Hello again. Back I see.

Enjoy part 2!

John had his hands submerged in soapy water, washing the dirty soup bowls when Sherlock called his name from the sitting room. "John..."

It was barely audible over the running faucet, so John shut it off to make sure he wasn't imagining how weak and strangled the voice had sounded. Several (much louder than usual) heartbeats passed before it became obvious Sherlock wasn't going to speak again. John looked at the clock- it had been ten minutes instead of two, whoops- and hastily dried his hands. "Hold on Sherlock, I'll be right there."

He reentered the sitting room, looking at Sherlock who had once again given up on sitting and was sprawled across the couch. In a few minutes all of his progress seemed to have been lost, and then some, so John quickly made his way beside the couch and ripped the thermometer out of his mouth.

"John…" he groaned again, sounding helpless and so... not like Sherlock.

John didn't like that one bit.

"Christ. Jesus. Bullocks." John said, blinking rapidly down at the thermometer in his hand, "Your temperature is over 41 degrees." He breathed out, feeling as if all the oxygen had been sucked out of the flat.

"Is that bad?" Sherlock was barely able to say.

"Bit not good." John swallowed. That was understatement of epic proportions. Beside him Sherlock began mumbling incoherent nothings, but John thought he could just make out "... think you were right" and "too hot..." between the shallow breaths he was taking.

"Sherlock, listen to me." John said, dropping to his knees. "You need to cool down, alright? You're going to be fine, just breathe." John reminded himself to take his own advice, since he seemed to be having difficulties getting his own lungs to cooperate at the moment. "Hey, roll onto your back for me, and get rid of that blanket. I'm going to get you some ice." He stood and hurried to the kitchen, scattering several ice cubes on the floor and not bothering to pick them up in his haste.

Why he had even expected Sherlock to listen to him, John didn't know, but he came back to see Sherlock clinging to his duvet for dear life just below his chin.

"Sherlock." John tried to keep on the stern, doctor persona, "I said to take that off." The man peered over the top of the duvet with wide eyes, and shook his head ever so slightly.

"No, John, please don't." He whimpered, and John hated himself- actually despised his very existence- for gripping the duvet in a firm fist and ripping it off of Sherlock's body. He hissed as the cold air hit his damp skin and clothes, and curled his knees up to his chest, rolling to his side. The shivers started almost immediately.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock." John said, and he really meant it. The sight of Sherlock practically convulsing with the shakes and grabbing blindly for some source of warmth where none was to be found, was honestly heartbreaking.

There was no other way to describe the thing his heart was doing at the sight of him.

John wanted to hold him close and warm him up himself.

But that might kill him. So no. A bit not good, that.

"I know you think you're cold, but you really aren't Sherlock. You need to put this ice to your head to keep that fever under control, or so help me I'll hold you down myself." John held out the plastic bag of ice firmly, giving Sherlock a choice. The easy way, or the hard way.

Sherlock looked at the bag as if it were filled with maggots- well, as any normal person would look at a bag of maggots anyway. "Absolutely not."

"Yes, Sherlock. It's this, or the hospital."

"It's the flu, John." Sherlock whined- rather pathetically, John might add. "It's just a fever." His words stuttered through chattering teeth, "I don't need the hospital, I have you. You're a doctor, fix me."

John's heart ached, and he could do nothing but let out a helpless hum and take the seat above Sherlock's head. He placed the ice to the man's forehead, flinching in unison with him as it touched his skin. He knew how horrible that must feel against the chills. John used his free hand to swat away Sherlock's half-hearted protests, until he gave up, suddenly going limp with a defeated growl.

"That's what I thought."

"Shut up, John." Sherlock groaned, throwing a dramatic arm across his face to cover his eyes. John smirked.

Well, at least the fever hadn't affect that part of Sherlock.

The shivers were getting worse, and John frowned down at Sherlock's shaking body, feeling utterly useless.

"Do you feel like you're going to throw up?"

