The Colds of Baskerville - BBC Sherlock (Sherlock/John)

[Masking]

It's 2:30 AM and I can't sleep, so here's some Johnlock that I can't get out of my head. This takes place after the episode The Hounds of Baskerville - I know the "John/Sherlock get(s) a cold because of the "Do not enter unless you want a cold"-marked lab" scenario has already been done, but I felt like it anyway. Those two are just begging for some h/c. And this will definitely not be a one-shot - stay tuned (if you want).

I may or may not have been inspired by this fanart by VoOs, who is brilliant and wonderful.

( @VoOs - sorry, I can't get it to @ in the link because I am a code no0b.)

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John Watson was used to colds. He treated them, he comforted those who had them (no, Mrs. Harrison, you can't have antibiotics for this, it just contributes to superbugs), and occasionally, he got them himself. Very occasionally. So he was used to the signs, annoying as they were, and he was definitely getting a cold now...and it was Sherlock's fault.

The Sherlock in question was on the other side of the living room, alternately playing his violin and reading on the sofa. At least he wasn't proclaiming his book to be boring, as he had been known to do. John sneaked a look at him and, once he'd satisfied himself that Sherlock wasn't staring at him, allowed himself to give in to a cough. 'Do not enter unless you want a cold.' Bloody hell, of course he had a cold after. Hadn't Sherlock been the one to keep him in that lab, shaking with fear, while he ran a psychological experiment? And now John was the ill one. He coughed again, this one more painful, against his wrist.

"I want tea," Sherlock announced suddenly, and cleared his throat.

John rolled his eyes. Sherlock wanted tea and attention both, it seemed. "Get it yourself, then."

Uncharacteristically, Sherlock didn't argue. Instead, he laid aside his book and went back to plucking out something atonal, but strangely compelling, on the violin. John closed both his eyes and his computer; he could work on the write-up for this case later. Hallucinogenic drugs and imaginary dogs were far too much to deal with when he was ill.

"Eh-huh...hh'ehhh..." John looked up in time to see Sherlock hastily set down his violin, raise a shaking arm, and muffle a strong, desperate "Ehhh-HNFSHHH!" into his sleeve. He followed the sneeze with a loud cough, then took a long breath that only led to more of them. He was panting by the end, and John set his computer on the floor. He definitely wasn't the only sick one here, and as much as Sherlock might deserve it, John wasn't about to leave his flatmate to suffer.

"Bless you," he said. "Budge over." When Sherlock acquiesced - another uncharacteristic sign - John sat down next to him and gave him a once-over. Sherlock was sniffling, so his nose was probably running, but the thing that concerned John more was those coughs. He had to cough himself then, right into his lifted shirt collar, but turned back to Sherlock when he was done. "Baskerville?" he asked softly. Sherlock visibly stiffened up. "I'm not about to lecture you, Sherlock. I just need to know the truth."

"I hope this isn't a cold," Sherlock said; clearly, John didn't need to explain what he'd meant, so he'd probably known already and tried to hide it. "I - just a -" He hid his face in his elbow again and coughed for a solid thirty seconds or so.

John lay a steadying hand on his back and rubbed it in circles. With his other hand, he pinched his own nose, which was running as well. Oh, God, he had to sneeze. He wrinkled his nose and rubbed it with the back of his hand, but it didn't help. Mere moments after Sherlock had stopped coughing, John had to pull away and cover his face with both hands. "Huh-RRshhh! IhhhTSCHH! Ah - hehKFSCHH! - heh..." His nose kept twitching, but the uncomfortable tickle remained, unable to burst forth in another sneeze. He drew his hands away from his face and sniffled. His nose felt completely stuffed up as well as runny. "Sorry."

