Work Text:
My love was as cruel as the cities I lived in
Everyone looked worse in the light
Maybe I've stormed out of every single room in this town
Threw out our cloaks and our daggers because it's morning now
I don't wanna look at anything else now that I saw you
(I can never look away)
And I can still see it all (in my mind)
All of you, all of me (intertwined)
- Daylight by Taylor Swift
The first time Sherlock sneezed, the walls of 221b Baker Street shook under the immense forces. Geologists in faraway places blinked and studied their monitors, wondering why London was suffering a minor earthquake. Pigeons that had been nesting on the chimney hooted in terror and headed for the safety of the open heavens.
Personally, you were a bit shocked. You’d thought he was asleep.
“Bless you,” you said automatically.
Sherlock rolled over on the sofa, glaring across the lounge room at you. “For God’s sake, don’t be trite.” He would have been more fearsome if his eyes weren’t bloodshot. He looked like the hungover lovechild of an otter and a Basset Hound.
“Oh, sorry.” You clicked onto a webpage, curling your knees more comfortably under you in the armchair. “Damn you.”
Normally you’d expect to see his mouth twitch reluctantly. Now he just growled and turned his back to you again.
Come to think of it, had you ever heard him sneeze? No. Never. Not once. People like Sherlock didn’t sneeze - not even if they had cat allergies, or peppercorns shoved up their nostrils. People like Sherlock never even caught the flu.
The flu. That particularly nasty November flu which was making its way around London.
You stared at the back of Sherlock’s bed-head hair, eyes slowly narrowing. He’d been grouchier than usual lately. He’d sniffed once or twice, and it hadn’t even been a disdainful sniff. So…
“You’re ill,” you said, mostly thinking aloud.
“And yet, even with my brain functioning at a significantly slower rate than usual, I still marvel at the utter stupidity of others’ cognitive powers.”
“Don’t be mean,” you said automatically, passing over the insult. It was a necessary feat, if one were to live with Sherlock Holmes. Which you had been, ever since his ‘resurrection’. You’d been living in 221b before he returned, installed there by Mycroft Holmes (you had done him several favours, and somehow become a friend of his). Now you shared the flat with Sherlock, who hadn’t kicked you out yet - mainly, you suspected, because he’d be too lonely without John.
Speaking of which…
“Why don’t you just ask John for some-”
“I don’t need to ask John for anything. He’s busy being engaged.”
“Being engaged isn’t all that time-consuming.”
“Tell that to John. Or Molly,” Sherlock grumbled, shoving his face deeper against a cushion.
“Sherlock, you’ve got the flu.”
“No, I haven’t. Just…a cold.”
“Hmm.”
“I just need to rest without everyone talking at me with their incessant-”
“Fine,” you said, rolling your eyes. “If you’re so clever, I’ll let you be.”
Sherlock harrumphed. You eyed up your phone, lying on the coffee table. You moved slowly, making sure not to even rustle your clothes, and then carefully picked it up. You made sure to turn off the typing sound before you sent a text to John.
Sherlock has the flu and is still being Sherlock.
The reply was heartfelt.
Oh shit.
*
Over the next two days, Sherlock became more and more…irascible. At some point he couldn’t pretend any more, and started blowing his nose. The sneezing continued. Mrs Hudson tried to cajole him into taking a ginger tea - “It’s good for the sinuses, Sherlock!” - but he point-blank refused. He couldn’t go out - he didn’t even get dressed - but he still took cases online, and acted like a brat to everyone around him.
Unfortunately.
You didn’t know why he couldn’t just admit defeat and devote himself to getting better. After all, the more he pushed himself, the longer his recovery would take. A genius like Sherlock should’ve been able to work that one out. But maybe it was right up there, along with the Solar System, in a list of things he’d deleted. Anyway.
It was late-November, and London was decked with Christmas cheer. Everywhere, that is, apart from 221b Baker Street. Once Sherlock got better, you’d probably string up some glittery baubles. At the moment, you didn’t like to imagine what Sherlock would do to the poor decorations if they passed under his bleary-eyed glare.
On the second day, John turned up to say bye before he went on a week’s holiday with Mary. You were just getting ready to go out - shopping, for food, like a normal adult. Sherlock was on the sofa, frantically texting, a small mountain of used tissues heaping up beside him.
“Want anything, Sherlock?” you asked, like you usually did, zipping up your coat. Everything you got was shared, anyway. He’d shove money at you at random intervals, offering it as “housekeeping funds” or some equally foreign word. It probably never occurred to him to be a bit more methodical with all of it. You didn’t really mind. You both liked gingernuts, which was handy.
“No,” he grumbled. “Stop looking at me, John, ‘s annoying.”
“Sherlock, you’re ill.”
“You’ve put on a pound since last week.”
“I’m a trained doctor, and I can tell when someone has the flu.”
