The Study in Caring

中文翻译：

关心则乱——BBC Sherlock同人 by Toviv



“关心不是好事。”

真的这样么？咱们等着瞧好了。



正文：

今晚拖着约翰出来显然是一个错误的决定。夏洛克终于意识到了这点，第二次眼看在子弹快要命中目标的一瞬间把约翰拽回来自己身边。他有点焦躁地把约翰按在墙边，长大衣裹住两人，确保昏黄的街灯下对方无法识别他们的具体方位。

约翰病了。该死的感冒病毒，已经肆无忌惮得在欧洲大陆横行霸道了几个礼拜。诊所当然就是细菌滋生的地方。

夏洛克皱起眉头。他应该早点考虑到这方面，从而想办法阻止约翰去诊所报到。本来么，他最理想的工作就应该是在夏洛克的身边，作为他的。。。。。。助手？朋友？同事？嗯，他最理想的工作就是待在自己身边。

如果不是约翰令人讨厌的自尊，他早该听劝放弃诊所的工作了。“偶尔拿你的钱去买咱们共同的生活用品不等于被你发工资，夏洛克。”这是约翰的答复。“还有，多年的医学院学习哪能浪费在坐在家里等着案子来敲门上面！”

“夏洛克，放开我！”约翰低声说，呼吸粗重。夏洛克的思绪一下子被打乱。他低头，看着自己紧紧抓住约翰双肩的手，泛白的指尖充分说明了他此时此刻的懊恼。他放开了手。约翰靠在墙上，舒了一口气。

不应该满伦敦跑着去追什么嫌疑犯。约翰大概不会自己就好起来。

“你身体不舒服。我们回去吧。”夏洛克为两人下了决定。约翰没有拒绝。

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计程车上一阵沉默。夏洛克一路上眼睛没有离开过他的黑莓手机屏幕，拇指光速移动。约翰盯着他，想象着如果夏洛克跟安西亚出去约会的话会是怎么样的一种情况。 这两位估计会穿着光鲜地坐在高级餐厅里，满桌子的菜没动过几口，所有的针锋相对的对白都是在黑莓上进行。那将是很安静的一顿晚宴。约翰脑补了一下，差点笑出声。

“你在朝雷警探开火嘛？告诉他你发现了什么。”

“说实话，约翰，如果你想不出什么更加直接的东西，我建议你不在状态就别尝试了。”

“我好得很呢。”约翰说。

“连‘好’这个如此简单的单词都不能正常发音，就是最好的证明。”

约翰哼了一声；“给我杯水就没问题了。”

“你的呼吸声都快赶上伦敦高峰期的交通声了，”夏洛克评论道，头也不抬继续关注他的手机。

“你可以自己去解决这个案子，不是吗？我可以自己回??”约翰嘟囔了一句。虽然他不想错过这么激动人心的追逐，但是夏洛克说得对。他能感觉到越来越高的体温不安分的在皮肤下涌动。

夏洛克侧头瞅了约翰一眼：“显然今天你即不能躲避危险，也无法提供任何有建设性的发言，约翰。”他说，“当然你现在的反应慢了一英里，这不是你的错。你太虚弱了。”

“我一点都不虚弱！”约翰反对，“我有好多年没有病过了。”

“但你现在病了。”夏洛克打开车门先跳了下去。

约翰一边从计程车里钻出来，一边小声发牢骚：“等你自己什么时候在诊所里坐满一整个礼拜然后再显摆给我看你有多健康！”他开了门，转头等夏洛克付钱给司机。

**********************************************


走进舒适的客厅，约翰忽然感觉说不出的疲倦。一分钟都不想逗留，他给自己倒了杯水，转身对夏洛克说：“好了，我上床去了。”

“今天之内你的第一个好主意。”夏洛克边说边把约翰赶羊似的卷回厨房方向。

“夏洛克，你不是想让我休息之前还要给你准备好茶吧？”约翰轻轻甩了甩有些发沉的脑袋，不可置信地问道。“这病菌明显会传染，我可警告你。在我恢复之前我不打算为你准备晚餐或者以任何形式靠近你的饮食来源。”