"No."

"Does your head hurt?"

"Only from the frostbite you're surely giving me."

"Do you feel hot?"

"No, John." Sherlock snapped, "I feel cold. I feel freezing." The last syllable trailed off as a strong, almost violent wave of shivers tore through Sherlock's body.

"Right. Sorry." John said apologetically. He took the ice off of Sherlock's head- for just a minute, he told himself, don't want him to start turning blue or anything- and set the bag down on the table. Sherlock let out a relieved breath.

"Can I have my blanket back then?"

"No." Sherlock groaned. John didn't even bother apologizing again.

He sat there for a moment, racking his brain for anything he could do to help. He'd done all the doctor stuff already, made sure Sherlock was stable and alive, breathing, and staying that way, but now what? Sherlock still needed him- the thought of leaving the man alone hadn't even crossed his mind- but what else could he offer him?

Suddenly, John remembered something his mum always use to do when he was ill. Really ill. And it had been the only thing that ever seemed to help, really.

He'd probably be rubbish at it, but oh well. Worth a try.

"Roll onto your side."

"Why?"

John rolled his eyes, "Just do what the doctor says, Sherlock." The man narrowed his eyes up at John before flipping over obediently, pushing his face up against the back of the sofa. John verified that Sherlock wasn't, in fact, being suffocated before scooting down and resting his hands on top of Sherlock's shoulders.

"What are you-? Oh. Ohhh, mmmmm." Sherlock practically purred as Johns fingers began kneading into the tense tissue at the base of his neck. "John, you're… you are..." he words died with a content sigh, promptly followed by a shiver. Of slightly less horrific magnitude, John noted with a bit of pride.

"I know." John said, and he blushed- good god John now is not the time to be thinking that way- and began moving his thumbs against Sherlock's shoulder blades. "Does that feel alright?"

"Harder." He commanded, voice already strangled as John pushed against his sternum. His stomach clenched - not the time, John reminded himself again- but pressed a bit harder into the man's shoulders. The knots he found there were harder than rock, and John found himself wondering how Sherlock even functioned with his muscles constantly like that.

And then, a magnificent, ungodly sort of moan escaped Sherlock's lips, and John was unable to think much of anything.

"Why did you stop?" Sherlock breathed into the sofa cushion.

"Sorry." John muttered, looking down at his frozen hands as if they'd betrayed him. When did they in stop moving? He began to inch lower until both hands found new knots in Sherlock's upper back.

Good god, all this man seemed to be made up of was knots. No wonder he looked so bloody intense all the time.

"You need to relax." John said, in what he hoped was a soothing voice. At this point he didn't even know who he was talking to; himself, or Sherlock. He began digging his thumbs into a particularly mangled ball of muscle tissue beside to Sherlock's spine, and his thoughts began to wander back to how much easier this would be if Sherlock wasn't wearing any-

The detective moaned again, and John could feel the vibrations of it through his fingertips.

He really wished he'd stop doing that.

How could a man so sick be so bloody… hot?

"That feel alright?" John asked with an nervous swallow, carefully continuing the deep semi circles against the man's back with his thumbs.

"Amazing." Sherlock sighed

John cleared his throat, hoping it would do something to clear his head too. He has to be doing that on purpose, John thought to himself, nobody could manage to be this hot by accident, especially with the flu working against them. Bloody hell. He continued the massage, inching lower and lower along Sherlock's back, and tried to ignore his urge to plant a few kisses along Sherlock's hairline, or maybe his neck…

Suddenly, John forced his hands off of Sherlock, which of course was greeted with very upset sounding whine.

But it didn't matter, John needed to get out. Now, if he wanted to escape with even a scrap of sanity.

"I'm sorry, uh…. I'm just going to get you water." It was a horrible excuse.

"Coffee." Sherlock croaked out.

