Chapter 1: Sherlock Falls Ill

Sherlock Holmes ran down Baker Street, black wool coat billowing out behind him, stopping with an ungainly halt at 221B. He was home. Rifling through his deep pockets, he found he had forgotten his keys – again. Pressing on the doorbell for John Watson to let him in, he huddled under the doorway, although he was already soaked head to toe. Watson answered quickly, and then looked upon his roommate with consternation: for a genius, he could be quite daft sometimes.

He stepped aside to let the man in, and Sherlock looked even paler than usual as he unwound his scarf, shaky hands picking at his coat buttons. His curly mahogany hair drenched from a midnight stroll in the rain, John eyed the man with impatience; Sherlock was stubborn. He seemed not to care that he faintly shivered as he shrugged off his coat on the way up the stairs. Kicking off his coal-black loafers, he bent down to peel off his soaked dress socks, before plodding over to the washing machine adjoining the kitchen. As John closed the gap between them, he noticed Sherlock's hands – a mottled purple from forgetting his gloves – toss clothing into the machine, his palms stark white, his nails a worrisome blue. He unbuttoned his long-sleeved shirt, murmuring something about John making a cuppa. Sherlock was much paler than usual, John thought, a doctor's concern starting to build as he slowly ambled towards the kitchen. Glancing back to the sinewy fellow undoing his trousers, he noticed his lips and nipples had lost the pale pink tint they usually held, stark white instead, blending almost seamlessly into the rest of his skin. John fetched a nearby thermometer from the cabinet, ran it under the tap, and walked briskly back to the man about to squirm out of his pants. Sherlock noticed John was now standing very close and held out a digital thermometer, ordering brusquely "Open up."

"Oh, don't be daft," Sherlock retorted tossing the crumpled trousers that had been in his hand into the washer. Giving him that very annoying "I-know-what's-good-for-your-health" look, John simply stood there, arm outstretched until Sherlock parted his lips.

When the thing beeped a minute later, John yanked it away, sighing: "You have a fever, you bloody lunatic!"

Sherlock shrugged, turning his back as he pulled down his pants, and after throwing them into the washer asked, barely turning his head, "Need to do any washing?"

Sherlock went past John into the kitchen and set about filling the electric kettle, completely starkers. This was not the first time Sherlock had traipsed about their public space nude, simply because he couldn't be arsed to put on clothes; but John never seemed to get used to it. Sherlock set the kettle down and John strode up to him swiftly, grabbing him roughly by the arm.

As he pulled him to his bedroom, Sherlock trying to wrest his grip the whole way, John just shook his head. "No use trying to fight it, mate. You know damn well that I'm stronger than you are."

Sherlock huffed: "Upper body-wise, perhaps; but I've got you beat on matters of stamina and flexibility." John stopped a moment, to make a point more than anything as he waited to see if Sherlock would figure out how what he had said sounded. Sherlock, however, seemed confused and redoubled his efforts to escape.

As John gestured to Sherlock's bed with his chin, he loosened his grip. Sherlock rubbed the spot where John had been holding him, a light red hand-print stretched across his bicep. "I'll have that cuppa now John, thank you."

But John wouldn't be ignored so easily; "You'll get your bloody cuppa when you've told me why you were dashing about in this sodding weather. Until then, you'll stay in bed until your fever breaks." He began to move towards Sherlock's bathroom, then spun on his heel, adding, "And hold off on a shower for now. The last thing we need is 'London's Premiere Consulting Detective' passing out and cracking that brilliant head of his." Sherlock nodded; he knew not to provoke John when he was in 'Army Medic' mode. He drew a glass of water, and returned with aspirin in his hand. "Here," he barked, willing him to take the proffered medicine. He did and crawled into the bed, feeling exhausted for the first time in days. He heard the kettle go off, and went to make himself a cuppa.

Watson tried to steady his nerves by sipping slowly, but it did little good. He's seen Sherlock naked before - but the frailty of his flat-mate just now, so different from his usual self-important mania, made distress well in his chest. "I'll just have to look after him," he grumbled as he fell asleep on the couch, head pointed towards Holmes' door.