夏洛克不耐烦地挥了挥手。“就这样你还敢叫你自己是医生？普通感冒病毒根本没有流行性感冒或者上呼吸道感染那样的传染幅度，约翰。咱们每天从早到晚都呼吸同样的空气，你不觉得要传染的话我早就被传染了嘛？”

约翰不太确定他的脑子又没有被烧糊。他无力地嘟囔了句：“我们没有呼吸同样的空气！”

“这是你从我刚才的话中抓到的关键所在？”夏洛克手脚不停，继续驱赶着约翰，绕过了餐桌，朝着他的卧室走去。

约翰突然站住。“夏洛克，这是你的卧室。”

“不错的推理嘛，约翰。”

“你是不是在我不在家的时候跟你脑海中的我决定了什么我不可能知道的事情？为什么我站在不是我的房间的房间门口？”约翰转身面对夏洛克，问道。

夏洛克看进他眼睛里去：“我想你今晚睡在这里。”

“啥？”约翰怀疑他是不是听错了。

夏洛克饶有兴趣地盯着约翰的脸，看着他不自觉的刷上一层粉色。他向前一步，居高临下地低头看着约翰，故意用他深沉的男中音说：“有问题么？”

“你??你要干什么！夏洛克！”约翰的脸不能更红，硬生生憋出了鸡仔声。

慢慢地，夏洛克抬起手，绕到约翰的后背上。约翰貌似忘记应该呼吸，虽然从刚才开始他就明确地感觉到夏洛克热热的呼吸在轻轻的，坚持不懈地蹭着他的脖子。大脑缺氧让他的脸转成一种奇特的红紫色。

约翰背后的门把手被拧开，原来夏洛克推开了卧室的门。约翰差点向后仰倒，如果不是夏洛克的另外一只胳膊及时伸过来稳住了他的话。

夏洛克笑个不停。约翰意识到现在的自己肯定让人联想到搁浅的鱼，无比艰难地呼吸着。

“别烦了你！都说我病了！这不公平！”

“哦？”夏洛克挑起一边眉毛，“那你打算怎样让它‘公平’起来？”

约翰不自然地咳嗽了一下，转了话题：“好了，我们现在站在你的房间里。看上去很不错。接下来你有什么打算，天才？”说实话，就一个走到哪里乱到哪里的人来说，夏洛克的房间出乎意料地干净整洁。“我算看出来了。你就是喜欢在公共地方把你的东西丢得到处都是。”约翰好奇地四处打量。

“我需要看完这些材料。”夏洛克的声音回复了正常，但是他带笑的眼睛根本就没有掩饰对约翰的揶揄。

“我不确定我听懂了？”感冒与否，约翰不敢说他明白夏洛克在搞什么鬼。

夏洛克故意大声叹了口气，好像在提醒自己智商不是他的好友的长处。“我会在厨房里工作，而我的卧室就在厨房旁边。”他看向约翰，后者依旧一脸茫然。因此他继续解释道：“如果你需要我，我就在你隔壁。”

“为什么我需要你？”话一出口约翰就感觉好像在哪里听过。

“你需要有人照顾。到底你想让我打电话给哈莉呢，还是想让我哄你上床睡觉？”夏洛克反唇相讥，自顾自走出卧室带上门，直接忽略约翰皱起的眉头。就他所知，哈莉不擅长照顾包括她自己在内的任何生物，哪怕在她清醒的时候。

约翰发出不满的声音。他的头越来越重，没有精力去关系合适不合适了。身上的每块肌肉好像都在疼。他努力脱掉毛衣和牛仔裤，然后爬上了夏洛克的床。

*************************************************


夏洛克回到房间的时候约翰正在翻来覆去适应新床。

“那是什么东西？”约翰问。

夏洛克双手端着一个托盘。他把它轻轻放在床头。

约翰惊讶地注视着冒热气的杯子和烤得喷香的土司，居然连果酱都抹上去了。

“吃药之前需要吃点东西垫一下。”夏洛克拿起杯子塞到约翰手里。约翰低头不可置信地看着熟悉的饮品——一杯‘夏洛克特制’奶茶。

“但你从来不做茶！从来不！”约翰脱口而出，“你怎么知道东西都在哪里？”他无法想象夏洛克会允许这类‘无用’的信息留在他的大脑‘硬盘’上。

“不能再简单的推理。”