"Gesundheit," Sherlock said hoarsely. He reached into his pocket and took out a folded handkerchief, which he lay on John's lap. Something warmed up in John's belly. He was no consulting detective, but if Sherlock was carrying a handkerchief, then he likely needed it, and he was still giving it to John. Although Sherlock was far more sensitive than he gave himself credit for, what if...no, it wouldn't happen. The 'it' he refused to name would have happened already if it were going to.

But John didn't have time to ruminate. He snatched up the handkerchief and hurriedly unfolded it, then held it in front of his face. His eyes fluttered shut and he pressed his nose against his handkerchief-covered palm, sneezing into it much more harshly than before. "RRShhhh! Huh, ah - ahh'KFSCHHH! RFFSCHHH! - heh - hehh...ehahhIIHSCHHuuh!" His breath came hard, and he leaned back against the couch, closing his eyes again. "Jesus. I don't usually sneeze like that." One or two, that was usually his limit.

"I know," said Sherlock. Of course. John had been ill at Baker Street before, but usually he'd kept it in the privacy of his own bedroom or muffled sneezes in the bathroom, not just letting it out in the living room like this. Not next to Sherlock. It was an oddly liberating feeling, especially with Sherlock's kindness. "Gesundheit. Do you want to keep hold of that? You're not finished."

John didn't have to ask how Sherlock knew that. He had to be giving off some sign that he was too tired to puzzle off himself, some twitch or other movement. His nose was still irritated, but it was beginning to feel sore rather than tickly. Nevertheless, he built up a minute later, this one ticklier than any impending sneeze in recent memory. Whatever they were doing at Baskerville, it was powerful. And annoying. "Huh...hh'hehhhuh...ohgod ihhHEHH...Sh-Sherlock..." He forced his eyes open even as the hand holding the handkerchief fell slack towards his lap. If this sneeze were as desperate as he hoped it wasn't, then Sherlock needed time to get out of the way. "I n-need to snuhhh...going to -"

His eyes closed again of their own volition. Even as his face lifted up, he felt Sherlock's hand untangle the handkerchief from his own, and he spared a moment to be disgusted at himself for exposing Sherlock to his bodily fluids. "John." Sherlock tapped his shoulder, and through tearing eyes, John saw him hold his handkerchief out towards his face. "Here. It's all right."

John couldn't argue. In fact, he didn't think he could do anything except sneeze at the moment. "Th-thank...huh..." He leaned his head forward and buried his nose in the waiting handkerchief, his nostrils flaring as he readied to sneeze. Sherlock's other hand steadied the back of his neck, somehow comforting. "Ehh...hehh..." He gasped in air. "Huhh-huhIIFSCHooo!"

He was far too exhausted to be embarrassed as Sherlock continued to hold his hand against his face. He obviously knew what John needed, and John's nose definitely needed a wipe. He obliged it, rubbing his sore nose back and forth against Sherlock's cupped palm through the cloth. The tickle was gone, and he knew he needed a blow, but this was all right for now. "Thank you." His voice had gone husky. "I think I'm finished."

"You are," Sherlock agreed, folding the handkerchief and setting it aside. He coughed again, and John watched him shake with it. "You never sneeze in fits. Two is the most you ever let out, save for one set of three when you were exposed to a high concentration of dogwood pollen last year. Thus, the only cause of your fits now is a cold you caught at the Baskerville labs." His eyes slid downward, mouth twisting in...shame? "I'm sorry, John. It's my fault you're ill."

"Sherlock, you're sick, too." John touched Sherlock's arm. "Hey, it's okay. Look at me." He waited for his flatmate to meet his eyes, and noted how pink and irritated Sherlock's looked. Adenovirus, the doctor part of his brain piped up. Bioengineered and unknown, he told it, and shut up.

"IIIhtshh!" Sherlock suddenly snapped away and sneezed into the open air opposite John, then sniffled hard and swiveled back.

John reached forward and held the back of his hand briefly against Sherlock's forehead. "You're warm," he said, "just a little. And bless you." He watched Sherlock rub at his nose with the back of his hand. "Do you want a tissue?"

