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John Watson was an army doctor for years, he treated soldiers in one of the most dangerous and stressful environments imaginable everyday without much issue so he was absolutely more than capable of knowing when he’d come down with a minor stomach bug. At least that’s what he’d told Sherlock when the consulting detective suggested John not tag along to today’s crime scene.
“I am completely fine Sherlock!” John yelled, “and even if I wasn’t why should it matter to you.” The detective rolled his eyes like John was a toddler throwing a tantrum.
“You’re not very subtle, John. You’ve been grimacing far more than usual indicating you’re in some sort of physical pain not to mention the two times you had to take a breath and steady yourself which I’d usually have tallied up to some psychological issue however…” if John didn’t know Sherlock better he’d say he looked embarrassed, “I heard you throwing up in the toilets this morning.”
“Well even if I was sick, which I am not, I’m still not letting you go to the crime scene without me.” Knowing Sherlock John was sure he’d end up going off on some grand mission involving the case whilst offending every member of the Scotland Yard and putting himself in mortal danger but if John was there he could at least supervise him while he did. Honestly Sherlock was almost more trouble than he’s worth.
“You can’t come, John, you’ll vomit on all the evidence.”
“And you can’t go without me so I’m-”
“Then I won’t go,” the detective said. Out of everything that had happened to John since he met the detective this was the most surprising. Sherlock loved crime scenes, they were basically his version of Christmas, he must be really concerned if he’s willing to not go. This was ridiculous. Of course he hadn’t been feeling his best but he wasn’t completely out of action. Other than some weakness in the knees and the dull ache in his stomach John was fine. Although now he thought about it the pain had gotten worse since this morning and he was also significantly more light headed.
“Fine, we’ll stay. I’m going to sit down then,” John flopped down on to the chair near to him, he’d been on the way to leave the house when they’d had their argument, he’d have preferred to lie down on the much more comfortable couch but at the moment the other side of the room seemed a mile away. An uncomfortable silence fell over the room as John sat and Sherlock stood over him twiddling his thumbs. And now Sherlock was bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet. And now he was obnoxiously sighing. John had to put an end to this before he started humming.
“You know you don’t have to just stand there right?”
“Yes, right! Do you want… a drink?” It was mildly endearing how unsure he sounded. Deciding he might as well abuse Sherlock’s new found want to help, John asked for a cup of tea and tried to get comfortable. Maybe he shouldn’t have asked for tea, the room felt too warm and stuffy suddenly, a cold drink would have been better.
“Here,” Sherlock walked out of the kitchen, cup of hot tea in hand. John reached his hand out to take it but Sherlock just shook his head. “You’ll drop it.” John huffs but doesn’t argue. A table gets dragged closer to him and the tea is placed down.
“You should use a coaster.”
“It’s my table, John, and I decide I don’t care about ring marks.”
For a while John just sat and gingerly sipped his tea as Sherlock ransacked their apartment looking for something or possibly nothing, John’s not sure. It’s nice. In a really weird way John finds this nice. Before he knows it his cup is empty and John’s eyes feel heavy. Sherlock is busy, surely it’s fine if John just closes his eyes for five minutes.
*
Sherlock was not one to be plagued by sentiment. He was a freak, he’d never needed someone, needing someone was a liability. But John… needing John wasn’t sentiment, it was survival. That’s why he couldn’t let John come to the scene when he was clearly ill, survival was why he was staying here, watching the doctor who can’t seem to take care of himself. John snores when he sleeps, it’s loud but Sherlock can’t imagine it would ever get annoying. That chair isn’t comfortable to sleep on, Sherlock knows from experience. He should move John to the couch. That’s what someone else would do in this situation right? Though perhaps he’d be crossing some sort of male platonic boundary to pick up John while he’s asleep. These rules are so annoying.
