Hello again!

Anyone interested in fluff?

This is supposed to take place some time during Series 1, between Blind Banker and Great Game. Very early on in our boys' relationship, you could say.

Now... enjoy!

The Adventure of the Mysterious Appearance of Tissues

"JOHN! Come on, case!"

No, not now, was all John Watson could think.

"JOHN!"

Pressing his face into the pillow and his arm over his ears, he groaned, unwilling to open his eyes, unwilling to move.

Seconds later, there were fingers prodding him, hands pulling at his arm protecting his ears and at the pillow shielding his eyes.

"Go 'way," he mumbled, and regretted his words immediately. Too much effort, and too much to bear for his raw throat. Coughing, he attempted to turn his back to his so very considerate flatmate.

"John," Sherlock only addressed him again. "Didn't you hear me?"

No reply, John decided, maybe then Sherlock would simply leave.

"John," Sherlock repeated, still gripping John's arm. "I said 'case'," he explained, sounding very triumphant.

"So what," John mumbled into his pillow, doing his best to prevent a sneeze.

For a moment, the entire flat went quiet. Deathly quiet, so very quiet that for a second John wondered if Sherlock had maybe suffered a heart attack, or a stroke upon John's indifference towards the prospect of murder and crime and investigating.

Quiet enough that John, puzzled and losing his struggle with his nose, actually raised his head from the pillow, sneezing violently and taking in Sherlock's shocked face in the same instant.

He sneezed again. And again.

And started coughing.

"John…," Sherlock began deliberately, having taken a step back. "It's… That's atrocious. Stop spitting saliva at me and get dressed."

Groaning again, John allowed his body to slump back. "Go 'way," he muttered once more, closing his eyes and trying his best not to think about his runny nose.

"To the crime scene, yes," Sherlock replied irritably, apparently having recovered from his disgust. "Come on, Lestrade's waiting for us."

John counted from one to ten in his head, determined to stay calm and composed.

"John!" Sherlock exclaimed, pulling at his pillow. "For God's sake, get up now, you're not even dressed!"

"Says the one who wears his dressing gown for whole days," mumbled John, once more fighting the urge to sneeze.

And, once more, losing.

Sighing miserably, he brushed his hand over his nose, willing it to stop being so very runny.

Sherlock still hadn't moved from his position in front of the sofa. "Isn't one supposed to use… tissues?" he inquired.

For a moment, John considered the possibility of getting up and sneezing directly into Sherlock's face. He didn't, however - much too exhausting. "Oudofdissues," he slurred.

Sherlock huffed surreptitiously. "John, you need to open your mouth when you are trying to speak," he explained as if John was a three-year-old.

John groaned for the third time. "Out. Of. Tissues," he mouthed, over-pronouncing each word - and promptly coughing again.

Sherlock only rolled his eyes. "For God's sake, John, stop being so dramatic and get up and dressed! We are expected at a crime scene."

John couldn't stop hacking. Bloody cold. He had known he had caught something for a few days with his throat being itchy and sore and his nose feeling clogged, but only that morning his symptoms had been starting to show this clearly. "You go," he croaked, pulling the blanket up. "I stay here."

When Sherlock didn't reply anything, John assumed he had to have left already, and slowly allowed himself to relax.

Until suddenly, he found his flatmate's face looming directly above his, staring at him in utter bewilderment. "John," Sherlock said once more. "Didn't you hear me? Case. We need to leave."

Closing his eyes and burying his face beneath the blanket helped to block Sherlock out. "'m not comin'," he mumbled. "You go."

John could practically imagine Sherlock continuing to stare at him.

"And try not to kill someone," John added after a few moments, snivelling. Bloody nose.

"You'll miss the case," Sherlock pointed out.

John sneezed into his blanket. "…don' care," he muttered.

Minutes later, he heard footsteps leave and the door close - and was finally alone and in silence.

Marvellous.

Coughing again, John snuggled more neatly into the blanket and attempted to fall asleep.

ooo

His merciful period of calmness was, unfortunately, disturbed only a few hours later.

"John!" Sherlock yelled, storming into their living-room, and John, who had been dozing soundly, was awake all of a sudden again. "You are still on the sofa," he remarked.

Perfectly sound deduction.

John didn't even open his eyes.

"John?" Sherlock inquired once more, his voice coming closer. "For God's sake, what are you still doing on the sofa?"

John still didn't move a single muscle.

"Don't pretend you're asleep," Sherlock announced, shuffling around. "I can tell by your breathing pattern that you are not."

John only coughed.

"Aren't you supposed to… go to work or do other dull things?" Sherlock wanted to know.

Damn it, John thought, wide-awake now anyways. "Called in sick," he muttered, slowly turning around until he was facing the ceiling.

Seconds later, Sherlock's face was back above his, scrutinising him. "Sick?" he repeated, his eyes rapidly moving up and down.

John closed his eyes again. "How was the case," he muttered.

"Of course," Sherlock replied, withdrawing. "Of course. Stupid of me not to notice earlier."

