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John hides the ugly, wet cough in his sleeve, hoping the most observant man in the world doesn’t notice.
Sherlock whirls around immediately.
“John? Are you ill?”
John shakes his head vigorously. This makes the throbbing headache he’s had for the last six hours throb even more.
“I’m fine,” he rasps. “Just… Keep working.”
He sways a bit. Sherlock looks worried.
“John, you aren’t fine. You’re clearly sick.”
John waves him off. His hand trembles more than he would like to admit. “I’m fine, really. I’ll just… I’ll just head home. Have a quick nap.”
He tries to stand up, but finds that in the two hours since he’s propped himself up against this wall, it’s become the only thing holding him up. He staggers a bit, then forces himself back up against the wall.
“Never mind, I’ll just stay here. For The Work, you know—.”
Sherlock rolls his eyes and grabs his arm, hauling him up and slouching low to support his shoulders. “Absolutely not, John, you are ill and we are going home to remedy that.”
John says nothing, just leans gratefully into the tall, supportive, helpful body above him. Lestrade comes rushing over.
“John, you alright, mate?”
He reaches for John, and John tries valiantly to reach back. His hand barely leaves his side.
“John’s ill, Lestrade, I’m just going to take him home to rest up.”
Lestrade looks worried. “But the victim—.”
“Clearly knew her attacker, they have exactly the same hair colour based on the patterns we’ve found, so I’m leaning towards a member of her immediate family. Her parents were away this weekend, as were her brothers, but she was staying with her cousin, and according to your files—,” he breaks off to wave his phone at Lestrade, the confidential database clearly hacked into, “He has a history with violence and was twice convicted for assault and battery. I would interview him first. Good day, Inspector.”
Sherlock turns before he can get a glimpse of Lestrade’s exasperated expression. “I’m changing the password when I get back into the office!” he shouts out.
“Won’t make a difference!” Sherlock shouts back. John winces at all the noise.
“Sorry, John, sorry,” Sherlock whispers, gentler than John has ever seen him. He herds him into a cab and they drive off, John immediately falling asleep against Sherlock.
He briefly wonders if this is a dream come true, but his head throbs too much for that to be the case.
Time passes. John drifts.
“John.”
“Mmmmm.” He snuggles closer.
“John.”
“Mmmmmmmmmmm.”
Everything is lovely and warm.
“John, we’re here, we have to get out of the cab.”
John slowly blinks open his eyes and realizes where they are, namely, right in front of the door to their flat. He tries to sit upright, but finds that his muscles have turned to jelly.
Sherlock smiles at him, then hauls him out of the cab. “You’re lucky I’m not inclined to take a video of this,” he murmurs. John smiles.
Sherlock gets them through the door, but it takes a good ten minutes to manoeuvre John up the seventeen steps to the flat with his legs turned to mush.
“When did this start?” Sherlock pants out when they somehow reach the landing unscathed.
“This morning. We’ve had a lot of patients in with ‘flu,” John slurs. “Didn’t think it would get this bad, though.”
Sherlock shakes his head. “Okay. We’ve got to get you into bed, and then I’m calling Mycroft and asking him to find out why the vaccine seems to miss the relevant strain of influenza year after year.”
“Okay,” John slurs again. He tries to head for the stairs, but can’t seem to get himself out of Sherlock’s grasp.
“John,” Sherlock says slowly. “If you think I’m going to try to get you up another set of stairs, you’ve got another thing coming.”
John glances up, his eyelids already drooping shut. “What do you propose, then?”
Sherlock swallows. He reddens a bit. “I’m putting you to sleep in my bed. I’ve a case on, it’s not like I was going to use it anyway.”
John tries to protest, but he finds he’s also much too tired to get himself up the stairs to his room. “I could kip on the sofa,” he tries. Sherlock snorts.
“Yes, and further injure your shoulder on the completely inadequate upholstery. No, John, if I need to sleep, I’ll take the sofa.”
John finds himself nodding before he even realizes what he’s agreeing to. He’s quickly hauled off to Sherlock’s room, where he’s then cocooned in soft blankets and Egyptian cotton sheets. He quickly starts to drift off.
Sherlock tucks the blankets tighter around him, and John grabs his hand. Sherlock looks surprised, but John doesn’t notice. “Ta very much, love,” he mutters.
Sherlock looks shocked. John still doesn’t notice. “Good night,” he continues. Sherlock looks a little relieved.
“Good night, John,” he says.
“I love you,” John tells him. Sherlock’s mouth drops open, his eyes widening.
John wants to ask him why he isn’t saying it back, but he falls asleep before he manages it.
***
He wakes up to a steaming bowl of what smells like his mum’s chicken soup. His eyes open to find Sherlock at his bedside, bowl in his hands, wearing an apron.
John’s heart melts.
“You didn’t have to—,” he tries, but his voice is too hoarse to properly formulate an argument. Sherlock shrugs.
“I just—I wanted you to feel better. Studies have shown that chicken soup, while not strictly medicinal, is incredibly revitalising when sick, and—.”
John snorts.
Sherlock glares at him. “What?”
“’Studies have shown,’ you just googled it, didn’t you?”
Sherlock blushes. “Maybe.”
