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John stood next to the couch with his arms folded over his chest and his lips pressed into a thin line. Sherlock pinched his eyes closed, burrowing further under layers of thick blankets. His cheeks were scruffy and his skin was pale, and Natasha stopped in the doorway with her suitcase in her hand, darting her eyes between the two of them.
Her eyes settled on John as the likeliest to offer an explanation. "What's going?"
"Nothing," and, "Sherlock is sick," they answered in unison. John tipped his head back like he was gathering the last scraps of his patience. "He's sick, and he's not eating or sleeping, or taking the advice of his doctor."
"I have a case," Sherlock stressed, as if he'd said as much several times already. He tucked his pink nose into the folds of a blanket. "I don't eat or sleep when I work, you know that, and I can't rest if my brain won't let me. Don't be tedious, John."
John heaved a huge sigh, and Natasha set her suitcase down to walk over to the couch, lifting Sherlock's head as she sat so he could rest it on her lap. He made a soft sound of contentment, and she ran her fingers through his unruly curls, leaning over to nuzzle him a bit. "You're sick, milaya?"
Sherlock's voice lost its edge completely, muffled by the blanket. "Maybe a bit," he said quietly. He was definitely running a fever. Natasha could feel as much when she pressed her nose to his cheek, and his voice sounded hoarse.
She sat up straight to look at John. "What does he need?"
"I brought cold medicine, it's on the kitchen table," he said, unfolding his arms to set his hands on his hips. He pinned Sherlock with a look. "What he needs to stay hydrated and rest and take his medicine, and leave the sodding crime solving for when he's not a second away from keeling over."
Sherlock scoffed. "And I'm the drama queen," he muttered into his blanket.
"I'll make sure he does everything he needs to do," Natasha promised, and John nodded once.
He gave Sherlock's hair an affectionate ruffle before he stepped away to grab his coat. "Call me if there's any change, yeah?"
Natasha flashed a quick smile in reply, waiting until John had disappeared down the stairs to peek back down at Sherlock. He still had his eyes closed, but he'd rolled over to bury his face in her stomach, nose pressed against the soft cashmere of her sweater. She let out a soft laugh, carding her fingers through his hair again.
"I can make tea," she suggested quietly. Sherlock furrowed his brows, hummed in protest, and pressed his face further into her sweater, wiggling his fingers under the hem as if seeking warmth. She stifled another laugh. "You don't want me to get up?" Sherlock shook his head. "You want me to stay here?" He nodded. "You'll sleep for a bit?" He hesitated, and she leaned over to nuzzle him again, lips and nose pressed into his hair. "Just for a little bit, okay? I'll keep playing with your hair, and wake you up so you can take your medicine and do all the running around you want, I promise." When he still didn't agree, she kissed his cheek and pulled the blanket tighter around his frame. "Want me to sweeten the pot?" He nodded again, sniffled, and she huffed a laugh. "You're so greedy," she teased. "I'll plan something extra special for our next date, how does that sound? But only if you promise to take your medicine and rest and eat at least a little." He caved with a soft sigh and a smug smile, and she kicked off her heels to get comfortable. Sherlock cracked an eye open to peek at her, and she winked, massaging his scalp with her fingertips. "Hey, you," she whispered.
He hummed a little, and slipped his whole hand under her sweater, spreading his fingers against the small of her back. "I'm glad you're home," he mumbled quietly.
Natasha broke out in the softest smile. "I'm glad to be home, too."