Work Text:
As a doctor, he still can't believe he hadn't known better, but the fever had clouded his judgment, apparently. It wasn't until mid-pursuit that John realised he really, really shouldn't have let Sherlock drag him out of bed and into a mad dash through the streets of London on a wet November night, and by then it seemed too late to broach the subject. Please stop, I'm about to fall over was an unthinkable thing to say to Sherlock Holmes, so John merely gritted his teeth and did his best to keep up. The world was swirling with alarming flashes of colour around the edges, there were impossible creatures breathing and chuckling in the shadows, but it seemed imperative that he not let Sherlock know this.
His body betrayed him in the end, though. He wasn't sure when he lost consciousness, or for how long; there was just the wonderful sensation of his head resting against something solid at last, and a warm, velvet oblivion.
It didn't last. Sherlock's footsteps came slapping back along the wet pavement, and he was hauled roughly upright. "They got away," Sherlock informed him. "Clean away. This is no time or place for a nap, John," he added crossly, giving him a shake. John tried to focus his eyes, tried to shape the word sorry with his mouth, but it seemed to have been lost in translation somehow, because Sherlock looked confused, then alarmed. "You had that flu," he said slowly--too slowly, slow motion, it bothered John's ears. "I forgot. John?"
"I'm fine," John assured him. His own words came out at normal speed, thank God, but Sherlock appeared unconvinced.
"You're not," he said, and let go John's arm to stand up and whistle shrilly for a cab. John drifted sideways into limbo again.
He never would remember the ride home, or have any idea how Sherlock had maneuvered him into the flat. The next thing John was aware of was the bathroom at 221B, all freezing tiles and cold white light, and his own voice complaining bitterly as Sherlock tried to peel off his jumper. "It's my favourite," he insisted.
"Entirely irrelevant," Sherlock snapped. "It's soaking wet."
"I don't mind. It feels nice. Please leave me alone, I just need sleep."
"You're in no condition to judge what you need. You're shivering, your body temperature is obviously elevated, your mental state is-- Oh, why am I trying to reason with you. I'm no good with this, John. Stay here. Just..."
The next time John floated back into awareness of his surroundings, he was still on the bathroom floor, still freezing, though someone had draped a blanket over him at some point, and there were voices yelling outside in the hall. Two, he thought. One was Sherlock's, the other he couldn't place, but knew he ought to be able to. A male voice, gravelly with anger--Sherlock pleading, placating--oh, that couldn't be right.
"I think I need to be in a bed," John announced to the world at large, and the voices were silenced.
There were really only bits and pieces after that for some time. He was lifted, supported, undressed--he was just cognisant enough to think it was lucky he was past caring, or he would have been embarrassed. His bed engulfed him again at last, comfortingly warm at first and then far too warm; he kicked at the blankets. There was the familiar cool hardness of a thermometer under his tongue, and he blinked to find a pair of mild brown eyes watching over him instead of the pale ones he'd been expecting. The other voice. Of course.
"Thirty-nine five," he guessed, while Lestrade read the thermometer.
"Closer to forty." Lestrade looked worried.
"It's all right," John mumbled. "I usually...run a bit hot. Paracetamol?"
"Right here, yeah. Sit up?" His hands were larger than Sherlock's, steadier, supporting him.
"Sorry," John sighed, when he'd swallowed the pills and lain back down. "He shouldn't have phoned you."
"He was awfully worried. And I've taken care of him before in similar circumstances, more fool me. I don't intend to make a habit of it."
That was a story John badly wanted to hear, but he said "Sorry," again instead, because he felt he ought. His ears were beginning to ring, and he didn't hear Lestrade's response.
Later still, there were whispers: "...hospital?" "...see what the paracetamol does first, he's not..." "...so bloody hot, though..." A hand on his forehead, Sherlock's, he thought. John wanted to open his eyes, tell him not to worry, but he couldn't manage it; his entire body felt as though he'd been packed in cotton wool. It wasn't at all unpleasant, at the moment. He floated off again, safe in the knowledge that he was being cared for.
Also, he was never going to let Sherlock forget this.