Sherlock nodded, his voice going deep and breathy as he tried to speak and build up at the same time. "Y-yehh...yes, p-p-TTSChhhh!" He gave a few short sniffles and dabbed his nose with his sleeve. John was a bit surprised that he wasn't pitching a fit about ruining the thing, but then, he'd already coughed it into it enough that it was probably ruined already. "Excuse me." All right, so he still held on to some semblance of old-style manners when he sneezed. John would have to make a note of that.

"Bless you." It came out in a sweeter tone than he intended. While you're at it, just go ahead and snog him - I'm sure he'd love that. Idiot. "I'll go get us some tissues, hm? And I'll put the kettle on. You need tea."

Sherlock nodded wordlessly, leaning his head back against the couch. John touched his arm again, this time in comfort, then got up and found a box of tissues in the bathroom closet. After that, he filled up the electric kettle, disheartened but not surprised at how much the trip tired him. This would be a bad cold. "Here," he said as he brought the tissues back to the couch - dragging the rubbish bin from the kitchen in for good measure - and sat down again. "These have lotion. Go on, use as many as you need."

"Thank you." Sherlock took a few out and blew his nose, short and hard, which made him cough. John put a hand on his back again, waiting out the coughing fit, and took some tissues to blow his own nose after satisfying himself that Sherlock was all right. "Interesting," Sherlock said after John had finished blowing. "You do that one nostril at a time. I blow both."

John snorted and wiped his nose. "Yeah, that happens," he said. "Do you always cough like this when you're ill?"

Sherlock nodded. "Historically, colds have gone to my lungs much more than my head," he said. "Rather defeats the purpose of an upper - uhh - hh'TSCHHfff! - upper respiratory infection." He coughed into the tissue, then threw it out. "I te'd to heal quickly. It's dot dearly as serious as it sou'ds."

John nodded, then - feeling strangely bold - took out a few more clean tissues and pressed them against Sherlock's pink, running nose. "You're really congested," he said. "Come on, give that one-nostril thing a try, then. Nice and slow. You don't want a nosebleed." He held one nostril shut with his thumb and waited for Sherlock to blow, which he did without complaint and with his eyes shut. "Good." He found himself scooting closer to Sherlock, still holding the tissues gently against his face, and put an arm around him. He was already helping him with something much more intimate than simply holding him, wasn't he? "Again, other side. There you go." Sherlock blew again, coughing at the end; John pulled him closer, and to his surprise, Sherlock put his head on John's shoulder, sighing. "God, you really feel like crap, don't you? Both sides now. Good."

"That doesn't even begin to cover it," Sherlock rasped, still congested but with far clearer consonants. John felt a pang of sympathy. His throat had to be sore from all the coughing.

"I understand." John threw the tissues in the bin. "You're all cleared out. Feel better?"

Sherlock nodded. "Yes, only my throat - hold on." He coughed into his hand. "It's sore. Annoying. My transport should never malfunction." He shook his head. "I blame Mycroft. Obviously, he's had a field day with my biological wiring at some point in his life. I wouldn't put it past him, so don't give me that look."

"God, Sherlock, just shut up and let me take care of you." John rubbed his nose, which itched but not enough to sneeze, and leaned against Sherlock.

Sherlock leaned back farther against the arm of the couch, taking John with him, one overly-warm hand in John's hair. "Then do." His voice rumbled in his chest, comforting against John's ear. Then he coughed again, and the sound reverberated even harder. "Tea, you said?"

"Tea," John agreed, and together they waited for the kettle to boil.

Edited October 17, 2016 by Masking

[Masking]

Sherlock wasn't aware that he'd fallen asleep, his dream-mind palace bearing more than a passing similarity to his real one, until the teakettle whistled. "John," he said, and poked at his flatmate's hair. "The tea. It's ready." His throat felt as though it was on fire, just like in those horrific vampire books he'd read when he had nothing better to do (all right, it had been on a dare, and Mycroft's half of the dare was that he had to eat a tin of cold baked beans in under two minutes). But this fire was due to some sort of cold - whatever one might call it when it had likely been engineered - and not to scientifically-improbable venom, so he supposed that was a license to whine a bit in the privacy of his head. "John?"

