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John was losing his mind.
He was going utterly and absolutly insane, and he wouldn’t even be able to blame it on the PTSD, because the cause of his decline on sanity was six feet tall, clad in a silk dressing gown, and had been pacing up and down the living room while producing atrocious sounds from his violin for the last six hours.
John knew that the prick knew how to play, beautifully so, even if in ungodly hours most of the time. So the high pitch and strenuous noise scaping the instrument had to be solely for the purpose of driving John mad.
Bastard.
Sherlock paused, stood in front of the window for a moment, and John dared to hope that the nonsense had finally, finally came to an end. Then the man swirled around, his dressing gown flapping, and continued his pacing through the living room. John suppressed a groan.
He was going to kill Sherlock Holmes.
He was going to murder him and he was getting away with it because - well - Sherlock Holmes would be dead and who else would be clever enough to solve the case?
Another high pitched sound that made it seem like the violin was screaming, and John’s jaw twitched.
“Will you stop, already?” He snapped. “At this point I’m worried the neighboors will call the police, and I really don’t feel like having to move out.”
The screeching mercifully stopped, though the detective kept on with his pacing.
“It helps me to think, John. Something none of our neighboors appeared capable of doing up to the present day.”
John scoffed.
“Mrs. Hudson seems very capable of handling you even at your most insufferable days.” He pointed.
“Mrs. Hudson is not a neighboor, John.” The man said with so much scorn that, even though he had his back turned, John could picture the offended furrow of his brows. “She is a resident of 221 Baker Street.”
John fought against a smile. For a self proclaimed sociopath, Sherlock had always proved to be awfully protective of their landlady. He huffed instead.
“Fine. Still. It’s friday night, I want to be able to watch trash TV programmes inside my own home, you know, like a normal bloke.”
That, apparently, was offensive enough for Sherlock to lower his violin and finally turn to him.
John took him in. The usually aquamarine eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed, his face even paler than usual, the corners of his nose rubbed raw to try and keep it from running and- oh, right. John had actually forgotten the reason why he had been submitted to misery his whole afternoon.
Sherlock was sick.
And not cute-red-nosed sick, either, but I-am-drowning-in-my-own-phlegm sick.
It had been obvious the moment the prick had come stumbling through the kitchen that morning, bleary eyed and looking utterly miserable.
John had kept it to himself through breakfast, had refrained from saying something when the madman decided to experiment on human spleen, and only frowned when he didn’t accept lunch.
When Sherlock grabbed his coat and headed to the door, though, John thought enough was enough. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ He had asked, and Sherlock had looked at him with his usual ‘Are you stupid?’ face. For where else would Sherlock Holmes go if not in search of a case. ‘You are sick. You need rest.’ And that had turned into a splendid discussion, which in turn led to six hours of childish tantrum and psychological torture.
Sherlock had stayed inside, though, so John counted it as his win. Somehow.
“Boring!” Sherlock’s shout took him out of his reverie. “Your TV shows are boring, John. An ape could have done better in cinematography given the chance.”
The detective turned back around and raised his violin again.
John sighed.
“Sherlock.” He said in a slightly warning tone.
The violin lowered.
“Fine.” The man snarled and, with a huff, threw himself on the sofa.
John tried not to feel too smug.
He snatched the remote control from between the cushions, before it got lost forever, and turned the TV on.
There was some thuth to Sherlock’s protests: the kind of thing John used to watch on his free time was… of dubious quality, to say the list. But so what? He was a free man, and worked doble time between the hospital and cases with Sherlock. He deserved some mind-numbing entertainment.
He turned on some random channel, and let the sound of the movie - an action based one, going by the ammount of weapons the characters had on themselves - sooth his stressed brain.
He went as far as closing his eyes before the first complain started.
“It’s impossible for a weapon like that to have so many bullets! Ridiculous, John! How can you believe something like that?” The man scoffed.
John rolled his eyes.
“I don’t believe it, Sherlock. It’s fiction, you’re supposed to enjoy it, not believe it.”
