This was originally a request from one of my tumblr followers, but alas I have lost your url... *sadface* Hopefully you see when I post the link to my blog and let me know! Anyway, this story is adorable. Full of happy johnlock fluff and cuteness, because us sherlockians need a bit more of that in our lives.

I'd also like to point out that this originally was supposed to be a very short one shot, but I just sort of went with it and it turned into a rather lengthy and detailed two shot with an epilogue. Whoops.

The second chapter will be posted within the next 24 hours, in case you were wondering. Entails massages, cuddling, and gay thoughts.

Enjoy!

New text message To: John

12:15 pm

Come to baker street immediately. SH

Reply To: Sherlock

12:17 pm

No. I'm on a date. JW

Reply To: John

12:17 pm

At noon? Don't be ridiculous. SH

Reply To: Sherlock

12:25 pm

It's a lunch date.. JW

Reply To: John

12:25 pm

How stupid. SH

Reply To: John

12:36 pm

John? SH

Reply To: John

12:45 pm

JOHN. This is urgent. SH

Reply To: Sherlock

12:51 pm

Why should I come home? So I can fetch you a petri dish just out of arm's reach? No thanks. JW

Reply To: John

12:51 pm

You really need to get past that. It was one time.

But no, I think I truly need your help. Desperately. SH

Reply To: John

12:55 pm

Please. SH

Reply To: Sherlock

12:55 pm

What's wrong? JW

Reply To: Sherlock

1:00 pm

Sherlock? You okay? JW

Reply To: John

1:00 pm

No I don't think I am. Just come home quickly. SH

It was the "please" that caught his attention. Sherlock never said please, unless it was dripping with sarcasm or mockery. Perhaps this time it really was something more than not being able to reach his mobile from the sofa, and John didn't want to bet against it. Knowing Sherlock and his dangerous habits, any number of horrible things could have happened to him.

John frowned down at his half eaten lunch as the possibilities flashed across his mind. Samantha Something-Or-Other, his date, had been talking his ear off and he hadn't been listening to a word she'd been saying for at least 10 minutes. Something about how his jumper reminded her of her deceased grandmother… perhaps Sherlock has been right last week when he said it would never work out with her. Damn him.

"Sorry, Samantha-"

"I've told you to call me Sam at least four times now." She grinned, and pushed his arm playfully. John flinched. God, why was he always second to notice annoying habits after Sherlock? The prat had definitely mentioned something about her squeaky voice and annoying flirtatious ploys… John was just now starting to see it.

"Right of course, Sam-" He corrected himself with a grimace, "I'm afraid I have to cut this date short." He stood from the table, trying his best to ignore her face as it faded to mild disappointment. He slapped down enough money to pay for both meals, an unspoken way of saying I'm sorry for leaving early and never intending to call you again. And then he was out of the restaurant and hailing a cab before she even had the chance to ask for an explanation.

Once he was in the backseat and on his way to Baker Street, John slid his mobile out of his pocket to send a text.

Reply To: Sherlock

1:10 pm

I'm in a cab. 10 minutes away. Are you going to tell me what's wrong? JW

John stared at the screen for a moment, expecting Sherlock's usually instant reply, but it didn't come. His chest constricted slightly with concern, and his stomach tied itself into an intricate and almost painful knot. He tried to tell himself it was nothing- because it usually was with this sort of thing. This time had just seemed a bit out of character, even for Sherlock who switched moods faster than John could possibly follow. Sherlock had actually admitted to needing his help... which was certainly strange. Coming second on today's list after "please."

He swallowed nervously and slid his phone back into his jacket, abandoning all hope of a response. They were almost to Baker Street now, but that didn't stop him from tossing a few encouraging pounds at the cabbie and asking him to drive faster.

John wasted no time flying up the steps to their flat, having worked himself into a proper panic imagining all sorts of disastrous scenarios. Fire? Poison? Secret assassins? Anything was possible with Sherlock.

But when he reached the top of the stairs John was greeted with only silence. No smoke, no gunfire, no anything. There wasn't even the steady clinking of test tubes coming from the kitchen, or the kettle boiling. There was no violin, pacing footsteps, or frustrated sighing. There was absolutely no sign of life, or his madman of a flatmate

Oh, you bastard, John thought to himself, letting out an angry little huff as concern was replaced with anger. He'd left his date just to come home to an empty flat, and Sherlock had just up and bloody left? That man was going to be the death of him, John was sure of it now. He felt dizzy with fading adrenaline and his chest ached as the panic left it.

