Various x Ftm Reader

In Your Arms ||Sherlock Holmes||

Cw: depictions of being sick (and non-seggsual male nudity)

You paced around the flat as you waited for your partner to return—attempting to displace the anxiety that had been bubbling in you the past hour.

It was snowing more than it usually did in London—enough for the roads to be deemed unsafe, and for the weather stations to advise heavy caution. Your boyfriend, Sherlock, had been away on a case when the snow started. You got a call telling you that he was bring Sherlock home after Sherlock passed out, and he discovered that Sherlock had a fever.

You weren't too worried as much about the fever as you were the fact that Sherlock really wasn't cut out for cold weather. Sure, he had his trench coat and his scarf, but that wasn't particularly meant to withstand the snow. But there had been a bug going around the Yard for a couple of weeks now, so you weren't too surprised about Sherlock getting sick, and you knew that everyone who had gotten it before were only gone for a couple of days.

You finally heard heavy footsteps coming up the stairs, and you rushed to the entrance, looking down to see a visibly sick Sherlock leaning against John.

You stared at him, visibly taken aback, before making your way down to help John.

"'M fine." Sherlock mumbled, as you threw his other arm around you shoulder, and practically pushed him up the stairs. He sounded horrible, and he leaned into you, despite claiming he didn't require the help.

John had taken off his trench coat the the bottom of the stairs, leaving him in a white button down shirt. You could feel his heat through the fabric, he was sweating through his clothes.

You and John managed to help him to the sofa.

"Really. 'M fine." Sherlock mumbled again, as you sat him down. He immediately folded, and laid down on the sofa, snuggling into the cushions.

"Yeah. I've told him thousands of times that he needs needs rest."

"Hm, t's been fourneen." Sherlock replied, rolling over.

John sighed. "I hate to leave him with you, but I should probably get back to Rosie."

"Don't worry about it, I'll take care of him."

John nodded. "He kept fighting against going to the doctor. I gave him some medicine. But he'll need to eat something and drink some water. Or tea, whatever you can get him to drink."

"It's no problem. Don't worry about us."

John looked hesitantly at Sherlock, and nodded before leaving to take care of Rosie.

You watched him go, before making your way over to Sherlock. You brushed some stray curls from his forehead, and placed the back of your hand against his forehead. He leaned against your forehead, and gave a satisfied hum at your cool hand.

"When was the last time you ate something?"

"John gave me medicine." He murmured.

"That's not food, love. I'll make you some soup."

Sherlock closed his eyes, and nodded against your hand. You started pulling back, but he grabbed your wrist, and pulled your hand back down to his forehead.

"I have to make the soup." You said softly.

"Stay."

You sighed—it was hard to say no to him like this, but he needed to eat something.

"I'll be right back. I'm just warming it up."

Sherlock groaned a bit, but he let go of your wrist, and snuggled back into the sofa.

You made your way to the kitchen, and got the soup you knew he'd eat. You poured the soup into a pot, and turned on the electric kettle that still had water in it from the last time, knowing he'd be more likely to drink tea than plain water.

Once the meal was done cooking, Sherlock was half-asleep. You nudged his shoulder, and he blinked up at you sleepily.

"Soup. You need to eat."

He groaned, and twisted his torso around, and placed his arms beneath him to prop himself up. You sighed, and set the tea and soup down before helping him sit up. He over compensated when you propped him up, and leaned against you like a rag doll, his head falling onto your shoulder.

"Comfortable?"

"Hmm, not really but it'll do." He mumbled.

"Love, you need to eat. You can't do that leaning against me."

"Fine." He groaned, sitting up on his own.

He barely managed to stay sitting up as he ate slouched over the bowl of soup in his lap. He put it on the table, unfinished. Sherlock attempted to stand—his knees giving way, causing him to use the sofa for support. You rushed up to help him, guiding one of his arms over your shoulder, while you hooked an arm around his waist to properly support his weight.

"I'm okay." He insisted, though made no effort to stand on his own, or pull away from you. If anything, he seemed to lean more into you the closer you got to your shared bedroom.

He practically toppled over onto your bed once you got him there. He put little effort into unbuttoning his shirt—even sick, he refused to sleep with clothes on. As he struggled with the buttons, you worked on the lower half of his body—taking off his shoes and socks, then his trousers. After you had taken off his pants, Sherlock had finally unbuttoned his shirt, and didn't sit up as he tried to wiggle out of it.

Once he was rid of his clothes, he climbed under the covers. You left the room briefly to grab more blankets. You returned to find him curled up, with his back facing you. You assumed he was either close to sleep, or had fallen asleep, so you set the spare blankets over him softly, and changed into pajamas before gingerly getting into bed. He must not have been sick enough to immediately pass out—which you took as a good sign—as he rolled over, and cuddled into you. He pressed his body against yours as firmly as he could, tucking his head into the crook of your neck and wrapping his legs in yours as though there was no place he belonged better.

A moment passed of the two of you just laying there, before Sherlock adjusted again—this time completely detaching one part of his body from yours completely so that it awkwardly jutted away from you.

"That doesn't look comfortable." You murmured.

"You don't normally like me touching there." He mumbled sleepily.

"Thank you Sherlock, but it's okay right now." You said, reaching to guide him back onto you. Sherlock groaned, but didn't protest further before he fell asleep in your arms.