That, too, was soothing. Despite the potencial for annoyance, the banter was familiar. And he had always found kind of amusing to watch Sherlock getting progressively more offended as the movies went on.
And on it went. As always, the moment became more about discussing every scene than actually watching it, but he didn’t really mind. Somewhere towards the middle of the movie, the complains turned into snarls, then into grunts.
When five minutes passed without any comment from the genius by his side, John frowned. He glanced over at him, only to find that Sherlock, at some point, had tipped sideways, and was sprawled over the cushions, snoring softly.
John chuckled.
Fucking finally.
It seemed that even if the detective chose to neglect his health, his body would take over for him.
He finished the movie by himself, and pretended it was half as fun without the stream of commentary.
He managed to watch half of another one - also action, he supposed he did have a preference- before giving up and heading to the kitchen in search of tea. He made one for himself and had to stop mid-motion of making one for Sherlock as well. He contemplated making it even though the man was asleep - tea would help with the cold, and Sherlock never slept for too long, anyways - but concluded that it would be better getting up again when the detective woke up than letting a perfectly good cup of tea go to waste.
He sat on his chair to drink it. Sherlock had stopped snoring, at least, though his mop of a hair fell all over his face now. He was almost curled on himself, which was the only way he could fit on the sofa, with those long limbs of his.
The hour passed and John got hungry.
Their kitchen was the nightmare of any housewife, the table was cluttered with experiments - hopefully not radioactive, this time - the sink full with dishes, the cupboard empty of any food. He sighed, making a mental note to fill their stocks again, maybe yell at Sherlock a little about the mess on the table, and resigned himself to getting takeaway.
He went out. Came back. Managed to close the door with a handful of bags. Chinese from their favorite restaurant. And paused on his way to the kitchen.
…How long had it been since Sherlock fell asleep?
Couple of hours? Maybe more?
He backtracked a few steps, bags still in hand, and looked over at the curled figure of his friend. Out cold. Lips slightly parted in sleep, dark fringe covering his face from view.
It didn’t look like he had moved at all since John had last laid his eyes on him.
Which was fine, of course. People don’t necessarily move while sleeping, it was normal.
But Sherlock did. Sherlock was always moving. Awake, asleep, in a good or in a bad mood, even when John had to suture a slash on his arm, once. Many factors could explain the change in behaviour, John knew, exhaustion was probably a good exemple.
Still, there was a sense of wrongness crawling its was to John.
He put their dinner on a free spot on the table, and calmly approached the man on the sofa.
Hesitating for just a moment, he cleared his throat.
“Sherlock? I brought food, come on, wakey wakey, you have to eat something.”
A beat passed, and his cheery call was met with silence.
John frowned.
“Sherlock?” He crouched in front of the sofa, trying to get a better glimpse of the man’s face. He reached a hand to nudge the other. “Hey, are y-” Heat. Radiating so strongly that John could feel it through the silk of his friend’s gown. His hand shot towards the other’s forehead, brushing the strands away from his face while at it. The skin was burning up. And now that John could see him clearly, it was impossible not to notice the flush on his cheeks, or the thin layer of sweat gathering on his hairline.
Something clenched inside his chest.
He took a breath, then went right back to nudging the bastard awake.
“Hey. Sherlock, mate? Really need you to wake up right now.” John’s fingers tightened on his shoulder. “Sherlock.”
Stricking blue eyes blinked themselves open, and Sherlock stared at him blearily.
“J’hn?” He asked, voice thick with sleep. “Wha’s’it?”
John suppressed the silly relief he felt at the moment.
“How do you feel?”
Sherlock frowned at him, a furrow appearing in between his brows, and coughed right at John’s face.
John did his best not to grimace.
“Cold.” Was the detective’s final answer, shuddering as if to prove his point.
“Right. I figured. Come on, up you get.” He tugged on the man’s shoulder, then pulled him up by hooking his hands under his armpits when it became apparent that Sherlock wasn’t going to be much help.
Sherlock groaned, his head lolling on the back of the sofa and limbs sprawling everywhere with a sluggish energy that was so opposite to everything that he was. John swallowed.
