Fever

adventurous

A bit of Johnlock today. But in the next chapter, Greg and Myke continue.
DieLadi
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Greg stayed. All day, he sat at Mycroft's bedside. He wanted to be there when Myke woke up. Even when he was told that it wouldn't happen today and that he should please go home to sleep, he didn't even think about it. He pulled a chair up to the hospital bed and decided to sleep in a sitting position with his head on his arms if necessary.

Sherlock and John had Mycroft's car take them home. Anthea had told them that they could use the car however they needed it, they and of course DI Lestrade. Surely Mr. Holmes wouldn't mind.
Back at Baker Street, John was making tea. It was about noon.
As he pressed a cup into Sherlock's hands, the man looked at him with those beautiful eyes of his.

"John?"
"Yes?
"He's going to be okay, isn't he?"
There was a mixture of pleading and childlike trust in his gaze that made John swallow.
"Yes," he said. "Mycroft will do it. I'm sure he will."
Sherlock nodded.
"Thank you, John," he said. "I am aware that you cannot, of course, look into the future; just as you cannot, despite all your medical knowledge, make a hundred per cent prognosis; and brother-in-law Greg is right when he says that people can die from flu. But your encouragement helps me anyway. It does me good, even if it's illogical..."
He couldn't speak any further because John closed his mouth with a kiss.

"That has nothing to do with logic, my dearest one," he said, when he had solved the kiss.
"That my words of encouragement are good for you may have something to do with the fact that you like me a little bit?"
"Oh John!"
Sherlock looked at him as if he'd said something exceptionally stupid.
"I don't like you just a little bit, I love you! I know I'm no good at these interpersonal things. But that I love you, Doctor, that I know for sure."
John smiled.
"Well, then it's just as well that I like you just a little bit, too!"
"Gnrrr!", Sherlock did in his beautiful, deep voice, just knocking over the Doctor, who had his back to the sofa. Then he squatted over him, literally pushed him into the soft cushions and kissed him stormy.
And the thought that shot through John's mind before they started to cuddle wildly and his head drifted off into faraway places was: "Well, then I managed to distract him a little from his worries."

Later, as they lay side by side, now in the bedroom, sweaty and hot and deeply satisfied, Sherlock said:
"Tell me, John, what happens when you're seriously ill?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well, I probably wouldn't get any information from the doctors, seeing as we're not related, would I?"
John thought for a moment.
"Yes," he said. "Well, they wouldn't tell you anything just like that."
He thought for a moment.
"Sherlock, you've mentioned something important. I think you and I should go to a notary and get proper power of attorney..."
"Nonsense," hissed Sherlock, "I don't do things halfway."
And he stormed off.

What was it about him, John thought, did I say something wrong? It wasn't always easy with Sherlock, sometimes he was enraptured by things that were simply made as a normal factual statement; disregarding the fact that he himself was constantly insulting the people around him, both intentionally and unintentionally.
John sighed, put on a dressing gown and walked towards the living room.
"Sit in the chair, John," shouted Sherlock to him from the kitchen.
John did as he was told.
Sherlock came up to him and smiled at him insecurely.

He stood there indecisively for a moment, and suddenly he went down on his knees before John.
John gasped for breath in complete surprise.
"John," said Sherlock, "I don't know how you put up with me every day, and you like to do so. I don't know what I've done to deserve to be allowed to love you and you to love me back. But I do know that I want to do this for the rest of our lives, even if feelings are actually a weakness ... never mind. And I want to be with you when you're sick, and be there for you when you need me."
He pulled out behind his back a structure that turned out to be a piece of tinfoil that he had twisted into a ring.
"John Hamish Watson, will you marry me?"

John was stunned.
He'd expected a lot, but not this.
He looked at Sherlock with eyes the size of soup plates.
He swallowed.
And then there was a glint on his face that spoke of such deep happiness that it made Sherlock happy, too.
"Yes," he said softly, "Yes, I do."
And he gave Sherlock a great big hug and a great big kiss.

"Do you really want to be my husband for the rest of our lives, which, because of our adventurous manhunts, will probably not be too long in coming?" Sherlock growled contentedly.
"Yes, you idiot," growled John, "there's nothing I want more!"
"Well then, John Hamish Holmes-Watson, let's register for marriage as soon as my brother's recovered, shall we?"
"Oh yes, William Sherlock Scott Holmes-Watson," whispered John, and was deeply happy.

"Give me your hand," said Sherlock, and as John obeyed, he put on the foil ring.
"When Mycroft is better, we'll go to the jeweller's and pick out some proper engagement rings. This'll have to do it till then," he said.
John nodded overwhelmingly and swore to himself to keep this ring of simple kitchen foil for the rest of his life and to cherish it.
And he kissed Sherlock one more time.