“Oh, well done. The height of doctorly powers.” Sherlock threw up his hands maniacally. “Being able to tell when someone is ill! How wonderful! What a fantastic skill you doctors possess, that not one of us lowly non-doctor mortals could ever possibly - ACH-CHOOOOOOOO!”
You resisted the urge to grab onto the doorframe for support. You could’ve sworn some dust fluttered down from the ceiling.
“Yeah,” John said dryly, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Let me tell you something else, Sherlock. You have something worse even than man-flu. You have Sherlock-flu.”
You managed not to snicker to yourself till you were halfway down the stairs.
*
It was drizzling. You lugged a full carrier-bag up to 221, blinking moisture off your eyelashes. The shop had been busy, stuffed with people who also needed cosy supplies during this miserable weather. Somehow you’d ended up with a chocolate advent calendar. You weren’t sure how it had happened.
The door to 221 swung open before you could reach for your keys. John stood there, arms crossed, jaw tight.
“What happened?” you asked immediately.
“He’s gone,” John bit out.
“...Gone?”
“Off. To a case. Sneaked out.” John took a deep breath, a vein throbbing in his forehead. “He sent me down to Mrs H’s, to get some medicine he said would be beneficial…and then when I went back up he was just…gone.”
“So he waited until I’d gone out.” You sighed glumly, stepping into the hall and taking off your wet coat. “The idiot.”
John checked his watch. “I can’t even go after him. I need to get home and pack, or we’ll be late for the plane. I’m not missing my holiday to the Bahamas for Sherlock bloody Holmes.”
“I wouldn’t either.” You smiled at him. “It’s alright. Go. I’ll see what I can do.” Your plan was to do precisely nothing; John wouldn’t have rested until he’d tracked Sherlock down, tried to make him return, got nowhere with that, and probably punched Sherlock in the face. Your plan was to break into that advent calendar and go hunting for the most interesting flavours. Maybe you’d even light a Yankee candle while Sherlock was out.
“Are you sure?” John asked. “It doesn’t seem fair to leave you to deal with him…”
You snorted. “It’s fine. I’ve handled worse than Sherlock Holmes.” You had, too. You’d handled a teething baby, and a grouchy tom cat that had kept trying to pull its stitches out, once, together. That had been a very, very long night.
“You’re a life saver,” John sighed with relief. “Mrs Hudson has actually got some good medicine, so if you can get that into Sherlock…Right, I need to dash. Good luck.”
“Have a nice time!” you called after him. When the door had shut, you picked up your shopping bag and went upstairs, humming a Christmas carol.
*
One hour was all it took. One hour and three interesting little chocolates later, Lestrade texted you.
Got something of yours down at a crime scene.
Whereabouts?
He sent you an address. You don’t need to come, but if you don’t, I might be forced to arrest him.
You laughed as you reached for a different, more waterproof coat. Sherlock Holmes, arrested. You’d actually like to see that.
You got a cab to the crime scene. It was nearly dark, and the rain had gone from drizzle to downpour, lashing fiercely against the windscreen, almost too violently for the windscreen wipers to combat it.
“Can’t turn right, I’m afraid, there’s still police tape and a few bobbies,” said the cabbie. “There was a murder down there earlier.”
“That’s alright, I’m here.” You reached for your money. “Can I pay you a bit extra to wait a few minutes? I’m retrieving someone.”
“Not the poor sinner who was murdered, I hope.”
“He won’t be a poor murdered sinner if he just listens to me,” you muttered back, handing over another tenner. You pulled your hood up and jumped out, running over the wet street to the police tape. They’d obviously been told to expect you, because one of the police officers pulled the tape up a bit. You ducked under, throwing him a grateful smile. You didn’t want to go anywhere near the crime scene itself, but…
Amidst the glare of flashing blue lights and bright torch-beams and reflective jackets, it was hard to see. Then you saw him: Sherlock, gesticulating wildly to no one in particular. You set off down the pavement towards him. His coat was soaked, just like the rest of him, clinging to his body. His curls were plastered to his head. You grabbed his arm, wincing as you accidentally wringed water out of his sleeve.
He whirled to you. “Lestrade, I said - oh. Y/N.”
Water ran down his face. For all intents and purposes he just looked like he’d leapt in the Thames or something. The blue and red ambulance lights caught in his eyes, and it wasn’t just a coincidence that that made him seem feverish. Even in the dusk, you could see that his cheeks were stained with an unusual flush.
“Come on,” you said, suddenly a lot more gentle than you had been a minute ago. “Come back to Baker Street.”
Sherlock opened his mouth, then shut it. You both splashed your way back to the tape. This time Sherlock held it up for you. The cabbie, bless his heart, was still waiting; he gave Sherlock a dubious look when he slid in, probably wondering if he’d ruin the upholstery, but didn’t say anything.
“Back to Baker Street, please,” you said, rubbing your face clean of excess water.