"Sherlock!" He yelled, whirling around so his voice could go in all directions. He opened the door to the bathroom, and the makeshift lab that had originally been a sitting room, and even the closet. Oh, he was going to murder him whenever Sherlock decided to grace the flat with his presence.

And then, as John completed his 360 spin his eyes fell on Sherlock's door, the only one which still remained closed. He hadn't even considered that, since Sherlock had made "under no circumstance are you allowed to enter my room" very clear the day John moved in.

Screw that now though, because Sherlock could be in there. Maybe he was hurt, and if he wasn't John would be sure to change that. He stomped over to the door and didn't even hesitate with his hand on the knob, pushing it open violently.

And John could honestly not believe his eyes.

It was the first time he'd ever seen Sherlock Holmes asleep. He was curled up like some kind of giant house cat in a tangle of sheets, with only his head protruding along with a stray arm which was bent limply over the edge of the mattress.

Unbelievable, John thought with an aggravated shake of his head. He turned to leave the sleeping detective, deciding he could give him a piece of his mind later for ordering him here to supervise a nap, when he stopped dead in his tracks.

He'd never seen Sherlock sleep.

He knew he'd slept before, obviously… but for what, 3 hours a night? Maybe 4? Just enough to keep him going. Sherlock Holmes did not take naps.

Something was definitely wrong.

John was back in Sherlock's room and kneeling beside his bed in an instant, the nagging nervousness returning to his chest with a vengeance. His face was level with Sherlock's as he waved a hand in front of his face to feel for breath. A slight breeze emitted with each fall and rise of Sherlock's chest, which was good. Definitely alive, then.

It was odd that Sherlock was able to sleep through John slamming every door in the flat and stomping around angrily, and even shouting his name. Definitely not up to par with his usual hypersensitive observation. John searched Sherlock's face, and noticed immediately that there was a film of sweat across his whole forehead. Without even thinking John brought a hand up to wipe away a few damp curls stuck to the detective's skin, and held his breath, waiting for Sherlock to wake up with the touch.

But he didn't.

He didn't even move, actually.

John's stomach clamped up again, and he brought his hand back to push through Sherlock's curls one more time to get them all out of his face. John was a doctor, he knew a fever when he felt one, and his fingers were practically blistering under the touch. Sherlock still made no sign of noticing John's hands running along the back of his neck now, half comforting and half medical, trying to allow for more ventilation.

"Sherlock?" John whispered, and was shocked with how scared he sounded. He was a doctor, wasn't he? An army doctor who dealt with intestines outside people's bodies and gunshot wounds- and yet here he was terrified by a fever.

Well, this was different. It was Sherlock.

He didn't sleep. Ever.

And he certainly never got sick.

In fact, John probably would have been less worried if Sherlock had been shot instead. At least that was to be expected with him. He removed his hand from the back of Sherlock's neck to latch onto his arm, which was still hanging off the edge of the bed. The contrast in temperature sent a jolt through him- Sherlock's wrist was like ice. It was clammy, and far too lifeless for comfort.

"Sherlock." John said a little more loudly, a little less gentle. He needed to wake up. John tried his best to keep his movements slow and kind through his rising panic, but when he shook Sherlock's arm it was a little more forceful than he'd originally intended. It didn't seem to matter though, Sherlock just went on sleeping.

"Sherlock, this isn't funny, stop being over dramatic." John switched from Sherlock's wrist to his hand, intertwining their fingers tightly, no longer caring if it hurt. "Sherlock, wake up."

And then suddenly, Sherlock was a flurry of movement. There were no eyelids fluttering open, no moment between sleep and awake. As always, he went from one extreme to another and his hand was yanked away from John's, suddenly sitting upright. It successfully stopped John's heart for more than a few beats.

"John..." Sherlock groaned, and his voice was so pained John doubted for a moment it was really him. He looked up from his spot kneeling on the floor with concern and then suddenly realized what was happening.

