I is for Ill

Sherlock was sick and John was away at some doctors conferance in Wales.

Sherlock had already texted his doctor countless times, yet had only received a clipped 'This is what you get when you don't eat and sleep. Get medicine and drink tea.' While the former advice seemed obvious, the second seemed inconsequencial. There really was something about John and tea; or maybe it was just like that with all of Britain.

Of course instead of following said advice, Sherlock searched for John's nearest jumper, shimmied into it, and then lied on the couch to wait for his death to come.

This was was how John found the man: curled up in the fetal position with the windows wide open, a few snowflakes migrating in. Colorfully cursing, and saying this was why he got sick, John closed it, cranked up the heater, and went to wake up a slightly blue-lipped Sherlock.

"Sherlock! Sherlock, get your smart-ass up!"

He was having none of it, and John barely missed a few low-aimed kicks.

Decided that if John couldn't verbally or physically wake him up, he might as well try mentally. So the blond began asking questions, none of which Sherlock gave a real answer but just mumbled. Finally, he asked the quesiton he'd wanted to ask the moment he'd sighted him on the couch.

"Why are you wearing my jumper, Sherlock?"

"I wanted comfort," he said drowsily but still coherently, eyes still refusing to open.

"You idiot oaf," John said affectionately as he rumbled damp curls on his forehead. He frowned at the touch from the heat he felt beneath.

"Why are you here?" Sherlock asked drowsily, as it seemed the last question had woken him up enough. "This is not Wales."

"Again, always right," John said lightly. "But knowing your self-destructive streaks, I was needed here more than at some conference.

His phone buzzed the next moment, and John rolled his eyes at the mandatory Mycroft text. He didn't need to be told where the medicine cabinent was; John was the one who had instituted it. But apparently there was now perscription medication sitting pretty in it to get rid of Sherlock's fever.

John stuffed the medicine in his jeans before going back to Sherlock, who had done the impossible and had curled in on himself even more. Sighing, John hoped he had at least half the strength he still did in the army, both in strength and bravery.

Sherlock sqwalked as John lifted the larger man over his shoulder, holding him like a bag of potatoes. Although, a bag of potatoes probably weighed more than this sack of elbows and knees did. John had a sudden tightness in his chest at thinking Sherlock might lose weight from this bought of sickness. Sure, it was just a cold, but Sherlock never did anything half-assed. If he was sick, he was going to be sick.

While his weight wasn't a problem, the squirming and weak pouding against his back sure was. Thankfully he didn't have to climb any stairs and arrived fast enough at Sherlock's danger-zone room. He lowered him slowly, but Sherlock was fast to scramble out of his arms. John furrowed his brow in worry as Sherlock looked more ruffled than before. When John moved foward again, Sherlock pressed his feet against his chest and kicked him off.

"Get changed," John ordered, a little breathless from Sherlock's hard push, before he left. When he returned, he had to resist the urge to sigh in relief. Sherlock was sitting up patiently with sheets pooling around his lap, obviously waiting for John to come back.

"I don't need medicine," Sherlock said grumpily from his bed as his eyes darted to the pills in John's palm.

"Don't be sour, now," John said, telling himself to not snap at his sick flatmate. "I even brewed you some tea to wash it down with."

"I don't need it."

"You don't want it," John corrected.

Sherlock crossed his arms, and John ticked a smile as he was still wearing his jumper. It looked ridiculous on him, with the bright red and blue pattern on the top while the sleeves were inches too short.

"If you take this, I'll get you a better jumper. Deal?"

Sherlock eyed him, calculating, and John wondered if he was trying not to be too eager by the way his fingers twitched at the crook of his elbows.

"Fine," he finally snapped as he extended both hands.

John made sure he saw him swallow, and Sherlock even opened his mouth willingly, moving his tongue to show nothing was underneath there either. Nodding, John left the room to go back to his own and dig through is drawers for any large. He found, in slight chagrin, that the largest one was bright red and green, years old from his aunt when he was just small and everyone thought he'd shoot up like his sister. It was frayed at the sleeves, but it was thick and warm and the sleeves would fit Sherlock better.

He hesitantly came back with the sweater folded to see Sherlock already bare-chested and waiting. Honestly John was surprised Sherlock didn't walk around barely clothed in the winter as much as he did in the other seasons.

They wordlessly exchanged jumpers. Sherlock hesitantly sniffed the sweater before throwing it over his shoulders with significantly less grace than usual.

"Now leave me," Sherlock said as he curled into a ball.

John sighed and said in warning, "Don't punch me in the face," before leaning forward and moving the blankets to cover his torso.

Sherlock seemed determined not to look at him; he only buried his face further into the jumper's thick sleeves.

Closing his door softly, John looked down at the jumper. He slowly leaned down and sniffed; instantly his nose was enveloped in Sherlock's scent. John blinked down at what was supposed to be his clothing and realized Sherlock must have worn it a good amount of time before he'd come barging in.

Inside, Sherlock snorted into his pillow. He had guessed John would wait to smell it until he was at the washer, but even he could be wrong sometimes.

Posted: 2.9.2012