John reached out to push open the door to the flat, but before he could, it opened for him. Rosie was on the other side, stretching up to reach the doorknob that was level with her head, a finger raised to her mouth in warning.
"Shh! Sherlock's asleep!" She let go of the door and her whole body turned as she pointed toward the sofa, where Sherlock was indeed asleep, curled on his side, only his head and one hand sticking out from beneath the quilt that was usually kept on Rosie's bed.
John glanced down at Rosie and then nodded toward the kitchen. His hands were full with bags from two different takeaway places and the chemist where he'd picked up some cough syrup and throat lozenges—Sherlock only liked the honey-flavored ones.
Rosie nodded and led him through to the kitchen, where he pulled the seldom-used pocket doors shut so they wouldn't disturb Sherlock.
"How long has he been asleep?" John asked, as he began to unpack the food.
"I went to the loo right after you left and when I came out, he was asleep. So I went and got a blanket for him."
"Good girl, Rosie. We'll let him sleep and we can heat up his soup later when he wakes up."
"Okay." She pushed a chair away from the table so she could climb onto it and reach the plates for their dinner. John winced at the noise she made, but a glance out at Sherlock confirmed that he hadn't moved at all.
John and Rosie sat and ate together, both glancing over frequently to check on Sherlock, who rolled onto his back and stuck his still-slippered feet out from beneath the quilt, but never opened his eyes.
"He was coughing all day. I could even hear him when I went down to Mrs. Hudson's for lunch," Rosie said. "He didn't have any lunch—he must be hungry. Should we wake him up so he can eat his soup?"
"No, I think we should let him sleep while he can. He was up coughing for most of the night, too." John himself had slept fitfully, as well, except for a couple of hours around midnight when Sherlock had grown frustrated with being awake and gone into the living room to watch late-night telly.
They finished their meal and tidied up the dishes they'd used and those that had accumulated over the last few days, with John washing and Rosie drying and climbing up on the worktop to put everything away in the cabinets. John let her do it—her ability to reach any height in the flat was useful in his quest to make sure Sherlock's more dangerous experiments never got out of hand.
Sherlock was still asleep when they were done, so John put his soup into the fridge for later and sent Rosie to get ready for bed. Sherlock stirred each time she passed through the living room, but still didn't wake up. John went upstairs and found another quilt in her cupboard for her to use tonight, since neither of them wanted to disturb Sherlock. He laid it out across her bed, then sat next to her while she read him a picture book. It was a good thing that she was reading on her own now, because when she was younger she'd always insisted that Sherlock be the one to read to her—John was only allowed to sing her a lullaby.
He sang her song to her now, quietly, and gave her a kiss goodnight, surreptitiously checking her temperature with a hand on her forehead because he was certain that she was going to catch what Sherlock had. She felt fine, though, and so he hoped they would be lucky this time.
When he went back downstairs, he stopped to pick up the quilt that Sherlock had kicked entirely to the floor. As he placed it back over him, Sherlock opened his eyes. He blinked sleepily and stretched, and John leaned forward to give him a kiss high on his cheek, well away from his mouth.
"Hello, John," Sherlock said, voice raspy and thick. "I think I must have closed my eyes and dozed off for a few minutes. When did you get home?"
Before leaving, John turned to Mrs. Hudson, dropping his voice. “Make sure he says in bed. If all else fails—”
“Mycroft,” they said together, then chuckled.
I’ll Come Back for You
***
“Promise me you’ll stay home today,” John said sternly, studying his best friend’s face. Sherlock’s cheeks and nose were flushed a light pink and his nostrils were flaring.
“Hihh... hih’ISHHH! J-John... Ix’SHOO! Bud I’b bored ad I wadda case!”
John rolled his eyes, much to Sherlock’s annoyance. “You can’t even speak properly without having to sneeze.”
“D-dahhh... dot true.”
John waited patiently, feeling almost satisfied when the young detective gasped and quickly covered his mouth to catch two more sneezes. “At’SCHH! Hep’CHOO!”
“Bless,” he said smugly.
