked absentmindedly as he went to his room to get dressed. "That I was sorry?"

John smirked and sipped his tea. "Are you?"

"Of course I am. It was a stupid accident, but I should have been more careful," Sherlock replied from his room, his voice a bit muffled as he searched through his wardrobe.

"Well, you're forgiven if you buy me breakfast." John smiled as he walked past the bedroom door to go upstairs for his own clothes. It was a little impractical that they were still in his own wardrobe, he thought as he climbed the stairs. In the high probability that he kept sleeping in Sherlock's room, he should bring some of them down.

When Sherlock was dressed he went to finish his tea while waiting for John. It was almost completely cold but still did him some good. His head was still a bit fuzzy though. He thought back to the previous night. The fight, the fear that John had gone, the very near disaster in the park and then the relief at finding John home. He remembered falling asleep in the chair, and then had a very vague recollection of John helping him get to bed. And something more. Had John called him an idiot? He chuckled fondly.

"Ready?" John asked as he came downstairs. "Are you sure you don't need a painkiller or so? You really look pale."

"I'm fine," Sherlock answered, as he got up and walked to John. He wrapped his arms around him and rested his head on his shoulder, humming with delight. "I just need some fresh air."

"Well, it's your own fault!" John hugged him tighter and kissed his hair.

Sherlock wanted to kiss John, but didn't think it would be such a good idea, if he really was coming down with something. So instead he nuzzled his neck for a while before pulling back with a smile. "Okay, I'm buying, but you choose the place."

"Come on then." John smiled up at him and took his hand.

Sherlock followed John, enjoying the feeling of his hand in his. As they walked down Baker Street, he felt a silly grin spread across his face.

"So," John said when they were sitting in a small tea house and had ordered breakfast. "Where did you go yesterday?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I just sort of wandered around." It had been bad, but he had not given in. He really didn't want to dwell on it any more.

John looked at him. "Why?"

Sherlock sighed a little. This was such a pleasant morning, couldn't they just forget about last night? "I was feeling kind of bad... about us arguing."

"I was never really going to leave, you know," John said, searching Sherlock's face for... something. He didn't know what.

Sherlock blushed slightly and wouldn't meet his eyes. "I knew that," he mumbled.

John fell silent, but with a gentle smile he gave Sherlock's hand a small squeeze on the table, before he pulled back to make place for the arrival of their food.

Sherlock still couldn't bring himself to look at John while he picked at his food. Of course John hadn't meant it. But he had panicked. Again. This really wasn't like him. Why was he being so irrational when it came to John?

John quietly finished his breakfast and drank his tea, looking at Sherlock.

In the end, Sherlock only managed to eat a few bites. He was starting to feel drowsy and his body was aching again. His throat tickled and started him coughing.

"We really should get you to bed again," John said in full doctor mode. He asked for the bill and paid it himself, because Sherlock just had another coughing fit as it arrived.

Sherlock tried to protest that he wanted to pay, but he couldn't catch his breath. Instead he hauled himself to his feet, groaning a bit at his aching joints.

"Come on. You can lean on me if you need to," John said, hurrying to Sherlock's side.

Gratefully Sherlock put his arm around John's shoulders, trying not to put too much weight on him.

John laid his arm around Sherlock's waist to have a better hold on him and they crossed the few cold streets to Baker Street.

Back in the flat, Sherlock collapsed on the sofa. He looked at John pleadingly and asked: "Tea?"

"Already on my way," John said. He handed Sherlock some pills to keep the fever down as he brought him his tea. "You should sleep."

Sherlock swallowed the pills and sipped the hot tea carefully. "I'll try," he promised and shivered.

"Do you want to go to bed or shall I just get you a blanket?" John asked.

"Blanket's fine. I'd like to stay here, if it's okay with you."

"Sure. I'll be right here in my chair with a book, in case you need anything."

Sherlock lay still for a long time. Then he chuckled. "John?" He said. "I'm bored..."

"The correct phrase is "I want a hug"," John mumbled, once again not looking up from his novel.

Sherlock smiled. "John, can I have a hug, please?"

John's face showed a small smirk as he read the last sentence before he closed his book and walked to the sofa. "Yes."

Sherlock reached out, wrapped his arms around John and pulled him down on top of him.

"Wait a second." John muddled a bit so he was lying under the blanket as well, instead of on top of it. "There, now you have your second blanket," he said fondly, snuggling into Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock kissed John on the forehead. "Thank you." Then he sighed. "I hate being ill."

"It makes you polite though," John smiled, brushing his lips against the soft skin of Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock huffed. "Just one more thing to hate about it..." He ran his hand through John's hair. "I would really like to kiss you..."

John looked up at him. "Then kiss me?"

Sherlock pouted. "I shouldn't. I don't want you to catch whatever I've got."

John rolled his eyes. "I've slept next to you, held your hand and now I'm lying on top of you. A kiss really isn't going to make any difference," he said before closing the distance between their lips.

"Well, you're the doctor," Sherlock mumbled as he returned the kiss.

It was tender and slow, and John tangled his hands in Sherlock's hair, lightly massaging the other man's scalp.

Sherlock sighed with pleasure, his arms still around John, holding him close. John kept sucking on Sherlock's bottom lip for a while before he pulled back. "Who would have thought that you could be so gentle at this," he smiled.

"Sometimes I surprise even myself," Sherlock replied, before catching John's mouth again.

John hummed into the kiss, his fingers playing with Sherlock's hair.

Sherlock's fingers tugged gently on the back of John's shirt, loosening it so that he could slide his hands in and touch the warm skin beneath.

John hissed. "Your fingers are made of ice!"

"I know," Sherlock laughed apologetically. "That's why I'm trying to get them warm."

"Ugh. So now I'm your hot-water bottle as well as your blanket. I'm so delighted," John said sarcastically.

Sherlock nodded and grinned. "I'm only using you for your body heat and general cuddliness. Didn't you know? Now shut up and cuddle me." He pressed his face into John's shoulder trying to suppress a giggle.

"Silly man," John smiled, laying his head on Sherlock's shoulder again. "Do you know that you said out loud that you love me, yesterday?" He was half curious and half expecting that Sherlock wouldn't remember, but it was still nice to tease him.

Sherlock was startled. "I did what? When?"

"Last night," John answered, feigning calm, as if it had been the most normal thing in the world. "When you were falling asleep and I called you an idiot. Which you are, by the way." He smiled against the detective's neck.

"I'm an idiot for saying that I love you?" Sherlock looked puzzled.

"No, it was your answer to me saying that you were an idiot. Perhaps you are an idiot for loving me, but I don't mind, because, well: I hope you meant it."

Sherlock sensed an unasked request for confirmation. But he didn't know how to respond. He didn't remember saying it. He didn't know if he had meant it. Trying to buy himself time to think, he started kissing John's neck.

John sighed, thinking he was a fool for expecting a direct (positive) answer.

Sherlock could sense that his attempt at deflecting wasn't working. He echoed John's sigh and let his chin rest on the top of John's head, avoiding having to look him in the eyes. So this was it. A few careless words, muttered on the brink of sleep. Was that all it took? Would they lose this thing now? Whatever it was that they had had. He bit his lip.

John snuggled even closer into Sherlock, telling himself that it didn't matter much. They were them and it was certain that they had a strong bond. It didn't matter what words where uttered about that. And yet, he could imagine how honoured he would feel if Sherlock confirmed that he really loved him, however ridiculous that was.

Lost in worried thoughts, fever taking its toll, Sherlock slowly drifted off to sleep.

(Thank you, again)