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I placed my hand on Sherlock's forehead to check his temperature. Sherlock's eyes closed at the touch. "A bit warm, but you should be fine after some sleep. I'll check on you in the morning. Good night, Sherlock."
As I lowered my hand and turned to walk away, slender fingers gently circled my wrist. I turned slowly, hoping Sherlock didn't notice my increased pulse. Sherlock brought my hand up to his face and placed my palm against his cheek. I automatically brushed my thumb along his cheekbone, watching Sherlock's lips part slightly at my touch as he leaned into it. I resisted the urge to trace his lips, to feel his breath against my skin as he exhaled. I was glad Sherlock's eyes were still shut. He's not feeling well, I told myself. He doesn't know what he's doing.
"Mmm, John," he breathed. What a gorgeous sound, I thought.
"Yes, Sherlock?" I murmured, not wanting to break the quiet intimacy of this moment.
"Stay." His eyes opened slightly, pleading silently. He pulled my hand away from his face to intertwine our fingers, brushing his thumb over my own.
I hesitated. On one hand, I had wanted this, wanted Sherlock, for much longer than I admitted to myself. On the other, Sherlock was sick, and I felt like I would be taking advantage of that if I agreed.
"You're not feeling well, Sherlock. You won't remember this in the morning." I could hear the sadness in my tone, but I hoped he wouldn't pick up on it.
"Do you want me to?" His eyes focused on me, showing me that he was fully present in this conversation despite my words. I saw him swallow and look away for a brief moment before meeting my eyes again. Oh, I realised. He's giving me an out.
Did I want an out? I knew that Sherlock would pretend this never happened if I simply shook my head. I knew he'd go back to being nothing more than my best friend and flatmate if I asked. I knew he'd do anything for me, even without asking.
I was quiet and still for a moment too long while my brain processed these thoughts. I cleared my throat softly and brought our clasped fingers to his chest, feeling his quickened pulse underneath. "Yes," I said softly.
He brought my fingers to his lips and softly kissed my knuckles. "Then stop having your internal moral dilemma and stay, John." He rolled his eyes when I opened my mouth to protest. "I have a slight fever. I am not medicated, so I am in complete control of my faculties. I am fully aware of what I am saying and I am giving you explicit consent to stay. We can have a long conversation about this change in relationship over toast and tea in the morning while you yell at me about the bag of toes in the freezer, but for now, could you please get in my bed and cuddle me?"
"What do you mean there's toes in the freezer?" I felt my voice increasing in volume with every word.
"Get in here and I'll tell you," he said with a smirk, letting go of my hand to lift the covers.
I sighed. "Sherlock," I said, a warning in my tone.
"For a doctor, you have a rather questionable bedside manner, John," he said, evidently annoyed that I was still resisting.
I sighed again. He was pouting and looked adorable. I was not going to win this argument, but if I was being honest, I didn't want to.
"Stubborn git," I muttered under my breath, trying not to let my excitement and nervousness show. Sherlock pressed his lips together, fighting a smile. He always gets his way when I'm involved. "Budge up."
Sherlock moved ever so slightly, leaving the smallest space possible for me. I rolled my eyes. He's still annoyingly playful even while ill, I thought. I gave in anyway and curled my body around his, pressing my chest against his back and draping an arm around his waist. He held my hand and brought it to his lips for another kiss before holding it to his chest. I kissed the spot where his shoulder met his neck and lingered there for a moment.
This felt easy and natural. Their bodies fit together like they were made for each other. Why hadn't they done this sooner? Why did they fight it for so long?
"Don't worry too much about the lost time, John," Sherlock said sleepily. Jesus Christ, could he read minds now too? "We've got the rest of our lives to make up for it."
I smiled against Sherlock's neck. "Not if you keep putting body parts in our kitchen."
"It's not morning yet, John, and I'm sick. Take care of me now and yell at me later." He snuggled closer to me as I chuckled softly and held him tighter.
"Good night, love," I said.
"Mmm, love, I like that."
"Oh, yeah? What else do you like?" I whispered, placing a kiss behind his ear.
"I'll show you the spreadsheet tomorrow after you yell at me. Good night, John," he yawned.
Tomorrow there would be toast and tea. There would be another conversation about treating their flat like a morgue. There would be many more arguments that Sherlock would win with his stubbornness and wit. But I will wake up with Sherlock in my arms, and I know I'd be able to take on anything the world throws at me after that.