"Mmph. Up." John stirred on his chest, raised his head, and snuffled. "God. I'm really bunged up." He wrinkled his nose as he always did, but this time it was slower, and looked...tickly. Deducing John's need to sneeze while John lay against him, twitching and shivering, fascinated Sherlock somehow. His eyes always narrowed just as the tickle began to grow noticeable, and his nostrils had a tendency to flare in pulses. They were flaring now, and he watched closely. "W-want some bihhh...HHISCHHhh!"

"Gesundheit," Sherlock told him. John pulled out some tissues and wiped his nose in obvious irritation. "Do I want biscuits? Were you about to ask that?"

John nodded. "Yeah, that. I think we've got some Biscoff from the last time Mrs. Hudson..." He stopped to cough, deep and chesty. "Ow. Last time Mrs. Hudson got a visit from her cousin. I'll bring those." He levered himself off the couch and into the kitchen, and Sherlock curled up at once. Without John, the room suddenly felt so cold; he took a blanket off the end of the couch where he'd haphazardly thrown it the day before and wrapped it tightly around himself. Better - marginally.

His flatmate came back several minutes later with a steaming teapot, which was covered by a tea cozy made from part of an astronaut blanket, the packet of cookies, two cups under one arm, and a jar of honey under the other. "We've not got lemon," he said. "I think you replaced it with those toenails, Sherlock, we've got to talk about those." He carefully unloaded his burdens onto the nearest table. "Right. Do you want honey?"

Sherlock might have said no under other circumstances, but now he craved it. A cough that echoed John's burst out of his chest like John Hurt's plastic alien in the eponymous film, making him grimace. "Yes," he said, and turned away so he could surreptitiously pound himself on the chest. Somehow, that helped him when he had a bad cold. It worked as well as usual this time, and when John handed him a steaming cup, he gratefully wrapped his hands around it and brought it close to his face.

John did the same, and for some time, they sipped in silence. Then suddenly, John put down his mug and cast about wildly for tissues, his mouth falling open and his eyes crinkling. He couldn't have been more obvious about signaling a sneeze if he'd broadcast it from the rooftops. This was why Mycroft had never asked John to work for him, much as he would love to vex Sherlock by taking him away. "Sh-Sherlock, ihhhhh...m-move out of the way..."

"I'm already out of your way," Sherlock said.

John had just enough time to give him a dirty look before he sneezed into the tissues he'd snatched at the last minute. "Ihhh'GSCHHHuhh! Hhhg'KSCHHH! Huh-eh...hhnnn'RRFSCHH!" He coughed with the force of them, lowering the tissues long enough for Sherlock to inadvertently see the state of his nose before he blew. It was an odd feeling, looking at John's cold-ridden nose. Pity? No...sympathy. Yes, that. "Sorry, this is disgusting."

"Not at all." Sherlock reached over, took John's tissues, and discarded them - they were sharing the same virus, so the type of 'ewww, I touched it' squeamishness that his brother exhibited despite his own allergies and colds (or perhaps because of them) would be ridiculous in this situation. "Gesundheit."

John rubbed his nose upward with the palm of his hand, leaving a soft crease in the bridge that faded within seconds. "Thanks. Bugger, this itches. It's like I've come over allergic all of the sudden."

"This is nothing like allergies," Sherlock countered, and just then - as if he'd summoned a demon by thinking of him - his phone buzzed.

How unfortunate that you are ill, brother. Perhaps you will think more carefully about intruding where you aren't wanted from now on. -MH.

Sherlock bared his teeth at the phone. Bloody spying pillock. Mycroft would have his mouth washed out with the finest French-milled soap for saying that, of course. "Your brother?" John guessed with a sigh.

