Sherlock grabs John's hand and runs, trying to avoid the big puddles on their way. It is pouring and running won't make much of a difference regarding the fact that they are both already soaked from head to toe, but John's fingers lock in his, and Sherlock pulls him forward, holding tight.

They run like two schoolboys amongst deserted streets and the wind gushes, whistling as it slithers between the crevices on the walls. A hurried taxi passes them by and John raises a hand but it's too dark and the storm makes it hard to see the road, even more to see two strangers dressed in black, holding hands and dripping water on the darkened street.

"It's no use," Sherlock mumbles, panting. "It's just a bit farther, we're almost there."

He looks at John, who tries to see him as the rain hits his face, hurting him and making it almost impossible to keep his eyes open. John nods and whether Sherlock sees it or not, he starts to run and John follows.

It takes them less than ten minutes to get home and it is a struggle to close the door. Then, they lean against it, breathing heavily, the water drops running down their hands and falling down onto the wooden floor. The thunder rumbles now and they look at each other, glad they made it home before the real storm began.

"This is your entire fault." John says, struggling to get the words out all at once.

"Technically it isn't."

John shakes his head and gets away from the door, pulling Sherlock by the sleeve of his soaked coat.

"Come on, we need to get dry."

But Sherlock pulls him back to him, taking John by surprise, and releasing himself from John's grip, he kisses him, holding John's face between his hands.

John kisses back, holding on to Sherlock's clothes. When they pull away they exchange a smile and they go up the stairs, fingers still interlocked.

The water gushes from the tap into the bathtub and John feels its temperature, to make sure it isn't too hot. His fingers are a bit too cold, so he knows that what is steaming hot now will be lukewarm as soon as their bodies get used to it, so he cranks up the warm water and closes the cold water tap and lets it fill up, observing as the bubbles cover the water's surface. They provide the bathroom with a nice smell and when Sherlock joins him, right after setting up the fireplace and placing both their coats next to it to dry, the water is the perfect temperature and the bathroom is perfumed.

Sherlock, shaking from the cold, is the first one to go into the bathtub, and he adjusts himself in it in order to allow John to sit right in front of him. Having a bath together is never very comfortable – Sherlock is too tall and the bathtub too small for two grown up man – but none of them minds. They wash each other's hair and laugh and they stay there a long while, John's back against Sherlock's chest, until the skin of their hands is wrinkled and the water begins to cool.

"So, do you think we have him?"

It's John who asks when Sherlock, already in his pyjamas, brings him a cuppa from the kitchen to the living room.

"Yes, we have him." Sherlock smiles, taking a sip of the tea, and John mimics him.

They sit together by the fireplace, having placed all pillows they could find in the house on the floor, and after rearranging both their chairs to provide some sort of backrest. John picks the blanket that always sits on his chair and he covers them both. They stare at the fire burning for a minute, in silence.

"I called Lestrade, so he should be able to make the arrest without a problem."

"He will have to go out in the rain, though." John points out.

"Yes, a bit of rain won't kill him."

Sherlock smiles. John leans to the side and rests his head on Sherlock's shoulder. It is angular but somehow it feels like home. A place for his head to rest perfectly. Sherlock's hand slides underneath the blanket and catches John's and their fingers intertwine.

They wake up hours later; still sitting on the floor, the fire merely ashes, they help each other to bed. They sleep until the morning, and the wind knocks on the window, and when John adjusts himself to fit against Sherlock in the middle of the night, he thinks how certain simple moments have a taste of perfection to them, as if it was possible for everything in the world to be exactly right.

The next day dawns with the same colour as the day before: all is grey and tasteless and the wind still drums against the windows like a noisy intruder. The rain has calmed down a bit and Sherlock talks on the phone with Lestrade.

"I'll be-" A fit of cough stops him on his tracks and he bends into himself, trying to get some composure.

The voice on the other side of the phone inquires if everything is alright and Sherlock opens the tap on the kitchen with one hand and fills up his used cup of tea with water, and drinks.

"Yes, I am fine. I just need to get dressed and I'll be there in half an hour."

When Sherlock comes back from his room all ready to leave, John is just hanging up his phone. Sherlock stops again, yet another fit.

"Where do you think you're going?"

It's John who asks. He is still wearing his pyjamas and with his hair all messed up by the pillow he looks adorable. Sherlock answers.

"I am going to talk to Lestrade. He wants me to give him a report of what happened last night and-"

His speech is interrupted by John laughing. Then, as if Sherlock is a five year old, John turns him around, a hand on each side of Sherlock's back, and guides him towards the room.

"What- What are you doing, I need-"

But yet another fit of cough hinders him from carrying on.

"You need to stay in bed until you feel better."

"But I am okay!"

Another fit. Since he had woken up in the morning it had been like that, the cough preventing him for formulating a complete sentence.

"Perfectly fine, I see."

