This was just a little bit of fluff I needed to get out of my system, and thought I might as well toss it into this mystery-box of stuff that is this collection. I am so tired of all this angst and UST, and just needed something where John and Sherlock could have some sweet intimacy. Enjoy!

Tags: Sickfic, Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, fluff, cuddling

SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH

"John..."

I look up to find Sherlock standing in the doorway of the living room, swaying awkwardly from foot to foot. His hair is rumpled, body damp with the fever sweat that is causing his robe to stick to the clammy skin beneath it.

I push away my laptop and stand.

"Sherlock I told you to stay in bed."

The words come out only half way scolding, the other half sticking in my throat in a little ball of warmth that floods through me the second I see his pouty expression. He takes a few wobbly steps toward the sofa, lowering himself down beside me and burying his face in my shoulder.

I plant a kiss on his head, stroking the dark curls for a moment before speaking.

"What are you doing out here?"

"Couldn't sleep."

The words are muffled into my neck, sending a wave of hot breath fluttering across my jawline. He nestles deeper into me, shivering and digging a bony knee into my thigh as he presses into my body heat. I sigh and reach over, back of my hand brushing along the exposed skin on his neck. The pulse beating under its fragile tissue is frantic, fevered heat scalding to the touch. Another set of shivers vibrate the space between us and Sherlock stirs, whimpering into my ear.

I frown. "You're burning up."

Another whimper, almost inaudible, though it sends a pang through my heart that practically sends me to my knees. "S'cold.."

I run my free hand along his arm, rubbing to generate heat, though subconsciously I know this is the last thing he needs.

"That's the fever talking." I plant another soft kiss, this time on his left temple, rocking him in my arms as I mentally list out my plan of attack. Paracetemol, more fluids, maybe a bit of soup if I can coax him into it. He's usually more cooperative with Mrs. Hudson, but she's out of town for the weekend, so I'll have to make do. The flu had really hit hard, and I'd started to worry if I might not be better off taking him to a real doctor. Sherlock had quickly put out that idea, saying that I was the only doctor he needed, and though I'd been tempted to argue, I had yet to find the energy to resist his sorrowful face begging me from the sofa.

"Let's get you into bed, love." I finally manage, crooning the words into his hair. "You need to sleep."

He pulls me closer, shaking his head in a slow but firm "no".

I sigh. "Sherlock, you need rest... it's the only way you're going to feel any better..."

He squeezes me tightly, and there is something urgent in his touch, something brushing on the realm of anxiety as he pulls me closer.

"I just want to be with you."

A pale hand emerges from the mess of blue silk, curling protectively around my own into a warm cage of heat.

"I'm not going anywhere." I whisper.

Silence descends, our heartbeats delving into a uniform ripple of breath. The couch is deep and comfortable, and Sherlock's overheated skin is no longer overwhelming, but rather reassuring, pressed against me.

"I don't feel well, John."

The words are small and sad, magnified by the wet sniffle which follows behind them. His lips are very close to my ear, and between words I can hear the raspy quality of his breath as his lungs struggle to fill with air.

I squeeze our hands and pull him closer, ignoring the dampness of his hair and cheek against mine.

"I know, love. We're going to get you feeling better, alright?"

Another small nod, childishly resigned into my shoulder and followed by a damp sniffle.

"Can I stay here with you for a bit longer?"

I can't help but smile, oddly moved from hearing such little words emerging from the mouth of the great Sherlock Holmes.

"You can stay here as long as you want."

Sherlock shifts and moves his head into my lap, curling his long legs into a doughnut-like ball against the armrest. A few minutes pass, and before long I can sense that he has succumbed to the days and weeks of ignored fatigue, finally falling prey to those pesky human needs.

I smile softly and reach over, pulling a blanket off the back of the sofa and tossing it over us. His face is peaceful, lashes quivering slightly every now and again as if in thought.

I squeeze out hands together one last time, before letting my own eyes close, the dull hum of the rain lull us both to sleep.