"Of course." Of the two of us, you know much more about inconvenient sneezes. I recall you having a difficult childhood because of it. That and your weight. -SH

"Don't rile him up about that." John leaned over Sherlock's shoulder and took a sip of tea, the slight slurp loud in Sherlock's ear. Far from feeling irritated, Sherlock found it almost endearing. John then sniffled, which was even more so. He'd have to observe his reactions to these functions if he were to get to the bottom of this. "I know he's intrusive, but -"

Sherlock's phone buzzed again. Of the two of us, I was the one who did not require braces. -MH

"You had braces?" John laughed, cleared his throat, and then finished the laugh. Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh, come on, it's hilarious. You with braces. I had them too, you know. Podgy little teenager walking round with brackets on his teeth and spots on his face."

"I believe it," Sherlock said, and took a gulp of tea from his cup, but quickly had to put it down. His throat felt better, but now his head was pounding. "Nnngh." He dropped it into the cradle of his hands and massaged his pounding temples. "What is the matter with me?" Losing control - he hated, hated, hated it. There was entropy in the world, but not in Sherlock Holmes's transport, not in his mind. Inconvenient - "What are you doing?"

John massaged Sherlock's temples in slow circles with his thumbs, just as he'd done with his hands on his back earlier when Sherlock couldn't stop coughing. "Still warm," he said. "I think that's what's giving you a headache. Do you want to lie down?" He took his hands away and peered into Sherlock's face. Sherlock could see the faint stippling of stubble on his cheeks, the shivery wrinkles of his red nostrils. "You should...heh..." His eyes crinkled and his nostrils opened wider; Sherlock leaned closer despite himself to watch the trembling of his lower lip. "Ehhuh...HUH..." He tilted his head upwards, then all of a sudden, sighed out his indrawn breath. "Bloody sneeze went out on me." He rubbed his nose with his thumb and forefinger.

Sherlock, in his turn, felt his nose tickling. It was as though the need to sneeze had been transferred from John's nose to his in some sort of telekinetic exchange, and rather than rub at his nose or try to fight it off, he followed John's lead and let the need overcome him. "Ah-huh, hihhh...IIHKKtschh! Ehh-TFSCHH! KTSHH!" His nose twitched and twitched, and his chest jumped erratically. And here he thought he'd left this rubbish behind when he finally found an allergy medication that worked. But then, those sneeze had been far lighter and a bit less...he didn't know how to describe these. Heady? He pinched his nose and shut his mouth tightly, and the last sneeze came out muffled and forceful. "Ehh-GGHFFF!"

"Bless you, Sherlock!" John said. Sherlock realized suddenly that John was still half-leaning over him, and that he'd sneezed between them in an almost protective sort of environment. "Sorry, I think my sneezes are contagious." One side of his mouth lifted in a half-smile. "How's your throat?"

Sherlock shook his head and brought a tissue up to his mouth to cough into. "Abominable." The word came out as a croak. "Clearly, I should not stifle when I sneeze."

John sniffled, looked at the tissue box a short distance away, and shook his head before wiping his nose furtively against his wrist. It did not help. "Yeah, c-clear - iiihrrr'IIHSHHoo!" He blinked hard and ran a thumb under both eyes. "Okay, I need to lie down, too." He moved his mug to the farthest side of the table, along with the mug. "Do you want more of yours?"

Sherlock looked at his mug, which seemed to have lost its appeal. He didn't know why, but he wanted John to lie against his chest again so that they could have their cold together. It only made sense, since they'd caught it together (and it was his fault - the guilt still pinched at him). "No," he said, and put his mug on the table, too. "I'll rest." How strange that he wanted to rest, or even could. Everything bored him the vast majority of the time; not today, though, when John and his cold interested him enough to forestall the need for movement. He lay down on the couch and John joined him in his former position, arms curled together against Sherlock's stomach and his face pressed to his chest. Sherlock ran his fingers through John's sweaty hair and breathed in the scent (as much as he could with his nose clogged and inflamed) that John gave off when he sweated just slightly; it mixed with his deodorant and detergent, and Sherlock...liked it.