夏洛克看着约翰小心翼翼地抿了一小口奶茶，他的表情充满怀疑。“你??不是想拿我当小白鼠吧？”他有点怀疑地问道。

夏洛克的嘴抿成一条线，看上去无比委屈。

“少跟我来这套。你又不是没做过。”约翰边说边咬了一口土司，又喝了一大口茶。“但是我累得没力气管那么多了。这个不错嘛，很好吃。很完美。”他抬头冲夏洛克笑道。

“这种惊喜的声调是什么意思！说声谢谢就够了！”夏洛克佯装气冲冲地说，但是他等着约翰吃完最后一口。

“谢谢。”

夏洛克嘴角弯起那么一点点。

***************************************

约翰躺回被窝里。这可不是任何一张床，这是夏洛克福尔摩斯的床。在夏洛克的房间里。他的房间整洁得不像话，连镜框都没有歪。这点还不够，他刚刚吃了夏洛克给他准备的食物。

他隐约听到夏洛克把盘子丢到厨房一堆待洗的锅碗瓢盆上面。本来有点期望夏洛克继续他奇怪的好心情，顺手把盘子洗了。果然期望值太高了。很显然。

“我出去一会儿。”夏洛克把脸探进房间宣布道，还不忘记冲约翰挤挤眼。这让约翰回忆起第一次见到夏洛克的时候。就在当天，他让约翰忘记了自己的跛腿，然后为了救一个疯子天才，开枪打死一个计程车司机。他老早就决定了那是他最好的一天。

现在他居然感受到了夏洛克体贴的一面。有点生疏，因为缺乏练习的缘故，但是非常真诚。麦可洛夫将会非常嫉妒。

想着想着就听到楼下乓一声门响，然后夏洛克几大步跳进门。几秒钟的功夫他就站在了约翰面前，手里拿着一个药店的塑料袋和一杯水。大衣还没来得及脱下，他看上去一脸骄傲。

“嗯。。。。。。这些全部都是给我的？”约翰打开袋子瞄了一眼。里面有不同牌子的感冒药，扑热息痛，退烧药，还有消炎药。“止咳片？我都没有咳嗽。”

“进攻是最好的防御。”

“是，我还很确定，如果我把这些防御都吃下去，我的身体就会开始攻击健康的细胞。”约翰打开一包扑热息痛，拿出一片小小的白色药片吃下。“这就够了。现在我需要安静地休息，然后就没事了。”

“我们等着瞧。”

累瘫了，约翰躺倒不一会儿就睡着了。虽然迷糊之间他感觉，这些个反常的关怀只是个开始而已。

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【原文已完结，翻译进行时】




*************************************英文原文分割线******************************************

最近英国感冒猖獗啊。我自己就中枪两次。写个短篇来纪念一下。

《The Study in Caring》 by Toviv

'Caring is not an advantage.' BBC Sherlock.

We will see about that, shall we?


正文：
It was a wrong decision to drag John along tonight. Sherlock realised, having pulled John back to dodge a bullet for the second time. He pushed John against the wall, blocking him with his long coat so that both of them could remain unseen in the shadow of the street.

John was sick. It was the bloody cold virus that’s been striking the continent for the past few weeks. And a surgery would be the place for the bacteria to gather.

Sherlock grimaced. He should have thought about that and forbid John from going to work. After all, he would probably work better as Sherlock's……assistant? Friend? Colleague? Well, he works better with Sherlock.

John should be persuaded to give up his job ages ago, if it wasn't for his damn pride. “Occasionally taking money from you for our grocery shopping isn't the same thing as getting paid by you, Sherlock.” John had said, “Also, years of medical training can’t be wasted away sitting at home waiting for cases to knock on the door!”

“Sherlock, let go of me!” John said with heavy breathing. Sherlock's thought stream was abruptly interrupted. He looked down at his own hands, which were holding tightly on both of John’s shoulders in frustration. He let go. John leaned back against the wall, panting a little.

Shouldn’t have run around London chasing some stranger. John's conditions were not getting any better.

“You are not well. We are going back home.” Sherlock decided for both of them. John did not object.

