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John had always believed himself to be the worst patient any doctor could ever had. He really did — he had final proof of that after he had to spend over a month recovering from his bullet wound, and he could almost hear the murderous thoughts of his nurses as they worked in his room.
But then he met Sherlock.
Sherlock Holmes was many incredible things. He was clever, quick, he was determined, funny at times, a good friend, kind — not all the time, of course. But he was a terrible patient. John learned that when, a a couple of weeks before his first Christmas at Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes got the flu.
He would sulk on the sofa, sneezing and coughing and basically being a gigantic blob of mucus. And he expected John to cater to his every needs, of course, which most of the times included someone to yell at, since he wouldn’t let John take proper care of him.
One day in particular, John had had enough. Four days had passed, and Sherlock did not look any better. John was worried, tired and thoroughly annoyed, so, as he arrived in the sitting room in the morning, ready for the day, he stood in front of sulking-Sherlock on the sofa and looked down on him.
‘That’s it, Sherlock,’ he said. ‘We’re taking care of this flu today.’
Sherlock glared at him from his quilted shivers and huffed. ‘Leave me alone!’ he said, albeit nasally. John chuckled and shook his head.
‘Nope. Come on,’ he manhandled Sherlock, who was in no way strong enough to fight him away, into the bathroom and placed him, pyjamas, pants and everything, into the bathtub, then turned on the cold water. Sherlock groaned, but relaxed as John began to message his neck, which was stiff from not leaving the sofa for three days.
After cleaning Sherlock, — and he really did need a good cleaning, the whole flat smelled like a troll’s cave — John took him to his room, wrapped in his dressing gown, of course. There, he put a fresh pair of pyjamas on Sherlock and placed him gently on his bed, where he sighed loudly and buried his face in his pillow. John smiled fondly at his weird best friend, and proceeded to cover him with a duvet.
‘Now we need to get you hydrated and properly fed,’ John said, mostly to himself, because Sherlock seemed to be dozing off.
John then went to the kitchen to look for anything edible. There was nothing much, some bread for toast, and the chocolate and peppermint cake Mrs Hudson had delivered a few days before — it was Sherlock’s favourite, and John knew that he’d at least eat that. Especially since he didn’t seem to present any signs of nausea. So he took a large glass of water — it was almost a bucket, really, but Sherlock needed to be hydrated — and a plate with the cake to Sherlock’s room, where the consulting detective rested, sitting against the headboard, his head dropping forwards, snoring slightly. John chuckled, placed the water and cake on the bedside table, and sat on the edge of the bed, shaking Sherlock’s leg ever-so-slightly to wake him up. Sherlock’s eyes snapped open and he seemed confused for a second. Quite adorable, in John’s opinion, as he never really did get to see his friend this vulnerable. It was endearing.
‘Hey, I got you some food and something to drink…’ he handed Sherlock the glass of water, and his patient drank it all, so he clearly had not been aware of how thirsty he was.
‘Not hungry,’ Sherlock mumbled after he handed the glass back to John, almost empty.
‘Really? Come on, you need to eat something… I even got you that chocolate and peppermint cake that you like so much,’ John told him, raising the plate to Sherlock’s eyes, which widened as he ran his tongue through his lips. Smiling triumphantly, John cut a piece of the cake with the fork and brought it to Sherlock’s mouth.
‘You’re going to feed me?’ asked Sherlock, managing to raise an eyebrow derisively despite his sickness. John smiled.
‘I’m feeling especially nice today, alright. Just take it,’ John pushed the fork further and Sherlock accepted. They continued in silence until most of the cake was gone, and Sherlock affirmed he couldn’t eat any more. John nodded, happy that he had at least eaten something — even though it could have been a healthier something, but in Baker Street one has to choose their battles — and took the plate back to the kitchen, along with the glass to get a refil.
He returned to Sherlock’s room and handed him the water, which he drank once again with gusto. Finishing, he gave the glass back to John and settled more comfortable under his sheets.
‘Sleepy…’ he murmured and John nodded.
‘I’ll leave you to it, then… I’ll come back in a couple of hours to check on you,’ he was about to leave, but Sherlock called him back.
‘John,’ he said.
‘Yes? Do you need anything else?’
Sherlock looked away and played with the edge of his duvet. ‘Could you, hm, keep me company… I don’t want to be… alone…’
With a grin, John nodded. Of course Sherlock was going to end up being a clingy patient. The ones who fight the most at first always end up clingy. So he sat on the bed, next to Sherlock up over the sheets.
For a few minutes, they both stood in companionable silence, apart. But then John heard a shuffling next to him and it was Sherlock, edging towards him, then burying his face in John’s stomach, draping an arm around his waist, breathing more heavily. He had fallen asleep atop John, who was now trapped and frankly panicking a bit. But as soon as he heard Sherlock sigh and a small smile appear on his features, John calmed down and smiled as well, starting to run his hands through Sherlock’s curls, happy to provide comfort to a dear friend.