Neither of you spoke. You stared out your window, every bright light getting distorted and fractured by the water droplets on the glass. After a while you glanced back at Sherlock. He was staring out his own window, deep in thought, still soaked to the bone.
You sometimes despised yourself for how easily you gave in to Sherlock; Sherlock and his puppy-dog eyes. But, for all his cleverness, he didn’t seem to realise that you were susceptible to that look, the endearingly ‘artless, misunderstood Sherlock’ look. This time, however, you weren’t going to be too hard on yourself. Sherlock was ill. He didn’t need you yelling at him.
Still. It needed to be said.
“You’re an idiot,” you mumbled, just loud enough to be heard. “I hope you know that.”
He didn’t reply. Well, he did. But it was only a sniff.
*
The next day was so, so much worse. Sherlock was a shivery disaster, dressing gown pulled tight around him, still sitting resolutely in his armchair, still solving cases via his phone, still being an absolute stubborn arsehole.
“Sherlock…” You took a deep breath, plopping down in the opposite chair. “I think you should seriously take some medicine. Or eat something. Or even drink something.”
“Working,” he reminded you curtly.
You studied his face. His cheeks were flushed even brighter. The tip of his nose was red and sore. He looked like he could have an eye-cold in his left eye. And he was shivering incessantly. Obviously standing around in the pouring rain, in the winter, hadn’t done him any favours.
“Sherlock,” you said again, frustrated. “Look at me.”
“Hmm…busy.” His eyes glanced briefly up at you, then back down to his phone.
“Do you know your temperature?”
“Whatever is usual for a person suffering from a flu, I assume,” he said impatiently. “Do stop being tedious, won’t you? It’s not a good idea to force medicine onto a former drug addict, or didn’t you realise that?”
You took a slow, deep breath, ignoring the real stab of hurt his jibe had caused. “I’ll phone Mycroft,” you threatened.
“No, you won’t, and even if you did, what would he do? No one can make me do anything.” Sherlock finally put his phone away and looked at you, interlinking his fingers on his knee. “No one could ever make me do anything, and you, Y/N Y/L/N, not even you, with your fine personality, will not be the first.”
“I wouldn’t be the first.”
Sherlock arched his eyebrow.
“Jim Moriarty was.” You barrelled on. “Jim Moriarty made you do something, didn’t he? He made you fall. He made you do whatever he wanted.”
Sherlock’s expression was darkening like a thunder-cloud. You didn’t care. You were sick and tired of worrying about him, of watching him be such a complete and utter idiot.
“If Moriarty was alive, if he wanted you to take medicine, it probably would’ve taken him less than a minute to make you. Unfortunately, I’m not Moriarty; I don’t possess that agile brainpower, so I guess you’re just gonna shiver to death and hack up your lungs and die of influenza and you know what? It’s your own damn fault,” you finished melodramatically.
Sherlock was staring at you. You pressed your lips together, determined not to back down in any way. Though, weaponising a dead man’s name, a dead man who had been more monster than human, just to convince your ill flatmate to take some cough sweets, did seem a bit drastic.
“You have an interesting relationship with influenza, don’t you?” Sherlock said, steepling his hands under his chin, gaze locked unflinchingly on you. “Or, should I say, pneumonia.”
Your blood ran cold. How does he know?
“Very close to your grandfather. Unnaturally so, considering his past history. Surprising that your parents let you be so familiar with an ex-drugs kingpin. But then, they didn’t especially care themselves, did they? So your reformed grandfather was your favourite person in the world, back when you were a child.”
“...Sherlock, don’t.”
“Until the day he got ill. Refused to take medicines, became weak, feeble, lost most of his physical and mental prowess. You didn’t recognise him as the man you had known, did you? Your relationship with him became taut. Difficult. Every time you tried to help him, he pushed you away. Then - just like everyone does - he died.” Sherlock sniffed loudly. “Leaving you with a mess of emotions so complex that almost two decades later, you’re still desperately trying to fix the situation, albeit with a completely different man who utterly despises and loathes the idea of being saved in lieu of, or a stand-in for, a self-absorbed person’s grandparent.”
You sucked in a slow breath. Could someone stab you remotely, without having a physical weapon, without puncturing your skin or bringing beads of blood to the surface? Because it felt like it. Oh, it did. Right there, near your heart, it felt like you were bleeding internally.
Sherlock watched you, a look of satisfaction on his face.
“I don’t think I deserved that,” you said quietly. “You’re not a stand-in for my grandad. You’re you, and I’m trying to help.”
“I don’t need help. Never have, never will. I don’t need people. Or friends. Especially not those brimming, practically overflowing, with messy little emotions.”
You took another deep breath. Exhale. Sherlock sniffed again. He needed to blow his nose, but he probably felt that doing so would be defeat of some sort. His cheeks were still flushed. Eyes too bright. Body shivering. But your sympathy had gone.
