Chapter Text
John moved out at the end of the week. Sherlock’s ordeal had given his health a small setback, but it wasn’t anything life-threatening. The night that John left, Lestrade had a suspiciously convenient row with his wife that resulted in him spending a week on Sherlock’s sofa. Between that and the way he prodded him to do things like eat and bathe, he suspected Mycroft had somehow been involved, but he was too tired and heartsick to do much beyond issue a few scathing comments.
The worst of his sickness tailed off and he was left with a lingering malaise. His appetite returned. He couldn’t be bothered to cook or go to the shops, but he was saved by the bulk-sized case of high-calorie energy bars he discovered under the cabinet as he rummaged for food. Again, he suspected Mycroft’s handiwork, but he couldn’t complain. His clothes were beginning to fit again. He no longer looked as though he were on death’s doorstep.
He missed John desperately, but he survived. He felt as though the world were grey. Loneliness gnawed at his heart like a rat on a bone, but he found that being alive and miserable was better than being dead and feeling nothing.
With John gone, he struggled to hold onto the few shreds of empathy he’d managed to cultivate during their acquaintance. He could feel them shriveling from disuse. It seemed that people complained about him more now that John was gone, but he couldn’t be bothered to care.
Six weeks after what Molly termed, “the breakup” he found himself walking down the street on his way to a party at her flat. He’d said no the first time she’d asked, but then she’d let slip that John was going to be there. He wasn’t interested in trying to reinitiate…whatever they were doing. He just wanted to make sure that his friend was alright.
He ignored the fact that under normal circumstances, nothing could have induced him to show up. Parties made his skin crawl. Large crowds of people tended to over-stimulate his mind, which was feeling fragile enough these days. Coping with the assault on his senses while simultaneously trying to act like a normal human would be a Sisyphean task.
He’d already accepted it as inevitable that at some point in the evening he would insult one of Molly’s friends, who would either start crying or try to punch him, ending the evening in the most unpleasant way possible for everyone involved.
He carried a bottle of wine, supplied by Lestrade. Apparently people were supposed to bring gifts to the hosts of parties. He stopped outside the door to her flat and buzzed himself up.
Lestrade was already there talking to Molly, and judging by the frantic darting of his eyes, desperately trying not to look down her top. For her part, Molly was laughing, completely unaware of his straying gaze. Both of their heads turned when the door shut behind Sherlock. They exchanged a look, and went to greet him. Molly was all smiles and effusive thanks for the bottle of wine. It was her favorite varietal and she couldn’t wait to try it out.
“You should thank Lestrade.” he replied, “After all, he bought it.”
She turned her smile on Lestrade, who might as well have melted with pleasure. Sherlock cast about, his eyes searching. Molly placed a warm hand on his arm, “Oh, sorry, I forgot to tell you, John called a couple days ago. He can’t make it tonight.”
“Why not?”
“He’s sick with that same thing you had, poor dear.”
“Mono?”
“Yeah, that’s it.”
“Oh, well, I’m off.”
“Oh, Sherlock, don’t go.”
“You know I don’t like parties. Now pour more whiskey into Lestrade so he can finally get up the nerve to ask you out. I’ve had enough of watching you two dance around each other. It’s become distracting.”
Lestrade’s face went tomato red.
Completely unfazed, Molly retorted, “Well you’re one to talk. Tell John I said hi.”
Sherlock returned home first. There were a few things he had to do before he saw John.
*
It was midmorning by the time Sherlock descended upon John. He juggled a number of bags in his arms as he wrestled his way through the door of the wretched little bedsit. There had never been a question as to whether or not Sherlock would see him. Until six weeks ago, John had been his best friend and dearest love. What’s more, Sherlock knew exactly how miserable it felt to be sick, and nobody deserved to go through it alone. Although he had to admit, there was a sort of cosmic justice to John catching the very disease he’d infected him with.
John looked dreadful. He was curled partway on his side in a desperate bid to ease the aches that wracked his body. Used tissues littered the floor and beside table. Clothes overflowed from the hamper and the kitchen sink was full of dirty dishes. The whole place smelled of dirty linen and moldy food. Sherlock’s nose wrinkled. What a dreadful place to be ill.
John looked at him, eyes glittering with fever. He didn’t even bother to feign surprise. “Who gave you my key?”
“Landlord.” Sherlock set down his load and began going through his sacks.
He pulled out his prize. A clean set of pajamas. He’d foreseen that John wouldn’t have the energy to do laundry and that by now, all of his clothes would be filthy. It had taken him an hour of shopping to find the perfect pair. The shirt was made of a natural blend of fibers and was soft and tissue-thin, the kind of fabric that wicked away moisture and dried quickly. The bottoms were made of sturdier material, but felt no less silky against the skin.
Sherlock approached the bed. John tightened his hold on the covers in apprehension. He handed him the pajamas. “Take a shower. Put these on.”
