From a prompt on tumblr: John has a sick day. What will Sherlock do?
Thankyou for reading :)

Disclaimer: Don't own anything agdhsgklsglh.

Sick Day

Rain was pattering gently against the window when John woke up, coughing. His chest really hurt.

The next thing that registered was a thumping dull headache, followed quickly by a scratching pain in his throat.

I'm sick, he thought.

He needed soup, or tea, or something warm and soothing.

John tried to yell downstairs for Sherlock but all that came out was a strange high-pitched whine. He coughed again, wheezing and gasping.

Instead of trying to talk again he reached for his mobile, sitting happily on the bedside table. With shaking fingers he managed to tap out a message and, hitting the 'send' button, curled up in the blankets again.

Sherlock was in his chair, thinking, as his phone went off.

He jumped up to check the message, finally excited that something was happening. It had been so terribly boring recently in the criminal world.

The text message confused Sherlock momentarily.

I'm in bed sick. Bring soup.

His brow furrowed as he read it again, checking the sender id. No, that was definitely John. But…John didn't get sick.

Deciding to investigate, he went upstairs.

John heard Sherlock creaking up the stairs and opened his eyes, just as Sherlock opened the door.

Sherlock was slightly taken aback by the strong army doctor, reduced to a sniffling mess, croaking something about soup and the need to hurry up.

He sat down on the bed and felt John's forehead, which was burning. His breathing was raspy and his glands were right up.

Sherlock was no doctor but he knew John was sick.

John tried to sit up, but his head pounded more relentlessly than ever and he felt so dizzy he thought he might faint, so he sunk back into the mattress, almost whimpering.

"Soup." he croaked again. John always had soup when he was sick. There was something so comforting about it. Also, the fluid was good, reminded the medical man inside of him.

Sherlock smiled gently at him. "Okay, okay," he said, smoothing the hair out of John's face. "I'll go and get soup. Stay here and um, rest."

John pulled the doona up to his chin, burrowing down into the blankets as Sherlock's footsteps retreated down the stairs, and fell asleep again.

In the kitchen Sherlock hunted for something to give his companion. There didn't seem to be any soup, or anything edible, for that matter.

I will just have to go and buy some soup then, he thought, taking his keys and some money, and heading off in the direction of the nearest store.

At the store, a place that Sherlock wasn't entirely familiar with, he wandered up the aisle that proclaimed to be stocking soups and pasta.

When he had been sick as a child, not that he'd gotten sick a lot, Mycroft had always made him alphabet soup with the letters arranged in some amusing phrase.

He couldn't seem to find any soup with the tiny letters, but there were some with animal pasta, so he bought that instead.

Arriving back at the flat he set about making the soup, per the instructions on the packet.

They weren't very helpful.

He settled for putting it into a bowl, adding hot water and stirring it vigorously.

It doesn't seem very warm, he thought, putting it in their ancient microwave, which jerked haltingly into life and made a soft humming noise.

He hadn't been gone that long, but evidently it was too long for John, who sent him an irritable text message about how long it was taking.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and ignored it, putting the now-hot soup, some toast (which was only a little bit burnt), along with a cup of tea, on the first tray he could find.

He put the phone into his pocket and carried the tray carefully upstairs to where John was.

John sat up when Sherlock came in. He couldn't really smell the soup as his nose was blocked, but he could see the steam curling off the bowl, which he hoped wasn't one of Sherlock's 'experiment' bowls.

Sick he could deal with. He wasn't sure about dead.

Sherlock made a fuss of settling the tray on John's lap before sitting down gently on the bed next to him.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, as John stirred the soup.

"Bloody awful," John replied hoarsely. "Are there animals in this soup?"

Sherlock nodded and smiled. "They didn't have any ones with letters."

After he'd finished most of the soup and some of the toast, John put the tray aside and settled himself down into the bed.

He felt a lot better. It wasn't just the soup, however. Sherlock was a solid, warm presence next to him and he felt safe and protected in his temporary weakness.
John was a soldier, and that meant that he hated being sick. He actively did everything he could to avoid it.

Being sick was being weak. Undefended.

He whimpered softly as his head ached again, and almost unknowingly curled up to Sherlock's side, burying his head in the taller man's shirt.

Sherlock was a little taken aback by John's sudden advance upon his person, and instead of asking what he was doing, found himself pulling the doctor towards him, wrapping his arms around him protectively. He pulled the blankets around the two of them, making a warm cocoon.

John muttered something in his almost-sleep like state about soup with animals, and Sherlock shushed him, kissing him on the forehead.

As John drifted into sleep, Sherlock stroked his hair gently.

Many people thought that Sherlock was incapable of 'love', but that wasn't true. Being with John had brought to light a newer, softer side in the icy demeanour of the consulting detective.

He wasn't sure what he felt towards his small companion; but he knew that, whatever it was, he was glad of it.

He knew that being in such close proximity to somebody who had almost certainly an infectious influenza or something of the like meant that he was at risk of being compromised, but he didn't care.

John needed him, and that was all that mattered.