You nodded once, to yourself, then stood up and went over to where your coat lay, on the back of a kitchen chair.
“Where-” Sherlock broke off, coughing violently. “-Are you going?”
“Well, you don’t need me, do you?” you said simply, without any heat. Then you left the flat.
*
You went out for a long while. You walked around some of the museums - it’d been a while since you had visited the Natural History of Museum. You walked around various shops selling Christmas decorations. You treated yourself to a lunch in a Pret, and then went for a bit more of a walk, this time in Hyde Park. By the time it started to get dark, you could no longer pretend that you wanted to be out. You were just avoiding the flat. With, to be honest, good reason.
Oh well. Best foot forward. You made your way back, ignoring all the Christmas cheer. There was a light on upstairs. You weren’t hungry, so you’d just slip up to your room. If Sherlock had died of hypothermia or something, that was his own problem at this point.
You climbed the stairs as silently as you could - which wasn’t very. They were creaky. The door to 221b was fully open, light spilling down the second half of the stairwell, and you hesitated, before turning the corner and climbing swiftly up, your head down.
“Y/N.”
You flicked your eyes up briefly. Wrapped from head to toe in his duvet, Sherlock sat on the sofa, head turned to the doorway, back perfectly straight. How it was even possible, swaddled in that duvet-burrito like he was, you had no idea.
“I am aware that I was…out of order, earlier. I extend apologies,” he said stiffly. And nasally. His nose sounded even more blocked than earlier, which was an incredible feat.
You crossed your arms. “Extend apologies? Well, I’ll let you know when I see them extended.”
Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “I’m - cough - sorry.”
“Okay.” You nodded. “I suppose I’m sorry about my Moriarty comment.”
“Pax?”
You sighed. Rolled your eyes. Tried not to smile. “Pax. I suppose.” Then, softer, “I wish you could stop being hurtful.”
Sherlock scowled. “Being hurtful is simply who I am. The few people who still associate with me have come to accept that. You may have only known me for eight months, three weeks and four days, but it is time you understood that.”
“Eight months…three weeks…and four days?” you repeated numbly. “You keeping count or something?”
“I keep a count of most things. Running data. It can get tiresome,” Sherlock said dismissively. “Anyway. Your…absence from the flat today has led me to a few conclusions.” He coughed again, swallowed, then winced, rubbing at his throat. “You are right.”
“Oh, wait. I need to savour that.” You grinned, leaning against the doorframe. “Sacred words.”
His lips twisted upwards briefly. “I am ill. Horrifically, tediously ill. It isn’t life-threatening, but-”
“It sucks?”
“Yes.”
“Well, being ill does. You haven’t made a groundshaking discovery there, Sherlock. Anyway, going out in the rain yesterday was a dumb-arsed decision.”
“Hmm.”
“It was.”
“Anyway,” he said impatiently. “I have reviewed the facts, and eliminated the impossible, and the improbable outcome is that I think it would be in everyone’s best interests if I allowed you to take care of me.”
You chewed on that for a bit. Sherlock watched you. His laser-sharp blue gaze wasn’t so intimidating when one of his eyes was puffy and pink and sore.
“Are you basically saying that me looking after you is you doing me a favour?”
“Terribly untidy way of phrasing it, but yes.”
You looked at him. Looked at him a bit more. Then burst out laughing.
Sherlock scowled, tugging the duvet burrito higher up to his chin. “Your bedside manner is-” He sneezed. “-appalling.”
“You’re so bad at this whole being-human-and-normal business,” you laughed. You wiped your eyes. “Oh, God. Right. First things first. I’m going straight down to Mrs Hudson’s for her medicine.” Sherlock winced, and you pointed your finger at him. “Do. Not. Move.”
*
Well, in fairness to him, once Sherlock conceded the fight, he was obedient. You wondered just how far you could take it. If you ordered him to wear a flamingo pink dressing gown and filled his bed with soft toys, citing it would help his sore throat, would he do it? You knew several people - John, Greg, Mycroft - who would do a lot to have their hands on a picture of that.
That first day, you made him eat soup and bread and water and medicine. The next day, you told him to stop solving his cases.
“But I’ll be bored then.”
“No, you won’t. You’re going to have a nice relaxing bath.” You glanced out the window. It was raining heavily again - rain mixed with a bit of sleet. They were saying it might snow later. You envied John and Mary quite a lot right now.
“A bath.” Sherlock raised an impressive eyebrow at you. “What next? Bath salts? Perhaps a face mask?”
“Just a nice, steaming hot bath.” You crunched on a bit of bacon, balancing your plate on your knees. Sherlock had had a cup of tea and several gingernuts. The ginger was probably good for him, so you hadn’t argued. “You can put bubblebath in if you like.”
Sherlock groaned. “A bath won’t make me feel better.”
