AU: Extra fluffy chapter :) This was a lot harder to write for some reason x but, as I promised, some progress with the two :)
Temporary name, suggestions still greatly welcome x)
CHAPTER 5
Only a few days until uni would start, "Why now?"John thought as he woke up in is bed. His head ached, his body felt hot and his chest was sore, "Sherlock," he exlaimed meekly, "Sherlock!" Swiftly Sherlock ran to his aid, and his soft eyebrows furrowed with concern,
"John, what's wrong?" He saw the small student curled up in his bed, his chest heaved as he breathed laboriously. He turned to face Sherlock in his bead, revealing the beads of sweat that made his sandy hair cling to his face.
"Can you get me some water? And a paracetamol please if you can." Sherlock was swift in bringing John his request. As he watched John take his medicine, he sat by the bed, desperate to help him. He sat in silence observing John, searching is mind palace for any other way to help him,
"Stay here, I'll make you something," John couldn't quite believe what he heard, Sherlock make something, as in cook? John waited in trepidation, unsure whether the food would help or sicken him further. It was quite a wait, and thoughts of Sherlock setting something on fire or cutting off a digit or two. Using all of his strength, he climbed out of bed and made his way to the kitchen, where he saw a peculiar sight:
Sherlock, in an apron, cooking.
John erupted with chesty laughter which soon turned into a fit of coughing. At the sudden outbreak of noise, Sherlock ran to John and quickly sat him down in his armchair, "You should rest John." he urged before handing him some of his homemade soup.
"What is this?" John eyed the soup suspiciously,
"Chicken soup with a twist." Cautiously, the sick roommate took a spoonful. It was revolting. However, as he saw Sherlock watching his reaction he choked down the soup and plastered a smile,
"D-delicious." He carried on eating the soup, not wanting to seem ungrateful to him. "What's in this exactly?" he said swiling the mysterious chunks in the soup,
"Chicken, for cysteine; Yoghurt, for Lactobacillus reuteri; Dark honey, for antioxidants; Lemon, for saliva stimulation and vitamin C and Oatmeal for zinc." He had made chicken soup sound like some sort of witched potion and John, all of a sudden, was not surprised about the outcome of its flavour or texture. As he eventually consumed the questionable concoction, he returned to his bed, feeling worse than before.
Sherlock sat by John's bedside in silence while John slept, as if it would help him heal. John's sleep was restless as the fever kept swinging him between bouts of heat and cold, and his sore chest was no aid. As he tossed and turned, he felt the repercussions of his meal build up in his stomach. Even though he was ill and weak, he dashed to the bathroom with considerable speed in order to relieve his nausea. As he face the toilet, he felt a touch on his back; Sherlock was still there, still trying to help - Although this was now partially his fault.
"What my soup that bad?" Sherlock said in a deep chuckle. He was warmed by John's effort to eat it, but he could tell it was not the most palateable soup to say the least.
"It was pretty rank to be honest." John joined him in laughter as his stomach cooled down. Sherlock tenderly aided John back to bed and tucked him in.
John returned to his queasy slumber. Moaning in pain, his temperature increase and it seemed his ailment would not go without a fight. Sherlock felt a pang of guilt as if it was all his fault, that maybe he could have prevented it. In another attempt to help the bedridden roomate, Sherlock headed for the kitchen,
"Wh- where are you going?" John said as he weakly grabbed Sherlock's arm,
"Kitchen,"
"Oh god, no more soup please," John said jestfully,
"No, just some tea," John sighed with relief,
"No sugar please, and come back soon."
As Sherlock made the tea, John felt calm in having the pale man give comfort the whole time, and he chortled to himself whilst remembering the sight of Sherlock in an apron. It was not long before Sherlock returned, "Can you pop it on the table please," John eyed Sherlock as he did as he requested. He had a dark, chiseled, amatory appearance. John's heart paced, and he found himself pulling Sherlock towards him and locking lips in a deep kiss.
Now, John could not tell whether it was the heat, or the fever, or the soothing familiarity of Sherlock's face, or how long it was since his last time, and to be honest he didn't care. All he knew is that he was kissing Sherlock, and that it felt good. His hot tongue danced with Sherlock's and he moaned with pleasure. Sherlock reciprocated the kiss, unsure and confused. Sherlock lifted John's clammy top, breaking the kiss to move down on his roommate. John, although the one to initiate the embrace, he had become surprisingly unresponsive. Sherlock checked up on John, only to find out he had fallen asleep in an ill daze. The shock of his action led Sherlock to swiftly retreat into his room, filled with regret and fear that he may have jeopardised his relationship with him.