Archive of Our Own ^beta

"Come on, say 'aaaah'." Jon's voice cracked slightly as he held the spoon a little too close to Sherlock's face. He seemed to be aiming for Sherlock's mouth despite the death glare. It made Sherlock flinch and grimace, trying to turn to the side and avoid the bloody spoon.

How did he end up like this: being forced to stay in bed and being spoon-fed chicken soup by a stubborn and very corporeal Jon?

The latter still sniffed like a dog looking for truffles, nose still red from all the tissues he'd needed, voice hoarse and raspy. Jon had been scared of dying mere days before, and even wandered the mansion like a delirious ghost due to a high fever. However, he'd regained half the energy he'd lost once the fever had gone down again. It was a relief to Sherlock, it truly was, but relief had its limits. He felt completely and utterly at Jon's mercy now that he had fallen ill, too. The cold had not hit him with the same vehemence as it had initially hit Jon, but while the latter was already in recovery, Sherlock was just about to face the worst.

To make matters worse, Jon seemed too motivated to play a nurse for the day. He'd not be talked into letting it go!

"Come on, Sherry," he said, sniffing again, then wiping the tears from his reddened eyes. "I've always wanted to take care of you properly whenever you were sick. See it as fulfilling my childhood dream." Jon could not refrain from adding a sweet smile to emphasise his words. 

The very notion that a child, albeit imaginary, would ever dream of playing caretaker for his friend was utterly ridiculous to Sherlock. He suspected being played whenever Jon said things that were so overly sentimental - mostly because they always got under Sherlock's skin, regardless. And Jon had succeeded. Yet again. 

"This is humiliating," Sherlock sniffed back, but still sat up in the bed. It did not feel comfortable to sit upright - his head as heavy as an anchor cast into the sea. Not quite ready to let himself be fed like a toddler, he frowned, but he was not willing to risk coming across as completely unmoved by Jon's strategically touching words either. 

Of course, Jon smiled upon seeing him shift and sit up. He had Sherlock in the palm of his hand, and even if he rarely used his influence for mischief, Sherlock figured he was aware of it to some extent. It had never sat well with Sherlock whenever he'd made Jon unhappy, but it had never been this big of an issue before. However, since Jon had turned into a real person, their relationship had changed ever so slightly. While he hated to admit it, Sherlock wasn't entirely clueless about why that was.

Jon could walk away. Jon did not have to settle for being taken for granted now - he could pick his own companions, even. He never showed any signs of wanting to leave Sherlock's side, but he also had no reason to stay if he didn't feel that his efforts were appreciated enough.

And it was only fair. 

The knowledge had still haunted Sherlock's thoughts for several weeks. A strange fear had seized him the moment he'd seen Jon wave at a stranger without being ignored. He'd never been good at these things, but how could he not at least try when he felt Jon slipping away by the day?

"Fine." Sherlock rolled his eyes in the end. How could he say no to that silly, crooked smile? Jon's unapologetic enthusiasm and sweetness were always disarming. If feeding Sherlock soup made Jon that happy, then perhaps Sherlock's pride had to take second place for the moment.

He closed his eyes and sighed deeply. Then, he opened his mouth and said "aaah" in a way that made clear he did not enjoy nor approve of any of it.

But he'd given in, after all. And the soup - it wasn't bad. If he were honest with himself, he'd have to admit that it felt pretty good to eat something warm in his state. 

"See? It's good, isn't it?" Jon's voice sounded particularly pleasant when it was a little hoarse - what a useless observation, Sherlock thought, but he enjoyed the sound of it regardless. Needless to say, he did so in silence. 

How Jon could get so excited about feeding him soup, Sherlock couldn't fathom - the most minor things moved the man!

But soon enough, the plate was empty. It rested on the nightstand, and Sherlock - in Mycroft's old king-sized bed. Jon was still quite sick himself, and caring for Sherlock had cost him all his newly-found strength. However, instead of lying down on the soft pillow next to Sherlock, he was spread out across the bed, body hanging over Sherlock's legs and head buried in the sheets. 

"I cannot move like this, Jon. You should come lie down properly instead of... whatever this is," Sherlock muttered weakly, but he didn't have the strength to care too much. Without expecting a reply, he closed his eyes again.

A reply did not come, unless one counted an exhausted, drowsy groan as a reply: Jon had dozed off. 

And Sherlock thought, 'Then so be it.' It was not that bad to rest like this, after all. He fell asleep shortly after as well.