Ding!

"John, get my phone," Sherlock called, not looking up from his microscope. Frowning, he added another half microgram of magnesium to the mixture. If he could just get the crystals to separate-

The phone buzzed again. With an exclamation of frustration, Sherlock shoved the microphone away and reached into his pocket, pulling out his mobile.

Got one for you. Info attached. Interested? -Lestrade

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, then opened the attached link. He grinned slightly as he read the document, then surged to his feet.

"John," he called, striding into the living room, "we've got a case! Three seemingly unrelated victims, all females with different ages and races, and all murdered with coat hangers." He stopped, realizing that the living room was empty. "John?"

"In here," John called. Sherlock frowned - something about his voice sounded… off. He followed the sound to John's closed bedroom door.

"John, why are you still in bed when there's a triple homicide to - oh."

John was half-asleep. His nose was red, his eyes were bleary, and there was a pile of used tissues on his bedside table. "Good morning, Sherlock," he croaked, managing a smile. "What was that about a case?"

Sherlock looked at his flatmate, then turned off his phone. "Never mind," he said shortly. "It was fairly obvious."

"What about the airplane one?"

Sherlock's silence told him all he needed to know. "What's wrong, John?"

John shrugged, letting it go. "Just got sick, I suppose. Headache, nausea, sinuses, the works. Probably just a cold from being out in the rain." He grinned wryly. "I'm sure it'll be gone by tomorrow."

"Right." Sherlock glanced away, as if unsure where to look. "I suppose you won't want to go out, then."

"No, I-" He paused to blow his nose explosively. "Sorry. I'll be staying in for a bit. You can still look at that case if you want. Coat hangers." He smiled. "Sounds like a good one. I can still do the research bit, if you like."

"Right. Yes."

Already John could see his friend's unhappiness building. "Sherlock-" he began, but Sherlock had already backed out of the room, shutting the door tightly behind him. With a sigh, John reached for a tissue, ready for a day of sulking.

Instead, however, he heard violin music, a bright and cheering air - the sort of thing Sherlock hardly ever played voluntarily. Smiling, John drifted off to sleep, hoping he'd feel better when he woke up.

John slept for several hours more. The flat stayed remarkably quiet, and he assumed, upon waking, that Sherlock must have gone out. What woke him up was, in fact, a phone call.

"Hello?" John said into the receiver, still groggy with sleep.

"John!" It was Lestrade. "Good to hear from you. Did I wake you up? You can't be still sleeping, it's nearly noon."

"Yeah, I'm not feeling the best today," John explained, stifling a yawn. "Been in all morning."

"Maybe that explains it. Anyway, I called to ask about Sherlock. He's not sick too, is he?"

"Not that I've noticed," John replied, well and truly awake now. "Why, what's happened?"

"Nothing," Lestrade told him. "That's the thing. Sent him a triple homicide this morning. None of us could make heads or tails of it, of course. Exactly his sort of thing. I thought for sure he'd be interested, but he turned me down flat. Haven't heard from him all day."

"Hmm. Well, I haven't seen him, but I haven't left the room." However, John noticed now that the morning's newspaper lay nearly folded at the foot of the bed, as well as several large books. Picking them up, he shoved down a laugh: Winwood Reade's Martyrdom of Man, A Comprehensive Guide to the Migrations of the Humpback Whale, and Origami for Beginners. A selection he would never choose for himself, but he knew someone who would. "He's definitely been in."

"Hmm. Never known him to turn down a case. He didn't even tell us how idiotic we were for not figuring it out ourselves." John could almost hear Lestrade's shrug. "Ah well. I'd best get back to it. Get better, John. We're going to need him."

"Doing my best," John replied, and before he could ask why his health had anything to do with Sherlock on a case, he heard the click of Lestrade hanging up.

It was only then that he noticed the kitchen chair in the corner of his room, one that definitely had not been there that morning. On top of it lay yet another book, this one titled A Guide to Basic Home Health.

Only moments later, there came a knock at the door. "Come in," John called, and was pleased to see Sherlock poke his head through the crack.

"Good. You're awake. I thought you might be hungry," he said, holding up a tray. "I brought soup."

