You Are Kneaded

“John,” Sherlock called gruffly, “John, wake up. I need you.”

Sherlock poked John’s belly through the sheets, but John barely moved. He was sleeping soundly in his bed. Sherlock felt like absolute crap. He didn’t remember when he had felt so horrible.

“John, I’m sick. John, wake up,” he pleaded.

“What, Sherlock?” John groused as he turned himself away.

“John, I need a doctor,” he begged again as he stood up, tugging on John’s blankets to keep himself from falling over.

“Oh, for God’s sake, Sherlock. I’m sleeping!” John complained as he looked over his shoulder at Sherlock.

“You were sleeping,” Sherlock said bluntly, “And I’m sick, John.”

“And what do you want me to do about it? I’m done warning you,” John said as he sat up, rubbing his eyes.

“You are a doctor!” Sherlock pouted. He knew he was pouting and he hated himself for it, but he really felt like he was going to die, “The least you can do is diagnose me!”

“Can I have a cup of tea first?” John asked grumpily.

“I can’t breathe,” Sherlock said. The room began to sway, so he sat down on the edge of the bed quickly. “My eyes hurt.”

John stared at him, and it was all he could do not to curl into John’s lap.

“Ok. Come here,” John said gently, obviously seeing how much pain he really was in.

Sherlock moved closer to John. John put his hand on his forehead.

“Fever,” John stated, before he used his thumbs to probe at the flesh under Sherlock’s eyes.

John gently cupped his hands on either side of Sherlock’s head to hold it still and pressed his thumbs into Sherlock’s cheekbones.

“Does it hurt?”

“Yes,” Sherlock whimpered as he closed his eyes against the rush of pain.

“Are you feeling anything else?” John asked.

“My body,” Sherlock almost whispered. Despite his pain, he was truly enjoying John’s touch more than a sick man should.

“Oh, that’s a good thing,” John said with a small smile, “Your body is a good thing to feel.”

Sherlock opened his eyes, trying to understand what John was saying. His brain was sluggish, so it took him a moment to understand that John was trying to make a joke.

“No. I mean—I was just trying to be a smart ass,” John explained and Sherlock chuckled, “Well, I’d say sinusitis, but we can’t dismiss pneumonia yet.”

Sherlock scowled. He could not be bedridden. They had too much to do for the case that DI Lestrade had assigned to them.

John continued, “I need to listen to your chest to be sure, but my stethoscope isn’t here.”

“You could put your ear on my chest. That would do,” Sherlock said quietly. He could see that John was in full doctor mode and therefore wouldn’t take umbrage at the suggestion.

“Ok, just lie down.”

Sherlock slipped under the sheets, placing his head on John’s pillow. John leaned over, and Sherlock tried to inhale deeply. John’s nearness comforted him, and he felt himself starting to drift. He could barely breathe, but he felt so relaxed with John watching over him.

“Sherlock, I’ll have to unbutton your shirt, alright?” John asked, but Sherlock didn’t respond.

He felt John start to unbutton his shirt and jumped a little, realizing he had fallen asleep.

“I’m worried about you, Sherlock. I think I’d best take you to the hospital.”

“No. I’m just tired and my muscles are sore,” he said lazily. He hated hospitals. He hated the A&E’s. He hated all doctors except his doctor, his John.

“Yes, but if your chest is congested, we’re going.”

He felt the material of his pajama top being brushed aside moments before John’s cheek brushed against the skin on his chest. He felt the gooseflesh rise along the path of John’s breath. Sherlock held his breath as he felt John’s thumb caress his skin just below his nipple. He was about to say something, but John spoke.

“Take a deep breath,” John instructed.

Sherlock did as commanded and felt John’s head rise with his inhalation. He knew that John was in his doctor mode, but with the brush of his hair against his chin, and the caress of his eyelashes against his chest, Sherlock was feeling things no dying man should feel.

“Sherlock, cope,” John growled.

“I’m trying,” Sherlock said quietly, “Your eyelashes are tickling me.”

“Alright, I’m almost done. I’ll just confirm by testing for any trembling in your chest, okay?”

Sherlock nodded, and John touched the skin between Sherlock’s nipples with his closed lips. Sherlock held his breath again. He had expected John to move away and use the palm of his hand. He closed his eyes and forced himself to slow his breathing. He felt himself slide into the haze of a doze as he lowered his heart rate a little too far to avoid the uncomfortable feeling he knew he was too weak to act on. He had almost let himself drop completely into sleep when he felt more than heard John move to leave the room.

“John, give me some painkillers,” Sherlock mumbled before John could leave.

“Oh, you’re awake,” John said unnecessarily.

“More or less,” he replied slowly.

“I can’t give you a pain killer,” John said gently, “Your blood pressure is low already.”

“I don’t care. At least, if I faint I’m not going to feel so wrecked,” he said. He could hear the whinging in his voice and hated himself for it, but he felt so wretched and didn’t want to be alone.

“Nonsense,” John said quietly, as he stepped back toward the bed, “Do you think you can lie on your stomach?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Just do it,” John demanded, “Before I change my mind.”

Sherlock shifted himself, groaning in discomfort. John helped to position his head on the pillow, so he wouldn’t suffocate, and stripped him of the flannel pajama top.

“Alright, this may be a little… well, I’m going to sit on your arse,” John said quickly.

“You’re giving me a massage?” Sherlock asked. John was being surprisingly kind, considering he was in his bed.

“Is there a problem?”

“No…I mean, I don’t know,” he stammered, confused at the excitement he was feeling, “I’ve never gotten one.”