“Alright. That’s fine- you- stay right there, alright? I’ll be right back.” He waited for some sort of answer from Sherlock, tightening his lips when it never came, and rushed towards the bathroom.
They had an exceptionally well stocked med kit, as with the amount of trouble they usually got up to and John being a doctor. It was easy to sort through what he needed and rush back. He detoured into the kitchen and filled a cup with water, and then went back to the sick detective’s side.
Sherlock had his eyes closed again.
“Nope.” John lowered himself on the sofa. He put a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder again. “Need you awake right now, buddy.”
Sherlock groaned before opening his eyes. He squinted for a moment, focusing on John.
“What.” The prick mumbled.
John showed him the thermometer on his hand.
“Open your mouth, Sherlock. No way of escaping this now.” He said lightly.
Most troublesome of all, perhaps, was the almost lack of complaining from the genius detective.
Sherlock mumbled something under his breath, but obediently - though not without a little sulking - let his mouth fall open.
John placed the device under his friend’s tongue, and waited for the beep.
He watched Sherlock’s eyes droop a few times, and stubbornly ignored the vice constricting his lungs and telling him to do something ridiculous like brushing his curls from his face.
The thermometer beeped, and both he and Sherlock perked up at that.
103.8.
Shit.
Sherlock was looking at him through tired eyes.
“Not good?” He asked.
John swallowed.
“Bit not good, yeah.”
A fever of 103.8. Fine. He could manage.
He looked away from the device, back at Sherlock, who seemed to be on the verge of sleep again. Also not good. This level of lethargy.
“Alright. We have to cool you down a bit. Off with the dressing gown, come on.”
Sherlock pretended not to hear him, continuing on his task of lightly dozing off.
John clenched his jaw.
“Yes, no. You can stop that, thank you. I said off with the dressing gown, Sherlock, don’t try my patience.” He took hold of his friend’s clothing, and promptly started pulling on it. To hell with good manners.
Sherlock, to his surprise, flailed at that, limbs shooting uncoordinatedly to try and fend John off. That started what was certainly a most ridiculous scene. John pouncing on his grown ass man of a friend, Sherlock swinging wildly with protests of “Get off me, John! It’s cold!” and Jesus, the man was burning, John had to take care of it before the fever boiled that big brain of his. It would be a win on John’s part any day - he did have a militar background, after all - but it was ridiculously easy to overpower Sherlock and peel the gown off of him.
They were both out of breath when he threw the piece of clothing on the floor.
At being defeated, Sherlock promptly slumped back on the sofa. He brought his arms around his lanky frame, a shiver racking his body.
“I’m dying.” The man muttered, sounding absolutely miserable.
John, still fighting for his breath, huffed.
“Yeah, that’s what happens when you make a habit of not eating nor sleeping. Your immune system goes to shit.”
He grabbed the few items he had taken from their med kit and shoved it on Sherlock’s hand, then took the glass of water he had brought with himself.
“Here, take this. One will hopefully lower your fever, the other is supposed to clear the phlegm from your airways.”
Sherlock grumbled, but wisely didn’t attempt on refuting John again.
John watched as his mad friend gulped down the pills along with the water, and silence beffel the two of them.
The detective sheepishly offered the cup back, and hugged his torso again. His eyes were just as red-rimmed as a few hours prior, and his cheeks still sported a pink flush. He looked exhausted.
Something in John softened.
“Sleep.” He muttered. “I’ll monitor you through the night.”
Sherlock sighed, tipping sideways on the couch, but his head hadn’t even touched the cushion before his eyes were closed again.
John stared for a few minutes, then his eyes caught the bags of Chinese food left forgotten on the kitchen table.
He heated it up again on their hazardous of a microwave, and sat himself on his chair, getting comfortable for what would surely be a long, long night.
*
The nightmares started halfway through the night.
John had been dozing on his chair, his feet tucked under him and a duvet covering him up when the first whimper woke him up.
He startled, instinct rushing in as he jumped to his feet and looked around wildly for a moment, before his eyes found the sorce of the sound.