Sherlock sniffled, irritated with the betrayal of his nose. “Whed are you cobing back hobe? Ehhh...” His finger found its way under his nostrils, holding back the sneeze.
“I’ll be home around six. I’m serious Sherlock, don’t—”
“Her’ISHH!” The sneeze sounded desperate and harsh against his throat. John actually felt pretty bad for his flatmate.
“Bless you. Don’t do anything strenuous. Read a book or something, okay?”
“The kettle’s on the boil!” Mrs. Hudson announced from the kitchen.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow.
“That's right,” John told him. “Just drink some tea and read until I get back.”
Before leaving, he turned to Mrs. Hudson, dropping his voice. “Make sure he says in bed. If all else fails—”
“Mycroft,” they said together, then chuckled.
***
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John strolled back in, cheeks rosy from the cold air outside, took one look at his sniffling flatmate and immediately deflated.
J: You’re sick.
Sherlock blinks up at him with bleary eyes.
S: No, I’m not.
One of John’s eyebrows starts to climb while his gaze catalogues the alarming number of tissues littering the place
J: Building a pillow-fort out of Kleenex, then?
There is an unintelligible grumble that John pointedly ignores. Instead, he is already closing in on the not-so-tall-now detective, hand reaching towards his forehead. Sherlock swats at it half-heartedly, before surrendering to his fate. He squints up at their point of contact, nose scrunching up in puzzlement.
S: What are you doing?
J: Trying to figure out, if you are running a fever.
The displeasure on John’s face is obvious, when he pulls back.
J: Which you are.
S: I’m not sick.
J: Yes, you are. Now sit down, before you fall down. I’m not even going to ask, whether you have had anything to eat today. I’m going to go see if Mrs. Hudson still got some left-overs of that soup.
His back is already turned, when Sherlock gives one last feeble attempt.
S: I’m not sick!
J: Shut up and sit down!
John’s voice booms from the hallway. With a defiant huff Sherlock plonks down on the sofa, arms folded across his chest.
I really hope Sherlock remembers at least parts of tonight, once his fever has come down.
I’ve lost count of how many times John has changed his ice packs, made him drink something or simply talked to him to calm him down, when the fever was getting too bad.
Counting all the patients he must have seen today and the hours he has put in to keep Sherlock as comfortable as possible, it shouldn’t come as a surprise, that the poor guy is having trouble staying awake.
His phone beeps, signalling that another hour has passed. With a grunt he drags his protesting body out of his chair and stalks over towards the freezer. One hand is rubbing his tired eyes, while the other arms itself with the by now cold cooling packs, before he shuffles back into Sherlock’s bedroom.
J: Hey, Sherlock.
There is a low grumble, but otherwise the room stays silent.
J: Come on, you can go back to sleep in a minute, but you need to drink something first.
I can hear the sloshing of the glass of water John had placed next to Sherlock’s bed earlier. I think he might be holding it for Sherlock, who seems to be refusing it.
S: I don’t need your help.
J: That’s great. Come on, just a little bit.
He tilts the cup once more and this time Sherlock actually allows it. He manages a couple of careful sips, but then starts coughing again. John quickly pulls the cup back.
J: See? That wasn’t that bad.
S: Go away.
J: In a minute. Just need to change these.
There is the sound of fabric rustling, probably John digging out the by now warm cooling packs and replacing them with the fresh ones.
S: I was perfectly fine. Perfectly fine before you.
J: Yes, you were great.
S: You are very...very...inconvenient.
J: I’ll try not to take that personally. Just go back to sleep, alright? I’ll check back in on you in a little bit.
Instead of an answer I can already hear soft snoring coming from Sherlock’s room.
By now I’m sure there is no way of slowing this downward slide anymore. Either Sherlock has just given up pretending not to be sick, or he is declining at an alarming rate. He may still be paging through the evidence, but I don’t think it’s of much use. Whatever bug he caught, it’s a mean one.
John is throwing him increasingly worried glances, too, but so far hasn’t stepped in. That is, until Sherlock picks up another print-out and blinks at it in confusion, not realising, that he is holding it upside down.
J: That’s it. I’m calling Mycroft.
S: What? Why?
J: I’m telling him to find someone else for the case.