He awoke the next morning, and immediately put on the kettle. Thermometer held out like a switch blade in his hand, he rapped on the door; no answer. He opened the door, surprised to find the other man still asleep; most unusual. Watson checked his forehead – still hot. He took his temp, surprised it had scarcely fallen. He sighed, fetching more aspirin and water from the bathroom. As he turned towards the bed, he heard his "patient" sputter, now awake. "John, I'd appreciate if you didn't insert things in my orifices while I'm sleeping." Again, he just stared, waiting for the other man to realize how that had sounded. And yet again, it flew completely over the other's head.

He indicated the water and aspirin, and they were taken almost mechanically. "Your fever's not yet broken," Watson reported, and he nodded. He felt out of sorts and lay back down, dozing off again as Watson went to make a cuppa. Setting an alarm on his phone, he began to tidy the kitchen, his tea cooling on the windowsill.

Having accomplished his goal without disturbing the table of "experiments", he finished the wash, and began a go at the living room. As he fished a throw pillow out of the fireplace, the alarm went off. He tossed the soot-stained mess in the bin, waking his "patient" this time, before taking his temperature. He brought him a plate of biscuits along with his glass of water, muttering, "Maybe to hospital …"

"NO!" he shouted, tangling in covers as he attempted to get away.

"I just meant if you're not any better by tomorrow. Better not to risk brain damage."

"I do not do well in hospitals, John."

"Then dream about glaciers. Or whatever, to get that fever down."

He cleared up in a way that would not offend his flat-mate's sensibilities, then sat sipping a cuppa as his alarm went off again. As he walked into the room, he saw the other man sitting up in bed, deep in thought. Another glass of water was drawn and he sat down on the bed, offering him the thermometer. "You want to know the driving force behind my irrational decision to walk in the rain last night."

"That would be helpful, you sodding idiot."

"Really John, your bedside manner could use some work. To answer the question, I was quite upset. Agitated, in fact – couldn't sit still, obviously." He put the thermometer in his mouth.

"Blimey … what does that even mean, to someone like you?" The thermometer beeped, and he took it, reporting, "Down – better."

Sherlock glanced away, fiddling with the fringe on his Afghan. "You mean a man who, simply because he is brilliant, has been attributed special 'powers'?"

Steeling his voice, he responded: "No, a man who goes out ofhis way to prove to everyone just how different he is from them."

"And thus, the distinction of 'good different' from 'bad different' is realized."

"How do you mean?"

"Well, it's all fine and good to be thought of as super-human by one's associates, but I genuinely thought I'd reached the age where all this 'freak' nonsense would end."

"The age? Sherlock, you're twenty-seven. And just ignore Sally; she's only mad you outted her and Anderson to everyone."

"And you're thirty John, but I meant metaphorically. For the record, I couldn't give a flying fig about Donovan, or Anderson, for that matter."

John opened his mouth to speak, but quickly closed it, frowning. "Who, then? You're never like this."

He waved his hand impatiently. "Just my nemesis, John. Do keep up."

"Nemesis, not arch-enemy. So obviously not Mycroft."

"Obviously. How could he have known … There's no denying his correctness, but when she relayed the damnable 'nickname', there was only certainty there. Is his information network more complete than mine?" He was musing to himself now, barely regarding the perplexed man. He gasped: "Did he manage to bug the flat?!"

"No … Not possible. There's no way."

"Maybe I had a bad experience, was put off…"

"MORIARTY!" Watson had cracked it, and looked quite pleased with himself.

"Yes, Moriarty," Holmes spat, as though sickened by the mere thought.

"So, to sum up, you ran into a torrential downpour because Moriarty called you 'The Virgin'?"

"As always, John, you never fail to oversimplify. I ran into the 'torrential downpour' – you've been watching the weather channel lately – because I was agitated, as previously stated."

"And you were agitated because you were upset."

"Circular reasoning, but yes; I was upset. Now … I'm resolute."

"Resolute?"

"I have to remedy the situation, John. I have to undo whatever hold he thinks he has on me by shedding that status."

"You want to lose your virginity."

"No. I'm going to lose it. Want isn't a factor – it's been decided."

John considered this last statement momentarily. "When did you decide this?"

"When I was on my walk; I've got two candidates, but each has his or her own flaws. Originally, I had three, but then I recalled her previous partner."

"Wait, his or hers? And you mean Sally? For sleeping with Anderson?"