"Huhh-hh'MMPFFkch! EHHTSHH-huh!" John's body shuddered as he sneezed into Sherlock's shirt. Sherlock jolted, too, but out of surprise. "S-sorry, gonna - uh-HMMPH! KKMPHHCH! TSCHH-uh...huhh...MPFF!" He snuffled softly, clearly ashamed, and lifted his head. "Don't know what came over me. I just really had to sneeze then."

"Don't bother getting up," Sherlock said, and stopped John's progress towards the tissues with a hand on his arm. "Just...wipe your..." He coughed, then cleared his aching throat. "It's already been sneezed on."

John made a bemused noise, but rubbed his nose against Sherlock's chest anyway, then held on tighter. "Thanks."

"Gesundheit," Sherlock told him, and then, "EHHKSHH!" 

Another chuckle from John. "You, too, Sherlock. You'll feel better after you rest a while."

[ID2006]

I love this. Both sick and cuddling.

[Shamaël]

Great job! What I like most (apart from the sneezing and reciprocal h/c of course!) is the interaction between the two brothers, very well captured. Thank you for sharing!

[Subtly Clashing Wishes]

It is always a treat to read some Sherlock fan fiction. Don't feel bad for writing what you like, even if you feel like it has been done before. 

Okay favorite bits:

1. John trying to take care of Sherlock even though he is just as sick as the detective. Typical health care provider. 

2. Sherlock being entertained? distracted? intrigued? by John's own illness and sneezing. 

3. Your references to Mycroft's allergies and squeamishness about illness. And how Sherlock blames Mycroft to a certain extent for their current condition. 

I look forward to reading more.  

 

[cally]

I've read a fair amount of post-Baskerville illness (and otherwise) fics.  For some reason, the majority always end up with only one of them ill, not both.  I really enjoyed this take on them both being unwell simultaneously. I really enjoyed the level of detail that was put in to their shared misery experience.  

[kushamisukii]

This is great. I love it.

[VoOs]

How am I only seeing this now?! D:

I feel honored to have inspired such wonderfulness. The 'domestic johnlock sharing a cold' scenario has a very special place in my heart. <3

Oh, And:

On 2016-10-20 at 3:02 AM, Masking said:

"This is nothing like allergies," Sherlock countered, and just then - as if he'd summoned a demon by thinking of him - his phone buzzed.

How unfortunate that you are ill, brother. Perhaps you will think more carefully about intruding where you aren't wanted from now on. -MH.

*gigglesnort* Perfect. 

[Masking]

John was vaguely aware that he was up on his feet. Yet he could only blame his cold for making him so out of it that he didn't realize Sherlock had guided him to bed until he was there.

Oh, hell, it was equally to blame for him taking another long several minutes to realize that it was Sherlock's bed.

"Whyzinhere?" he slurred once it hit him. His throat was sore again, the tea having apparently worked its magic and then disappeared like Cinderella's fancy dress at midnight. Magic never lasted, not even in stories.

"You mean to ask why you're in here, I'm sure," said Sherlock, who sounded as hoarse as John felt. "Simple. I didn't feel like carting you up the stairs and I can watch you more easily if we're both in my bed. Tttschh!" John pulled his face out of the pillow just as Sherlock's voice went unsteady at the end of his sentence, and watched him sneeze off to the side. There was just enough lamplight in the room to illuminate the spray. Possibly because of John's own cold, it wasn't nearly as disgusting as it could have been.

"Bless you."