Sherlock stares at him, affronted.
J: Well, you are not going to get much work done with your brain leaking from your nose like that.
As if on cue, Sherlock sneezes again.
J: See?
S: John, I am perfectly capable of judging my own state of…A-A-A-ACHOO!!
The sneeze is so violent, that he, by mistake, rips the page he is holding. They both stare at the torn pieces, before John’s face starts to light up with a self-satisfied little smirk.
J: You were saying?
Sherlock just grumbles and drops the paper with a pout.
"Sherlock watches how the ex-army captain’s blue clad eyes sparkle as he speaks on the phone, the easy, bright smile decorating those lips as he throws his head back in laughter at something she (Jane, or Jeanette, or Jenny or something equally inane) says.
And he falls even deeper.
And he wonders if he’ll ever stop.
Loving him.
Wanting him.
He wonders if he will forever dream, for the one day-that maybe... someday… he would finally see him; that he would finally love him. "
Sherlock watches how the ex-army captain’s blue clad eyes sparkle as he speaks on the phone, the easy, bright smile decorating those lips as he throws his head back in laughter at something she (Jane, or Jeanette, or Jenny or something equally inane) says.
And he falls even deeper.
And he wonders if he’ll ever stop.
Loving him.
Wanting him.
He wonders if he will forever dream, for the one day-that maybe... someday… he would finally see him; that he would finally love him.
-
Greg Lestrade pursed his lips, taking a distracted sip of his cold coffee as he stares at Sherlock and John in thought. He can see the obvious affection the younger male has for John, just from the way his eyes immediately drift to him when he walks in, and the small, sad look that he wears when he thinks that no one is looking- it’s a look Greg knows far too well, having seen it many times back when Sherlock was still a teenager, suffering from loneliness of the ostracisation his intellect brought. It’s a look that still gets him every single time, heart aching when he remembers the days he couldn’t do anything but try to be there for his drug addled charge, running gentle fingers through ruffled curls as he quietly sobs and asks why him.
He remembers telling Sherlock back then- the day the genius comes home with tears streaming down his cheeks because his so-called boyfriend had dumped him with accusations that it was his fault anyway because if only he wasn’t such a freak- that there was nothing wrong with him, and that one day, one day he’d find someone who could accept him as he was.
He almost wishes he could take it back now, because Sherlock did find that someone in John, and was hurting all the more for it.
Greg thinks he can almost hear the fluttering of the consulting detective’s heart- the heart everyone believes to be non-existent- when the blonde slides up to him with a wide grin. And when Sherlock nonchalantly agrees that they are done and could leave soon because John has a date, even though the case hasn’t been solved, he finally understands just how much Sherlock really loves John.
But he also knows that Sherlock has never believed his love to be reciprocated.
He wishes that Sherlock could see- not just look, but to actually see- the way John’s eyes light up as they land on him, the way his smile brightens, widens even more when he’s around; the way he cuddles up close to Sherlock when he sits by him- bodies pressed together from shoulders to toes.
If only he could see…
Because the inspector can, and what he sees, is that John loves Sherlock, just as much as Sherlock loves John.
-
Sherlock stirs from his flu induced sleep when he hears the door of his room squeak in the fog of his mind, groggily blinking at his uninvited guest. Bleary eyes register his intruder as John when he leans over him and whispers his name, a fond but worried smile on his lips as he slides a cool palm beneath his bangs. He reaches out and pulls John down beneath the covers with him, burying his head into the warm jumper clad chest, just as he always wished he could do, inhaling that comforting scent as he lets out a quiet hum of bliss.
And he thinks that this must be another dream, because it feels like heaven with John in his arms- unreal, beautiful, perfect- because why would John come to him in the middle of the night?
But it’s not till he feels a tender kiss gingerly pressed to his cheek, accompanied by a husky goodnight as he drifts off, that he realizes it’s only a dream, because this can’t be real, not when John doesn’t love him back- he just doesn’t.