"If I'm going to offer myself to someone, it sure as hell isn't going to be someone Anderson got to first."

"Right. Well then, who are your two remaining 'candidates'?"

"One, the obvious choice, is Molly. She's discreet, is suitably attractive with the proper lipstick, and adores me."

"You said each had flaws. What's hers?"

Sherlock bit his lower lip for a second and replied, "Her scent."

John raised an eyebrow and said "If you don't like her perfume, I'm sure she'd stop wearing it for you."

He laughed softly: "Her perfume? She doesn't wear perfume. No, it's something else … It's not the smell of formaldehyde – I love that. And her shampoo is lovely. No, it's beyond that, beneath that. It's her pheromones – they don't agree with me."

"How can you possibly-"

"I have a keener sense of smell than most, John. I thought you knew that. Hmm … But I understand, when it comes to sexual intercourse, there's no escaping that sort of thing."

John had to give him that. "Well it seems you've ruled out Molly. Who's the other 'candidate'?"

"That one," he said, letting out a deep breath, "is trickier. I'm inclined to believe I haven't a shot."

"Seems a tad hasty, don't you think? I'm sure there are a lot of people who would be more than eager for the opportunity."

"Possibly …" Sherlock took a sip from his water glass, and met the man's eyes. "The other person … is you, John Watson."

"ME?! Why me?" John sputtered, raking his fingers through his hair.

"Your military background has left you in excellent shape; but for those jumpers, you're quite attractive. You have a great deal of sexual experience; and as a doctor, you're oath-bound to be both health-conscious and gentle with others' bodies."

"But I'm a man! Who's to say if that even counts?"

"As with everything else, I've done my research. It counts."

B-but you want to be with a man?"

"I don't know what I want, clearly, but who's to say I wouldn't enjoy it as much as being with a woman? I see nothing wrong with the male body, per se."

"Sherlock, I don't know …"

"And there's your flaw: I surmised you might be too stubbornly heterosexual to even consider it."

John got up, and headed for the door. He paused in the doorway, turning his head to say, "Give me some time to think it over."

Sherlock eyed him, astonished. "Let me think it over: when I've decided, I'll let you know my answer. BUT, in the meantime, I want you to consider additional 'candidates'." John left to fix himself a cuppa, as Sherlock's brain began to work on every possible scenario.

Watson sat in the living room in the red brocade armchair, eyes unfocused, staring at the spades wallpaper. What had he just said? What was he getting himself into? He'd recovered a bit at the end, by telling Holmes to consider others. But there was something about him, the great Sherlock Holmes, that made John want to jump at every new opportunity, savor every new experience that came his way. At Angelo's, he'd said, "It's fine. It's ALL fine."

He had meant that, hadn't he? But then again, being for gay rights didn't necessitate engaging in those activities. After all, it was too different, wasn't it? No, his calm doctor's rationale thought, it really wasn't; except for a few minor differences, the ACT was more or less the same. He wasn't exactly a stranger to alternative sexual acts: he'd had nights with costumes and role-play; days with whipped cream and silk scarves; afternoons in public places and evenings with toys … No, John H. Watson was not a stranger to unusual sex.

The things that got him going, he realized, were acts regardless to gender: passionate kisses; having his cock tongued like an ice pop; feeling his lover tremble like a leaf against him …

He sipped his tea, his stomach tensing with anxiety. Another few hours passed this way, the man wrapped in a tight ball; it was time to check on Sherlock.

Sherlock was relieved to find John wasn't treating him any differently (at least consciously) as he considered his decision, and the doctor seemed doubly relieved the fever had completely broken. Handing him a glass of water anyway, he spoke: "Right then. You're free to shower, get dressed, all that. I'll order the take away."

The former patient scrambled out of bed, making a beeline for his bathroom, and as he passed, John could make out the faint scent of an unwashed Sherlock … it was so different than his usual amalgam of soap and tea tree oil deodorant. He had sweated the fever out – something Sherlock had seemed, until this point, incapable of even doing. He smelled musky, like petrichor and hickory, and John drank in the heady scent.

When Sherlock emerged from his bathroom, dripping and still naked, he eyed John quizzically: "I er, forgot to ask what sort of take-away you wanted." Sherlock smirked; oh, this was an interesting development …

"Chinese," he responded, and John exited the room hastily.

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