Sickness

John opened the door the cozy flat, cluttered and warm with a glow of orange light spilling out behind him, casting a tall shadow on the wall, armchairs and books and papers lying around everywhere, odds and ends collecting on any flat surface available. He stepped in, shaking off the raindrops and trying not to stamp mud everywhere, when he noticed Sherlock, curled up and lying in the couch, eyes tight shut. Thinking nothing of it (this was not unusual behaviour for the young detective, after all,) he pulled off his wet coat, carefully hanging it beside Sherlock's, kicked off his dirty shoes, (Mrs Hudson would curse him for it later) unwound his red scarf, and padded over in thick, slightly damp woollen socks to sit at his boyfriend's head. He still wouldn't get over that word. Boyfriend. It sounded nice.

As he flopped down onto the faded cushions, Sherlock groaned loudly.
'Bored?'
Sherlock groaned again, quieter this time, and nuzzled his head into John's thigh, bumping his phone and keys. As John absent-mindedly wound his fingers through the thick, black curls, he sighed contentedly. He was sitting, calm and peaceful, in a nice, cozy flat with the love of his life, on a cold autumn evening, with the smell of coffee, and the prospect of a nice long evening and then bed-he was jolted from his reverie as Sherlock sneezed massively.
'Huh?'
Sherlock looked mortified, then sneezed again, loudly.
John grinned a little.
'What?' Sherlock mumbled, trying to bury his reddening face in John's leg
'That,' said John, now beaming broadly, 'was adorable.'
'Shut-' Sherlock was interrupted by a sudden fit of coughing. He groaned again, and shut his eyes.
'Are you okay?' John looked concernedly down at the younger man, lying on the couch beside him. Now he looked more closely, he noticed the sweat beaded on the pale forehead, the drooping eyes, and the slight catarrh in the breathing. 'Sherlock?'
Sherlock tried to sit up. 'I'm fine, honestly, I just-' he fell back weakly against John.
'I feel awful. I've felt awful since lunch. It's like-it's like my head- John- my head is full- full of bees! I can't think. I can't even breathe, dammit.' He groaned, and tried to sit up again.
'No, you don't.' John gently forced him back down onto the couch.
'You're ill.'
'I can still walk!' Sherlock tried yet again to stand. He pulled himself to his feet, walked a few paces unsteadily to the door, then collapsed into John's waiting arms.
'You are my patient, and you will do as you're told, Sherlock Holmes.'
Sherlock sighed resignedly, and relaxed into John's arms. It wasn't that bad, really, having someone look after him. He'd enjoy it, almost. Anyway, there was no arguing with a Doctor. Especially Doctor Watson.

John laid him back on the couch, then hurried into the kitchen, where he set the kettle boiling. Then, he went into the bedroom, dug through the chest of drawers until he found what he was looking for, and bustled back, to where Sherlock lay limply in the couch.
'Right. Up you get-you're coming with me.'
He supported Sherlock gently (he didn't need this, Sherlock told himself, he was just letting John think he did. Sure, he was a bit dizzy, but nothing too bad, John was clearly overreacti- he steadied himself as another wave of dizziness passed. Or perhaps not. )
John led him into the bathroom, sat him down on the toilet seat, and carefully began to undress him. He ran a bath, adding lavender scented bubble bath, and helped Sherlock into it, settling him into the warm, steamy water. He pressed a kiss onto his damp forehead, then left the room, smiling a little to himself. Sherlock sank back weakly into the warm water, and closed his eyes.

Meanwhile, in the kitchen, John was cooking. It didn't happen often, but he actually could cook. Quite well, too. He boiled up a simple chicken broth, full of healthiness and vitamins, for his patient. He cut up a bread roll, and buttered it, laying it carefully on a plate, beside the bowl of soup. He felt motherly, and that was both a slightly weird, and a rather nice feeling. He liked looking after people-well, of course he did- why else would he become a doctor? He hummed to himself as he laid up a tray, and then headed back into the bathroom, where Sherlock was still in the bath. He helped him out, the two working silently, manoeuvring as the perfect team. When he handed Sherlock the checked pyjamas, he protested a little.
'John, there is no way in hell I am wearing them. No.'
'Sherlock, I'm your Doctor now. You will wear those pyjamas!
Sherlock sighed, and then gave in, he wasn't in the mood to argue.
When he was dressed, John led him back to the couch. He carefully brought the tray over, not spilling anything (an achievement and a half, in this room) sat down on a cushion, and started to feed Sherlock the soup.
This was one step too much for Sherlock- he wasn't a baby, after all. He carefully sat up, leaning against John, and took the spoon.
'I can do this myself, you know.'
'Really?'
'Of course.'
John relented, and handed him the spoon with a smile. 'I know.'
After a few minutes of only the scrape of the spoon, and the slurping of soup, Sherlock smiled a little, and snuggled into John's side. That was a bother thing about having John as a partner- snuggling. He'd never done it before John, and didn't know why he enjoyed it so much, but hey, it was a lot of fun.
When he was finished, John took the tray, and put it on the coffee table, then wrapped an arm around Sherlock. He leaned his head against the skinny shoulder, padded by his pyjamas and a dark blue dressing gown, and breathed in the warm, familiar scent. Sherlock buried his head in John's sandy hair, and realised how much he loved the feel of it. It was soft, but slightly prickly, and warm, and smelled like the rest of John. He felt the smaller man dig his head gently into his neck, and felt more calm and relaxed than he had in days. His eyes closed, and he quickly nodded off.
When he began to snore, John carefully untangled himself, taking care not to wake Sherlock, and stood up. Taking the tray into the kitchen on the way, he fetched a blanket from the bed, and then returned to the couch, switching off all the lights except a small lamp by the table. He laid the blanket over Sherlock, then lay down beside him, and switched off the lamp. He wormed his way down in the warm folds of the dressing gown, and felt Sherlock responding to his touch, wrapping an arm around him in his sleep, pulling him closer. He lay, enjoying the feeling of Sherlock's chest going up and down, and his breath, warm on the back of his neck. He heard the sounds of a sleeping but still busy London, cars going up and down, faint shouts, sirens in the distance. The smell of Sherlock, a slightly musky scent, cinnamon, nicotine, tea, and washing powder, clung to the blanket, the dressing gown, and the man himself, and enveloped him like an aura. He sighed in bliss, and felt himself drifting away, to the land of sleep.

How was that? I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. It was fun! I've written better, but this was both my first 'sickfic' (I hate that word) and my first Johnlock one shot, and I think it went ok. Opinions? A comment and/or vote would be much appreciated! Thank you so much for reading, and if you want more, I have a other Johnlock: 'A study in friendship'.
Bye!