Sherlock makes his decision. John may be annoyed but his back will be thankful. Sherlock wriggles one arm between John’s back and the armchair and the other under his knees. Sherlock may not be considered the peak of physical athleticism but he was also used to carrying things that weighed exactly the same as a person so picking John up wasn’t much of a challenge. He must be very sick because the second Sherlock had him in his arms John 'nuzzled’ (it was the only word Sherlock could think of) into him. Humans are drawn to warmth, he supposes.
He was careful not to wake John as he placed him down. John was almost as bad as him when it came to getting sleep. Maybe the reason the two of them made a good pair was because they were both as bad as the other.
Sherlock is a genius but right now, the feeling that rises up in him as he watches John sleeping peacefully for once, that makes him feel like an idiot.
*
John wakes up feeling like he’s going to throw up again. How did it get so much worse? He lets out an inhuman groan. Fuck, it’s like he’s being stabbed. He rolls onto his side, only barely registering the fact he’s woken up somewhere different from where he fell asleep. He feels so hot, he kicks off the blanket that was on top of him (did he put that there?).
“John? Are you alright? Do you need a bowl?” A familiar voice laced with concern drew near to him. A bowl, yeah probably, bowl is a good idea. A second after he’s nodded his head a bowl is placed next to him. It’s just in time too because suddenly he’s throwing up. He feels a hand put on his back, rubbing slow circles.
When it’s all over Sherlock takes the bowl and walks to the bathroom, John feels mortified at the idea that he’s gone to clean up his mess. But just underneath the humiliation and the sickness he feels kind of happy. Sherlock Holms, consulting detective, is taking care of him like they’re lovers or something.
When he comes back Sherlock feels his forehead and looks pleased.
“What are you smiling about?” John tries to sound upbeat but fails miserably.
“I looked up your symptoms and judging from your current temperature you’re nearing the end of it. You need to be drinking a lot of water at this time of course and whilst you may currently feel hesitant to eat anything after you’ve just been sick but there is always the concern that now your stomach is empty so I can make you-”
“Sherlock,” the detective stopped pacing and turned to look at John, “thank you.”
A light pink rose on Sherlock's cheeks as he mumbled out, “no problem.”
*
Waking up the next morning John was pleased to find he didn’t feel like he was on fire or that he needed to run to the bathroom to avoid getting sick on his bedsheets. Definitely an improvement from yesterday. Thinking of yesterday there was only one thing that remained clear about it, through the fever and vomiting there was the clear image of Sherlock’s worry and his care for John. Yesterday John might have simply accepted it and moved on, too preoccupied with his own issue, but today he couldn’t. What Sherlock had done for him yesterday wasn’t what a self-congratulating, obsessive, insensitive prick would do. Not that Sherlock was a prick. Well, he was but he was a prick John was fond of. He was really, that is, he's fond of Sherlock. He wouldn’t have moved him with the man, or put up with his cryptic plans, or his constant need to be smarter than anyone else in the room if he wasn’t a bit fond of the detective.
Why was he so fond? Sherlock was smart (obviously) and he gave John the opportunity to jump back into the danger and action he’d missed so much but it was more than that. John needed him. He needed to know Sherlock was okay, needed to tell him how amazing he was, needed to be by Sherlock’s side through every twist and turn it brought. When has he ever felt like that about anyone?
Shit… he was in love with Sherlock Holmes.
*
The eggs Sherlock is frying look a bit too burnt to be considered edible. He’s hoping bacon is at least salvageable. As Sherlock mentally curses the fact that cooking is so much harder than forensic science he hears a creak coming from John’s bedroom. He must finally be awake.
“You’re making breakfast?” John yawns as he says it and takes a seat at the kitchen table that Sherlock cleaned at 5am this morning.
“Yes, however I think eggs might be off the metaphorical table.”
“Bacon sandwiches?”
“Likely our best option.”
