"Ready to try some food again?" John asked as Psych ended.

"No." Sherlock folded his arms over his chest and scowled at John.

"Sherlock, you won't get better unless you eat something."

"But I was sick last time. The thought of food itself is repelling."

John sighed quietly. "You've got to try Sherlock. Please. You'll never get better otherwise." He sat opposite him in the armchair.

Sherlock frowned. John never said please like that. "Alright." He agreed quietly. "But I want to stretch my legs first."

John nodded, giving his consent. Sherlock rolled his eyes at the fact that he even needed consent, and stood up.

As he did so, he felt all the energy in his legs just vanish, and almost collapsed. John jumped forward and weaved his hands round Sherlock's waist, steadying and supporting him. Sherlock rested his hands on John's arms and centred himself to stand on his own, but he didn't let John go.

They both stayed where they were, half afraid to move, and Sherlock caught sight of himself in the mirror on the fireplace.

He was paler than ever, and looked really thin. Or maybe he always was and hadn't noticed? There was darkness under his eyes from more lack of sleep than was usual for him. In short, he really did not look well.

Then his eyes travelled down the mirror to John who still had his arms round Sherlock, and was now just leaning against him slightly to balance him out. Sherlock could feel John's body flush against his, and his own heart hammering, either from the closeness or the illness, or both.

Sherlock didn't do well with emotions. He was a sociopath for God's sake. His head was foggy and he didn't quite know what to do now.

"John…?" He murmured quietly, and felt his own heart rate increase – if that was even possible with it's current rate – as John turned his face up to Sherlock's, only centimetres away.

Wordlessly, Sherlock bent slightly until his lips were just above John's, closing his eyes and trying to measure out his breathing.

He paused, unsure of what to do, and John closed the gap, tentatively pressing their lips together.

There was a timid knock at the door, Mrs. Hudson announcing her presence.

Sherlock stepped backwards suddenly, looking a bit shocked and scared, tears blooming in his eyes at sensory overload. John frowned, trying to work out what was wrong. And what had happened.

Mrs. Hudson stepped in, looking at Sherlock, a question on her lips.

"I'm fine." Sherlock murmured, looking at the floor. "I just…" His face paled suddenly, and he turned on his heel, running upstairs.

"He's just…probably had another wave of…" John floundered. "Look, sorry Mrs. Hudson, I need to check if he's alright."

"Of course dear." Mrs. Hudson smiled kindly. "Just let me know if you need anything." She closed the door softly behind her and John instantly leapt into action, running up the flight of stairs to the Bathroom.

"Sherlock…Are you alright?"

"I'm fine!" Sherlock called back, but John could tell from the weakness of his words that he really wasn't. Then there was the retching afterword.

"Yea, that's a lie." John stated. "I'm coming in, okay?"

"No! I'll be okay. Just give me a minute."

"Sherlock! Stop being so bloody stubborn. I'm your Doctor. Remember?"

There was silence on the other side. John smiled to himself faintly and tried the door. Unlocked.

Obviously didn't have time to lock it.

John carefully opened the door to find Sherlock sat beside the toilet, leaning against the wall, eyes closed, breathing shallow.

"I don't get how this could be happening. I've had no drinks or food. There shouldn't be anything left."

"There isn't. You're running on empty now, so all your throwing up is stomach acid."

Sherlock nodded slightly.

"And the fact that you've not eaten or drank anything is why this problem started. I need to make you eat something."

"I'm-"

"No your not. Do I have to get Mycroft?"

Sherlock's eyes shot open.

"No. Definitely not. I mean, he probably knows, but no. I'll…yea." He went to stand up, but another wave of nausea caused him to redirect to the basin again.

John moved forward, into the bathroom, and crouched behind Sherlock, carefully holding back his hair - which needed a cut by now, although Sherlock was reluctant to do so – and rubbing circles on his back soothingly.

"Done?" John asked when Sherlock stopped. The younger man nodded. "Right, brush your teeth and wash your face, I'll wait downstairs."

Sherlock didn't say anything, so John nodded to himself and left Sherlock to it.

As he waited downstairs, John wondered why he hadn't brought up the subject of that kiss. Sherlock had sort of initiated it, but John hadn't exactly tried to stop it.

That was a point. Would he have stopped anything happening? If they hadn't been interrupted, would he have continued kissing Sherlock?

Did he even have feelings for the man? Well, there was no denying his looks. He was definitely handsome, even beautiful in a unique, enigmatic way. But did that count as being attracted to him?

It would be easy to understand if he was. Sure, he could be incredibly annoying, and he was so, on many occasions, but there was also a charm to his words, his features. He could get you to do anything, if he asked right.

Yes. If he thought hard about it, he was indeed attracted to Sherlock Holmes. No doubt about it. But now posed the question, what should he do about it? If anything.

Well, he'd probably wait until Sherlock got better, he didn't want to mess up his already touchy balance in life.

As if he'd been called, Sherlock stepped into view. He was a little shaky but sat beside John on the couch with a straight back, trying to maintain some form of dignity.

Wordlessly, and somewhat awkwardly, John leant sideways to wrap his arms around Sherlock's too-thin torso, gently easing him back on the couch so he was relaxed. Bad though it was, John didn't want to move. He needed to, so he could convince Sherlock to eat something, but it was warm and comfortable here.

He almost jumped a mile when Sherlock's warm body kicked in and his arms looped round John's own body.

"Sherlock." John murmured when he remembered how to speak and that this wasn't odd. They'd slept like this, pretty much, after all.

"Mmh?" The hum rumbled through Sherlock's chest, sending shivers up John's spine.

"We need to get food in you." John replied bluntly. "I gotta get up."

"No you don't. I'm not hungry." He held John tighter, going so far as to rest his head on John's. John realised, as he felt the smirk on Sherlock's sharp face, that he was doing this on purpose to stop John getting up.

"Not gonna work." John mumbled, pushing himself up, inwardly trying to find a legitimate reason to go back.

Sherlock sighed, folding his arms over the warm space John had been at just a moment ago. "Fine. Make me sick. See if I care." John heard him mutter as he headed for the kitchen, trying to work out what he should start with. Nothing too solid.

Sherlock watched him work around his experiments, deciding suddenly that John himself was now an experiment. He couldn't understand why John was so... interesting. He'd never experienced thoughts like this before. Such as the impulse to suddenly go and hug John, kiss him, fall asleep with him every night.

Shaking his head minutely, he decided it was delirium from his illness.

XxXxXxX

A/N: Hey. I'm really really really really really really really really really really really sorry charliebrown1234 and all other awfully patient readers. I know, I'm rubbish. I haven't touched this since April. But, if it's any excuse, I was writing a script that I gave to Mark Gatiss last month. He accepted it but hasn't gotten back to me yet -_-

If you'd be nice enough to review, I'd be grateful. Thank the aforementioned reviewer for giving me inspirational reviews to bring me back to the stories. That's all it takes, one review.

Oh, and I've no beta. I could get one, or be one for myself, but I'm just really eager to get this one up today. So sorry for spelling, I'm just in a rush.

-Doctorcoffeegirl.