Sherlock acknowledged this with a "Thank you," again so unlike him (maybe John would have to ensure he got sick more often - he was disgusted at himself almost as soon as the thought crossed his mind). Sniffling, he pressed the back of his hand lightly against his nose, shivering. "Illnesses are ridiculous," he said in a conversational tone. "I was once told that it was God's way of slowing one down and making sure one took a break every so often. Utterly ridiculous. How, then, does one explain smallpox?"

"You shouldn't be talking, Sherlock," John said. "Your throat's obviously sore. Don't give me that look." The look in question was Sherlock's version of puppy eyes. "Do you need me to tie you down and go to Tesco for lemon juice? I'll force-feed you tea with lemon if I have to."

"No need," Sherlock replied with a sniff. "At any rate. Did you know Mycroft has had smallpox?"

Wait, what? "Wait, what?" John asked. "I'm sorry, did you say smallpox? The disease eradicated before 1980? Your brother can't possibly have had it. We would have heard about it." He'd have had to study that case in his medical textbooks and would have had an exam with questions on it, and he was certain he'd not heard of any case in Britain after Janet Parker.

"Classified, of course," said Sherlock, "but it was an initiation of sorts, and if he had chosen to eat the salad instead of the cupcake in the canteen, he would have contracted variola minor instead of major. Perhaps that was why he finally lifted his overlarge bottom out of its chair and started moving it." He actually cracked a smile. "He barricaded himself in a meat freezer until the ordeal was over, and then set the contents on fire."

To be honest, John would not put it past Mycroft. At Baskerville, it was his credentials that had gotten them through the door. "Remind me never to w-work for the - ehhh...guh-government - hehRSCHHuhh!" He snapped upright and sneezed into his hands. If Sherlock had brought the tissues, he didn't see them. "Ehhh'ggschh! Heh'hh'ihTSCHHH!" His eyes widened and he clamped his hands down harder over his nose. "Ub, Sherlock?" Dammit. He sounded stuffed and he felt like it, too. "I deed tissues."

Sherlock prodded his hands with a handkerchief and John took it gratefully, dropping his eyes away from Sherlock so that he wouldn't have to watch his flatmate's expression as he blew his nose. Disgusted, no doubt. "Where do you keep these?" he asked when he was finished. "Surely there's not some kind of handkerchief dispenser on your person." On the whole, he tended to prefer tissues for the cleanliness factor, but he had to admit that Sherlock's handkerchiefs were downright soothing on his nose. He almost wanted to bury his face in the one he was holding and just sniffle for a while.

"In my bedside table," Sherlock said. John fuzzily tried to reason out why Sherlock would have handkerchiefs so close and gave it up as a bad job. Experiments, no doubt, and he was too tired to play riddles with himself. " I - " He stopped suddenly, his breath catching in his chest. "Huhhh..." John watched his eyes squeeze shut and his face tip up in desperation, his nostrils first twitching and then flaring widely. "Eh-ah..." He pressed a single long finger against his nostrils and rubbed furiously back and forth.

It was adorable.

"Sherlock," said John, and when Sherlock squinted at him, teary-eyed, he made a snap decision. "Come here." He took Sherlock's face in his hands, thumbs against those cheekbones he'd snarked about, and kissed him.

Sherlock didn't push him away. He stiffened, yes, but before John knew it, he was also returning the kiss with enthusiasm (if not a great amount of skill). His hands rested against John's face, cool and secure, yet his lips were warm.

John made a happy noise into Sherlock's mouth and then blinked in confusion at the relatively cold air on his face. "Sherlock?"

"Hh'IIHSHH!" The sneeze exploded into Sherlock's sleeve, followed by more. "Ih'KSCHH! IIHSCHHH! Ihhehh! Ehhh...ihTSCHHHAHH!" Right. That was why he'd kissed him - adorable when sneezing. He'd definitely caused that with all the movement of their noses. Oh, God, John thought as Sherlock's face remained in his sleeve for a long, hard fit of coughs. He'd caused that, too.