The sandwiches were delicious and Sherlock was happy to sit in silence and simply enjoy his flatmate’s company. It was all insufferably domestic if he really thought about it but maybe there was something nice about this particular brand of insufferable. Sherlock wasn’t made for a normal life, it was unimaginable to him, but with John these moments of mundanity felt precious. Even washing the dishes as John dried.
“I’m happy to see you’re no longer at risk of projectile vomiting all over our apartment,” Sherlock said as he poured more soup into the kitchen sink.
“Yeah,” John replied, his voice far away. Something was bothering him, Sherlock knew all his physical ticks and currently the way he was licking his lower lip and glancing to the door like he may need to map out an escape route, that was nervous John ticks. Typically he’d leave it alone but Sherlock felt he’d breach some new ground yesterday with John, ground that meant he could ask.
“Are you okay?” His voice was too high at the end, making him sound nervous. John turned to him, eyes wide almost like he was scared. Sherlock didn’t want him to be scared.
“I’m fine,” John said with a look on his face like he wanted to say something else.
“Are you sure?”
“Sherlock you...” John quickly looked away from him like he was embarrassed by what he had to say, “you took care of me yesterday. You were nicer to me than anyone has been in a while which is odd because you’re usually an utter prick. And it made me realise something. Sherlock, I care about you.”
“Of course you do,” Sherlock tried to put on his usual confidence he uses when explaining something. “We live together, work together, it’s only natural you’d get attached.” It's hard for him to try and say what they have is something superficial, a natural human response to being together so often and not something special to them.
“Do you believe that?” Trust John to see through him.
“No, I don’t.”
“Do you think I care about you as just a friend?” That Sherlock hadn’t expected. What was the correct answer to that?
“No.” Please be the right answer.
“I care about you so much more than a friend, Sherlock.” A timid smile was on John’s face as he said it. A hundred different thoughts were running through Sherlock’s head, thousands of possibilities lay before him but there was only one path Sherlock wanted to go down. He supposed there was no better time to trust his ability to read people.
*
John really hoped he hadn’t just cocked this whole thing up. He hadn’t meant to tell Sherlock his feelings, he’d only just realized them himself. It just felt natural to say it, to admit Sherlock was more than just a friend to him. Still he couldn’t bring himself to look at his flatmate now so instead he made very intense eye contact with the mug he was drying.
“Um, John.” Shit, that sounded like the start of a rejection. Was he going to have to look for a different place to live after this? Sherlock probably wouldn’t let something like this get in the way of them but John wouldn’t be able to get over this humiliation.
“John, I can practically hear you overthinking. Could you possibly snap out of it so I can ask to kiss you?” What!
“What!”
“Can I kiss you?” Sherlock says it in what many would consider a harsh voice but John doesn’t care, the Sherlock he loves is the Sherlock who would ask for a kiss in the way most would ask for a cup of tea.
John doesn’t respond to Sherlock’s question verbally instead he crashes his mouth into Sherlock’s in what is likely the most overzealous kiss ever. It feels good though. More than good, actually. It feels like something inside them both has clicked together, a perfect fit.
Who’d have thought Sherlock Holmes was as talented a kisser as he was a detective. John feels a pair of arms wrap around his back, he’s slightly annoyed that Sherlock hadn’t thought to dry his hands before he did that but the kissing makes up for the inconvenience.
John breaks away from the kiss to catch his breath and the second he does Sherlock goes for his neck, causing John to let out an embarrassing moan.
“Sherlock!” John gasps. “Should we maybe take this somewhere that’s not the kitchen?” Sherlock looked at John wide eyed almost like he couldn’t quite believe this was happening. John couldn’t blame him, he could hardly believe this was happening either.
“Yeah, we should- my room?” Sherlock asked.
“Yes!”
“And John,” Sherlock looked at him nervously, “this isn’t just a-“
“No Sherlock this isn’t just a one time thing, after this we can go out and date but right now I really need us to go to your room.”
“Yes! Good! Let’s go!”
John could get used to this more agreeable Sherlock