He grabbed the wastebasket just in time for Sherlock to bend over it and vomit the entire contents of his stomach. John grimaced, and got to his feet to stand over Sherlock. Again, he didn't even have to think about pressing a hand to Sherlock's back and rubbing it in comforting semi circles. Even through his clothes Sherlock burned to the touch. John didn't take his hand away until Sherlock straightened up with a magnificent groan.

"John, I think I'm dying."

It took a great deal of self control not to laugh at the pathetic tangle of limbs and blankets, which had just begun to shiver violently. "Not quite, but you convinced me for a minute there." His hand was back on Sherlock's back as the shivers grew more violent.

"Do you think you can make it to the sofa?" John asked tentatively, bowing his head to try and get a look at Sherlock's face.

"Why would I do that?" He moaned, wrapping the duvet around him tightly, but not trusting himself to lie back down just yet.

"I want to be able to look after you." John tapped his shoulder, letting him know it wasn't an option. "Come on, up you go. I'll help."

"Don't be ridiculous." Sherlock snapped, pushing his helping hands away. John rolled his eyes at the man who had miraculously transformed into a stubborn five year old. "I'm perfectly capable of standing on my own." John took a few steps back and allowed Sherlock to teeter to his feet, duvet still tightly clasped around his shoulders like some sort of cape. As John had expected, it took less than three seconds for Sherlock's legs to shake and threaten to crumble to the floor. He ducked under one of the detective's lanky arms to keep him from face planting, though he may have deserved it.

"Not a word, John." Sherlock muttered, finally deciding to accept his help. John smiled but said nothing, simply leading this mess of a man out the door and into their sitting room. As soon as he lifted Sherlock's arm off him, the detective collapsed in a heap onto the sofa and began a violent coughing fit.

My god, Sherlock had managed to get himself spectacularly ill.

He really doesn't do anything halfway, does he? John thought as he made his way to the kitchen, because tea was the best he could do for Sherlock at the moment.

"John, I want coffee." Sherlock whined as loudly as his broken voice would allow, muffled slightly by the pillow his face was pushed into.

"No. You're getting tea." John ignored the complaining sounds he got in response. "With extra honey for your throat!" He added cheerily, with a smug grin on his face. Sherlock shot back an absolutely miserable expression.

Once the tea was finished- with an absurd amount of honey in Sherlock's- John carried both mugs back to the sitting room. He was surprised to see Sherlock sitting up instead of lying down like he'd left him, but had still somehow brought his knees tightly enough to his chest to be covered completely by the duvet.

"I won't drink that. I can smell the honey from here." He wrinkled his nose. John simply set the tea down on the table beside him, and since the spot on the sofa next to Sherlock was now free he settled in there. Even from two feet away he could feel Sherlock's fever radiating off of him, and John mentally reminded himself to get the thermometer out and make sure his insides weren't going to boil. Fevers could be dangerous if they got too high, and John didn't like how it had felt earlier.

"I'll need to take your temperature."

There was a slight pause."No."

"Sherlock, honestly? I just need to make sure you're-"

"I am fine." He insisted, but the way he closed his eyes and seemed just about ready to throw up said otherwise. John nudged the trash can toward him with his foot, just in case, and took a calming sip of tea.

God help him, this wasn't going to be easy.

He grabbed the remote and turned on the telly, trying not to grin when he saw Sherlock begrudgingly take his tea from the side table and take a generous sip. He knew he'd come around eventually, stubborn git.

Usually Sherlock complained about crap telly because of it's obvious story lines and dull characters, but this time he sat in silence beside John in his cocoon of blankets, chin resting on his knees. It was abnormally peaceful. Eventually, after several minutes of channel surfing, John settled on some god awful detective show. It was probably a subconscious attempt to coax Sherlock into his usual complaining, because the silence was just too odd, but the complaints never came.

Oh, John thought as he finally decided to look over at Sherlock, that's why he hasn't said anything.

He had to do a double take to make sure, but Sherlock was definitely sound asleep once again.

John tried to ignore the swelling affection at the sight of him, curled up with his chin still on his knees, but he couldn't stop the warm smile from tugging at the corners of his mouth. Once again Sherlock looked like an oversized house cat, except instead of purring he was snoring ever so slightly.

