Chapter Text
The steady rain outside was becoming less and less noticeable as the dreary London days passed by. It was mid January, and Sherlock and Dr. Watson were spending most of their free time safe (and dry) in the comfort of their flat. The blog was providing them with so much business these days that John hardly had time to notice something as inconsequential as the weather--which arguably was quite unlike him. But this was the cost of celebrity, he supposed. On this particularly chilling Sunday, John found himself glancing over to his flat mate from time to time, assessing his pallor and stiffening movements. He had suspected for at least a day now that the detective was coming down with something, but had so far refrained from audible speculation (much to the surprise of Sherlock). Truthfully, Sherlock felt miserable. His body ached with every movement. His head felt as though he were underwater. Like all the rain from the streets has decided to pool into his brain and around his ears. His face was sticky, and warm. And he knew it. And he knew John knew it. And he suspected that John KNEW he knew he knew it. So, all he could do was wait, and pray that John wouldn’t be a doctor for just this once and would mind his own bloody business. Sherlock didn’t really mind John's mother-henning. In fact he found himself longing for it. A simple touch on the arm or a kind word would send him in a state of panic for weeks because he knew he quite possibly loved the doctor. Maybe it was romantic, maybe it wasn’t. He refused to give the matter any thought. He just knew enough to avoid anything that would make him begin to feel...well, anything.
“I’m going out” John announced as he closed his laptop and rose from the dining room table, the chair creaking a groan of relief. “It’s lessened up a bit, I think. You need anything? Grocery wise? Some soup or...I dunno. Something.” John's attempt to casually bring up the elephant in the room was not missed by Sherlock. Sherlock eyed John, deciding what would be the best course of action. After a couple of seconds he looked away and simply waved his hand and made a slight noise in his throat, as if to suggest he hadn’t been paying the slightest bit of attention to the doctor, for he had much more important matters at hand. And being ill was certainly not one of them. John sighed, grabbed his keys, and made his way out to the wet pavement. Sherlock waited until he saw John attempting to hail a cab. Once he was sure he was gone, he sighed heavily, his hands pressed against his temples, and allowed himself to feel miserable, if only for a brief moment.
In what felt like mere seconds, Sherlock opened his heavy, matted eyelids to find that the room was no longer being illuminated by the soft light of a dreary day. It was dark now, and he was alone.
He groaned inwardly as he realized he must have fallen asleep some time ago. When had he even closed his eyes? He shifted his arm, noting his movement was restricted by heavy wool wrapped all the way up to his shoulders. He shimmied out from underneath its itchy embrace.
He surveyed the room. The fire was nothing but bright embers quietly cracking. His tea cup from early afternoon was nowhere to be seen. The absence of rain had left the London streets deafeningly quiet.
A quick, breathy sigh escaped Sherlock's lips. Nearly midnight then.
He firmly gripped the leather arm rest and with a shaky push, stood up. Throat raw, he considered stopping to make tea, but couldn't resist the heavy pull of sleep guiding him to the bed. He laid down and felt the immediate relief of cold, clean bed sheets.
……………….
John let himself awake slowly, the sun moving across the sky as he surveyed the gradual shifting of the rays of light on his ceiling. Eventually, the faint smell of coffee roused him from his lazy, half-waking state. That and the slight pang of concern in his gut that tightened when he considered how his flatmate was faring. Damn that man, he thought, admonishing himself for his sympathy. It's not my bloody job to take care of him all the time. He's an adult, for Christ's sake.
Still, the knot was there. Nagging. Reminding him of things he would rather forget. Of feelings he would rather keep buried.
…………………
Sherlock was not having the most relaxing morning. His body ached more than he ever thought possible. The cool caress of his bedsheets had become sticky and overbearing. Ugh. I don’t have time for this. He began to slowly lift himself up, head spinning in protest. He blinked once, twice, then nothing.
~to be continued~