Work Text:
What others believed him to lack in common courtesies, Sherlock Holmes was making up for in unexpected caregivers.
He’d gotten ill, nothing serious, John had said he was ‘coming down with something that’s going around’.
Sherlock was within the comforts of 221b, now, and vague memories of leaving Scotland Yard made their way back to him as he slowly regained consciousness. Lestrade, or...someone..someone had pleaded with him to go and get some rest, was it Anderson? Anderson didn’t have a job there, that didn’t make any sense. But...he’d been light-headed and someone had called him “Mr. Holmes,” yes, he recalled now…
Perhaps the facts would be put together later, because currently Sherlock was putting all of his senses in use to assess his current condition. His entire skull was absolutely aching, and his body felt as if it’d been stretched in every direction at once.
It was difficult to breathe, which put him momentarily in a panic, before he realized a rather soft and comfortable blanket was drawn up to the bridge of his nose. He pulled at it, bringing it down slightly and being utterly displeased when he realized that his nose was in fac blocked up and a disgusting, slimy film, some of it still wet, covered skin above his upper lip, leading up into his nostrils.
“Stop mumbling, Sherlock, you’ll get a sore throat, too.”
His father. What…? Where? He hadn’t heard himself say anything. But when he tried to clear his throat, it was uncomfortably obvious that a wall of phlegm was trapped inside, causing irritated grumbles to rise from his throat when any form of quiet speaking was attempted.
“Oh, sweetheart, you’re awake, thank goodness.” Mum. A figure radiating warmth came into his hazy field of view and the sofa moved slightly once she perched upon the edge, leaning over and hastily brushing some messy post-sleep curls from his forehead to treat him to a motherly kiss.
A kiss.
Sherlock scrambled upright, startling his mother as he fumbled with blankets and looked around, lost and confused, but she soon composed herself and gave a chuckle.
“John,” she called, her summoning followed by the army doctor’s entrance into the room. Dressed in a modest caramel-colored jumper and blue corduroy trousers, the sight of him resonated a sense of peace within Sherlock, safety within familiarity, reassurance of a special sort of love. A feeling of belonging, of mattering.
Sherlock had completely pushed the blankets off of himself by the time John reached the couch, and Mrs. Holmes shuffled aside politely in understanding at the sight of Sherlock’s eagerness for John’s company.
John assessed Sherlock’s condition, fighting a grin at how- could he be allowed to use the word precious? He certainly looked as much, thin in his dark cotton pajamas, sickly, yes, but desperate for rest and some affection as well.
“You aren’t looking too good, Sherlock.” John sat down next to him, hearing the quiet sniffle-filled breaths, the indescribable heat that seemed to radiate off of ill people meeting his skin.
Sherlock merely whimpered, rubbing a hand against his face lazily and bringing it down to wipe his nose. John watched lovingly as Sherlock clambered onto his lap, slowly and with a body-aching pain, but nestling himself comfortably and nuzzling John’s neck all the same.
John’s eyes met those of Mrs. Holmes, if only for a moment, a smile overtaking her face and a look that could only mean ‘thank you for making my son happy.’ She had said it to him aloud often enough.
“You’re going to get me sick, Sherlock,” John let out in between the rushed kisses Sherlock started to give him fiercely, his mother’s cue to leave. She had no issue with any of it, her eyes twinkling whenever she caught one of them stealing a kiss from the other, her heart warming at the sight of them sitting close together in conversation. John had made everything different, and for the first time her younger son had let someone in and had finally gotten the love and affection he had craved for so long without knowing.
“Oh- I…” Sherlock pulled away, nervously pulling his knees to his chest and resting his chin on one in defeat.
John laughed, and he reached out for Sherlock’s hands, pulling him back over and nearly causing him to fall over the side before he ended up entangled with John, his chin digging into his chest.
“Mfff,” he mumbled, sniffling once more and making himself more comfortable.
“Mmm, c’mere,” John whispered, pulling him up tightly and holding him there in his arms.
His hand rubbed up and down Sherlock’s back, in love with the way his breaths were pushing in against him, a mixture of weak, miserable noises and pleased groans emitting from his limp figure. Part of him felt guilty, finding such pleasure in times that brought Sherlock to this point of vulnerability, when he was so tired, only wanting warmth and sleep and John.
He wanted this always and forever.
“Here you are, boys,” came the voice of Mrs. Holmes in a hushed tone, and the two of them were covered in a new blanket, the others buried somewhere underneath John or pushed to the side. She left them to their cuddling then, but not before bending down to kiss Sherlock on the cheek.
He gave a happy sigh, relaxed and distracted from his cold in the comforts John offered him. His sinuses seemed to clear when his nose was breathing in the modest cologne John wore and the general scent that came with him. Sherlock burrowed his nose into folds of John’s jumper, picking at the fabric with his hand, not unlike a drowsy cat kneading its paws.
“Feeling a bit better?” John’s voice was calm and quiet, washing over Sherlock in a haze, his response being a tired whine. John smiled, confidant Sherlock had fallen back asleep once he heard the soft snores and sleepy gasps he had become so used to.
“He’ll be good in your care, John,” Mr. Holmes said sincerely. John had almost forgotten he’d been sitting across the room in the chair where Sherlock normally sat.
“I hope so,” John said, stroking Sherlock’s hair again. He was right; when Sherlock woke up he would be there, when he did not feel like himself or needed his company, he would, still; he had undeniably missed many signals in Sherlock’s behavior that craved his attention, so he would try harder.
His thoughts broke off when he felt Sherlock shift even farther up, clinging to him as tight as he could, letting out a drawn out hum.
Whatever he was dreaming of, John hoped he found happiness there. And that when he woke he could give him just that.
It wasn’t long before John feel asleep as well, Sherlock’s parents recognizing that he was in fact in safe hands and preparing to leave. They left the boys as they were, Mrs. Holmes unable to resist leaving little things like tissues and a glass of water (“Sherlock might get thirsty,” she insisted) and the flat was left alone, quiet and still, dust settling where it could, the night creeping in through the windows.
These men would dwell within these walls for many an age, John stimulating the great mind that currently rested with him, helping him through greater difficulties than a cold. Even in his dreams, Sherlock knew this, holding tightly to the warmth and love around him, never wanting to let go.