The warm feeling in his chest gave way to a cold wave of concern though, because now that he had a chance to look Sherlock over more carefully, he looked positively awful. He was even more pale than usual, verging on translucent. There were dark shadows under his eyes, and his veins were dark and swollen on his temples. He was shivering slightly even in his sleep, pale lips trembling, and a pained crease appeared between his brows.

And yet, John still found himself dwelling on other things, like the way Sherlock's head tilted to the side while he slept and the way his lips parted ever so slightly with each breath. The sleepy movements of his fingers under the duvet. The way sleep caused Sherlock to look so vulnerable, and almost innocent. The lack of an annoyed scowl took years off his face, smoothing the usually tense lines. And if it weren't for the clammy sweat shining on his cheeks John would dare to say he looked happier than he did while he was awake.

That made John's stomach ache. He wished Sherlock was happy more often.

And he was trying so hard not to use adjectives like adorable and cute while looking at him, curled up beside him on the sofa, because Sherlock was neither of those things. Sherlock was his friend, his flat mate, his ego maniac sociopath. His completely platonic, not attracted to at all, best friend.

Right?

John shook his head slightly, willing himself to stop noticing the way Sherlock's frail shoulders rose and fell with each inhale and exhale. He turned back to the telly, and pretended to watch the detective show for the next twenty minutes, while he was all too aware of Sherlock's breathing and slight movements out of the corner of his eye.

And then, all of a sudden Sherlock's head lolled to the side and his body leaned, only to collide with John's shoulder.

He froze, unsure of what to do.

Should I wake him? Should I leave? Should I move over to my chair instead?

John tried to ignore the warmth pooling in his chest and stomach, but a fond smile still managed to creep across his lips as he peered down into Sherlock's black curls. It certainly wouldn't hurt anybody to just… stay. Would it?

Certainly not.

He, ever so slowly as not to wake Sherlock, repositioned his arm to fall around the detective's shoulders, and ignored the nagging red flags popping up his mind.

John, what do you think you're doing?

Why is your arm around him? Put it back.

Are you seriously cuddling up to Sherlock Holmes?

You are not gay, John.

All the thoughts were pushed somewhere unreachable as his chest swelled with affection again, and he ran the pad of his thumb along Sherlock's exposed clavicle under the collar of his t-shirt. Sherlock's subconscious seemed to think John's shoulder was a suitable place to settle in, because the man sleepily curled his knees up against John's side and nuzzled his head further onto John's shoulder, going limp once again with a sigh. He was so close John's arm practically swallowed the whole of him up.

His stomach was doing flip flops.

Why did it keep doing that?

He didn't really care all that much at the moment. John continued to move a hand along Sherlock's back, comforting a shiver every once in a while or a rattling breath, and each time he did Sherlock would nudge his head further into John's jumper or sleepily curl and uncurl his toes.

Once again, Sherlock had transformed into a kitten-detective highbred.

He could feel the fever seeping through the fabric of his jumper at each point Sherlock was connected with him. His curled up legs all along his side, his forehead on his shoulder, one of his hands pinned between John's outer thigh and his own foot. Each time his hand delved up further into Sherlock's curls it was sweaty and hot, and he knew he should probably get him a cold dish towel or something to cool him off, but John was selfish. He didn't want to move from this spot. Not now, not in a few hours, not ever really.

And that was a dangerous sort of thought.

As John's finger tips raked across Sherlock's scalp for probably the fiftieth time, he froze as the detective in his arms let out a rumbling "Mmmm." John could feel the vibrations in his own chest. His whole body turned instantly into a statue, his hand still at the top of Sherlock's head.

"Don't stop." Sherlock murmured into John's stomach now, where he'd repositioned his head and craned his neck for better access. "It feels...nice."

John swallowed nervously, wondering how long the detective had been awake. However he went back to combing through Sherlock's hair with his gentle fingertips, more like a massage now that he didn't have to worry about waking him. Once again, Sherlock warranted another rumbling "Mmm."

It wasn't long after that when Sherlock stretched his legs away from John, sprawling out over the rest of the couch, and let his head fall into his lap. From there he was in a dead sleep within thirty seconds, beath deepening into the quietest of snores. John was pleased to notice that he was much more at ease this time. The crease had disappeared from his brow, although the sweat still shined on the bit of forehead John was able to see from his upper view.