"Absolutely not." And he scrambled up from the sofa and out of the room. As soon as he was out of sight John leaned against the wall, taking a deep breath, trying to loosen the permanent tightness in his chest. He tried to bury his thoughts, this time deep enough to never escape, but it was no use. He was exhausted from doing this over and over again all day, and then he realized… it had not just been today. It'd been essentially the entire time he'd known Sherlock, tucking away all of these thoughts, and they constantly kept poking their heads up out of the sand. And now, having all these excuses to be close to Sherlock, being invited, it was just too much and his brain was overloaded with so many new sensations and feelings he hadn't been accepting of before.

The voice of reason in John's head came back to life. Are you accepting them now?

Maybe.

But shouldn't that feel good, not just even more confusing?

Perhaps in an average situation, sure. But this, whatever it was, certainly was far from average. How could anything with Sherlock be considered average, when the man was so frustratingly brilliant and magnificent? This was how everything seemed to go with him. Dead calm before the storm, and now John was caught in the middle of a hurricane capable of removing his very existence from the earth. He had no idea if he was ready to go up against that, but what choice did one man have up against a hurricane?

It was coming whether he liked it or not.

Right then, he remembered his excuse for being in the kitchen all too suddenly, forcing himself off the wall to fill a glass with cold water. He stared down into it for a moment, composing himself, watching the ice bob up and down, in and out of the liquid. He briefly considered dumping the entire thing over his head, but decided against it. Sherlock would surely notice if he came back sopping wet.

He just needed something, anything to get these thoughts out of his head.

It is not normal for the palms of your hands to physically itch with the need to touch your flatmate. It is not normal to find a man who has been vomiting, sneezing, and coughing all day long attractive in any way. Not cute, not adorable, not sexy as all fucking hell. No, that was all so confusing and strange and just so wrong.

But then, why can't you seem to talk yourself out of it?

If he wrapped himself around Sherlock the way he wanted to, arms and legs, skin and clothing all intertwined, mingling with Sherlock's blinding fever and mile long limbs, John didn't think he'd ever be able to get off that sofa…

So what?

Well, that was certainly a new idea. So what...

He realized he had definitely been in the kitchen much longer than the average time it took to pour a glass of water. Even in Sherlock's current state he was sure to work that out. He sighed, and walked back out into the storm.

John used the cold glass in his hand to anchor what was left of his his self control, and it worked well enough to keep him from tackling Sherlock when he saw him on the sofa.

But just barely.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. The detective's eyes were darting from one aspect of John to another, but he said nothing as he reached out for the glass of water. It was impossible not to notice the minute shivers still making his hands shake as he reached out, and John placed the cup in his hand, carefully avoiding touching his fingers. That earned him another strange look from Sherlock. The detective took a careful sip, and grimaced as the cold liquid touched his lips. He promptly set the water down on the coffee table.

"You need to drink that."

"What I need is my blanket back."

"I'm sorry Sherlock, but for the last time not until you reach a less life-threatening temperature."

Sherlock pouted, and threw himself back down on the couch, throwing an arm dramatically over his forehead. John remained standing, having an internal argument with himself, concerning the basic problem of: stay or go?

"Well, are you going to sit down then?" Sherlock inquired, not moving his arm from across his eyes.

John swallowed nervously, "I was actually thinking about heading to bed..."

"It's 7:30."

"Well, I'm tired."

"No," Sherlock moved his arm just enough so he could look John up and down again, "You aren't tired. You just don't want to stay down here with me…" John was suddenly self conscious as Sherlock's gaze went down his body, all the way to his feet, and then snapped back to his eyes. To John's horror he actually flinched at the eye contact, causing Sherlock's to narrow. "... for some reason."

"No, really I'm just tired." John lied.

Sherlock huffed, but then got very uncharacteristically quiet. His eyes fell down to a seam in the couch, and his fingers fidgeted with some loose threading for a long while. John almost made the wrong assumption that the conversation was over, but then a very small voice mumbled something he didn't quite understand.

"What was that?"