John removes Sherlock's jacket and then starts unbuttoning his shirt.

"Well, that's not very exciting." Sherlock says, a playful smile on his lips. Then he is serious again. "I really need to work, you know?"

But the cover is fading fast and John can feel as he undresses him, Sherlock's skin burning against his fingers. Sherlock's eyes are red and John can tell he is using all his strength just to keep his balance.

"What you need right now is a lot of rest, a bit of medication, to keep yourself hydrated." John says and sits him on the bed, removing his trousers.

"But-"

"No 'but.' You are sick, Sherlock. And the faster you get better the faster you'll get to work again. There's no use in leaving the house now and get worse. You are going to rest. Doctor's orders."

"I am not that sick."

Sherlock mocks John, but as his head swings from side to side he gets dizzy and falls back onto the bed.

"No, not sick at all, look at you not that sick."

Sherlock coughs again and John helps him to a glass of water, making him sit on the bed again.

"I'm bored."

The words come in a blur and Sherlock takes another sip.

"You have been lying down for literally two seconds. Stop whining. Now, medicine."

Sherlock hates the medicine John gives him and he complains. John smiles. He doesn't care how much he complains as long as he complies, and he tells him so.

"I just don't understand why I had to be the one to get sick."

"Oh, thanks a lot, you'd rather I was the one to get sick?" John pretends that he is offended.

"No, I didn't say that." He waves with a hand in the air. "How come I got sick and you didn't?"

"It's one of the little mysteries of life." John says. Then adds. "Or maybe it's because I prefer to be warm wearing what you call my 'ridiculous jumpers' than to go around in thin shirts trying to look sexy."

"What do you mean, trying?" Sherlock asks.

But he opens his mouth in a faint smile and John taps him on the nose with his finger.

"The medicine should take effect in a bit. Get some rest. I am going to take care of a few things on my blog and then I'll come back."

But as he stands up, Sherlock's fingers grab the right sleeve of his pyjamas and even though he doesn't say anything, his eyes are pleading. So John sits and stays.

The flu takes longer to heal than either of them expected. After two days in bed Sherlock is ready to kill just about anyone, and John is ready to kill him. The boredom had always been an issue and adding that to the fact that he can't actually leave the flat, and only barely his own room, it all makes Sherlock insufferable.

John tries to distract him the best he can, but by the third game of Cluedo that Sherlock refuses to play by the rules, he realises he has done a huge mistake. Sherlock was always awful at accepting the rules of this specific game and John had indulged this time only because he was sick, but in truth being sick doesn't stop Sherlock from being an idiot.

"That's it, no more Cluedo, or Monopoly or any game whatsoever!" John shouts, removing the pieces placed on top of the bed and shoving them into their box.

"What? Why not?" Sherlock knows exactly why not but he asks nevertheless.

"If you can't play by the rules, I am not playing at all."

"Then what am I supposed to do? Just rotten here? I need to get out! I CAN'T TAKE THIS ANYMORE!"

The words are blurted out dragged, showing the lack of patience. John looks at him and an idea crosses his mind. Sherlock may be strong enough to yell and complain, but he has barely had any rest the last couple of days. Neither of them had, in fact. Sherlock keeps coughing, especially during the night, and John can't get any sleep by his side, but Sherlock grips his clothes like a child every time John tries to escape to the living room to rest. So none of them sleeps properly and most of the time, when Sherlock's cough gets better, it's already morning and the day light too strong.

"I am going to make you a cuppa." John announces and despite Sherlock's protests, he leaves him be and walks towards the kitchen.

Sherlock looks out of the window, pouting. He has been feeling miserable, but he would never admit it to John and, in a way, he knows he doesn't have to. John can see it quite well. Still, being stuck inside the house, unable to help solve any crimes, or to go to the laboratory and do some research, unable even to stand up for long enough to check new cases on the blog, he feels like a tiger imprisoned in a very small cage. His paws stretch out but he can't find an actual escape and he ends up hurting himself. Like when he sneaked out of his bed when John went to the bathroom and the dizziness hit him so hard that he ended up falling on the corridor, right outside the bathroom door. He hadn't tried to do the same again, as he can still see the bruise on his skin, right on the spot he has landed over.

John prepares tea for both, but there is a slight difference on Sherlock's. The sleeping pills blend in with the water and the taste will be unnoticeable. He fiddles with the spoon and then smiles. Sherlock will wake up furious, but at least he will wake up rested.

He walks in the room holding Sherlock's cup in one hand and his in the other, and then he sits by the bed.

"Here, drink your tea." He commands.

Sherlock looks at him, eyes red from the flu and an annoyed expression, but he does not suspect a thing. He sits with his back against the bedframe and takes a sip. The tea burns his tongue but he doesn't mind. The drink is all he didn't know he needed.

He finishes the cup in a few minutes and then he yawns.

"Strange." He says.

"What is?" John asks.