John could almost see him roll his eyes in exasperation that he had failed to observe.

"Shouldn't you… be drinking tea or something?" Sherlock's voice pierced through his ears once more.

John coughed again. "Tired," he croaked, attempting to find a comfortable position on their sofa. He really did not understand how Sherlock could spend days on that bloody thing - John's entire body was aching after only a few hours.

"Common cold, is it?" Sherlock wanted to know, idly plucking at his violin now.

Each sound sent a stabbing pain through John's head.

"Not too drastic," Sherlock went on. "You really should be able to make tea," he commented. "Two cups, if you wouldn't mind. And John, really, do blow your nose."

A pillow came flying from the sofa - which John immediately regretted because, without two pillows, the sofa was even more uncomfortable. "'m not making you bloody tea," he muttered. "And we're OUT OF TISSUES!"

Sherlock didn't seem impressed - neither by the pillow flying nor by John's sudden burst of engery. "Then go to the shops. Oh, we're out of milk, too. And, if you wouldn't mind, please get off the sofa. I need to think."

Before John had the chance to form a coherent thought himself, he had thrown the second pillow, too. "Piss off," he slurred, facing away from Sherlock. "Get your own bloody milk."

ooo

He didn't know how it happened, but he woke again.

That was surprising, in fact, because he didn't remember falling asleep - and he hadn't assumed Sherlock to be compassionate enough to in fact be quiet.

What was even more shocking, however, was that he woke because someone softly shook his shoulder.

"John," Sherlock said, much more quietly than before.

"Mh," groaned John, not opening his eyes.

"Tea," his flatmate announced. "I made tea."

For a moment, John wondered if he had infected Sherlock, if maybe his flatmate was feverish. Tea? Sherlock never made tea. At least not if John happened to be around, conveniently.

With great effort, he blinked his eyes open - only to indeed perceive a steaming mug in Sherlock's hands. "Thank… you," he muttered awkwardly, pushing himself into a sitting position.

He was about to take a sip when he remembered all of Sherlock's experiments, the things he kept in the kitchen…

"Safe to drink?" he wanted to know, pausing in his movement, eyeing Sherlock rather suspiciously.

Sherlock frowned. "Of course it is," he replied, straightening to his full height.

John promptly burned his lips as he cherished the feeling of the hot liquid wetting his throat and mouth. "It's… good," he muttered, rather surprised. Sweet, very sweet… honey, he realised. And with milk.

"I though we were out of milk," he addressed Sherlock who had settled down in his armchair, the violin on his lap.

"Hm?" made Sherlock.

John barely managed to put down the mug before he sneezed viciously. Snivelling did not help.

"Blow your nose, John," Sherlock's voice reached him.

Rolling his eyes, John sniffed again. "I told you we're out of…"

"Here."

Suddenly, something came flying towards him and only narrowly missed his cuppa.

Tissues. A pack of tissues.

John didn't trust the evidence of his own eyes. "Where…," he began, unwrapping one.

"Mrs Hudson must have been to the shops," Sherlock informed him distractedly. "And the case was boring, by the way. Hardly worth my time. I don't even know why Lestrade called me."

Boring case. Tea. Milk. Tissues.

John felt a smile spread on his face - a smile that not only rooted in the fact that he was finally able to properly blow his nose (toilet paper was a lousy substitute).

"Mrs Hudson's visiting her sister this week," he replied, not able to stop himself from feeling smug.

Sherlock went quiet for a moment. "Oh," he then made, getting up in one fluent movement and setting down his violin in his armchair.

John, still smiling, took another sip from his tea. Good, really. "Thank you," he said.

Sherlock froze for a moment, his back towards John. When he turned around, his face was perfectly composed, his right eyebrow raised. "Drink your tea, and then I really need the sofa," he told John.

John's smile deepened. "You could just say for once what you're meaning, you know," he muttered, more to his mug than to Sherlock.

If Sherlock had heard him, he didn't react.

ooo

Not even ten minutes later, John found himself in his own room, in his own, comfortable, warm bed, surprisingly surrounded by even more packs of tissues, a bottle of cough syrup and by another cup of tea.

Courtesy of Sherlock, in fact. Who had got milk and tissues, had made tea for John, and had made sure that John was going to spend the night in his own bed rather than on the lousy sofa.

And who still wasn't willing to admit that he cared.

Smiling to himself and blowing his nose again, John rested his head back against the pillow.

Sherlock Holmes, genius, Consulting Detective, observant and logical, always.

And friend, John's friend.

Who had even remembered that tea with honey was supposed to help with a sore throat. If he hadn't been so tired, John would have giggled at this.

His eyes fell shut as he recognised soft violin music from downstairs, quiet and melodic.

One day, he mused seconds before falling asleep, he would have to thank Sherlock properly. And he would have to tell him that it was fine to care, and to show it.

And ask him who had put the honey into his tea.

Mycroft, maybe.

John nodded off with a grin on his face.

Thank you for reading. Your thoughts on this are welcome.