Through the night, Sherlock had barely moved at all, dead asleep on the same position he had been after John fed him the pills. Now, though, he laid on his back. The few cushions that had been scattered around the sofa had fallen to the ground, indicative of how much the other had probably moved around.
As John watched, another whimper escaped the brunette, and his head tossed to the side in obvious distress, making his hair even more tangled than it already was.
John felt himself falter.
Doubt made him hesitate on his steps. What should he do? Something of his British upbringing told him that he should turn a blind eye to this. No man would like to be seen in this vunerable of a position. He himself knew exactly how much he would hate if someone walked in while he was trapped in one of his night terrors. Despite not being much of a social norms person, Sherlock could be awfully reserved when it came to sentimental, human matters.
Still, he tried picturing himself turning around and sitting on his chair, trying to fall back asleep while his best friend tossed and turned, trapped inside some horrid dream, and actually felt a little sick.
He took a step forward. He was a doctor, he rationalized, it was purely bedside manners.
“Sherlock.” John tried calling in a low voice at first, then progressively louder as that didn’t bring any responses. Sherlock’s eyebrows were furrowed, his cupid lips turned donwards unhappily. John sighed, frowning to himself the longer he was unable to wake the other. He put the palm of his hand to the younger’s forehead. Paused. Brought it down to his neck just to confirm what he had felt. Burning. Still. More so than before, probably. And a fever higher than the previous 103.8 was definitely, definitely not good. “Sherlock?”
So, not nightmares, then. Fever dreams, most likely.
For the first time since he noticed his flatmate getting sick, he considered the possibility of a trip to E.R.
Sherlock despised hospitals, though. He hated it with all the force of his thunderous mind. It was what Mycroft used when he had to threaten Sherlock into doing something, most of the time.
So no, he would not resort to that unless it was absolutely his last option.
He was a doctor, for God’s sake! He could treat a fever, even one as high as the one currently havocking Sherlock Holmes.
John stood, glancing at their bathroom. It wasn’t too far, and a cold bath was the best alternative he could think of for this, but he doubted he would be able to carry the tall git on his own.
His hands curled into fists then relaxed again as he thought.
Second option it was, then.
He sprinted into the kitchen, grabbed a few towels from above the sink, fetched a bucket from beside the washing machine, filled it and stumbled back into the living room. The towels were submerged and wringed, then placed under armpits, neck and forehead.
The moment the last one touched the delicate skin on his forehead, though, Sherlock’s eyes flew open. He immediately tossed his head to the side again, trying to get rid of the ice cold feeling covering his face.
“No, nope. No.” John readjusted the cloth so it wouldn’t slip and, when that wasn’t enough to get Sherlock to stop, brought a hand to the side of his head. Surprisingly, that seemed to do the trick. Sherlock slowed his floundering, then fell quiet. John stared at him. “…Sherlock? You with me, now?”
Sherlock had his eyes open, but he didn’t seem like he was looking at much of anything besides some stain at the couch near his feet. John took a breath. Okay, so not entirely cognizant, then.
Silence settled over them as they waited for his body temperature to lower. His hand remained cupping the side of Sherlock’s head. So as the cloth didn’t slip from its place. Obviously.
Some twenty minutes passed, and the cold compresses turned lukewarm. John shifted on his place, crouched on the floor, and winced a little as the muscles on his back protested. He moved the cloth away from the other’s forehead, and covered it with his hand instead.
Warm. Definitely still fevered, but a lot better than the unnatural heat emanating before.
He looked down at Sherlock, his eyes closed in sleep once more, then silently started peeling the towels away from his body. He would set it aside, and replace the water if the fever rose again.
He made it to his feet before something caught his wrist.
John startled, almost dropping the bucket, and looked down to see a detective gazing at him with big, watering eyes.
“J’hn, stay.”
The world seemed to slow down for a moment, the slurred request echoing on the silent flat.
Jesus, why did his throat feel like closing up.
He slowly lowered himself again, crouching by the sofa.
The fingers encircling his wrist didn’t let up. Sherlock’s face scrunched into a frown.
