Cold Fingers, Warm Hearts

1

John was shivering. Legitimate, full-blown shivering. His fingers had gone numb and he couldn't feel his toes, although he almost knew full-well that he'd gotten a lot of water down his shoes at one point. His socks were probably plastered onto his feet like a second skin, because that's exactly how his jacket was. Clinging to him, just like his trousers were, in all the wrong places.

"Sh-Sher-" he started, but the dripping consulting detective cut him off.

"Quiet." Sherlock's voice was low, layered with something that seemed like a warning. John hated it when Sherlock got into these moods, the ones where Sherlock seemed liable to snap if John didn't do exactly what he wanted. The moods that were dangerous, possibly able to be coupled with danger nights. These moods almost frightened John, although...

Not so much as the moment, when there was cold water dripping down the small of his back and he thought that his teeth were going to crack from chattering.

"Sherlock, l-let's go h-home," John stammered, shuffling on the spot and stamping his feet.

"Be qui-" Sherlock stopped suddenly. John looked at him sharply when the detective reached out for the wall, fingers clutching at the grooves between the bricks.

"Sherlock?" John asked, shuffling forward. They were both huddled under an archway of a building without much elbow room, but John carefully edged towards the front to look more closely at Sherlock. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Sherlock replied, although his voice sounded a bit thin, a bit forced, and John didn't buy it at all.

"You're pale, Sherlock," John stated, abandoning shelter of the archway so he could stand in front of Sherlock. The detective looked a bit paler than usual, a bit more drawn up, and John could see the curls on Sherlock's head trembling with the shuddering of his body. Water droplets clung to the tips of his hair, his nose, running down his cheeks. John reached up and pressed his palm against Sherlock's forehead. The warmth he found there was refreshing on his frozen fingers, but worrisome in his mind.

"John..." Sherlock breathed, his breath escaping in a large, warm rush. John felt it ruffle his hair. He ignored Sherlock, bringing his other hand up, pressing either of his palms against Sherlock's cheeks. "John, I don't feel so well." The bitter voice used earlier had all but vanished, leaving only something somewhat vulnerable and a bit confused.

"Yeah, Sherlock. I can understand that; you're burning up," John muttering, removing his hands. "Oh, jeez, I need to get a cab... Stay here, okay?" John's own exhaustion and the mind-numbing cold that he had felt had all vanished with a purpose, the purpose which was now get Sherlock home and tend to him.

John took a step away and Sherlock swayed dangerously on his feet.

"Sher-Sherlock!" John muttered, catching the detective around the shoulders and edging him back against the wall. "Okay, sit down, sit," he repeated, helping Sherlock slide into a sitting position. "Take off the coat; it's sopping wet."

"D-Don't you usually worry about p-people talking...?" Sherlock murmured, not fighting John as he worked the dripping coat off.

John laughed a bit, the tone taking on a hysterical edge. "There's no one around, and I'm a doctor, and you are sick."

"Mm... I'm s-sure people will understand," Sherlock replied, laying the sarcasm on thick.

"I find that I really don't care at this particular moment," John murmured, standing. "Look, I'm going to go hail a cab. Stay here, alright?" When Sherlock didn't argue, took it as an affirmative and doubled back towards the street.

It took his five minutes in the pouring rain to hail a cab, another to walk back to Sherlock, and another four to get a half-unconscious Sherlock into the cab. All in all, ten minutes before they were safely tucked into the back of the cab, speeding through rain-drenched London.

"Did you want to go to a hospital, mate?" asked the cabbie, as he had watched warily as John all but forced Sherlock into the cab. "Or is he just bloody well pissed?"

John would have laughed, if he wasn't too worried about Sherlock. The detective had slumped against the cab window, breathing too deeply in his unconscious. "Uhm, no, no, he's not drunk. Just home, just 221B Baker Street." He leaned across the cab, pressing his hand against Sherlock's forehead again. Still warm. Too warm.

John shivered. He knew the chances of himself coming down with a fever was very, very high as well, considering the raindrops still dripping from his own clothes. Thinking of it now, he peeled his jacket off, dropping it onto the floor with Sherlock's. They were going to need a trip to the dry cleaner's- damn bloody coat of Sherlock's and its special treatment. John sighed thinly, shivering again.

"John?" Sherlock slurred, raising his head slightly from the window.

"It's fine, Sherlock. We're in a c-cab." His shivering got the better of him at the end of his statement. He mentally cursed himself; but, he had taken care of Sherlock to the point that he could at the moment, and he was starting to feel the cold again.

Sherlock raised his head slightly, blinking towards John. "You're cold," Sherlock muttered, and John watched the detective lick his lips and attempt to sit up straighter.

"I've been cold, Sherlock," John replied in a tone of mock-teasing, although he didn't quite hit the light, airy tone that he was aiming for.

Sherlock blinked slowly, sitting up straighter. John wondered how he had missed the onset of Sherlock's symptoms. They had been out in the rain for the better part of an hour and a half, in and out of shelter, but Sherlock had barely utterly ten words since their operation had begun. It wasn't uncommon, but now John was wondering just how long Sherlock had been fighting off symptoms.