He can't help but smiling a bit. His cup of tea is still half full and Sherlock looks at it, yawning again.

"John," He says, his eyes starting to feel very heavy. "John, what have you put in my tea?"

He tries to raise his voice but he is losing conscience fast.

"It's not poison." John whispers on his ear, cheerfully.

Then, he helps Sherlock to lie down and even though the latter struggles, he isn't strong enough. Within five minutes he is fast asleep, breathing heavily. John kisses him on the forehead and leaves to the living room. He tries to sort out some papers but he too is tired so he lies on the couch and falls deep into a slumber.

Sherlock sleeps for nine hours straight. When he wakes up, it's with a rumble.

"John!"

He yells from the top of his lungs and John leaves his laptop and runs towards the room. Sherlock is trying to get up but he is unable to stand properly, so he just tumbles back onto the bed, a look of confusion on his face.

"I-" He starts, looking at John as if he was seeing a ghost. "I dreamt that you drugged me!"

He is so worried that John can't help but laugh out loud. Sherlock's look of confusion only increases as John bends forward, holding on to the bed for support, and laughs.

"What?" Sherlock asks. "What's so funny?"

John composes himself and then sits next to Sherlock, removing the thick, damp with sweat hair from his forehead. It is, for the first time in days, cool.

"I gave you some sleeping pills." He declares, gazing at Sherlock with adoration.

Sherlock feels betrayed.

"Why would you do that? I took the tea! I trusted you!"

"Yes. And you had your rest. You slept for nine hours straight. You needed it."

And he kisses Sherlock on the forehead, tenderly.

"I still don't think it's fair." Sherlock says. "I would never-"

But the expression on John's face shifts momentarily and Sherlock shuts up. He has done nothing but drug John on several occasions, some of them without John even realising it.

"There's a new case. Quite a peculiar one." John tells him, changing the subject entirely.

"Why are you telling me that? I can't leave the flat. Unless…"

"No, you're not going anywhere. Not for a couple days, at least. But I'll let you take a look at it."

Sherlock nods. John gets up to pick his laptop but Sherlock pulls him by his jumper.

"Wait. Don't go."

The words come out as a whisper. John stops and stares at him.

"You don't want to read the case?"

It's very unusual and John wonders if Sherlock is sicker than he seems to be.

Sherlock shakes his head.

"Not right now."

John understands it now. He smiles. Because Sherlock is sick and John wants to avoid getting sick at all costs, they haven't kissed or touched as often, and Sherlock has been complaining about that as well.

John sits back on the bed, facing him.

"I will get sick." He warns him.

"I promise it will be worth it."

John laughs. The nerve of him. Yet, he leans in and kisses Sherlock. Sherlock's hands search for his face and he kisses back, languidly, slowly.

Threatening to leave his side again, John manages to get Sherlock to eat a bit of pasta and late at night he lies in bed next to him when Sherlock gets tired, reading for him until he falls asleep.

After a week of rest and complaints, Sherlock is out of bed, and even though he still has a sore throat and a runny nose at times, he is ready to go to the field. Lestrade, after John has given his avail, calls for his help on a case. Sherlock is euphoric to be back in the game, and he and John leave the flat together to the crime scene.

Sherlock's mind is as quick as ever and he solves the case fast. What was an intricate puzzle to Scotland Yard is a simple matter for his observant eyes. Because he wasn't able to go near any cases during what they will always call his 'flu week' Sherlock is even more invested in the case, more fluent and fast. Lestrade is satisfied and thankful. And so is John.

Sherlock and John leave Lestrade taking care of everything he needs to make the arrest, and they walk close to each other and slowly. They direct themselves to the main road, to get a cab that will take them home. Sherlock's blog has received a few cases that are worth their attention and they will focus on them now. John is glad Sherlock can work again, a few days more in bed and both of them would have gone insane.

When they are far enough away from the crime scene, Sherlock touches John's hand softly, just a reminder that he is there. John looks at him and smiles.

"Thank you." Sherlock says.

"For what?" John inquires, not sure what he is referring to.

"For being such a good doctor. For taking care of me." He pauses. "For being so patient when I am so… impatient."

"You don't need to thank me or apologise." He is still happy that he did, though. Then he adds. "In sickness and in health, isn't it?"

"Yeah, but we are not married." Sherlock points out.

"That's a detail that can be arranged fairly easily."

And John looks at Sherlock suggestively. Even as Sherlock's expression shifts and a look of surprise arises, John carries on, leaving Sherlock petrified on the pavement.

Sherlock recovers from the shock and steps forward, quick footsteps that shorten the distance between him and John. He grabs John's hand and interlaces his fingers in his and John looks up at him, a smug smile on his face. Sherlock smiles back tenderly, and as they walk at the same pace up the street, their thoughts are the same, their hearts in concordance, even if they don't speak it out loud.

In sickness and in health it will be, until death do them part.