While he felt better in the afternoon, he should have realized that it was false hope.
He felt terrible when he woke up again, found it to be evening, and immediately regretted the fact that he hadn't slept until morning.
"Sherlock...?" he murmured. Where was his sociopathic, yet comforting, flatmate? Where...? "Sherlock?" he repeated, sitting up slowly.
His head was aching and black dots danced tauntingly across his vision. He swallowed the urge to vomit, shivering as he drew the blanket closer.
"Sherlock...!"
"Honestly, John," Sherlock's voice suddenly said. There was the click of a door latch and John's attention immediately roved to the sound. Sherlock stepped out of the bathroom, his dressing gown draped low over his bare shoulders. "You can't handle yourself for ten minutes while I bathe?"
"Oh... Sorry..."
Sherlock sniffed and straightened his dressing gown, striding across the room. "Your fever's gone up again. You need to take more paracetamol. You could probably take a cool bath, too, but it's up to you whether or not that would help."
As long as the temperature in the bath wasn't cold, it probably would help. As long as the temperature of the water was cooler than John's body temperature, it would help his own high temperature.
"Too tired..." John murmured instead, burrowing further into the blankets.
"Hmm." Sherlock placed his hand against John's forehead.
John was pleasantly surprised, although a trifle more embarrassed than he should have been. "Sherlock..."
"Thirty nine point... seven?" Sherlock mused.
"You can't tell..." John rasped.
"Don't be insulting, John. I have a relative guess. I've never performed an experiment to see what each temperature of a fever feels like on the skin, but I can hypothesize. I'm positive that I'm not terribly wrong."
"You need the thermometer..."
"No, I don't." Sherlock swiped the bottle of paracetamol off of the table. "You, however, need paracetamol." He dumped two pills into his palm and handed them to John. "Take these."
John painstakingly placed the pills on his tongue, picking up the remains of the glass of orange juice from dinner. "Cheers," he mumbled, taking a large gulp to chase the pills down his aching throat. They went down easily enough, but now whether or not they stayed down was a different question altogether.
John opted not to think about it, setting his glass down.
"What else would you like to drink?
"Nothing..." John murmured, settling into his blankets once again.
Sherlock sighed. "Let me rephrase. What else would you like to drink. It isn't a question."
"Just water's fine..."
"Good," Sherlock said, picking up John's glass and walking away. "You're being an exemplary patient."
John groaned, pulling the blankets over his head.
He didn't need Sherlock to remind him that he was the patient. John wasn't used to being the patient. He wasn't used to being taken care of. He was used to being the doctor and taking care of someone else. This was a terrible reversal of roles.
The blanket fell away again, and John was left glaring up into the impassive face of his flatmate.
"Body heat can be retained more quickly by means of covering the head. Don't make the stupid mistake of trying to retain body heat now." Sherlock handed John the glass, which was now filled with water.
John sighed and reached for it with shaking hands.
"Can you manage?" Sherlock muttered.
"Of course I can..."
"Because I don't think you can."
John took a few drinks of the water, although he allowed Sherlock to hold onto the glass as well. It was an slightly awkward experience, but it allowed John to stay hydrated, so he wouldn't complain.
"Thanks..." he mumbled, letting Sherlock set down the glass again.
"Go to my room."
John, who had just closed his eyes, opened them again. "What?"
"You need to relax, and you obviously can't do that on the couch. I'm not sleeping; therefore, the best option for overcoming your illness would be to rest in my bed."
"You need to sleep..." John murmured.
"I'm not going to. Go to bed."
John's resistance was already crumbled; he just wanted to go back to sleep and escape all of this terrible illness. He just wanted to sleep, for ten minutes or so...
"John."
John opened his eyes again (he wasn't aware that he'd closed them this time), looking tiredly towards Sherlock.
"Go to bed," the detective repeated.
John sighed and pushed himself to his feet. His legs felt weak and he stumbled slightly, trying not to fall on his face in front of the oh-so-graceful Sherlock Holmes.
However, Sherlock's hand clasped onto John's shoulder for an instant, hesitantly hovering away after a moment.
"Do not trip, John. I have no particular willingness to pick you up off the floor today. Or any day, for that matter."
"I can manage..." John murmured, taking a careful step. Left foot in front of right... Right in front of left... Left... Right...
John tripped. Sherlock caught him again, awkwardly gripping his shoulder.
"Come on, John, pick up your feet..." Sherlock murmured. "Almost there..."
John found it a bit strange that Sherlock's voice was so comforting. Persuading. There was no 'you're an idiot, but everyone is' tone pervading the words, just encouragement.
It was strange, but John was too tired to think about it.
After they had managed to stumble (well, only John was stumbling) to the bedroom, John collapsed onto Sherlock's duvet. His legs felt like jam and his head felt as though someone had taken a jackhammer to it.
"I'll get a cold compress..." Sherlock murmured, and John listened to his footsteps retreating. Why was Sherlock being so nice? How was Sherlock being so nice and not... self-combusting from it? Not melting? Not- Not- "Here," Sherlock said, after he had returned, placing it on John's forehead.
John shivered and fumbled for the blankets. He knew that anything cool of temperature would help, but it didn't help. He wanted his blanket from his room, the orange fuzzy one that he kept on the top shelf in his closet. He wouldn't ask Sherlock to find it for him, though, because John had made it priority to never let Sherlock find that blanket. Even if it was warm. And cozy. And-
John groaned quietly, pulling the blankets over his head.
"John," Sherlock started.
John groaned again, in exasperation, removing the blankets. "I'm miserable, Sherlock, leave me alone..."
"You're mentally unsound for me to leave you alone. You are going to go back to sleep and I am going to research your condition."
"... Why does that not relax me...?" John murmured.
"I'm simply going to monitor your temperature and levels of sweating, the fluctuation between sweating and chills-"
"I'm trying to sleep..." John mumbled, pulling Sherlock's pillow closer. It was entirely comforting- in a very non-weird way- and John found himself drifting off before he had a chance to dwell further on his sickness.
Attempted doctor!lock isn't such a bad doctor!lock. And he doesn't melt when he's nice. It's a win-win. John gets taken care of and Sherlock doesn't melt...
I do not own Sherlock. Thanks!