“And for some reason, called my mum and asked her for that recipe.”
Sherlock looks indignant. “John, I am perfectly capable of—.”
“Sherlock, I could recognize that soup anywhere,” John tells him, raising an eyebrow.
“Just take the damn soup,” Sherlock mumbles, thrusting the bowl at him. John grins as he tucks in.
“I can see you’re already feeling better,” Sherlock tells him, looking him up and down attentively. John nods.
“Yeah, but my head still feels a bit wonky. How long was I asleep for?” He takes a large bite of soup, which somehow is exactly the right temperature. His mother’s recipe makes him feel warm inside, and he thinks of times when he was much younger and his mother would make him stay home from school for a cold.
“Just over twelve hours,” Sherlock answers. John raises his eyebrows.
“Wow. That’s impressive. How far did you get in the case while I was out?”
Sherlock looks at him for a long time.
“What?”
“I wasn’t working on the case, John,” he finally says.
“Oh. What were you doing?” John asks, genuinely curious. Sherlock just looks flustered.
“If you were even almost as observant as me, you would have noticed the wet flannels on the bedside table, as well as the thermometer. What else could I possibly have been doing?”
John blushes. “Thank you. You didn’t have to do that.”
Sherlock waves his hand. “Of course I did. That’s what friends do, isn’t it?”
John smiles a bit sadly. “Yeah. Friends.”
Sherlock looks perplexed. “What? What did I do?”
“Nothing! This is lovely, Sherlock, thank you.”
“Is this about what you said yesterday when I put you to bed?” Sherlock asks, not letting it go.
Now it’s John’s turn to look perplexed. “What did I say?”
Sherlock blushes and looks away. “Nothing. You—You didn’t say anything. I’ve got an experiment running in the kitchen, excuse me—.”
“Sherlock! Wait!” John cries after him, but Sherlock rushes out of the room anyway. John tries to follow, but it turns out that just because his mind is more coherent, it doesn’t mean his muscles are any more functional.
He stays in bed, alone and frustrated.
***
He can’t get up to feed himself either, though, and sure enough, just when his stomach starts to grumble, Sherlock is back at his side with another bowl of soup.
“What did I say yesterday?” he demands. Sherlock looks like he wants to flee, but in the end, his obligation to John wins out.
“Nothing, John, really, it would only embarrass you if I told you, and I’m working on deleting it as we speak—,” though John can tell from his face that this is a bald-faced lie; he said something good, but Sherlock thinks it’ll embarrass him? “—So our relationship will be perfectly intact by tomorrow, I guarantee it.”
John brandishes the spoon triumphantly. “Aha! So it was about our relationship!”
Sherlock blushes and flees.
“Sherlock!” John calls after him. Sherlock comes back, head down. John is immediately worried.
“Sherlock, just—Please. What did I say? Did I hurt you?”
Sherlock looks away. “No, um. On the contrary, John, but I don’t think you want to know.”
“You’re worrying me. What did I say?”
Sherlock mumbles something, blushing.
“What? I didn’t catch—.”
“That you love me, John!” he shouts. John stares at him, jaw dropping. He didn’t realize being sick would make him spout his feelings out to the one person he’d hoped would never find out.
Sherlock continues, oblivious to John’s shock. “I think you were tired and mistook me for someone else, and that’s fine, John really, I’ll just delete it.”
John takes in Sherlock’s anxious expression, his reddened cheeks, and his clenched fists, and makes a deduction of his own.
He smiles.
“Sherlock, I was tired, but I didn’t mistake you for someone else.”
Sherlock freezes mid-hand-wringing. He stares.
John takes a deep breath.
“I love you. I just didn’t think you reciprocated my feelings.”
Sherlock stares.
“But I was tired, and my inhibitions were lowered, and I just… said it. So now it’s out there.”
Sherlock stares.
“I love you,” John repeats.
Sherlock stares.
“Are you um… Are you gonna say anything?” John asks, a little unnerved by Sherlock’s absolutely unmoving form.
John’s not sure what he expected, but Sherlock launching himself at him from across the room definitely isn’t it. Within milliseconds, he’s engulfed in a bear hug, Sherlock’s face tucked into his neck and his curls tickling his nose.
“I love you, John,” Sherlock whispers hoarsely. John blinks, trying to clear his suddenly-blurry vision, but quickly gives up trying to blame his tears on his ‘flu. He squeezes Sherlock harder, then kisses him on the top of the head. Sherlock gives a tiny contented sigh, and John feels like he never wants to move again.
He pulls back a little to get a look at Sherlock’s face. Sherlock’s eyes are shining, his cheeks are red, and John just can’t help himself; he leans forwards, kisses each eyelid in turn, then each cheekbone, then the tip of his nose, and then—as they both hold their breath—he gently kisses Sherlock’s beautiful Cupid’s bow lips.
“I love you,” he says again. Sherlock blushes adorably.
They simply bask in each other for a while.
Eventually, John snuggles closer into Sherlock’s chest, letting himself drift back to sleep. Sherlock shifts around a bit, then quietly asks, “Does this mean I’m going to get sick, now?”
John snorts, and Sherlock giggles, and then they’re both laughing, and that’s fine.
Better than fine.
After all, laughter is the best medicine.