John opened his mouth to argue, but his hands already caressed the fabric.
“Don’t argue. You don’t have the energy for it. Besides, you reek. I can smell you from here.”
John meekly accepted the pajamas and went to the bathroom.
While John was busy in the shower, Sherlock stripped the sheets from the bed and put on a fresh set. He was busily washing dishes when John emerged from the bathroom, looking clean, if exhausted.
“No cleaning.” John said.
“Yes cleaning. Now, back to bed with you. I’ll have some tea ready soon.”
A look of trepidation crossed John’s face, but he obediently got back into bed. Soon Sherlock could hear a belabored snore as John struggled to breathe through his constricted nasal passages.
He unpacked the rest of the items from the sacks.
A pot of homemade chicken soup without beets, was the first thing he pulled out. He followed the soup with a thermos of ginger tea with lemon and honey. That would need reheating.
The medicated chest rub and paracetemol came next. The last thing out of the bag was a humidifier. He placed it on the kitchen cabinet, filled the reservoir, and turned it on. Next, he sorted the laundry and took the first load to the machines in the basement.
By the time John awoke, the soup was simmering away on stove. The tea sat steaming in a cup on the nightstand. The dishes were washed and put away, and the clutter that had begun to accumulate on every flat surface had been stowed away out of sight.
John sat up and blinked bleary eyes. “Sherlock, what is that wonderful smell?”
“I made you soup. Now give me just a minute and I’ll be ready for you.”
He set up a bed tray across John’s lap and placed the cup of tea and a napkin on it. John stared at the tea with trepidation. “I’m sorry, Sherlock, I know you mean well, but I’m just not up for this right now.”
Sherlock gave him a stern look, “Drink.” He commanded.
John took the cup and gave it a tentative sniff. His face relaxed at the peppery scent of the ginger. He took a sip and sighed.
“This is heavenly.” He said in surprise.
Sherlock shrugged, embarrassed. “It’s purely medicinal. The taste is just a happy coincidence. The ginger will help with the nausea and congestion. Honey has antimicrobial properties, and the lemon has vitamin C, which will boost your immune system.”
He decided to avoid any further critique of his cooking skills by retrieving the soup. He set it in front of John who poked at it suspiciously with a spoon. “This was made with the exact recipe that was used in a study that found that chicken soup relieves some of the symptoms of people who are suffering from colds.”
John took a tiny sip from his spoon. He frowned in confusion and said, “This actually tastes good.” then attacked the bowl with his spoon. About two thirds of the way through, his enthusiasm waned. Sherlock remembered his own barely existent appetite from when he was sick.
“Finished?” he asked. He didn’t want to force John to eat more than he felt like.
John nodded, his jaw tight. As Sherlock reached to take away the bowl, John’s hands snaked out and clenched around Sherlock’s free hand.
“Thank you.” he whispered hoarsely, “You are a better friend than I deserve.”
Sherlock smiled, trying to conceal the way his heart raced at John’s touch. “None of that. Rest, now.”
John let go of his hand and turned his face away. Sherlock retreated to the kitchen to give him some privacy.
*
John slept off and on throughout the day. Sherlock did laundry and dishes, cleaned the bathroom, and fiddled with his laptop.
The two of them had an uncomfortable moment at around mid-afternoon when John’s nose became so thoroughly clogged that he could no longer sleep, but instead dozed and woke in fits and starts. Finally, Sherlock couldn’t stand it anymore. “Raise your arms up over your head.”
John raised his arms and Sherlock pulled off his pajama top. John froze.
“Don’t worry, I’m not going to do anything inappropriate.” He uncapped the medicated chest rub and rubbed some onto John’s chest. John closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Within minutes he was asleep again. His face was so soft and trusting. Sherlock had forgotten that he could look like this. Tenderness stirred again deep inside him. Without thinking he reached out and laid his palm on John’s cheek. John turned into the caress with a happy little grunt.
Sherlock got up and fled to the kitchen before the onslaught of emotion overwhelmed him. He braced himself against the kitchen counter and tried to calm himself with deep breaths. He loved John just as much as ever. Six measly weeks of being apart had done nothing to change that. Yet, something had changed. For the first time since he could remember, there was no hidden strain tightening John’s voice, no secret sadness that emerged for fractions of a second before being quickly buried again.
For all that they were shy with each other, they were managing to navigate the minefield of wounded feelings that was their relationship. Sherlock could feel a sense of healing where there had once been only a festering resentment. His feelings for John were like a lanced boil. They had been bottled up, growing ever more painful until they finally exploded in a messy eruption of wrath and need and sorrow. Yes, things were more difficult, but the terror of eminent doom was gone. The worst had happened. He had told John he loved him. John had betrayed him. They had parted ways, possibly forever, and yet Sherlock was still alive, still functioning. Yes, he was desperately unhappy, but he still had his cases. He still had Lestrade and Molly and even Mycroft. He was surprisingly, okay.