“But saying ‘I told you so’ to me afterwards will, even if the bath doesn’t,” you said sweetly. “So it’s a win-win either way.”
*
He had been in the bath for three hours. You were starting to get worried.
One hour; well, maybe he was enjoying it. You would have checked on him after ninety minutes, except you’d heard the pipes bubbling and creaking, so you knew he was still alive. But ninety minutes became two hours, and that became three.
You stood at the end of the hallway, chewing your thumbnail. You knew the window was too tiny for Sherlock to get out of. You knew he hadn’t left the flat. You knew he hadn’t had a dramatic crash-landing accident, because you would have heard it. So what the fuck was going on?
You padded down to the bathroom door, rubbing your socked toe in uneven circles. “Sherlock?” you called, your voice small.
No response.
Your heart started to pick up. “Sherlock?” you said again, louder. You knocked, this time.
Nothing.
Ohmygod, he had died. He had literally died, in the bath, on your watch.
Shit shit shit. You would get murdered for this. Mycroft, John, all of them would be so mad. And that was leaving out your own damn feelings. You had just killed the man you-
Ahem. Your flatmate. Yeah. You had just killed the man you shared a residence with.
“Sherlock, this isn’t funny, answer me, please.” If he was playing a trick, it was such a cruel one. He knew about your grandfather; he knew.
You took a deep breath. Mrs Hudson was downstairs, but what could she do? Your hand travelled down the door to the cold metal of the handle.
“Sherlock, answer me or I’m coming in.” Your heart was thumping even louder as you pressed your forehead against the door.
Nothing.
You twisted the handle. There was a heady rush of bubble-bath-scented steam. You poked your head in gingerly, and nearly collapsed. Sherlock was in the bath, head tilted to the side, hands folded neatly on his chest, eyes shut, mouth slightly open, unmoving. Unresponsive.
“Damn it!” You crossed the room in a single stride, kneeling by him. “Shit, Sherlock-” His shoulder was warm under your palm as you shook him. “Sherlock-” What had happened? He wasn’t just asleep. Had he passed out? Could he have overdosed, somehow? You needed to call an ambulance-
Then his shoulder twitched. You blinked. A moment later his blue eyes flickered open, and he was laughing at you, real, deep, bellyaching laughter.
You sat back on your heels and stared at him dumbly. He laughed, and laughed, punctuated by coughs and sniffs. Eventually it died down to baritone giggles. Every now and again he’d meet your eyes again and just laugh even harder.
You pressed your palms to your face, suddenly sagging with exhaustion. “Ohmygod, Sherlock. I thought you were…I thought something was seriously wrong!”
He arched an eyebrow. “I could tell. Your face.”
“Stop laughing.” You took a deep breath, suddenly realising that, well, Sherlock was naked, right next to you, separated by water and a wall of ceramic. You hadn’t noticed until just now, but the entire surface of the bath was covered in foamy bubbles. You couldn’t see any more of Sherlock than his collarbone, for which you were immensely thankful and…vaguely disappointed about?
“You were right. This bath has been incredibly beneficial to me. Especially as of right now.”
“You’ve taken five years off my lifespan.” You sighed, and started to stand up.
A foamy hand shot out and grabbed your wrist. “Don’t go.”
“I…” You cleared your throat. “What on earth do you want me in here for?”
There was a cheeky glint in Sherlock’s eyes. Or were you imagining it? Either way, he brought your arm up to gesture at his head. “You could help me wash my hair.”
You cleared your throat again. “You’ve been in here for three hours.”
“High time my hair got washed, then.”
You pulled your wrist away and peered at his fingertips. “You’re pruned.”
“The sooner you wash my hair, the sooner I’ll get out.” Sherlock lowered his voice slightly. “You know you want to, Y/N.”
For a moment, you were horribly caught in the way he looked at you, the way he smirked, and the feeling wasn’t as good as it should have been. You knew that Sherlock was not the sort of person to be gentle or understanding about another person having a crush. And for that reason alone, you made up your mind to stand and walk away.
But then you saw the way Sherlock’s expression changed slightly. How he realised you were going to leave, and how he looked defeated, and vulnerable; glass walls shattering in those glacial eyes, just for a heartbeat.
You groaned. “Fine. Pass me a cloth. I’m not sticking my hand in that much bubblebath. For all I know, you’ve pissed in it.”
Sherlock’s eyes widened with genuine outrage, then he let out a chuckle. He passed you a cloth and sat up gingerly, leaning slightly forward. There were red lines on his back from the imprint of the bath’s slope. You tried not to think inappropriate, mushy thoughts, picking up a small beaker that was probably older than you were.
“Shut your eyes.” You poured water onto his hair.
“It doesn’t need shampoo,” Sherlock said to his knees.
“I don’t get why I’m even in here,” you grumbled to yourself.
“You said you would take care of me in my invalided state. You never mentioned what exactly that entailed.”