"Can't get sick from being cold..." Sherlock mumbled at his side, prompting John to leave his deductions for later.

"It's cold out, Sherlock, a-and we're both drenched. And we h-have been. That prompts a fever now and again," he muttered, looking to the window. When would they get home? Baker Street had never seemed so far away as the moment when John really wanted a hot shower and paracetamol for them both.

"Three minutes..." Sherlock murmured.

John looked back at him just in time to see dark curls cascading towards him as Sherlock's head made John's shoulder into a pillow. "Sherlock?" John questioned, half chastisement, half worry. "Stay a-awake, then, if we're going to be home in three minutes." But Sherlock was dead to the world again. John resisted the urge to either bat Sherlock away or pull him closer, just kept himself quiet and unmoving for the next three minutes. When they arrived, he paid the fare and ushered a half-asleep Sherlock inside and, finally, out of the rain.

"Boys, is that you?"

"Yeah," John called, flinching at the slight pain the vocal sound produced. His throat wouldn't be sore yet- his body was planning in advance, it seemed. Or else he was just mental. That was likely, too. "Yeah, we're back." He closed and bolted the door, still supporting Sherlock on one side. "Sherlock, come on, budge up..." he muttered just as Mrs. Hudson opened the door to her own flat.

"Oh, dear, you two look like a couple of drowned rats. Let me get you some blankets and a cuppa!" she stated, all in a flurry, after one glance at them.

John smiled faintly. "Yeah, thanks. 'm s-sure he'll appreciate that," he said.

A few longer, painstaking minutes later, John had guided Sherlock (and, in the process, woke him up a bit more) up the stairs and into their flat.

"You're going to need to change. Now, Sherlock," John said, giving Sherlock a gentle push towards the hallway.

The detective stumbled and caught himself on the doorframe, giving John a somewhat dirty look. "I can walk."

"Just d-don't pass out," John said, lingering in the kitchen doorway as Sherlock vanished back to his bedroom. Only after he had seen that Sherlock made it into his room did he backtrack and take the stairs two at a time to his own room. He had his shirt off and trousers unbuttoned before he'd even opened his door, determined to get dry clothes on for the moment. He ended up using one of his throw blankets as a towel and changed into the warmest jumper and sweatpants (no dignity right now, whatsoever) that he could find.

And then he was back downstairs, ignoring his body still shivering in an attempt to conduct heat. He ran into Mrs. Hudson on the stairs.

"Here, dear," she said, handing him a cup of tea. He took it gratefully, curling his frozen fingers around the warm cup. He took a quick drink, refusing to wince when it burned the entire way down. It was hot, and hot was what he needed right now. Marginally warm, at least, anyway.

"Ta," he allowed, after swallowing down another mouthful. He let her wrap a blanket around his shoulders before he took the other mug. "I'll take this back to him." With minor fussing from their landlady, and a few extra blankets, John quickly retreated to Sherlock's bedroom.

"Sherlock? Have you changed yet?" John asked, warily stopping around the corner. He had found out, too many times before, just how Sherlock slept (and that was in the nude). He didn't need that image right now, on top of everything else.

Sherlock gave a grunt, one that John took as a hopeful affirmative. He raised his eyes from the floor and took the few short steps into the bedroom. Sherlock was nearly completely buried under the blankets and duvet on the bed, only his eyes and his still-wet hair visible.

"I brought tea," John said.

Sherlock opened his eyes, looking towards John. "I t-think I want to sleep now, J-John."

"If only you said that on a normal basis," John muttered to himself, stepping around Sherlock's discarded sopping clothes. "Take the tea, it'll help warm you up. Not that your body's cold, but..."

Sherlock didn't respond, only sat up slightly. The blankets fell away from him, leaving John with half of the problem that he had been trying to avoid since walking into the room.

"You're not wearing any clothes!"

"Sleeping," Sherlock muttered, reaching forward and taking the mug from John.

"You need clothes, Sherlock, you need the warmth."

"Sleeping, I'm g-going to sleep. Don't sleep in c-clothes," Sherlock replied, raising the mug to his lips.

"Okay, no, you're getting dressed. And your hair's still wet... Do you not know how to take care of yourself at all?" John griped, although he knew the answer. Of course Sherlock didn't. This was the man who would stumble back into the flat, bruised and bloodied, and try to slip away to his bedroom without admitting anything was wrong.

John grabbed the discarded towel that Sherlock must have grabbed from the bathroom, folding it up and walking back to Sherlock. "Hang on a sec," he said, practically forcing the mug from Sherlock as the latter complained. "Just wait!" he demanded, throwing the towel over Sherlock's head and towel-drying the dripping curls.

"Wha- What are you d-doing?" Sherlock stammered, blindly managing to catch John's wrist and force his hands away.

"Dry your hair."

Sherlock huffed, removing the towel so he could see. He gave John one of those annoyed looks, but did as he was told.

