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Sherlock was sick.
He didn't get sick. Falling ill was so ordinary. Such a depressingly human thing to do. It was a reminder that the body may just be transport, but it was susceptible to bouts of illness, that it was so...so common.
He felt terrible. He had a horrible headache, his skull felt like someone was banging a crowbar on it energetically. His eyes hurt because of the headache, and Sherlock was beginning to realise that you couldn't just delete pain. His nose felt wet and snotty and there was mucus dripping down it for God's sake. And oh god his whole body hurt. He lay curled up on the sofa, shivering under the blanket that had been once upon a time been carelessly thrown over the sofa, and it was hardly providing any warmth, but Sherlock felt too exhausted to go in search of something better suited to his needs.
And the worst thing about this whole abominable situation was that he had no John. John who would brush a kiss across his forehead and cover him in blankets and make him tea and climb into bed with him and just make him better.
And now Sherlock was annoyed because he was sick and John wasn't here and oh god he felt so sorry for himself, and he really needed his husband right now.
Somebody had come into the flat.
Sherlock lifted his head as far as he could bear. "John?" he croaked.
"Someone far less desirable, I'm afraid, brother mine." The telltale click-clack of shoes could be heard behind him as Mycroft came sauntering in with his bloody umbrella, seating himself on the chair that clients usually sat on. Deduction skills be damned, he thought. He should have noticed. Sickness was no excuse for not realising that it was Mycroft, for God's sake.
Sherlock groaned. This day had just gone from bad to worse.
"Go away," he grunted, pulling the blankets over his head. "Can't you see I'm—" a great sneeze shot out of his nose. "Sick? And here you are—" he coughed. Great hacking coughs that made pain flare across his chest. -" imposing yourself. Go impose yourself on some other poor soul." Sherlock's chest rose and fell with the effort of using so many words.
"What an admirable display of dramatics," Mycroft said dryly. "I applaud your effort. You would have been better suited for theatre than detective work." Sherlock couldn't see him, covered as he was in blankets, but he could imagine him sitting back across the chair, thrumming with self-satisfied energy as always. He was so dreadful.
"Why are you still here?" he wheezed.
"You're ill."
"Brilliant deduction. The government is in such good hands."
"Must you speak from under that blanket?" Mycroft asked, exasperated. Good.
"Yes," Sherlock replied resolutely.
"I have taken the liberty of calling a doctor. Ms. Hudson says you're running a fever."
"Ms. Hudson loves to exaggerate. I am fine." Blatant lie, of course. He wasn't fine, he felt pathetic, and Ms. Hudson had indeed taken his temperature that morning and it had been 102. She was probably the reason behind this unwelcome intrusion, Sherlock deduced. Ugh. She had probably been fretting and ended up calling his brother. This was a disaster. How was he expected to get better if Mycroft sat there, spreading his toxic presence?
"No, you are not. Do you remember Doctor Davies? He took care of you when you were a child. He'll be here in a few minutes."
Sherlock threw the blanket off his body and sat bolt upright. He immediately felt woozy, the dull pain behind his eyes unrelenting. "Doctor Davies?" he hissed. Oh god, his throat felt awful.
Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Yes. Doctor Davies. Somebody has to take care of you, Sherlock. Since your beloved isn't here at the moment."
"I detest Doctor Davies," he spat in return, as soon as the very same man entered the flat from the open door.
"Hello, Sherlock," he said pleasantly. Sherlock hated it. He made a thoroughly disgusted expression and flopped back against the sofa, burrowing himself as deep as humanely possible. Why were there so many people in the flat? First Mycroft, now this apparent doctor.
"Doctor Davies," Mycroft said apologetically. "So kind of you to make a house call. Please, have a seat." It wasn't kind of him at all, Sherlock thought to himself. Mycroft had probably paid him an obscene amount of money for this.
Davies sat down in the chair that Mycroft had just vacated, a strained smile on his face. "Now now, young man," he said. He used to use that same tone of voice when Sherlock was younger. Patronizing and condescending. Doctors were supposed to be kind. Like John. Oh god, John. He wanted John.
"Listen to me," he said, scowling at the doctor. "I don't want you here. You are making things impossibly worse by just being here, and if you really want to make me better, you will go away."
