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John yelled in frustration, tossing the book across the room. The plot made no sense and the words were starting to swim on the page, hopping around and swapping places. How was he supposed to read that? He tried flicking through a few TV channels but nothing interested him. Reruns, adverts, more reruns, soap, adverts, and a makeover show. Nothing.
He could hear approaching footsteps now, clattering unreasonably loudly on the stairs. It hurt John's head to listen to them. One, two... Seventeen steps in total. John groaned, cradling his aching head in his hands. Sherlock had returned from his case, one he'd taken by himself when John felt too ill to come. Just what he needed. A noisy, unhelpful, sociopathic genius to muck everything up when he was feeling ill. Great.
"John? Are you still unwell?"
Even the sound of his name hurt. Sherlock didn't try to open the curtains, though, which was a small relief. John raised his head slowly to look at his friend.
"I'm-" He broke off, sneezed, then continued. "I'm a bit better."
"No you aren't."
"Sherlock, if you're going to start bloody... deducing me, then I swear I-"
"You've clearly barely moved since I left you five hours ago. Your book is lying on the other side of the room, so you're clearly bored and haven't been able to do anything to stave it off. You'd have gone out for a walk if you'd been in full health but it's been raining today, and your shoes are still completely dry. Shall I go on?"
"You needn't have started!"
John groaned and looked away. Sherlock was looking at him, unusually concerned.
"Have you eaten?"
"I had some soup."
"Not much, by the look of it," said the detective as he frowned down at the nearly-full bowl of congealing tomato soup.
"Oh, shut up. You go weeks without proper food sometimes."
"I'm not important."
John looked round, confused.
"And I am?"
"Very."
John didn't understand at first, but a strange glow of happiness bloomed inside him and he gave a shy smile.
"Oh, don't look at me like that. It's a fact. The only thing about me of any value is my intellect. You, on the other hand, have the capability to love and that is a thing to treasure."
John could hear some emotion hidden behind Sherlock's words, but in his confused state he couldn't quite pin it down. Bitterness? Or embarassment?
Sherlock looked away, walking through to the kitchen.
"I'm making you some soup."
"Sherlock, really. I am fine."
"In that case, you won't object to me taking a turn at making the dinner. Is soup okay?"
John sighed and climbed unsteadily to his feet.
"Want me to help?"
"I want you to rest. Sit down."
Sherlock gestured towards the sofa, and John flopped down onto the battered cushions. Sherlock finished what he was doing with the soup and walked towards him, gently draping a blanket around his shoulders. John tried to pull away, but his friend's hand resting softly on his arm made him pause. There was genuine affection written in his startlingly blue eyes.
"Please, John. For me."
He nodded, and Sherlock made a small movement towards him. If John didn't know better, he would think that it was as though Sherlock had tried to kiss him, but thought better of it. But that was impossible. Sherlock was a sociopath. He didn't care about anyone...but he said John mattered. He shook his head. He couldn't afford to think that way. Couldn't get his hopes up.
Sherlock wandered back through from the kitchen, two steaming bowls of soup in his hands.
"Here. Move over," he said, perching on the edge of the sofa to hand John the food. He lifted the television remote as he sat next to John, passing it over.
"Movie. Your choice."
"What?"
"You heard. I thought it was customary to be nice to the invalid."
John shoved Sherlock weakly in the arm, smiling.
"Hey! Who're you calling an invalid? It's just the flu."
Sherlock grinned, looking more human and happy than John had ever seen him.
"Now I believe you're feeling a bit better. I told you the soup would help."
John smiled back, taking another spoonful of soup. It was deliciously warm and it made him feel a lot better. Taking the remote, he flipped through the channels until he found something he liked.
"Goldfinger," he said quietly, leaning back against the sofa. "I've always loved Bond movies. When I was a kid I'd always watch them when I was sick."
He looked up at Sherlock with a slight frown.
"I don't know why I'm telling you this. Sentiment. You won't care."
"No, I- I like it. Knowing you."
"Really?"
John was surprised. His friend never said these things. He never appreciated sentiment, never in any of its forms.
The opening credits of the film began playing and they stopped talking, leaning back and watching the film. John noticed he'd nearly finished the soup without even realising it, and he was beginning to feel drowsy. He yawned and his hand rested on the sofa. He looked back at the screen and was soon immersed in the plot again. A fight broke out on screen and John's fingers twitched automatically into a fist. A calming hand rested lightly on his and he looked down in astonishment to see Sherlock's hand covering his own. A shy but confused smile tugged at John's mouth as he relaxed his hand and felt Sherlock's fingers slide between his own. The detective looked nervously at him, and John smiled to reassure him. His heart was beating at approximately five times the usual rate, but he didn't pull away. He leaned in slightly closer, resting his head against Sherlock's shoulder. The taller man smiled, a genuine smile filled with a huge mix of emotions. Hope. Happiness. Relief. Affection.
On an impulse, John turned his head slightly and nuzzled his face into Sherlock's shoulder, smiling.
"Feeling any better?"
"Better than I ever have."
"And are you still ill?"
"No, you were right. The soup helped."
Sherlock pressed a gentle kiss to John's forehead and tugged at a bit of the blanket, pulling it up to cover them both. John curled against his chest and closed his eyes, a smile on his face. He never knew Sherlock could be this caring. But he liked it.
"I should be ill more often," he murmured with a laugh, "if it makes you be this nice to me."
"I could be nice more often."
"Could you really?"
"I can try."
John grinned, lightly pressing a kiss to Sherlock's cheek.
"I'd like that."