Work Text:
Sherlock staggers from the bathroom in his blue dressing gown. Scented steam follows him into the living room; John smells eucalyptus and tea tree oil.
John looks up from his laptop. “Back to yourself again, I see.”
Sherlock groans, stretching along the length of the sofa. “Ostensibly.”
“I’ll make you some tea.”
“Don’t. Can’t. Not yet.”
John frowns and fiddles with his wedding ring. “You need fluids, Sherlock.”
One of Sherlock’s long, pale hands makes looping trails through the air, then rests at his side: yes, John, and?
The keys click under John’s fingers. It takes all his focus, typing, but he can’t help sneaking a glance at Sherlock.
Sherlock’s looking at him.
Shit.
“That was one hell of a norovirus you caught,” John says, returning to his typing.
Nothing.
“I told Mary I’d be home this afternoon, and Mrs. Hudson’s at her sister’s, so you'll need to take care of yourself. Need me to set anything up for you before I leave?”
Nothing.
“That case with the Australians--do you want me to wait on posting it to the blog until the lab results come back? Seems like you’ve pretty well solved it, but I know you don’t like it when I write about a case before it’s finished.”
Nothing.
Sod this. Closing the laptop, John tugs his jumper into place and makes for the kitchen. He fills the electric kettle; while he waits for it to boil, he clunks around and sets down the mugs too hard and knocks the lid from the sugar with the back of his hand.
Shit.
He replaces the lid, turns to get the milk, and steps straight into Sherlock.
John’s hands fly to Sherlock’s shoulders to steady him. Purple crescents beneath his eyes, collarbone sharp, adhesive clinging to the soft skin inside his elbow where John ran IVs for hydration and anti-nausea meds: Sherlock spent the last three days feverish and vomiting and looks it.
Sherlock stares at John. “You were.”
“I was? Funny, I feel like I’m still here.”
“Don’t be glib, John. Let me--it’s imperative that you understand.”
The kettle boils and turns itself off with a click.
John waits. Watches Sherlock watch him. Lowers his hands to Sherlock’s hips, works his thumbs under cotton to run them over skin stretched over bone. Alive, John thinks, still.
Sherlock inhales, exhales. Slow. “Your skill in medicine far exceeds my own,” he breathes, “and you take--you take very good care of me. So. Thank you.”
John tilts his face to Sherlock’s. Lets himself smile, a little. “That’s what you came in here to tell me?”
“More or less,” Sherlock says. His lips shrug.
“Well. Thank you, and you’re welcome. Now get your bony arse back to the sofa before you fall on it. I’ll bring you some tea.”
Sherlock doesn’t move. John doesn’t want him to.
“You know, we’ve talked, me and Mary,” John says, low. “About you.”
Sherlock snorts his amusement.
“Yeah, all right, some of it’s complaining. We’re entitled. But we’ve always--you’ve always been with us, Sherlock. And if you wanted. If you wanted more.” John swallows. “We could. Which you probably figured out ages ago, but. Offer still stands.”
John slides one hand up Sherlock’s body. Slips his fingertips beneath the collar of Sherlock’s robe. Traces Sherlock’s jugular up, up.
John pulls Sherlock’s face to his own. Sherlock is moans and nips and pressure against him, hands on John’s arse, tongue in John’s mouth, hair damp and clean between John’s fingers. Relieved. John can tell, somehow: relieved.
John untangles himself and pushes Sherlock away, gently. “Not yet. Eat, Sherlock. Eat, and after, we’ll go home.”