As with most fevers, it was an temperature roller coaster ride. One minute, John was sweltering, the next, he was shivering. And it wasn't just him; his temperature went from thirty-nine point three to thirty-eight point two to thirty-seven nine and, ultimately, back to thirty-eight six.

It was miserable.

Sherlock knew this, too. John could tell.

Sherlock had been strangely tolerate in the beginning of his illness. Maybe it was because it was the consulting detective's fault that he had been sick. But now, after John had woken up alright at two in the morning previously, had breakfast, invariably ended up on vomiting spree that ending with a lot of dry heaving, fallen asleep, felt better, laughed through a movie, had lunch, fell asleep again, woke up vomiting, paged through a book, skipped dinner, read the newspaper, had a shower, more sleep, more vomiting, more feeling better, and, ultimately, I hate you for getting me sick! over yet another round of dry heaves.

"It's really not my fault," Sherlock muttered, leaning heavily against the door frame of the bathroom. "You talk as though I wanted to get sick and I didn't. It was miserable for me, too."

"This is the closest I'm going to get to an apology, isn't it?" John muttered, shakily getting to his feet.

Sherlock just looked back at him, not exactly frowning. It was clear from the look in his eye that he was not happy, but John suspected it was the illness making him upset, not John himself.

That was something in itself: Sherlock was upset.

"Sorry that I'm being an arse," John muttered, rubbing his eyes.

"You're just tired," Sherlock said immediately.

"I am. But you rarely understand human things, so I thought I better apologize before I hurt your delicate feelings."

"I do not have delicate feelings. Emotions are-"

"Useless, boring, dull, stupid, a waste of time and detrimental to your logic," John reeled off, gathering a cup of water from the tap. "I know."

Sherlock looked at him for a moment longer before he smirked slightly. John offered a hesitant smile in return, starting back for Sherlock's bedroom.

"Are you sure you don't mind sleeping on the sofa?" he asked.

Sherlock had been kipping on the sofa while John was sleeping in his bed. John was quietly pleased that the detective was getting some rest- he had only just gotten over being ill himself- but he hated the fact that Sherlock was sleeping on the couch. John would gladly take the couch if Sherlock wished to sleep in his own room.

"I haven't been sleeping on the sofa," Sherlock replied.

John glanced over his shoulder. "What? You said you'd been sleeping!"

Now his previous I'm-feeling-chuffed melted into I'm-an-idiot feeling, leaving him annoyed and ready to glare at his flatmate again.

"I have been. But not on the sofa."

"Please tell me you haven't been sleeping on the floor," John said, crawling back into Sherlock's bed.

If Sherlock had been sleeping on the floor, John was going to hate himself for the rest of his life. At least, for the rest of the week, anyway.

"It's not entirely uncomfortable," Sherlock said absently. John must had had a look on his face, because Sherlock continued. "Before you get upset, no, I haven't been sleeping on the floor. I've been-" he cleared his throat- "I've been kipping in your room."

"Oh," John replied lamely.

He had no other response. He figured that, since John needed to be closer to the toilet than Sherlock did and thus, sleeping in Sherlock's room, there was no reason that Sherlock shouldn't sleep in John's empty bed.

When John looked back at Sherlock, the consulting detective's eyebrows were raised.

"What?" John muttered, drawing the blankets close.

"I thought you'd be... upset."

"Upset?" John echoed tiredly. "Why?"

"Because you get annoyed when I bother your things."

"My- It's my room, Sherlock. I get annoyed when you mess with personal stuff, like my laptop, which is password protected for a reason. Or photo albums or something. You aren't messing with that, are you?" he asked critically, looking up.

"No," Sherlock said. "Just curling up under your blankets and falling asleep."

"Then why would I care?" John muttered, rubbing his nose. "It's not like I have any secrets that you don't know, anyway..."

"Is that permission for me to search through the cardboard box on the top shelf of your closet, behind the blankets and extra pillow?"

John, who had just closed his eyes, opened them again. "No. No, it is not permission. You are not allowed to touch my war stuff."

"I really don't see why not. I'm sure it's just identification tags, medals, photos-"

"Sherlock," John interrupted. "It's personal."

"So you do have secrets."

John closed his eyes again. "It's not a secret... I'm just not comfortable with you rooting through my sentimental things that you'll think are stupid..."

Sherlock grunted. "Well, I'm not rooting through it."

"Thank you..."

"You'll show me one day?"

John opened his eyes (again). "What?"

"What you kept from the war. You'll show me, right?"

"Why would you possibly care?" John asked.

He was flabberghasted. He didn't know why precisely; he knew Sherlock had emotions, even if he tried to pretend like he didn't. But... this was a lot of sentiment, John's war mementos, so why would Sherlock care?

"I'm curious."

"Whatever," John muttered, closing his eyes yet again. "Maybe. If you start acting like you care about my life rather than just trying to experiment with it."

"I do care about your life. And, given that I do care, go to sleep. You're getting agitated because you're sick and tired and you need rest."

John sighed and opted not to respond, just snuggled his face closer into the blankets. It took him a moment to realize that Sherlock had said I care about you. Not those words, exactly, but he had, hadn't he? Was John hallucinating?

"I'll make sure your fever doesn't go back up," Sherlock said.

"It probably will..." John mumbled.

"I'll take care of you when it does, then."

John smiled faintly. "You'll take care of me...?" he mumbled tiredly.

There was a pause.

"It," Sherlock said shortly. "I'll take care of 'it'. Your fever, that is. Honestly, John, what do you expect from me? I only just got over being sick myself. I'm still drained from the exhaustion and the illness. My mind isn't working as well as it should. You should hear yourself when you're tired."

"I expect you take care of me..." John mumbled.

"Don't get your hopes up."

"You've been taking care of me thus far..."

"It was an experiment," Sherlock said quickly.

"Uh huh..."

John wanted to smile, to taunt Sherlock a bit more about the fact that he was showing attachment to a real, live human being, but he was tired and, like Sherlock had said, he really did need rest.

"... Get some rest," Sherlock muttered.

"Thanks..." John said.

"For what?"

"Taking care of... the fever."

Another pause.

"Yes, well," Sherlock said crisply, "don't get used to it."

John only smiled at the awkwardness in Sherlock's voice, snuggling further into the blankets.

John's on the road to recovery... thanks to Sherlock, even if Sherlock would deny that he was taking care of John.

This story has reached its conclusion, so thank you to all the favourites and follows and reviews!

I do not own Sherlock. Thanks!