Mycroft made a slightly strangled noise. "Sherlock—" he started.
"No, no, it's alright," Davies said, smiling. "I see you haven't changed one bit!" he laughed. He leaned forward, placing his palm on Sherlock's damp forehead. Sherlock immediately recoiled, the sudden movement causing his head to spin.
"Don't touch me," he hissed. Davies raised his eyebrows, leaning back.
"Mycroft, why don't I come back after a little while?" he asked, getting up. "Maybe you could calm him down, or sedate him," he winked at Sherlock like this was the most hilarious joke in all of history. Sherlock wanted to throw something at him. A heavy, blunt object, preferably.
Mycroft smiled politely. "Of course," he said, in his perfectly measured voice.
Once he was gone, Mycroft turned to him, glaring. "What on earth was that about?"
"Oh please. I don't want that prat anywhere near me. He's bound to muddle up and—" Sherlock sneezed. "Why don't you get out too?"
Mycroft didn't get out. No, Mycroft insisted on being troublesome.
Mycroft brought more doctors. And Sherlock shouted at all of them and called them terrible names and deduced the most insulting things and after the fourth one was thoroughly ridiculed, (and informed that his wife didn't love him anymore because of his halitosis) Mycroft dropped into the client chair with a very loud noise of annoyance and clutched at his hair.
"What am I to do with you?" Mycroft almost wailed. Sherlock looked on with a great deal of amusement. As awful as he felt, it was very funny to watch Mycroft at his wit's end.
"Get me a doctor," Sherlock suggested.
Mycroft looked at him, agape. "What do you think I've been doing the past two hours? Tap dancing?"
"Not just any doctor," Sherlock muttered. "My doctor."
Mycroft heaved a great sigh, leaning back. "You want John."
"And how long did it take you to reach that deduction?"
"Of course you want John. But John is in Dublin."
"You can bring in as many doctors as you want, and I will not let any of them touch me. And then I will get sicker and sicker and then I shall die and John will come after you with a gun and shoot you because he will know that you were involved in this somehow. And don't think that just because you're the British Government you will be able to escape John Watson, because you will not." Sherlock had to take several breaths before his throat stopped aching with the effort of so much talking.
Mycroft gave two stiff nods, and stood up. "Very well," he said firmly. "I will see what I can do."
When John came home, it was almost midnight.
He stepped in 221B to find it quite dark, only one solitary lamp glowing in the corner. He shut the door quietly behind him, putting down his luggage on the floor, and peered through the dim light to find the sofa completely taken by a great pile of blankets that was evidently his husband.
John allowed himself to smile at the sight, Sherlock burrowed deeply into the sofa, covered in blankets, a dark mop of curls poking out from the depths of the material. And he just stood there in front of the door and gazed lovingly at that head, irrespective of how utterly annoyed he was because he had been in Dublin, for God's sake, and then Mycroft Holmes sends his private jet and he is expected to drop everything and come running because—
Then his heart gave a lurch and he realised that Sherlock was sick.
He hurried forward, nearly tripping in the haste to get to his husband. Sherlock was apparently fast asleep, but it was obvious that he was breathing with difficulty; he could hear the wheezy, painful breaths that he was taking, his body rising and falling achingly slowly, as if each breath was a struggle. Which it probably was. He slowly lowered himself to the floor, carefully peeling back part of the blanket so he could get a look at his face.
Sherlock's curls were sticking to his damp forehead, his eyes closed, long lashes fanning his insane cheekbones, pale lips parted, releasing tiny huffs of breath that were too far apart for John's liking. Without thinking, he reached out and brushed a hand across his forehead, his worry increasing a bit more at the flaming touch.
It's just a fever, he told himself. It's all fine. I've seen plenty of these before. Standard medical procedure applies. Let's take his temperature first, give him some paracetamol, and a cup of tea. Soup, maybe, if he's up to it.
Sherlock shifted a bit, his eyes scrunching tight. Then he opened them, and the sleepy grey orbs stared back at him for a moment before they widened and Sherlock let out a breathy whisper of "John."
"Hello, love," John said, leaning forward and placing a soft kiss on his mouth. "I've been dragged from Dublin to check on you." His heart fluttered at how pale Sherlock was, and how tired he sounded. Must get down to business.