“Mr Lawyer Holmes.” You tentatively ran your hand through his wet hair. “It seems completely clean.”
“It is.”
“Happy, then?”
“Yep,” Sherlock said, and started to drain the bath.
You got up and turned, planning on hightailing it out of there.
“Towel?”
You stopped in your tracks. Sherlock, are you trying to kill me?
You grabbed the fluffy white towel that lay on the toilet and held it out behind you without looking back. You could hear Sherlock standing. Wet fingers brushed yours as he took the towel with a murmured “Thanks”.
You took a step toward the door.
“Y/N-”
Your heart was racing so loudly he could probably hear it. Luckily, he began to cough, horrible hacking coughs.
“I’ll put the kettle on,” you said, and escaped.
*
You couldn’t explain how you knew. You just…knew. You woke up, groggy and twisted in bedsheets and listening to the sound of rain against your window, and you knew Sherlock was awake downstairs and needed you.
You rolled over, rubbing at your eyes. You reached for your phone, wincing as it lit up the room. 1.58am. God, that was even earlier than you’d thought.
Using the phone to light your way, you swung your feet out of bed and walked over to the door, snagging your dressing-gown from the bedpost. You’d lived here long enough to know how to move silently; avoiding all the creaky spots and even lowering yourself gingerly over a particularly squeaky step.
The lounge light was on. Sherlock was sitting in his armchair, curly head buried in his hands.
“Hey,” you said softly, padding over.
He just shook his head and made a miserable sort of noise.
Your heart twisted a bit. Sherlock suffering from the flu was unlike any other flu-victim you’d met, including yourself. He didn’t make much of a fuss, and somehow, even when he was coughing or sneezing or blowing his nose, it didn’t make him seem ill so much as it was just another thing he was doing. Like an experiment or something. But this, this was something you recognised from having the flu. Being a pathetic, unhappy version of yourself.
Your hand was on his shoulder. You rubbed your palm in a light circle against the worn blue fabric of his dressing-gown. “I’ll make some tea.”
There was no way you were giving him caffeine. Lemon and ginger tea it was. You tried to be quiet, not clinking mugs or turning the tap on. The world outside felt far more quiet than you were used to - you were used to the hustle-bustle of crowds and urbanity. Not the sound of falling rain and a steaming kettle. It felt practically rural.
You stirred hot chocolate into your cup and added a generous handful of marshmallows, then slid your hands around each mug and brought them back over. Sherlock was just staring dully into space now. You offered him the drink, and he took it slowly. His left eye was still puffy and sore.
“Lemon.” He wrinkled his nose.
“And ginger. It’s not too hot, so you can drink it right now.” You took a sip to prove your point.
Sherlock mirrored you, cradling the cup between both hands. You sat down, curling your knees up under you.
“Couldn’t sleep?”
“No,” he grumbled. “Hate being ill. Hate it. It’s the worst. I need to be solving crimes.” He glared at you pointedly. “Not…not…drinking lemon tea.”
“Lemon and ginger tea. And the more you rest, the quicker you’ll-”
Sherlock hastily put his cup down and turned his head away to sneeze.
“...Get better,” you finished lamely. “Yeah. I know it feels like a long and arduous journey right now, but you will get better.”
“Hmph.” Sherlock sighed. “John has only messaged me once.”
“That’s because I’m giving him tri-daily updates.”
“Hmph.”
“Also, it’s sunny where he is. Why would he even want to think about gloomy ol’ London and the people he knows there?”
“Hmmmmph.” He sipped more of his drink. You sat there in silence, slurping from your mugs, Sherlock occasionally coughing or groaning. Sometimes after a particularly bad set of coughing, he’d rub his back. You winced sympathetically. You hated it when all your muscles were sore after straining from coughing so much.
“Two AM,” you said, thinking aloud. “No one sane is up at this hour.”
Sherlock arched a brow. “Except us. What conclusion would that bring us to?”
“That you’re not sane, and you’re slowly but surely dragging me over the brink.” You offered a wry smile that he returned.
“You’re coming with me willingly, it seems.”
“Yeah, it looks like I am.” You put your empty cup down. “I thought you’d hate me, you know. And want me gone.”
“You are…useful. And occasionally funny. And sometimes endearing.” Sherlock grinned. “But only rarely.”
“I’d poke you if you weren’t ill.”
“Ah, so there are some benefits.” Sherlock put his cup on the table. It clinked lightly against yours. “I’m…I’m sleepy. Did you put something in that?”
“No. Just pure lemon-gingery-goodness.” You stood. “Come on, back to bed with you.”
Sherlock scowled but stood. You made your way together to the doorway. You were going upstairs, obviously, and he’d go along the hallway.
“I’m cold,” he said, stopping.
“Do you want an electric blanket? I’ve got one upstairs. I never use it.”
Sherlock gave you a mortally offended look. “An. Electric. Blanket.”