“No. Here, J’hn. Please.” He mumbled, pulling on John weakly.
And John knew he shouldn’t. As a doctor, he knew any more body heat would only make it harder for Sherlock’s body to cool down. But the idea of turning around now, of rejecting it when it was Sherlock, looking like that and asking for comfort of all things-
He climbed onto the sofa.
Finding a position that accommodated both of them was a little uncomfortable, but John managed. He rested against the armrest and let Sherlock squirm until he was satisfied. Which apparently was laying on John, his back on John’s chest.
He blinked, asking himself how did he end up like that, and hesitatingly brought his arms around his madman of a flatmate.
Slowly, the worry and exhaustion of the last few hours caught up with him, and he felt his body starting to sink on the cushions as the energy sapped out of him. He allowed the soothing feeling of the genius on his arms to calm him down, the weight of his head on his chest. Now that he was paying attention, he thought he could smell the posh shampoo the git used too. He chuckled. John looked down at the mess of raven curls lightly tickling his neck, and dropped a kiss down on it.
And immediately froze.
What the fuck was he doing?
His breathing sped up, and he stayed stock-still for a few endless moments. He looked down, trying to glimpse at Sherlock’s face, but, of course, the bastard was already deep in sleep.
John huffed out a breath, trying to calm down his heart again.
It was fine. Just fine. He had been worried about the prick, and his brain had gotten a few wires crossed. It was fine.
Expected, even.
At the first sign of light, John was already gone.
*
It was the middle of the morning when Sherlock finally wandered into the kitchen.
John was in the middle of making his third cup of tea of the day, and looked over when the man plopped down on the kitchen chair. dressing gown already back on.
John raised an eyebrow, and turned back to the kettle. “Felling a bit more chilled?”
He could feel the glare he was receiving burn the back of his head with lazer precision.
“Yes, John. Very funny. I’m glad you find some humor in my misery.” Sherlock’s voice sounded rough still, and John turned to take the man in. His hair was an absolute mess, curls frizzled and tangled from tossing around and the lack of his posh hair products, and John had to refrain from snickering. He was less pale, though, and the flush on his cheeks had vanished. If it weren’t for how he kept sniffing every couple of seconds, one wouldn’t know how sick he had been just a few hours back.
The kettle whistled, and John poured the fresh made tea into a teacup, then brought it to the table in front of Sherlock.
“Here, drink it up, it’ll help with the elderly smoker lady’s voice.”
He received another glare, and covered up a smile by going back to make more tea.
Sherlock sipped at it, then quietly thanked him.
A few moments passed before he spoke again.
“John.” The detective said slowly. “So what exactly happened last night?”
John paused, his hand hovering mid-air, before calmly going back through the motions of adding milk.
“You don’t remember?”
“I… have vague recollections of you drowning me in a pool of ice.” John glanced at him, the man was frowning. “I assume cold compresses?”
John let a chuckle escape him, feeling something like relief settling his stomach.
“Yes. Yes, you were burning up, had to cool you down somehow.”
Sherlock hummed.
“Well, I certainly appreciate it. Thank you.”
John smiled, on the verge of a joke about how rare it was to hear those words being uttered by the git, when the detective’s phone beeped.
Sherlock grabbed it, reading something on the screen with a concentrated expression.
Before John had the chance to open his mouth, the tall man had already sprung to his feet, a wide grin splitting his face in two.
John sighed, here they go.
“No.” He said tiredly.
“A case! A seven, John! At least a seven, maybe an eight?” The maniac he lived with gave a twirl of excitment, muttering something to himself.
“Sherlock, I can see your nose running from here, you’re still sick, you can’t-”
“Sickness is a matter of transport, John. I’m not sick anymore, I have a case!” He typed something on his phone. “Lestrade is will wait for us before letting the forensic in, come on, John! The game is on!”
And then he was off towards the shower.
John pinched the bridge of his nose. He steeled himself for chasing the madman, but stopped midstep when something overtook him.
A sneeze racked through his body, so strong that his eyes watered a little.
Oh.
Oh, yes.
John Watson was going to kill Sherlock Holmes.