The nagging thoughts returned, this time with a vengeance.

What the hell are you doing, John?

In god's honest truth, he really didn't have a clue. All he was able to focus on was Sherlock's full bottom lip, and the hills and valleys of the top one. The way each breath pulled them apart, and then they were touching again as he inhaled softly through his nose. In, out, inhale, exhale. A steady metronome, hypnotizing John, pulling his hands from his hairline instead to stroke the man's jaw subconsciously. Sherlock's skin was milky white, and even in the midst of what John diagnosed as a severe case of the flu, he was bloody gorgeous.

Damn him.

But none of those thoughts answered his question. What the hell are you doing, John?

As it turned out, he'd never get the proper chance to answer that, because Mrs. Hudson burst into the flat at exactly that moment. Loudly.

John swore he'd never wanted to hit an elderly woman in his life before this day.

Sherlock was suddenly bolt upright as the door slammed open, and Mrs hudson said cheerily, "Hoo, hoo boys!" And then she saw the position they were in and blushed slightly, bringing a hand up to her mouth, "Oh, sorry." She whispered, cowering a bit in embarrassment, and seemed to be frozen in the doorway.

The absence of Sherlock's body heat alone was enough to make John want to complain and pull the man back into his lap. He looked sideways at the Sherlock, who's ebony curls were sticking out at odd angles, and the cheek which had been resting in John's lap was pink and creased. Slowly, he brought a hand up to touch the side of his face, wearing a shell shocked sort of expression. John swallowed nervously as Sherlock's eyes darted from his hand, to John's lap, and then finally up to meet John's own gaze.

John cleared his throat, and simply turned to Mrs. Hudson as she asked, "Oh god. Sherlock, are you alright?"

He responded by leaning over and promptly vomiting into his trash can.

Once Mrs. Hudson left, John had decided to go to the shop and pick up some supplies, that honestly he couldn't even believe they didn't have in the flat already. Tissues- which had all been used for experiments- cough medicine- more experiments- and advil- which had been used for, yes you guessed it, more experiments.

Bloody bastard.

And then there was the fact that Sherlock hadn't eaten properly since Tuesday (it was currently Thursday) and they had no food in the flat whatsoever. He found himself wondering how Sherlock possibly had anything to throw up, but he figured that his poor body probably tried to get as much nutrients out of the little food it received. Which is why if John didn't get something in him, they were surely going to have to visit the hospital when the man collapsed from malnutrition.

So, since chinese takeout was not a good meal for someone suffering from the flu, John also picked up soup. He tried to ignore the nagging thoughts still struggling to the surface in his mind.

That's something a boyfriend would do, John.

Are you Sherlock's boyfriend?

No, of course you're not. Drop the soup.

But John didn't drop it. In fact, he grabbed three more cans just in case Sherlock was picky. John had no way of knowing, of course, since all Sherlock ever ate were bits and pieces of John's leftovers.

Oh god, I am his boyfriend, John thought miserably.

He got back to the flat with three heavy bags of groceries. He was used to getting up stairs with the shopping- Sherlock never bothered to help before, and he certainly wasn't going to in this state.

"Sherlock," John grunted once he got to the top of the stairs, pushing open the door, "You still alive?" The lump on the sofa groaned in response, and John smiled. "Oh, good."

"What took you so long?"

"It was only half an hour." John pointed out absentmindedly while taking all four cans of soup out of the bags. "Do you fancy a specific kind of soup?"

There was a short span of silence. "Why? Did you get multiple cans?" Sherlock sounded genuinely surprised, and when John looked over to him he had raised himself into a semi sitting position, and his head was cocked to the side in confusion.

"Well… yes." John coughed, "I uh, got tomato, chicken noodle, cheese and broccoli, and beef… sorry, is that a problem?" Sherlock had taken to blinking rapidly, and then narrowed his eyes in suspicion, as if John was trying to poison him

"No." He said bluntly, collapsing back into a heap. There was a long silence after that, but finally he said, "I prefer tomato."

"Right then." John said with a nod, shooting Sherlock a 'whatever you say, lunatic' look, but he was no longer paying attention. He knees were curled to his chest and his eyes were closed, face slightly squished into the sofa.

