Needing You

Back To Bed

John should have known that he was sick. But then again, he could be extraordinarily stubborn. His alarm penetrated his restless dreams like a siren. A very annoying siren. He forced himself to sit up—before lying back down when the world started to spin. He let out a small groan, which apparently was heard by Sherlock, who showed up in an instant, a concerned expression on his face that only intensified when he spotted John. John ran his fingers through his sweat-soaked hair, trying to look somewhat presentable and less sick.
"John?" Sherlock's voice seemed small, like he was unsure of what to do.
"Are you alright?" he could see Sherlock kicking himself for asking such a stupid question. Obviously, the answer is no. But he did ask, which gave John time to say that he was absolutely fine. Right before he rolled over and fell off his bed. Sherlock snorted.
"Yes, John, you are indeed the picture of perfect health." He picked John up and placed him back on his bed. John could feel Sherlock's hand on his forehead and relished at the cool touch. Then he ran his hand through John's hair, pushing it away from his eyes. Sherlock left the room, and just when John thought Sherlock must have left him forever, he came back holding a glass of water and some medicine in a not entirely unsurprising show of kindness. Sherlock helped John sit up slowly and brought the glass to his lips while he swallowed the medicine and the cool water. It was then John remembered it was a workday. With the medicine, he was feeling better already and had missed enough workdays for cases as it was. He had felt much worse in worse situations and still done his job.
"No, John." Sherlock said. Sometimes John didn't know whether the man was a consulting detective or a mind reader. Well, he could be a dragon for all John cared, as long as he let him go to his work. There wasn't a case, so Sherlock would have to deal with that, but John needed to come into work. Yes, that's what he's going to do. He stood up and tried to walk to his dresser, which might as well have been a thousand miles away with how much energy it took to walk there. He leaned against the wood and tries to get rid of the black dots appearing on the edge of his vision. But they just kept getting bigger and bigger and suddenly he was in Sherlock's arms and being carried back to his bed. Why was he in Sherlock's arms? Surely there must have been a mistake somewhere because he needed to get to work and if only his legs stopped feeling like they were made out of lead then he could go.
"John." Sherlock's voice sounded disappointed this time as he fussed over him.
"You're the one always telling me to take care of myself, and you go and faint on me the first time you get sick." Faint on him? Is that what happened? Sherlock picked up John's phone from where it lay on the nightstand.
"I will call Sarah and tell her you can't come in today. You will stay here and sleep." Despite John's protests, Sherlock dials Sarah's number and said something about how John was not coming into work today because he couldn't even walk to his dresser without fainting. After the call was finished, John was still a little mad, but he wasn't sure whether it was at himself, his body, or Sherlock. Most likely not Sherlock since John could never stay mad at Sherlock for long. His Sherlock. Who, John had just noticed, had laid down on the bed next to him and was whispering softly into his ear.
"Sleep, John. I'll be here when you wake up." And so John did.