Sherlock shut his eyes, in what John hated to think looked a lot like embarrassment. "Please stay."

And how the fuck do you say no to that?

So, John stayed.

After Sherlock got better, things went back to normal. In fact, it became an unspoken agreement between them to never speak of the matter again, apparently. Sherlock had his reasons, and John had his.

It was better this way.

That is, until Sherlock had to go and bugger it up, as usual.

Of course, he had waited until the precise moment that John had taken a large sip of tea to say, "John, do you remember the time I got myself especially ill? Months ago." he waved his hand dismissively.

Needless to say John's favorite jumper still had the tea stains to show for that comment. "Uh. Yes, I remember. Why?"

Sherlock shrugged, and John really hoped he imagined that smirk, but of course he hadn't. "I deduced you."

"Excuse me?"

"I deduced you." Sherlock repeated with an eye roll, but it was much less offensive paired with the grin on his face, "I tend to do that sometimes."

"Yes, I've noticed. One of your more annoying habits."

"Anyway," Sherlock persisted, shooting John a halfhearted glare, "you reacted predictably to my vulnerable state. For the most part. And then you started thinking- it's quite adorable when you do that you know. I can practically see the cogs turning-"

Did Sherlock just call me adorable? What is happening?

"-ever so slowly inside your funny little head. You began panicking, on more than one occasion actually, letting your mind confuse you further instead of just controlling it." Sherlock fixed John with a stare that all too much resembled a disappointed teacher scolding a student. John just let out a huff of breath.

"What are you getting at, Sherlock?"

Sherlock hesitated slightly, "All I'm saying is that you don't need an excuse to... share the sofa with me."

John froze, and blinked across the room at Sherlock for god knows how long. "Are you- are youbeing serious?"

"Very." Sherlock said, and if John didn't know any better he'd say the man looked self conscious. Just short of running from the room to hide in the nearest closet, actually.

But Sherlock wasn't like that.

"For god's sake, John." Sherlock snapped impatiently, "I'm not going to beg." He shot the empty cushion beside him a glance, and then looked back to John. It wasn't a difficult leap to make, but for some reason John's mind was having a very hard time with all of this.

"What-? Oh." John cleared his throat a bit, "Oh. Alright, I'll just..." John couldn't even believe what he was doing as he got to his feet, but once he was there his mind doubled back. Wait, no, sit back down, this isn't a good idea...

It became suddenly apparent that this wasn't his decision to make when Sherlock made another impatient sound, and practically tackled him to fall beside him on the sofa.

And there John was, stuck back in the fucking hurricane that was his flatmate.

Not a bad place to be, actually, at the moment.

Sherlock's arms seemed to be everywhere, they were so bloody long, and his legs were quite a bit longer than John's as well. Sherlock practically swallowed him up as they settled back into a comfortable position, Sherlock's arms wrapped around John's chest, his face buried in his neck, breath spreading over the skin beneath his ear...

"Are you smelling me?" John mentally kicked himself that that was the only question he really had about this whole situation.

"Perhaps." Sherlock breathed. John smirked.

And then, to John's utter astonishment, Sherlock squeezed him a little closer with a content little "hmpf" and he... he... kissed him on the sodding cheek.

Sherlock Holmes was spooning him on their sofa, pressing kisses to his cheek and whispering sweet nothings in his ear.

And what the hell, John was smiling and letting him do all this, and bringing his arms up to tangle with Sherlock's around him, and if he was being quite honest he took in a sharp inhale just so he could always remember the smell of tea and expensive aftershave splashed on Sherlock's neck...

And it was okay. It was all fine.

And John's arm chair was hardly ever used at all after that, because why would he sit there when there was a perfectly good seat available on the sofa?

You guys have no idea how hard it was to keep this happy toward the end. I have a talent for turning everything I write into a puddle of tears, but I promised happy and fluffy and damn it I meant it. Anyway, rates and reviews would be lovely of course, thanks everyone for reading!