"Don't fall asleep." John ordered, "You have to eat something, and if you're out by the time I'm done cooking this up I'm pouring the hot soup all over you." Sherlock simply made a noise halfway between a whine and a groan, still not opening his eyes.

He set the soup down in front of Sherlock several minutes later, delighted to see that he was still awake. "I hope you can at least keep that down." He then turned around, balancing his own bowl, and fell back into his arm chair.

He looked over the steaming surface of cheese and broccoli to see Sherlock staring at him a few moments later, but then dropped his gaze to frown to his bowl of soup as soon as he caught John's eye. John lowered his bowl, "What's wrong? I thought you said you liked tomato."

"The soup is fine," He said, eyes still downcast, "Why are you sitting over there?"

John blinked in confusion at the abrupt change of subject. He shrugged, "This is my chair."

"Yes, but it's unnecessary since there is a perfectly good seat available on the sofa." The man's eyes then shifted to the vacant cushion beside him, and John tried his best not to grin. Sherlock was actually asking him to sit beside him rather than across the room. He was actually asking him to come back, and to maybe run his fingers through his hair again as long as he ate his soup because he's so skinny and John worried about him sometimes…

Not his boyfriend, John, the annoying voice in his head spoke up.

But John was smiling, and the sofa was growing more and more tempting with each passing second. He eventually uprooted himself from his chair, of course, to neither of their surprise. His flatmate said nothing as John crossed the short distance and fell into seat beside him, but he swore he could see the faintest of blushes creep into the man's cheeks. He'd blame that on the fever, then, because Sherlock Holmes did not blush.

"Better?"

"...Yes."

They sat in silence for a few moments, swallowing mouthfulls of soup, before John clicked on the telly. He was slightly less disturbed this time by Sherlock's lack of complaints as he flicked from channel to channel. Finally, he decided deviously, he settled on an episode of Doctor Who.

Sherlock hated Doctor Who. John assumed it was because it was too illogical for his monster of a brain to make entertainment of it.

Amazingly though, not a word was uttered by the detective to his right. John raised his eyebrows at him in surprise, "Remind me to leave you out in the cold more often."

"Sorry?" Sherlock asked, switching his gaze quickly to John, sounding almost alarmed.

"I just mean you complain much less when you're sick. I was joking." He let out a breathy laugh as the words spectacularly ignorant came to mind once again.

"Oh." Sherlock said simply, turning his head back forward. It was almost a full minute before he spoke again, and John had just assumed he was finished, but Sherlock went on. "Well, you enjoy this show… for some reason… so I suppose it's tolerable. For your sake."

It was John's turn to nearly choke on his soup. "For my sake? Christ, I really think I should take your temperature now. I think your brain might be boiling."

"Shut up."

They sat in comfortable silence for the rest of the episode. John was sure Sherlock had nodded off at some point in the middle, halfway through eating his soup. John took it upon himself to take the bowl from his limp hand before he managed to spill it everywhere.

Sherlock mumbled sleepily as the absence of the warm bowl woke him. "John…" He muttered, still not opening his eyes.

What John was thinking in that moment: stupid, adorable bastard...

What John actually said: "You didn't finish your soup."

Sherlock opened his eyes just so he could roll them. "For god's sake, I've hardly gone an hour without vomiting since you found me in a semi-comatose state a few hours ago. You're lucky I decided to humor you by eating anything at all."

"I'm getting the thermometer." He decided with a nod, and blocked out Sherlock's swearing under his breath.

A few minutes later John couldn't believe he was having an argument with a grown man about a taking his temperature. "Open up, Sherlock! You're not a child, and I need to make sure you aren't dying. Open. Up."

After a particularly scorching glare Sherlock opened his mouth the tiniest of slivers, and John inserted the little white stick under the man's tongue. Ever so briefly, his fingers brushed against Sherlock's lips, and John recoiled as if he'd touched something electrically charged.

Smooth, John. Real smooth.

Sherlock gave him a peculiar look, but then pushed back into the couch and crossed his arms, resembling a giant five year old. "It only takes two minutes, Sherlock." John said, ignoring the fact that his cheeks still felt hot.

All you did was touch his damn lips. Calm down.

John sighed and began to walk out of the room when a familiar thought crossed his mind for the second time that day.

Sherlock Holmes will be the death of me.