His poor flatmate finally lay back against his pillow, face cherry-red. "Shite, Sherlock, I'm sorry," John said. He reached over and held his palm against Sherlock's forehead, which turned out to be warmer than it should be, but not scorching. "Bless you. Are you okay? Apart from being sick, I mean."

Sherlock wiped his watering eyes with his hand. "Tolerable," he said. At this rate, he was going to lose his voice; guilt stabbed at John. This went way beyond revenge for Baskerville if Sherlock turned out to be really ill from their cold. Even a plain cold could knock you flat, as it seemed to be doing to him. "That needed to happen. I feel much better."

"After all those coughs?" John demanded. "No. There's no way. I'd be feeling like I'd scraped out the inside of my chest with a wire brush, myself."

"No, after sneezing," Sherlock replied. He got a handkerchief for himself, but didn't blow his nose, instead wiping it gently. Maybe it was sore. "I desperately needed to. You have no idea." He sniffled - that was adorable, too, the way his nose wiggled and his face creased in total concentration. Was that new, or was John just now noticing it?

"I think I've got some idea," said John. Sherlock acted as though John had never had the opportunity in his life to encounter colds, or pollen, or dust from one of their own damn cases. Maybe Sherlock thought that everyone spent as much of their lives as he did wrapped in cotton wool. Whatever. "Er, what led up to that. Were you all right with it? I thought, um."

Sherlock sank down further into the pillows. "Kissing?"

"Yeah." John's heart was pounding. 

Sherlock's cheeks turned pinker, but that couldn't be right. Sherlock Holmes didn't blush, even when he was acting. "Surprisingly...a bit good."

[AngelEyes]

1 hour ago, Masking said:

"Whyzinhere?" he slurred once it hit him. His throat was sore again, the tea having apparently worked its magic and then disappeared like Cinderella's fancy dress at midnight. Magic never lasted, not even in stories.

"You mean to ask why you're in here, I'm sure," said Sherlock,

LOL

 

1 hour ago, Masking said:

"Classified, of course," said Sherlock, "but it was an initiation of sorts, and if he had chosen to eat the salad instead of the cupcake in the canteen, he would have contracted variola minor instead of major. Perhaps that was why he finally lifted his overlarge bottom out of its chair and started moving it." He actually cracked a smile. "He barricaded himself in a meat freezer until the ordeal was over, and then set the contents on fire."

Oh dear.

 

1 hour ago, Masking said:

Right. That was why he'd kissed him - adorable when sneezing.

Awww

 

1 hour ago, Masking said:

Sherlock's cheeks turned pinker, but that couldn't be right. Sherlock Holmes didn't blush, even when he was acting. "Surprisingly...a bit good."

Love it!

[MyOwnPrivateSFC]

❤️❤️❤️

[Shamaël]

16 hours ago, Masking said:

"Surprisingly...a bit good."

Mwahaha!!! 

I liked the idea of Mycroft's smallpox as a classified information...

And of course Sherlock is adorable when he sneezes. Of course.

 

[Subtly Clashing Wishes]

On January 4, 2017 at 10:25 PM, Masking said:

Did you know Mycroft has had smallpox?"

LOL! I love how you snuck this in.  

On January 4, 2017 at 10:25 PM, Masking said:

"Remind me never to w-work for the - ehhh...guh-government

Umm... Weren't you an army doctor? 

On January 4, 2017 at 10:25 PM, Masking said:

That was why he'd kissed him - adorable when sneezing.

Aww.... 

On January 4, 2017 at 10:25 PM, Masking said:

Sherlock sank down further into the pillows. "Kissing?"

"Yeah." John's heart was pounding. 

Sherlock's cheeks turned pinker, but that couldn't be right. Sherlock Holmes didn't blush, even when he was acting. "Surprisingly...a bit good."

Even more adorable is the image of a blushing Sherlock. 

Wonderful story. I hope there is more to come.  

[drasticity]

Ahhhhh!! I just can't with this fic <3