"I have had the most awful day, John," Sherlock whined. He sneezed. "Mycroft was being an almighty prat and brought down so many doctors and none of them were you and –and—" and then Sherlock started coughing, and there were loud, painful coughs, John could see. Oh, dear.
"It's alright," John said, trying to sound soothing. He gave Sherlock another kiss, because even ill and sweaty he was irresistible. Sherlock tried to get up, probably to wrap himself around John, but John pushed him back gently. "None of that. I'm back now, and I'm going to give you some medicine and make you some tea and you'll be fine."
"Iknow," Sherlock said drowsily, his eyes drifting shut again. "That's what I told Mycroft. You make everything better." He sniffed. "I've missed you."
John chuckled. "Evidently," he said, getting up to look for a thermometer. "You're such a git. I've been spoiling you all these years. I can't believe I came running down here all the way from Dublin. I'm sure the other doctors were equally competent." He took down the first aid box from the mantelpiece and brought it over to the couch.
"But I'm sick," Sherlock mumbled.
"You've very reliably informed me many times that you don't fall sick," John pointed out, wedging himself somewhere between Sherlock's feet and the armrest.
Sherlock made a sound of disgust that came off sounding less intimidating because Sherlock's nose was dripping.
"Okay, I need you to get up for me. Can you do that?"
"Why are you making me do things?"
"I'll make you tea afterward. And soup."
"I'm not hungry," Sherlock muttered.
John rolled his eyes. "That won't stop me. Now get up."
Sherlock complained a great deal, but finally drew himself up, pushing the covers off his body, and immediately slumped over John, burying his head in the crook of his shoulder. He made a low, rumbling noise which John had learnt to interpret as some form of approval. Without preamble, he slipped a thermometer through Sherlock's lips. Sherlock lifted up his head, scowling at him. "Whush desh?" he mumbled through the glass, brows furrowed with disdain.
"It's a thermometer, you see, you take people's temperature with it. See the red stuff inside it? It's called mercury. Can you spell it? M-e-r—"
Sherlock gave him a withering look. John giggled. "Don't look at me like that. You brought this upon yourself. How did this happen, anyway? You were fine when I left."
Sherlock's lips thinned, as much as they could do around the thermometer. He drew his knees closer to his chest, wrapping his arms around his knees. He gave a barely- noticeable shrug.
"You fell into the Thames again, didn't you?" John had to purse his lips too prevent himself from laughing.
Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him. "Shuth up."
"Oh my god," John threw his head back and uttered a great 'Ha!' of laughter. Sherlock was not finding this amusing. He glared at John as he laughed, peels of mirth ensuing from his lips uncontrollably.
"Oh fuck," John laughed again. "You fell in—again." He leaned forward to take the thermometer out of his mouth,
"I did not fall into the Thames," Sherlock hissed. "It was for a case. It was all on purpose. It was essential for the killer to assume that I was not a good swimmer."
"Shut up. You fell into the Thames," John muttered, but his attention was on the thermometer. 102. Time to bring out the heavy artillery.
"Stop mocking me. I'm ill. Or haven't you noticed?" Sherlock flopped back into the sofa, burrowing himself deep into the cushions.
"Yes. You're ill. Because you're an idiot and you don't know how to take care of yourself," John said, getting up. "Honestly, Sherlock, it's a miracle you don't have pneumonia. Get up, let's get you to the bedroom."
Sherlock looked up, eyes half-closed. "Will you sleep with me?"
"Maybe. But we're not having sex, if that's what you're asking. Come on, up you get," John threw off the blanket and held out a hand for Sherlock to hold.
"Why not? Am I that undesirable?" Sherlock got up shakily, one arm gripping John's waist. "You'd be the last one to question my sexual prowess," Sherlock was probably aiming to sound sultry, but his voice was soft and strained due to the effort. John would have laughed if he wasn't so worried at how weak Sherlock was.
"You can barely stand, you great git. And you have a 102 fever. I'd rather not have you sneeze all over me when you come," the both of them trudged across the wooden floor until John threw open the door of Sherlock's bedroom, slowly lowering him on to the bed.
"How do you know I'll sneeze when I come? You're assuming, and it's a wrong assumption. Shag me and I'll show you," Sherlock ordered, but it didn't quite come off as forceful as he wanted it to do, because he immediately curled up into a ball and started shivering.