“Yeah.”
“No.” Sherlock suddenly interlinked his arm with yours. “I need a human blanket. Come on.”
You froze in place. He tried to take a step, and you nearly toppled against him. “What?” you said weakly. “Me? No. I’m…I’m…I’m an artisan blanket.”
Why. The. Hell. Did you just say that.
Sherlock’s mouth quirked. “Perfect. Come on.”
“I don’t understand.”
He looked at you for a moment, very seriously. “I’m cold, and bloody ill, and incapable of warming myself up. Thus, I require external forces to help with that problem. You are supposed to be taking care of me. I require this. You should trust me more than you do, you know. I don’t always have a grand manipulative masterplan. Very rarely, in fact. Except where John’s moustache was involved, and that was more spontaneous than anything else.”
You glanced down guiltily. “I’m just…It’s kind of…”
“Oh, for God’s sake, I’ll spell it out,” Sherlock said impatiently. You wondered if the impatience was a facade for nervousness. “I want a cuddle.”
You nearly burst out laughing at the sheer ridiculousness of this whole situation. 2am madness indeed. Sherlock barrelled on.
“Location: my bed. Reasons: ill. Objections from you? None? Good.”
“Alright,” you said at last. “Alright, alright. Fine. You needy grumpy cat-man.”
He shot you an incredulous look and then towed you down the hallway.
*
“It’s a bed. You lie on it. Surely you’ve done this before,” Sherlock said dryly, pulling away from you and rounding the corner.
You glanced up at him, full of trepidation. “Only once or twice.”
His lips twitched. “I meant sleeping.”
“So did I, I was being sarcas - oh.” Your cheeks burned as you realised what you could have just implied. You huffed and threw back the duvet, climbing viciously into the bed. It was nice. The mattress had a weirdly new feeling, like it had never really been used. Which, considering Sherlock’s sleeping habits, wasn’t all that surprising.
Sherlock slid in beside you. You pulled the duvet right up to your chin, lying on your back, studying the ceiling. There was a respectable distance between the two of you.
“Y/N.” You heard a rustle, and then two fingers closed around your wrist. Turning your head, you saw Sherlock studying you. “I’m still cold.” There was a query in his eyes.
“Okay,” you said quietly. With your confirmation, Sherlock moved, tugging you closer to the centre of the bed. He slid one arm over your waist, bringing his knees up to press against yours. It was basically a horizontal hug.
“Warmer?”
“Yes.”
You extricated your arm and tentatively wrapped it around him. Your faces were very close. When you dared to glance up, you saw that Sherlock was still watching you.
“Your company is good for me, you know.” His voice was a low rasp, quivering slightly with the force of holding back his coughing. “That’s why Mycroft chose to install you here.”
“He was only doing me a favour.”
“One aspect of it, undoubtedly, but Mycroft never only does people a favour. He thought you would be a good flatmate for me, in lieu of John. And…” Sherlock hesitated. “You are. I…appreciate having you as a flatmate.”
“Good,” you said, trying to play it cool. “I was worried for a moment there, that you couldn’t stand me. After all, it’s not like me being a human radiator suggests you actually find my presence bearable, or anything.”
“Artisan blanket,” he corrected, amused.
“Human hot-water-bottle wrapped in an artisan fluffy casing.”
“And you have other uses apart from that. Helping with my cases, for example.”
“Somehow, despite my protests, you’ve dragged me to eight crime-scenes, to see eight gory human corpses.”
“Only seven.”
“Really? I’m sure it was eight.”
“Seven.”
“Well, hey, you’re the one counting out how long we’ve known each other, right down to the very day,” you said, with a slightly mischievous smile. “So you must be right.”
There was a moment, where the two of you stared at each other, only inches apart. You looked away, studying a wayward curl by his ear. Sherlock’s arm tightened around you.
“I always am. Well, sometimes. Occasionally I’m wrong. I concede to being wrong about this. Probably should have just let you take care of me from the start.”
You glanced back, then, and saw the way he was looking at you. Your heart started to race.
Voice gravelly, eyes narrowed, Sherlock spoke. “This would, typically, be the moment where I kiss you. But increasing the risk of passing this abominable disease to you seems unfair.”
You exhaled very slowly. “Maybe when you’re better,” you whispered.
Sherlock’s lips quirked up at the corner. “Is that a date?”
“Yeah. It is.” You couldn’t stay like that, face-to-face, after that, without desperately fighting the urge to just tip your head forward and kiss him, or scream hysterically or something, so you wriggled away slightly and turned over. Sherlock waited until you’d settled into a comfortable position, then scooted nearer, wrapping his arm around you again. His other hand came up, toying with the neckline of your pyjama shirt. Eyes wide, you stared into the dimly-lit room, trying to suppress a shiver as he brushed his thumb along the base of your neck.