“Oh. It will help you relax and hopefully feel a little better,” John said quietly, “Since I can’t get you any medication.”

“I’m not sure.”

“Just shut up and stay quiet.”

John positioned himself over Sherlock’s hips with one leg on each side of his waist. Sherlock had to hold back the groan he felt rising as John leaned forward and started to work his hands over his back. John applied measured pressure to the muscles, and Sherlock couldn’t contain the moan of pleasure as it escaped his lips.

“Feels good?” John chuckled.

“Yes,” Sherlock answered lazily. The kneading of his shoulders and back was relaxing him in ways he never knew he could. But it was doing other things to him as well, and he was glad he was truly too sick to act on them.

John slowly ran his fingers down Sherlock’s spine, and Sherlock shuddered at the erotic pleasure John was unwittingly eliciting.

“You’re so hot,” John whispered.

Sherlock hesitated for a moment, letting his pain-fogged brain catch up with his deductive reasoning. He wanted to hear those words from John in a different way, but he knew it wasn’t what John meant. But he also knew that if he didn’t comment on John’s statement, things would get awkward.

“Thank you,” Sherlock chuckled, clearly mocking John.

“What? No—I—Sherlock, I didn’t.”

“I know, John.”

“It’s the fever,” John mumbled, and Sherlock smiled into the pillow. If only he knew.

John kept working his fingers on Sherlock’s back muscles, and he felt himself drifting again. He knew he wasn’t ready to sleep. He wanted John to continue this delicious torture, so he tried to think of ways to keep his brain awake. All he could think of was how much he wanted John and how completely blind John was to his feelings. That led to John’s blindness to his own feelings. He knew John wanted him. He could actually feel it vibrating through John’s thighs, but he could not make himself move to act on it.

“John, why you are you such an idiot?” Sherlock asked suddenly.

“Well, I don’t know. Why am I an idiot?” John asked as he chuckled.

“Because you are, John,” Sherlock said, “You see, but you don’t observe.”

“Right, thank you,” John growled at the non-answer as he cautiously massaged the small of Sherlock’s back.

Sherlock groaned both in pain and arousal. John softened his grip.

“Why are you giving me a massage?” Sherlock asked hoarsely.

“To help you relax.”

“Is this what you do to your girlfriends?” Sherlock asked, sincerely wanting to know if this was part of his mating ritual.

“Help them to relax?” John asked, “Yes, not quite like this, but yes.”

“Hmmm…” Sherlock murmured. So, John’s massages were often part of his foreplay. Sherlock locked that little tidbit into John’s room of his Mind Palace for further investigation when he wasn’t feeling so miserable.

John kept working his fingers on Sherlock’s bare back. He used therapeutic pressure and then teased with brushing his fingers over his skin. Sherlock could no longer contain the grunts of pleasure. He knew he had heard Mrs. Hudson long before John did.

“Woo hoo, boys! Sherlock, I brought you your soup, and I hope you’re really sick this time. If you fool me again to use it in a experiment I swear I-“

He heard more than he saw as Mrs. Hudson stopped dead in her tracks at the view of John straddling Sherlock’s hips. He felt John’s tension throughout his body. John didn’t speak, but he didn’t really move either.

“John dear, I don’t think it’s the best time for that! I completely understand your needs and I respect your choices, but just look at the poor thing! He is barely awake.”

“NO! Oh, God, no… it’s not—I – don’t-, no!” John jumped off of Sherlock at that, and Sherlock was hard pressed not to giggle at his reaction.

“John, sweetie, there’s no need to be embarrassed. It’s perfectly normal and healthy,” Mrs. Hudson put the soup down at the bedside, “I should have knocked, I’m so sorry.”

“No, it’s fine,” Sherlock mumbled, his face half buried in John’s pillow, trying to muffle the laughter that was bubbling over. “You’re an angel, Mrs. Hudson, thank you.”

“Well, I should put this in the kitchen. It’s still hot, Sherlock. You must eat to regain your strength,” she smiled at him. He turned his face to look at her blandly before she realised what she’d said and blushed, “Oh, I should go now.”

“I’ll walk you to the door,” John said.

“There’s no need. Stay and keep an eye on him,” she blinked at John.

Sherlock watched the blush creep up the back of John’s neck as he watched Mrs. Hudson leave. He watched as John turned and stared at him for a moment.

“Sherlock, is here anything else I can do for you?”

“It’s ok,” Sherlock barely responded, the adrenaline from the brief interruption already leaving his body.

“So, I’m…hm…I’m going to take a nap on the sofa,” John said uncertainly, “So, if you need something, just call me.”

He wanted him to stay. Sherlock knew he did, but he didn’t want to sound like he was begging. John turned to leave when Sherlock raised his head from the pillow.

“You can stay here.”

“No, I’m fine,” John said, “I’ve had my embarrassing moment of the day once today. I’m not willing to repeat it.”

“You’re safe, John, I can barely move.”

“Yet, you’re already half naked.”

“And you were caught straddling me a minute ago, how can it get any worse?”

“You have no idea,” John mumbled, already lying down on his side of the bed.

Sherlock felt John turn his back to him. He forced himself to breathe as deeply as his stuffed head would allow, calming himself. John was in his bed. How could John’s embarrassment get any worse? If he felt any better, John would learn very quickly. But Sherlock felt weaker than a newborn kitten and sleep was dragging him under. Just before he let himself pass out, he had to get in the last word:

“Yes, I have.”

He thought he heard John chuckle as he drifted into the darkness.