"You made soup?" John asked incredulously, eyeing the bowl warily. Sherlock looked away.

"Well," he admitted, carrying it in and holding it up for John's inspection, "Mrs. Hudson made soup."

"Oh, thank God." John eagerly attacked the bowl.

"But I watched," Sherlock added. "So I can do it again if you need it."

John paused, glancing up at his friend. "Sure you can spare the hard drive space?"

"It's relevant to my work," Sherlock answered stiffly, not meeting his eyes. "I need my blogger, after all."

John smiled into his bowl, appreciating the unsaid sentiment behind the words. It was things like this, he reflected, that made living with Sherlock Holmes bearable, even though so many couldn't believe it. You just have to speak his language.

"Lestrade called," he said between bites. "Wanted to know why he hadn't heard from you. I admit I'm a bit curious myself," he added, watching his friend carefully.

Sherlock shrugged. "I was busy," he said lightly. "More important things to do."

"More important than a triple homicide?" John shook his head, returning to his soup. "Must be something important."

"Yes," Sherlock murmured, his gaze lingering on John. "It was."

After a moment, Sherlock walked over to the bed, sitting carefully on the end. "I brought you things to read," he said, running his fingers along the spine of the first book. "In case you got bored. I find it's one of the best ever written."

"Not sure that'll help much, but thanks." Not wanting to hurt Sherlock's feelings, he reached for the book. "I'll just, uh…" He opened the massive tome and glanced at the first page. "I think I'll go back to sleep. See if it's any better in the morning."

"Good idea, John," Sherlock said seriously. "Rest is among the better cures for mild illness."

"Yeah, thanks. Army doctor," he reminded him with a smile. Sherlock ducked his head.

"Of course." He started towards the door, but stopped with his hand on the knob. "I'll be outside if you need anything."

"Right. Thank you," John said sincerely. Sherlock paused, meeting his eyes at last, then smiled.

"Anything for you, John," he replied with rare warmth, then ducked out the door.

As soon as he was certain his flatmate had fallen properly asleep, Sherlock crept back into the room. It was unusually quiet in the flat, and while Sherlock missed the excitement and adventure of their average day, he found the calm rather rejuvenating. Particularly in here, with John.

He hoped John would never know it, but he had spent most of the morning either in the corner chair or on the end of the bed, keeping watch over his friend. Now would be no exception.

Sherlock grabbed the chair and pulled it over to the side of the bed. With a gentleness he usually reserved only for his lab instruments, he pulled the heavy book away from John's sleeping grasp and set it on the bedside table. Then he picked up the now-empty soup bowl and set it back on its tray, adding to it the piles of used tissues accumulating around the bed.

In another situation, or perhaps a few years prior, Sherlock would have scoffed to see himself cleaning up after anyone, particularly someone who wasn't himself. But when John was the one who was laid up… how could he not?

"Keeping house," he muttered. "The things I do for you, John." But he said it with a smile.

Slowly, carefully, Sherlock reached out and smoothed John's hair away from his sweaty forehead. Something in him liked being with John as he slept - it wasn't the same sort of thrill as deducing or solving a case, but it was a thrill nonetheless. A softer, milder thrill. Sherlock resolved then to experiment further with this newfound emotion. In all his studies of human behavior, in himself and others, he hadn't run across something like this. Or, perhaps, had deleted it, not truly believing it existed.

About to hurry into the kitchen to plan a study, something occurred to him. Sherlock turned back to the bed, staring at his sleeping flatmate for a moment. Then, holding his breath (for fear of waking John, he told himself), he bent down and lightly kissed John's forehead.

"Sleep well, John," he whispered. Then, slightly afraid of what he had discovered, he hurried out of the room, ready to return to his microscope and lose himself in his studies.

A.N: Hello, everybody, and welcome to What Johnlock Is Not! Apologies for no note on the last chapter, it was late and I just wanted to post it. I do have this entire story written, and will be posting one 'chapter' a day for the next week or so. They will get increasingly Johnlocky and increasingly heavy as we go along. Each chapter title (and story) is based on something that a character in Sherlock says they are not. Hope you enjoy, and do leave a review (this was the first time I'd ever written John and Sherlock at all, much less them together).

-Forever the Optimist