John had moved away when Sherlock made it apparent that he would follow his commands. He pulled open one of the drawers to Sherlock's dresser, pawing through the clothes to look for something warm that Sherlock could wear. He felt Sherlock's eyes on his back until he turned back around, and caught Sherlock's gaze going back to the mug full of tea.

"Put these on," John said, tossing Sherlock the closest thing that the man had to a sweater to wear and heavier pajama pants. "I'm getting a shower." He retrieved his own mug from Sherlock's nightstand, drinking down the rest of it. "You get dressed, and I'll be back in a few."

John stepped into the bathroom, pausing in the doorway. "And stay out," he reminded, sliding the door shut before locking it. He closed the hallway door, locking that as well, although he doubted Sherlock would be out of his room.

John turned on the hot water and shed his clothes yet again, stepping into the shower quickly. The only thing John hated about showering when Sherlock was in his bedroom was the bloody connecting door. He wouldn't care about just being in the room next to Sherlock, if the detective didn't have a damn door from his bedroom to the bathroom. Sure, John had locked the door, but he was sure Sherlock could get in if he wanted to.

He grumbled on to himself about bathroom doors and sick patients throughout his shower (which, admittingly, lasted about five minutes). He had only grabbed his towel when a loud crash from the kitchen made him jump.

"Sherlock?" John fumbled to wrap the towel around himself and unlock the hallway door. "I thought I told you to stay in bed!" John stated, keeping the panic out of his voice fairly well. He stepped into the kitchen, eyeing Sherlock's back. At least the detective had clothed himself now. "Sherlock?" That's when John noticed the broken glass littering the floor around Sherlock's feet. "Shit- Are you okay?" he asked.

Sherlock looked around at him, eyes glossy and distant. "Fine..."

"Sherlock?" John frowned. "Stay there," he said, stepping back into the bathroom to slip his shoes back on. He went back into Sherlock's room and found the detective's shoes, before rejoining him in the kitchen. "Put your shoes on," he said. "Don't want to get glass in your feet..." he muttered. It took a few seconds, a few concerned seconds, on John's behalf, to get Sherlock to comply. "What were you trying to do?" he muttered.

"Making more tea," Sherlock replied in a dull tone of stating the obvious.

"Right..." John replied. "Okay, back to bed."

"I want tea," Sherlock replied stubbornly.

"Yes, well, you see how that worked out. I'll make you tea in a minute," he said. Trying to persuade Sherlock to do something he didn't want to was like trying to catch smoke. "Back to bed."

"No."

"Sherlock." John's patience was wearing thin, what with the addition of a sore throat and utter exhaustion. The hot shower had relaxed him (relaxed him to the point where he could relax, anyway) and now, aware of every ache and pain pervading his body, he just wanted to get some sleep.

Sherlock sighed quietly. John looked at him right when he swayed. He felt his eyes go wide. "Sherlock!" He managed to catch him against his chest, but the additional weight put him off-balance. He hit the floor hard, throwing his arms around Sherlock to keep him from rolling off onto the floor. "Sherlock? Come on, wake up. You can't sleep here..." he muttered. "Come on, Sherlock..."

He was burning up. Sherlock didn't do anything like a normal person, did he? He didn't even catch a fever normally!

John removed his arms to reposition his towel, which he had come very close to losing in the tumble. He tightened it and shifted his position, locking his arms under Sherlock's to get them both on their feet. He stumbled with Sherlock's dead weight, but managed to get the detective back to his bed without many added injuries.

He followed up with redressing and throwing his dressing gown on, grabbing the bottle of paracetamol from the cabinet before doubling back to Sherlock's room. "Wake up, Sherlock." He tapped Sherlock's face lightly, trying to rouse him. It worked, after a few moments, and John was able to get the correct dosage of medicine in Sherlock's system before he fell back asleep.

Then, and only then, John returned to the kitchen to clean up the mess. It was the sugar jar that Sherlock had, presumably, dropped. He made himself another cuppa, relishing in the warmth. He was starting to shiver again. He wasn't really cold, he knew that, but he couldn't stop himself from grabbing the blanket from earlier and wrapping it around himself. It would only raise his temperature, but, even being a doctor, he couldn't bring himself to sit and shiver.

He returned to Sherlock's room shortly, having a wet cloth at the ready. He placed it on Sherlock's forehead, getting a slurred grumble from him and nothing else.

"Get some sleep, Sherlock..." John muttered, flipping off the light. "I'll be upstairs if you need me."

With that, John turned and trudged back to his room, planning on getting at least a bit of sleep to try to fend off the worst of his impending illness.

Of course, it made sense, when John knew that Sherlock was ill just downstairs, John found that he couldn't sleep.

If you follow me, you're probably saying Oh, another sick!fic? Yes. Yes, it is. I am sorry, if you are tired of these. But I didn't have a multi with a real plot to work on, so I was going a bit crazy. So, thanks for reading the opening chapter and I hope you want to read the rests! Favs/Follows/Reviews are appreciated!