A/N: Er… yeah. I've been toying with the idea of a no-boundaries relationship for ages now and tried to write it into an original short story, but failed somewhat, so I'm using the boys as inspiration. This will not be actual slash, unless you're that way inclined and feel like looking at it with that tint of spectacle. Just a series of one-shots or maybe two-shots if it happens that way. This particular one didn't turn out the way I wanted it to, but I guess it's just an introduction to my premise. Enjoy anyway, and please review with hurt/comfort ideas you'd like to see. I need all the help I can get.

-for you!

He wakes up late.

Well, so far, so hunky-dory. When he rolls over and finds that it's eleven-thirty he groans and weighs the benefits of going back to sleep. Extensive research has shown that falling back to sleep in the morning actually makes you more tired, but then, he already feels terrible, so it's unlikely to hurt him. He knows there isn't a case, so it's not like a retreat from humanity for the day is going to terribly inconvenience anyone.

Or maybe he should get up and find something to do. Practise coercion on Molly Hooper from the lab. Maybe find a nice cadaver in the process and test the theory he's been developing about immobile blood clots. Yes, that thought is rather pleasing. John could come too, just to make sure he doesn't hurt Molly too badly. She wouldn't go near him for weeks after the incident with Jim – no, Moriarty. It was most inconvenient.

Sherlock is comfortable now with the idea that he and John need each other. When he's hurt or upset he craves the doctor's company; when he's happy he wants John to share the feeling. And John will text him if he's having a bad day at the clinic or needs some company or even if he's seen something that made him laugh. It's nice. John still maintains that they're 'friends', that this is what 'friends' do. He'd thought before that he'd had friends. If this is friendship, he realised, then he's never had a friend before. There's never been anyone he was comfortable enough to fall asleep on the sofa with, or hug in public.

People at the Yard think they're shagging, he knows that. He doesn't care if John doesn't. They're comfortable with what they are and don't need to define it for other people who probably wouldn't understand anyway. John said once that they're like brothers. Sherlock knows he could never be like this with Mycroft, but apparently he and the government official are not your usual family anyway.

On this morning he suddenly wants to be with John, which is nothing new, and judging by the time he'll be up. It's Saturday, but the doctor never stays in bed past nine unless they've been on a case. So he gets up, shrugs on the fluffy dressing gown John bought for him last year, and ventures into the sitting room.

And finds John prone on the kitchen floor, a shattered mug beside him, the kettle abandoned in the sink. And panics. "John!" he runs to the doctor's side and shakes him. "John!" He checks quickly for wounds or signs of intravenous injection; they've been ultra-careful since the second scare with Moriarty two months ago but it's not impossible that the mastermind could have got into the kitchen without some signal from Mycroft's surveillance. But there's nothing; John is pale and covered with a cold sheen of sweat but there is no sign of physical injury.

Sherlock never gets sick. Somehow he skipped the whole 'physical vulnerability' gene. But John's had food poisoning before and a cold or two and the consulting detective knows enough to tell that his friend – the word still seems strange after eighteen months – is sick now, worse than he's seen before. So he cleans up the mug beside him and puts the kettle on, and tries to prop John up against the cupboards. John relaxes into his touch so he stays there, arms around him, murmuring the doctor's name softly.

After about ten minutes the stocky invalid regains consciousness. "Sherlock?" he mutters. The curly-haired detective had fallen into a deep ruminative state through which John's name has become a mantra, but he rouses himself.

"How do you feel? What hurts?" There is silence for a few seconds. "I put the kettle on for you."

"Sherlock," the doctor says, his voice low and hoarse, "I think I'm going to be sick." The self-professed sociopath hasn't had much experience with this and feels unfairly out of his depth.

"Oh. Um… Here, can you stand up?" He tugs John to his feet and directs him towards the sink just in time; the contents of the doctor's stomach splatter into the kitchen sink and Sherlock is stuck standing behind him as he retches, rubbing his back and trying his hardest to be sympathetic and comforting. Finally John subsides into pitiful shudders.

"Water," he mumbles. Sherlock scrambles awkwardly for a glass and fills it from the tap, again and again until his flatmate has drunk his fill. "Thanks," he says weakly. "I came into the kitchen 'cause I was thirsty, but all the blood rushed out of my head."

"John…" Sherlock doesn't know anything about sickness. He's seen people throw up before, and should know that it's not the end of the world, but seeing someone spill their guts into the sink – seeing John spill his guts into the sink – still hits him pretty hard and he wonders terrifiedly how sick John really is. "John, how bad is it?"

The doctor gives a hacking cough that might have been a laugh before it went through his throat. "It feels pretty bad, Sherlock, but I'll live." Okay. He let out a long breath.

"Okay." He felt like he should get John back to bed, but would he throw up again? He might throw up on the carpet and Sherlock wouldn't have the first idea how to clean it up, or in his bed and then somehow he'd have to change the sheets around him, or he might pass out again before they got there, but he couldn't just leave him here in the kitchen as his face grew gradually paler from being upright. Mrs Hudson's downstairs, she'll know what to do. "I'll just go get Mrs Hudson –"

"No!" He stops in shock as John makes a grab for his arm. "Sherlock, please, don't go, just stay with me for a bit –" he leans down and vomits again, and the detective shuts his eyes and wishes he could shut his ears too.

"John, I don't know what to do. Mrs Hudson can take care of you. I… I can't." He leaves his arm in the doctor's grip, though, and puts his other hand on his shoulder.

"Just stay with me," John all but whispered, his vocal chords raw from the stomach acid. This can't be the first time he's thrown up and Sherlock suddenly hates himself for not being awake earlier. He wraps his body around John's back, trying to keep him warm because he's shivering, trying to comfort him when he needs comfort himself.

"Okay," he murmurs and his deep voice stills the tremors in John's body. "I'm here."

They somehow manage to get to Sherlock's bedroom – he's not sure how to deal with the stairs, but he only changed the sheets yesterday – and Sherlock sets up a sizeable bucket beside the bed and just holds John, holds him while every ten minutes he leans over and retches liquid – that's all he has left in him – into the bucket. Sherlock's heart breaks every time he coughs weakly and apologises. John always apologises. It's not his fault people get sick. "How come you don't get sick?"

"I just don't," he replies. "Unlucky, I guess." John snorts, and the chest contortion causes him to dry retch again. Sherlock doesn't move away.

"Unlucky?" the two men smile, one weakly, the other uncertainly. "Thanks, Sherlock," the weak one says gently. "Thanks for being here."

"I'll always be here," the uncertain one replies firmly. "Even when I have no idea what to do and I'm scared out of my wits, I'll be here for you, John. I promise."

They both smile again, stronger this time. John relaxes into Sherlock's arms and both contemplate how good it feels to have someone, no questions, no assumptions. "So mote it be," John mutters. Then he rolls over and throws up again.