A/N: Alright guys, I'm spending the weekend at my friend's house, and she has shit internet. That being so, I'm going to type everything up tonight and post Friday, Saturday, and Sunday's chapters when I get home Sunday evening. Have a nice weekend! Thanks bunches for sticking with me this far!

25 Days of Christmas

Chapter 12

12 December, 2013

"You're still pretty warm," John murmured the next morning, hands on either side of Sherlock's face.
Sherlock grimaced. "That's because you won't let me out from under these blankets," he snapped.
John rolled his eyes. "Who's the doctor here?"
"More like mother."
"Ha ha." For the fifth time, John pressed the back of his hand to Sherlock's forehead.
"Just go," Sherlock insisted, gesturing towards the door with his chin. "I'll be fine. I am fine," he corrected. John didn't quite believe him. "Really. I can't stand you hanging over me anyways."
John stood there for a long moment, considering his options. Finally he sighed. "Fine." He ruffled Sherlock's hair briefly and stood. He was about to go through the door when he stopped, poking his head around the door frame. "If I catch you out of bed when I get home, you don't want to know what I'll do to you."
"I thought you were a doctor John. Doctors don't intentionally hurt their patients."
"Yeah, but I was also a soldier, I killed people."
"Bad days?"
John huffed a laugh. "Bad days." And he disappeared. Sherlock was just beginning to connive ways to finish one of his experiments when he heard John call to him from the sitting room.

"Ring me if you need me!"
"Why would I need you?"
"No reason at all," John murmured to himself as he trotted down the stairs.

When John got home, he expected Sherlock to be out and about, or at least sitting defiantly on the couch, but his friend was nowhere to be seen. For some reason, that worried him.
"Sherlock?" he called, walking through the flat. He got no answer. Quietly, he peeked into Sherlock's room, only to find a mound of blankets. He nearly panicked, but, upon looking closer, he saw the pile was moving. At least Sherlock was breathing.

After a bit of careful searching and the rearranging of blankets, John finally found Sherlock's face. He was sound asleep (a rare sight). Other than a slightly furrowed brow, he looked rather peaceful. John nearly smiled before he saw how clammy Sherlock's skin looked. He went to feel his forehead again, and found it burning hot. "Shit," he mumbled under his breath, until he realised how cold his hands were. John thought for a minute. They didn't have a thermometer - they didn't need one. But... He was suddenly reminded of his mother. When he and Harry were younger, their mum couldn't tell if they had fevers with her hands. She was a hard-working woman, and her hands were covered with thickened skin and callouses to show for it. It also hadn't helped that her hands were always extremely warm. That being so, in order to get an accurate reading she would gently press her lips to their foreheads. With all of the extra nerve endings, the lips are basically the most sensitive part of the body, and therefore it was very effective.

John chewed at the inside of his cheek, weighing his options. People would definitely talk, but his friend was sick, and wasn't that more worrisome? Even so, what people were there to see? With a sigh (and a slightly paranoid glance around the room and at Sherlock's face), John placed his lips lightly on Sherlock's forehead. "Hm," he murmured. Okay, so Sherlock wasn't as warm as he had previously thought. Though he was still rather hot. When John leaned back to take another look at his friend's face, he was surprised to see bright eyes staring at him.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock mumbled, voice clogged with sleep. He sounded a little stuffy and hoarse as well.
John nearly jumped, but he caught himself. "Checking your temperature. My hands are cold," he explained, smoothing the curls out of his friend's eyes.
Sherlock leaned into the touch. "I know. They feel good," he said, grabbing one of John's hands by the wrist. With a sigh, he pressed it to his cheek. John smiled.
"You really must be ill," he said softly. Sherlock didn't say anything. He was already starting to drift off again, though his grip was still tight around John's wrist.

Random note: Lately I've always been getting stuck at around 788 words. It's just weird.