When Sherlock next awakens, to dull grey clouds, the smell of freshly brewed rain, and no John by his side, he feels a strange tug of disappointment at his heart. And he can’t help but be angry- not with John, no, never with John- but with himself. Because he shouldn’t be disappointed, he just shouldn’t, not when this was all he’d expected, and he hates himself- his pathetic, vulnerable self- because it hurt more than he thought it should.
He tries not to dwell on it as he storms out into typical London weather, the constant shower of icy rain prickling against tender skin. His clothes are rapidly getting soaked through, but he doesn’t stop; doesn’t turn back even when he knows he’ll have to account to a very irate John later.
The crystal droplets relentlessly slap down on him, bruising, but the sharp bites are numbing, and Sherlock is grateful for that, because he doesn’t want to cry, doesn’t want to hurt anymore.
But they come anyways- the tears- but he’s too tired; just too sick and tired of all this longing and loving and despair, that he just breaks down, lets the tears fall freely as he’s getting drenched.
When he finally decides to return to their flat, his lips are already turning blue, teeth chattering as he shivers uncontrollably. He fumbles with his keys, cursing when they slipped through his unresponsive fingers. The door flies open at the commotion, just as he bends down to pick them up, and he’s met with a very flustered John, blue eyes dancing in anxiety and relief as they land on him.
Head swimming as he straightens, Sherlock tries to focus on the worried male in front of him, lips forming incoherent words as he attempts to string appropriate words together through the mush his brain is reduced to.
“Why…” are you upset?
But that’s all he manages, darkness abruptly overwhelming him as he crumples forward- into John’s surprised arms.
“…Sherlock!”
-
Hot. It’s so hot... He tries to move away from the suffocating heat, to move somewhere safer, but all he sees is the leering darkness, and he can’t move- not while he can’t see, but the heat was moving closer, and the fear that gnaws at him is spinning his mind out of a calm control, into a panicked state.
He tries to peer through the darkness, but everything that’s there is just nothingness, and the panic is escalating when he realizes that he doesn’t remember his whereabouts, or how he ended up in this place. He can’t breathe; the heat is burning, scorching his flesh, but still he can’t move, and no one can save him- and he’s too young, he doesn’t want to die yet- he can’t die.
Not when he hasn’t confessed; not when he needs to tell him that he loves him.
He scrunches his nose in confusion, irritation prickling his mind because he knows he’s missing something important, knows that he’s forgotten something that should never be forgotten.
Him... who...?
But try as he might, the heat is distracting, and he can’t think, can’t remember who he needs, and-
“Sherlock...”
He hears the voice- faint, but it comes again, and a face flashes through his tortured mind. He feels enlightened, as if a great burden has been lifted from his chest, and he sucks in a shuddering breath as the air steadily starts to trickle in. The heat doesn’t hurt as much anymore, replaced by comforting warmth, and he feels safe.
Because now, he knows where he has to go- who he has to return to.
-
“John…”
“Sherlock? Sherlock, love, can you open your eyes for me?” Even through the haze in his head, he knows that he knows that combination of smells; of honey and milk shampoo, of tea, of home, and more importantly, he knows those hands- the one that is currently grasping his, tightly squeezing, and the other that is running soothingly through his hair as if trying to gently rouse him.
“John?” He squints through the sudden light invading his senses as his eyes flicker open, relaxing when his vision clears enough for him to make out the weary figure of his flatmate. John breathes in relief, smiling at him when he sees the sharp focus on him– he’d never thought he’d miss that scrutinizing so much, not till he was faced with days of scrunched, shut eyes in fevered dreams at worst and glassy, uncomprehending eyes at best.
“Oh Thank God, I was just about to bring you in if you still didn’t wake up. How are you feeling?”
“I’m fine.” He automatically replies, even though he doesn’t feel fine- not that he’d ever admit that- pushing himself up to a sitting position on trembling arms.
“Only you could get a fever of over forty one degrees and still say you’re fine. I swear, I almost had a heart attack when you collapsed on me. You’ve got to stop doing this, Sherlock.” John sighs as Sherlock sniffs disdainfully, eyes crinkling in worry as he reaches up to slide a cool palm beneath the bed of riotous curls.
“I’m fine, John, if you’re just going to stand there and smother me with your worrying and nagging, I suggest you take your leave now.”
