8

The room was dark when John woke up again, making his brain much less willing to fully wake up. Waking up in the middle of the night wasn't uncommon, much less when he was living with Sherlock Holmes. However, his head was aching, slightly, and his body was thoroughly exhausted, and the darkness of the room made him not want to get up and move about.

However... memories of the latest predicament prevented him from falling straight back asleep.

He sat up with a wide yawn, flinching a bit in response to the throbbing in his head redoubling. The world didn't sway, though, so he took that as a rather good sign.

Managing to get to the bathroom was easier this time than before. He swiped the thermometer off the nightstand as he carefully walked to the bathroom. His reflection in the mirror was slightly more comforting than it had been before. He wasn't an unhealthy shade of white, at least. His temperature read thirty-seven point nine. It was a low grade fever and, while he was feeling still unwell, it didn't quite designate a level of panic.

Deciding that he was going to get a shower- time of night be damned- was only second on his immediate to-do list. The first? Make sure Sherlock was all right.

He stumbled his way out of the bathroom, managing to find the light switch in the kitchen after a moment of fumbling around. The artificial light flooded the room and he blinked hard, looking curiously into the sitting room.

There was a lump on the couch; under closer inspection, it proved to be Sherlock, smothered under two blankets. One lanky arm was dangling off the couch, pale fingertips brushing the floor slightly.

John smiled faintly before crossing the room, trying to stay remotely silent. Of course, nothing escaped Sherlock's notice, even when he appeared to be asleep.

"You're awake."

John jumped slightly when Sherlock spoke, but he quickly caught the metallic eyes looking back at him through the semi-darkness. "Yeah..."

Sherlock's eyes brushed over John's figure quickly. "You seem to be remarkably steady on your feet, your colour's better, your voice isn't hoarse and your eyes are a bit brighter."

"And you have the uncanny ability to see everything in this half light and deduce correctly, so... you're feeling better, too," John said.

"I'm perfectly fine."

"I'll be the final judge, thanks..." John crossed the few feet between himself and the couch, reaching down to place his hand on Sherlock's forehead. Sherlock caught his wrist, however, preventing him from doing so. "Sherlock," John muttered in a low tone, his don't-argue-with-your-doctor warning tone of voice. It usually didn't work with Sherlock, but there was only a brief beat of silence before Sherlock removed his hand and let John test his temperature. "Thank you..."

He was satisfied with the prognosis. Sherlock wasn't warm, except maybe by a touch. And the fact that he was-

"Your fingers are cold," Sherlock complained, pushing John's hand away.

"Yes, I can see that you're fine..." John murmured in a slightly sarcastic tone of voice. He was pleased, though, that Sherlock had bypassed the stages of danger. "Just get some sleep and you'll be back to normal in the morning..."

"I'm not tired."

John raised his eyebrows with a pointed look at Sherlock's sprawled out position on the couch. Sherlock stared back at him evenly, no trace of any emotion except stubbornness being in his eyes.

"Right... Yeah, I can see that," John stated with a smile meant only for himself as he turned away. "I'm going to have a shower, but did you want anything? Tea?"

"Already had some, thanks."

"I'm guessing the option of you making me tea is out, too?"

"Of course I didn't make you tea, you were asleep," Sherlock replied, although his statement was punctuated by a rather large yawn.

"Not asleep now..." he murmured, although he didn't say it loud enough for Sherlock to hear. He didn't care if Sherlock made him tea or not; he was perfectly capable of making himself a cuppa now. He didn't like being taken care of, honestly, so he was trying not to think about what Sherlock had been doing when he had been unconscious. Obviously trying to get his fever down, but...

He hated being sick. It made him feel so helpless. He could understand why Sherlock didn't like being sick, either. For a superior mind to be forced into a submissive state, unable to do anything on his own...

John glanced back at the lump on the couch, wondering vaguely if Sherlock remembered any of it. The worst part of his sickness, anyway.

He turned back to his tea. He wouldn't ask.

Sipping his cup of tea when it was finished, he meandered back into the sitting room to take a much needed seat. He still felt generally weak... His muscles were trying to compensate for the intense workout they had received over the shivering he'd done. He needed to make up for lost fluid as well, from the periods of sweating that he had gone though...

He took another drink of his tea.

"Have you drank anything besides the tea?" he voiced aloud.

"I know how to keep up with dehydration, thanks."

"Usually you dub anything that has to do with your 'transport' as useless and not worth remembering."

"It isn't worth remembering. I don't get sick."

"Begging to differ," John muttered over his teacup.

"On a normal basis, John."

"Oh yeah, of course." John smiled over his tea, taking another drink. "So, you have, then?"

"Yes."

"How much?

"What?"

"How much have you drank? Because, technically, you need about sixty-some ounces a day, on a normal basis-"

"I know."'

"Do you?"

Sherlock gave him an indignant look. John smiled.

There was about two minutes of complete silence, except for the ticking of the clock and their breathing and John sipping at his tea.

"Actually..." Sherlock started, clearing his throat.

"Yes, I'll make you some tea," John replied, standing as he drank the last of his own. "Although, if you're not sick, I can't see why you can't do it yourself..." he murmured teasingly as he walked to the kitchen."

Not five minutes later, John had fixed Sherlock a cup of tea and had passed it off to the slightly disagreeable consulting detective flopped on the couch.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome." John paused. "Thank you, as well."

Sherlock's eyes flickered towards him, slightly defensive. "For what?"

"Erm, the- the fever thing," John replied.

Sherlock's response was a "hm" in return as he took a sip of his tea. John stood there, waiting for him to say 'you're welcome' or maybe even 'thank you for taking care of me as well'...

"I'll have a shower after you."

John blinked in surprise. "What?"

"You said you were having a shower. I said that I'd have one after you. Unless you'd like to relinquish first shower to me?"

"No, hang on. I said 'thank you' and you said you want to have a shower?"

"You were clearly uncomfortable with the topic, so I didn't bother to pursue it."

"Uncomfortable?"

"The hesitance in saying it, the slight hovering you were doing afterwards, you were clenching your hands- clear signs of anxiety. There was no reaction until after you had said it, so the topic was obviously the cause of the anxiety. Conclusion, you felt obligated to say it, but hated to, because you hate having people take care of you, but you said it nonetheless. Because of this, you were clearly uncomfortable with the topic; thus, I changed it."

John stared down at him, equal parts surprised and equal parts impressed, as he ever was with one of Sherlock's deductions.

"... Shall I just take that as a 'I'm thankful that you decided to take care of me, too, John, but I can't say it in those simple of words'?"

Sherlock scoffed over his tea, although his eyes quickly darting away from John's face told a significantly different story. John smiled faintly before turning away.

"Right... well... I'm off to have that shower."

Sherlock nodded absently, drawing one of his blankets closer.

John, smiling, shook his head slightly as he turned. "By the way, Sherlock?"

"Hm?"

"You're welcome."

Another sick!fic reaches a conclusion. I think I meant to have more chapters, but lack of material and perpetual diminishing reader interest had me wrapping it up at Chapter Eight. I've got a stupid amount of writing to catch up on: both of my new multi-chapter Sherlocks and my Cabin Pressure multi-chapter, not to mention He's Only Ever Human and anything else I might be forgetting. Not to mention the copious amount of research I'm doing for a personal novel and that personal novel to work on. So, uncharacteristically, I'm feeling a bit overwhelmed. xD

Hoping you've enjoyed Cold Fingers, Warm Hearts. Thank you again for all of your support. It means a lot. If you've followed the story thus far, congratulations, you've put up with another sick!fic by me. Looking forward to any thoughts you have on this chapter, as always!