A moment later, his hair brushed against your ear. He kissed the back of your shoulder, tucking his face in comfortably. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight,” you whispered, and brought up your hand to cover his.
*
Just before you fell asleep, you thought you heard - or maybe you dream it - Sherlock muttering something about feeling better now.
*
You woke up first, the next morning. Grey daylight streamed through the thin curtains. It was quiet, a very peculiar, specific kind of quiet, that you recognised.
Snow. It must have snowed overnight, like the forecast had predicted.
You wanted to get up and have a look out, but there’s a consulting detective teddy bear, lying half on you, pinning you down. He was fast asleep, head on your chest, half-smothered by the duvet. You carefully edged the duvet away from his face, letting him have room to breathe. He mumbled something, and shifted closer.
You smiled up at the ceiling and closed your eyes again. The snow wouldn’t be going anywhere, and you, evidently, weren’t allowed to go anywhere right this moment. Now, you weren’t so much of a blanket, or radiator, or hot-water-bottle, as you were simply, a pillow. A much-appreciated pillow. A sentient pillow that was very much looking forward to when Sherlock got better, and followed through on his promise to kiss you.
*
You had to get up eventually, though, when your stomach rumbled and you needed the bathroom. Sherlock grumbled sleepily but didn’t try to stop you as you laboriously inched all your limbs free. You ate breakfast, a warm toastie, while standing at the front window, looking down at all the beautiful snow. Each scarce footprint on the pavement was clear-cut, crisp. The skies were grey and heavy with more snow, but none was falling, presently.
You curled up on the sofa with a book, fighting the urge to just…luxuriate with joy. Snow, cosiness, Sherlock apparently deciding he liked you enough to kiss you (and presumably, try dating you or something - well, you weren’t sure of all the specifics, but you were hoping), the happy knowledge that the fridge was packed with good food, for once, and not human limbs or eyeballs…
After an hour or so, you heard Sherlock get up and go to the bathroom. Then he stumbled down the hallway, hair ferociously fluffy, his eye slightly less pink than yesterday, arms crossed.
“Want a drink?” you asked cheerfully, reaching for your bookmark.
He shook his head and then knelt on the sofa, approaching you from the side. He wrapped both arms around you and buried his head against your shoulder, somehow reminding you of a little child.
Apparently, now he thought that personal space was no longer an issue, he was giving into his clingy-koala urges.
“You okay?” you asked hesitantly, patting the back of his head.
“No,” he mumbled. “Throat sore. Hurts.”
“Oh.” You winced sympathetically. Sore throats were the absolute worst, and for Sherlock, not being able to speak must have been hell. He nuzzled closer, making an unhappy little noise.
“Ice cream might help,” you offered. “We’ve got some in the freezer. Chocolate chip.”
“Hmmph,” was his reply. The more weight he leaned on you, the more you were slowly tilting back. If he carried on, you were going to fall over the edge of the sofa.
You put both hands on his shoulders, pushing him back slightly. He gave you an injured look. You twisted, your book sliding to the floor, and then extended your legs down the sofa, which was difficult, considering Sherlock was still kneeling there. You snatched up a cushion and shoved it behind your back, and then leant back again. The moment you removed your hand from Sherlock’s shoulder, he slumped back into you, extending his own legs and pressing his face against your collarbone.
“Don’t want to be ill anymore,” he mumbled, breath hot through your shirt.
You stroked his hair. “You must’ve had colds and the flu and stuff before. Actually, it’s alright, don’t answer that, don’t speak if it hurts.”
“...feels nice.”
“What, this?” You tapped your fingernails against his scalp.
“Mm.”
“Okay.” You swapped hands, and reached your other arm down for your book. “I’ll carry on.”
You read for a bit, while Sherlock lay, face-planted against you, occasionally tensing when a swallow was particularly painful. You played with his hair, occasionally testing how durable the curls were. They always sprang back to their original, unruly position, no matter how you twisted or straightened them. Much like Sherlock himself.
“...like you.”
You paused, your thumb pressed between two pages. “Me?”
“Hmm-mm.”
Your heart was racing again. You knew he could feel it. You couldn’t keep the small smile out of your voice either. “That’s the delirium speaking, Sherlock, but thank you anyway. I like you, too.”
“...compatible partners.”
You narrowed your eyes at the back of his head. “Yeah. Maybe. Stop speaking if it hurts, though, and let me read. I’ve just got to the bit where the guy realises he has feelings for his fake boyfriend.”
*
“So you’re better now, mate?”
Sherlock sat at the kitchen table, crunching bacon between his teeth, while John leant in the opposite doorway with crossed arms, a furrowed doctor’s brow, and a suntan.
“Yup,” Sherlock said. “All better.” He glanced over at you, curled up in an armchair with another book and a hot chocolate. You looked up, meeting his glacial, cheeky eyes.
“After all, I had a very good medicine.”