“Oh don’t worry, Sherlock. That was the end of me being nice. This is the part I start yelling.” Sherlock groans, looking like a petulant child as he slumps with a dark scowl, flinging an arm dramatically over his eyes.
“John-”
“No, I don’t care, you’re listening to me. You know, for a genius as brilliant as yourself, you can be such an idiot at times. Why you would think it was a good idea to leave the flat at all, let alone into the pouring rain, when you’re sick, is absolutely beyond me. Honestly, I leave you alone in bed for like half an hour tops, and next thing I know, THERE’S NO SHERLOCK HOLMES IN BED.” John throws his hands up in exasperation, glaring at the shocked detective.
“W-What?” Sherlock stutters, arm falling from his face as he gapes at John, mind whirling with the implications of what he just heard. John lifts a sardonic eyebrow, peering suspiciously at him, as if trying to gauge some deeper, underlying meaning behind his question.
“What do you mean what? Are you trying to deny that you disappeared on me? Because I know what I saw, I’m not an idiot, contrary to your beliefs.”
“No, not that. Your last sentence. Say it again.” Brows furrowed at the urgency and light hint of desperation underlying those words, John pauses, arms lowering in confusion as he stares at the detective worriedly.
“Uh, I leave you alone in bed for half an hour and you disappeared on me?” He finally ventures, carefully, uncertain as to how the words would be taken. He doesn’t know how else they could be taken, simple words as they were- or at least, he thinks they are simple, but who knows what goes through that great mind of his.
“You left me alone in bed?” John’s starting to get worried now, frowning apprehensively at Sherlock, now sitting upright in bed, back straightened with tension and blinking uncomprehendingly at him.
“I just said that, yea. Sherlock, are you sure you’re alright?”
“For half an hour?”
“Well, more like twenty minutes but yea, I had to run and grab some medication from Tesco’s, since you used them all up in some experiment of yours- I’m still angry with you for that, by the way.” Sherlock tuned out the rest of what John was saying, mind still drawing blanks as he tried to process what it all meant- it felt important, it was important, but he just couldn’t quite figure it out yet.
He left me, alone, in bed for twenty minutes. Was he with me before that? How long was he with me before that? Does that mean… But that doesn’t necessarily mean that he was with me. He could have just been routinely checking in on me. And even if he was, he was probably not with me- of course not, John wouldn’t be with me, why would he, he’s not gay-
“You left me alone in bed for twenty minutes?” Sherlock winces as the words fell unbidden from his lips anyways, cursing inwardly at the disbelief and hope tinting those words- and Good Lord, he was repeating himself- was he always so obvious when it came to John?
God, it’s no wonder that crimes of passion were so ridiculously easy to solve, if love was going to turn people into such bumbling idiots.
And worse still, he knew better than to even attempt to blame this on being sick- this, this was all John.
“…You’re repeating yourself, Sherlock. God, how hard did you burn your brain? Maybe we should go to the hospital.”
“No! No, I’m fine, John, promise. I just- I thought- you weren’t there when I woke up.”
“Yea, I just told you, I had to…” John says slowly, trailing off as he took in the vulnerability in the way the brunette held himself, the barely hidden hurt in those gorgeous eyes as he looked away from the scrutiny, throat bobbing in a hard swallow before he gave the smallest of nods in acknowledgement.
No… that’s not right. It’s…
“Oh,” John breathes out, stunned with the realization dawning on him.
That wasn’t simply acknowledgement- it was embarrassment; it was shame.
“You thought… that it wasn’t real.”
“It? What do you mean?”
“Me. And you… in bed.” John flushes, deep crimson rapidly climbing his neck when the detective’s eyes widen in shock, jaw dropping comically.
“No, no that’s not what I meant. Oh God, that came out wrong. Not that I wouldn’t- I’m not trying to suggest- I mean, I know you’re not interested and-” He rambles hurriedly, wishing the ground would open up and swallow him because Dear Lord, he was an idiot and he was going to ruin everything and-
“But I am!”