"Sherlock, we're not shagging right now," John answered, throwing the quilt over him, and tucking it under his chin. He bent down and brushed a kiss over his forehead. "Don't fall asleep, yet." Sherlock made a very soft noise which did not bode well for him staying awake. John pulled open the drawer on his nightstand, looking around for the paracetamol.
"Don't mess with my—" Sherlock sneezed. –" sock index."
"I don't think the sock index should be your biggest worry now," John said, digging out the tablets. "I'm going to make you some tea."
"Don't want tea. Want you," Sherlock mumbled sleepily.
John chuckled to himself, standing up. "You can't seduce me when you have snot dripping down your nose," he pointed out, walking out of the room. Sherlock made a very offended noise behind him. Obviously he thought that seduction skills did not depend on the liquidity of your mucus.
John went about making the tea, mechanically, ignoring the plate of maggots staring back at him from the fridge. He hoped the milk was still edible. He put the kettle on, and set the water to boil, and leaned against the counter to wait.
Sherlock was right, he was rarely ill. Which was honestly quite surprising, because Sherlock had absolutely no consideration for his own health. But he hated it when Sherlock was ill, it was so odd not having him jumping around the flat setting fire to John's belongings or shooting the wall. It was odd to see him curled up in bed asleep. The one time John was able to Sherlock to sleep, and it was because he had fever. John would make sure his husband was up and running as soon as possible.
The tea was done.
He brought over the cup to Sherlock, who seemed fast asleep, head burrowed deeply inside the blanket, his form rising and falling slowly with his breaths. He didn't want to wake him up, not when he needed his rest, but he really needed to get that fever down.
"Sherlock, love," he shook him gently. "Take some of this. It'll make you feel better."
Sherlock made a disbelieving grunt, poking his head out of the covers. "If you'd shag me I'd feel better," he said, in a very matter-of-fact voice, trying to lift himself up into a sitting position.
John rolled his eyes, perching on the edge of the bed and holding out the tablets and the tea. "Here. Have this and drink the tea. Then you can go to sleep. I promise you'll feel better."
Sherlock heaved a great sigh as if he was being forced to do something extremely unpleasant, and took the tea and the tablets, gulping them down and making a thoroughly disgusted face.
"That was awful," he decided. Then, "Come to bed."
"I just came back from Dublin. Haven't even taken a shower." And that may have been true, but John was sorely tempted to cuddle as well.
"I don't care. And by the way, I'm ill. You have to obey. I'm sure it's some sort of doctor rule. Or whatever."
"No sex," John clarified.
Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically. "Honestly, John," he huffed. "One would think that you've actually grown tired of me."
"Don't guilt me into fucking you," John warned, taking off his shoes and socks and clambering into bed. "Sex will tire you out. And you might fall asleep before I'm finished. That would be a disappointment."
Sherlock drank the rest of the tea in a big gulp, then fell back against the pillows, facing John, who had spread the quilt over himself as well. "We can have sex tomorrow," Sherlock suggested. "Lots of it." He snuggled closer to John, his head under his chin, arms and legs wrapped around his body like a vine.
"Yes. Lots of sex," John agreed, placing a kiss on top of his head. "Go to sleep."
"I'm glad you're here," he said, voice thick with sleep. "I told Mycroft that you would shoot him if I died."
"Sherlock, it's just a fever. You wouldn't have died," John's lips twitched in amusement at the idea of him going after Mycroft with a gun. He had army training, he'd surely be able to take that pompous twat.
"Yes, but the doctors he brought were dreadful. I told him that I wouldn't allow them anywhere near me. And if nobody treated me I may have died."
"Mycroft was just trying to help. Now no more talking. Go to sleep, love."
Sherlock seemed to obey, because he snuggled a bit and John felt his body relax against him. His breaths slowed and John decided he was probably asleep, and closed his own eyes.
"But you would have, right?" Sherlock asked after a while, his voice vibrating against John's throat.
"I would have what?"
"Shot him. Because I threatened him with that. It would be tedious if you didn't follow up on it. I mean, if I died, it would only be fair for Mycroft to die as well. And how apt for it be at your hands."
John gave a short laugh. Then, after a few seconds, he replied. "Of course."