Work Text:
The steam from the hot cup of tea standing on the table next to John curls seductively in the warm afternoon light of the winter sun, but John doesn't pay it any heed. His eyes are fixed on the figure sleeping on the sofa. With the blanket tucked up to his chin, only the head adorned by a mess of dark curls is visible. Usually, Sherlock only uses the sofa for long hours of silent contemplation or loud rants about the incompetence of Scotland Yard in general and Anderson in particular. He never uses it for such simple things like sleep. But now he's lying there, still and quiet, with closed eyes. His breathing is even, but it's shallower and more laboured than it should be. Even from his armchair across the room, John can see the tell-tale sign of fever-tinted cheekbones. Damn it, if Sherlock jumps into the bloody freezing Thames in pursuit of a suspect one more time, John will definitely kill him with his own bare hands. Sherlock may be a genius, but that doesn't seem to keep him from displaying a frankly terrifying amount of foolhardiness and stubbornness.
With a shake of his head and a long-suffering sigh, John puts away the book that he bought weeks ago and hasn't managed to read more than a few pages from, and walks over to the sofa. He carefully takes a seat on the sofa's edge, not wanting to wake Sherlock, and places the back of his left hand gently on Sherlock's fevered forehead. From this close, he can even see the tiny beads of sweat on Sherlock's brow and nose. The fever is still high, but at least not higher than it was at noon. One of Sherlock's trademark curls is sticking to his forehead, and without a second thought, he tucks it back into place. Sherlock's hair has always fascinated him. It's actually a dark shade of brown, but when the light shines on it just so, some of the strands blaze like copper. And when they're wet, the curls seem almost black. If Sherlock knew what his hair looks like now, unkempt and dishevelled from restless sleep... A big, fat grin stretches across John's face as he imagines Sherlock's piqued expression. For somebody who flounces about the flat day and night in a dressing gown, only regards his body as transport and supposedly doesn't give a whit about other people's opinions... for such a somebody Sherlock is surprisingly vain.
Slowly, John runs his fingers through the dark mess of curls and lets each strand of hair glide through his fingers separately to untangle them. They're smooth and silky, so very different to his own stubborn strands. And there's not so much as a single grey hair in sight among that dark mop of curls... not that his own grey hairs bother him. Of course not. But the fact that Sherlock looks like an old master's painting even when he's feverish and sick does seem a bit unfair. The prominent cheekbones and the high forehead give him an otherworldly look, which is only heightened by his pale, unblemished skin. His is not a conventionally attractive face, but when Sherlock's indefinable blue-green-grey eyes blaze with the victory of a freshly solved case and a delighted smile creeps onto his lips, John's breath stutters – and going by the tight feeling in his chest, his heart as well.
Too bad that it's completely one-sided. That a genius like Sherlock should think of him as a good friend is already more than he deserves, and John won't burden him with his unrequited feelings. From the beginning, Sherlock has made his position quite clear: Sentiment is nothing more than a chemical defect to him. John can hardly blame him – looking at his current miserable situation, he'd be more than happy to be able to switch off these unwelcome emotions himself.
With a sigh, John gets up and turns away from the sofa. Before returning to his seat, he pauses and takes a deep breath. Pushing back his shoulders, he gives a brief nod and walks back to his armchair, his back ramrod straight. He sits down and brings the cup of tea to his lips. The cold, hard porcelain is a poor substitute for warm, soft lips, and the tea tastes stale and bitter.