“… What?” He can’t help but blink in surprise when the exclamation stops him short, cutting across his panicked thoughts, and he thinks he must have fainted, or something, because he swears he just heard Sherlock say that he was interested.
In a romantic (sexual?) relationship with John.
“I am. Interested, that is.” But there it was again, and disbelieving as he is, maybe he’s not dreaming after all, because he’s not that desperate to try and force dreamlock to confess that he was interested twice, and in hindsight, Sherlock did drag him into bed after all.
Huh.
“But you’re… you said you were married to your work.”
“Yes, well. I changed my mind.” Sherlock rolls his eyes, huffing in indignation when John lifts a sceptical eyebrow at him.
“Oh, come off it, John. Don’t tell me I’m not allowed to change my mind.”
“I do admit that even I personally never thought I would ever find someone… People are so unbearably dull after all, but you, John. You are the most singularly interesting person I have ever met, and I find myself constantly surprised by you. I think I can safely say that I have never been or will be more interested in someone in my life.” He continues in a much quieter voice when John continues to stare at him, eyes flickering down to the ground so he wouldn’t have to see his reaction. He doesn’t think it could be anything good anyway, even though taking John’s words into consideration, it really could be- was more likely than not, in fact- but he doesn’t dare to hope.
“But- But you’re Sherlock Holmes, Mr ‘sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side’! I didn’t think… You said you were a high functioning sociopath.”
“Something you know not to be entirely true, John.” Sherlock says, and the words must have come out much softer than he’d intended, further gentled with the small and exceptionally fond smile he doesn’t realize he has on, because John smiles back, and it’s every bit as tender and just so John that Sherlock falls in love all over again.
Dear God, I love him.
He can only stare at John helplessly, forcing down the desperate whimper that wants to escape (even just the idea of him whimpering is absolutely unacceptable), because no one has ever looked at Sherlock the way John has, and the thought of being without John- of a life without John, he thinks, cannot and will not be a life at all.
“…I do, don’t I.”
And Sherlock is looking at him with so much emotion, so much suppressed hope, that his breath catches in his throat and John doesn’t even stand a chance, the words slipping out before he gets a chance to think about it.
“I love you.” Sherlock freezes, muscle tensing as his face starts to shut down, and John curses inwardly, almost apologizing and taking it back; almost regrets saying it because it’s just too much, too fast.
But then Sherlock practically pounces on him, lips pressed firmly against his, and he definitely doesn’t regret it- not when Sherlock is returning the sentiment, whispering it frantically against his skin with every chaste kiss he places.
Oh what the hell, he thinks, as long as he has Sherlock.
John Watson, WWII army doctor, is injured in the line of duty and can no longer wield a scalpel. Sherlock Holmes, Britain's best code-breaker, is side-lined by his own devastating injury. In a work inspired by Frances Hodgson Burnett's "The Secret Garden," the two men must find meaning and purpose in a world which seems to have taken away all they hold most dear.
Reunion, recovery, redemption. Minimal dialogue. Alternating points of view. Somewhere in time after TAB.
He is well enough to move about the cottage now, the cottage that is too small, too confined for two planets orbiting different suns.
Or, John thinks, for a cold, lifeless asteroid futilely resisting the gravitational pull of an erratic sun.
He watches Sherlock’s every move, mindful of his weakness, protective of the life he’s brought back from the precipice of disaster.
Because this time – this time – he made it on time.
He catches Sherlock when he stumbles, holds him steady until he has his feet under him again, then drops his arms and backs away, leaving Sherlock to his own business in the loo. But he keeps his eye on the door and he keeps his heart, raw and bleeding, so tightly locked that no errant beat can surge to the surface, break the skin, slay him like a best friend’s betrayal.
He <i>hovers</i> more than he touches. Watches, alert, more than he intervenes. He allows Sherlock to overtax himself, and cares for him the next day, and the next, as he lies, exhausted, in bed, sipping soup from a mug he holds wrapped in shaking hands.
He stays even when Sherlock is able to bathe himself, to dress himself, to feed himself.
He is waiting for something – something from Sherlock. Something that is not a thank you, and is not a dismissal. Something that is more than resigned acceptance, and less than a penitent apology.
