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One year. It’s been exactly one year since John dared to kiss Sherlock for the first time, only to discover his flatmate had been waiting for him to do exactly that for several months already. Sometimes he still can’t quite believe it. That he’s allowed to touch and taste this delicate, white skin, to make this impassive and controlled body shiver with pleasure and need.
John rolls in the bed until he’s pressed against Sherlock’s warm back, puts his hand on the man’s hip. Sherlock mutters something in his pillow, pulls weakly on the sheets as if he were cold. Then starts shivering.
“Sherlock?” John asks, worry all too clear in his voice. “Are you okay?”
The detective turns his head to shoot him an annoyed look that’s supposed to say ‘really, you need to ask?’ But all John sees is the pallor of his forehead, the redness of his nose and cheeks, the slightly dazed look in his eyes.
“What did you do?” John accuses, because he’d been working the previous day and now it’s obvious Sherlock didn’t stay at home the whole time.
Sherlock sighs. “I caught the jewel thief.”
“And?”
“And we fell into the Thames,” Sherlock admits. He tries to have it off, but the gesture is clumsy.
John puts a hand on Sherlock’s forehead and swears under his breath.
“You’re burning up,” he says before kicking the sheets off him. “Don’t you dare go anywhere!”
He doubts Sherlock’s in any condition to get up and wander off, but one of the first things John learned about Sherlock is to expect anything and everything.
When he comes back to the bedroom Sherlock is still there, clutching the sheets and shivering harder than he was a few minutes ago. He looks up at John.
“I believe your body heat could be helpful in my current predicament.” He manages not to let his teeth chatter too much.
John smiles, because even with a fever Sherlock would never just ask him to come back to bed. Way too mundane, he guesses. He sits done on the bed, helps Sherlock to sit up, then brings a glass to the man’s pale lips.
Sherlock drinks his medicine without making fuss. He even lets John coax him putting his robe and pyjama bottoms on, even though he hates wearing any piece of clothing whatsoever while in bed.
Sherlock falls back asleep not long after that, and John makes sure the sheets are covering him properly before stepping out of the bedroom. He calls the restaurant to cancel their reservation, glad he hadn’t told Sherlock about it. The man would have insisted to go anyway. Sherlock might be a genius when it comes to others, but he’s incapable of taking proper care of himself.
The day goes by slowly. John checks up on Sherlock on a regular basis, but the detective seems to be sleeping the fever off. He washes his brow with a cold cloth, caresses the man’s cheeks. The fever drops early in the afternoon, though it doesn’t disappear completely.
Sherlock stumbles out of the bedroom at five thirty. He looks pale and tired, and John is at his side in two seconds flat to help him walk to the couch. Sherlock sits down, dragging John with him, and buries his face in the doctor’s neck.
Sherlock mumbles something against John’s collarbone, soft and apologetic. John wraps an arm around his lover, squeezes his shoulder gently.
“What was that?” John asks quietly.
“Sorry.”
“For what,” John snorts, “being an idiot and falling into the Thames or not telling me about it last night?”
“Both,” Sherlock admits. “And for ruining you plans for today.”
“Plan? What plans?” John waves Sherlock’s concerns off.
The detective raises his head to look John in the eyes. There’s accusation and amusement as well as fatigue in that look. John sighs.
“That’s okay, we’ll do something another time.”
Sherlock leans in, presses his lips to John’s. They kiss slowly, almost lazily.
“Happy anniversary,” Sherlock sighs with one of his rare smiles.
“Happy anniversary,” John agrees.