 **********************************************************************

The taxi ride home was a little quiet. Sherlock was busy looking down at his BlackBerry, thumb moving in a truly remarkable speed. John wondered what it would be like for Sherlock to go out with Anthea. Those two would be spending a night in a top end restaurant in their expensive gear, in front of a tableful of barely touched food, and have a posh conversation on their BlackBerries. It’d be a quite dinner. John chuckled inwardly to himself.

“Are you firing texts at Lestrade, telling him what you’ve found?”

“Really John if you can’t think of anything more obvious, I’d advise not to try in your current condition.”

“I’m fi-ne!” John said.

“And the fact that you can’t even pronounce a simple word is the best proof. “

John huffed. “All I need is a glass of water and then I’ll be okay.”

“Your breathing is more audible than the peak time London traffic.” Sherlock commented, still looking down at his mobile.

“You can work alone though, can’t you? And I’ll just go ba……” John mumbled. He’d hate missing out on the exciting chase. But Sherlock was right. He could feel a little temperature bubbling underneath his skin.

Sherlock peered at John sideways: “Clearly you are not capable of either avoiding the physical danger or thinking constructively, John.” He said, “Not your fault that you are a mile behind though, you are too weak. “ The black cab stopped at 221B Baker Street.

“I’m not weak!” John protested, “I haven’t been sick for years!”

“But you are now. “ Sherlock opened the door and climbed out first.

John got out after him, murmuring: “Wait ‘til you sit in front of sick patients all day long and see if you could survive your week without catching the virus. “ He opened the door and got in, while Sherlock paid the driver.

**********************************************************************

On entering their cosy living room, John suddenly felt an overwhelming tiredness. Not wanting to sit around a minute longer, he poured himself a glass of water, turned around and said: “All right then. I’m off to bed.”

“First good idea coming from you today.” Sherlock said, shepherding John toward the general direction of the kitchen.

“Sherlock, did you want me to make you a cup of tea before I could enjoy my peace and quiet? “ John stopped in front of the kitchen table, asked in disbelief despite the heave-headedness. “The virus is clearly contagious, I’m warning you. I’m not going to prepare your dinner or go anywhere near your food source until I’m fully recovered.”

Sherlock waved his arm about in his usual expansive way. “And you call yourself a doctor? A cold virus is not as contagious as other viruses such as flu virus or respiratory syncytial virus, John. And we are breathing the same air day in and day out, don’t you think I’d catch the cold by now? I am stronger than you think.”

John wasn’t sure his brain was functioning properly. “We are not breathing the same air!” He mumbled faintly.

“And that was what you gathered from my speech?” Sherlock continued to direct John around the kitchen table, and toward his own bedroom.

John stopped suddenly. “Sherlock, this is your bedroom.”

“Good deduction, John. “

“Did I miss one of the conversations you had with me not being there? Why am I standing in front of a room that is not my own? “ John turned his head, and asked.

Sherlock looked into John’s eyes, and said: “I want you to sleep here tonight. “

“Pardon me?” John’s asked uncertainly, not sure at all of what he heard.

Sherlock watched with interest as John’s face slowly flushing up a delicate pink. He stepped closer and towered over John, speaking deliberately in his low baritone: “Problem?”

“What……What are you doing! Sherlock!?” John’s face couldn’t turn any redder.

Slowly, Sherlock raised his arm around John. John seemed to forget how to breathe himself, although all the time he was painfully aware of Sherlock’s hot breath ticking on his neck. The lack of air in his brain turned his face into the most unbecoming purple.

The knob behind John’s backside was turned, and the door pushed open by Sherlock. John almost toppled over in surprise. Sherlock’s other arm steadied him just in time.

Sherlock chuckled quietly. John realised that he must’ve looked like a stranded fish, gasping for air like that.

“Stopping teasing your sick flatmate! It’s not fair!”

Sherlock raise an eyebrow: “Not fair? What have you got in mind to make it fair?”

John coughed unnaturally, and changed the subject: “So we are in your room now. It looks nice. What is your plan, genius?” Really, for someone who has got a habit of leaving a trail of mess behind him, Sherlock’s room was really incredibly neat and clean. “I see. You just like to spread your belongings in the communal area.” He looked around curiously.

“I need to go through some paperwork for this case. “ Sherlock said in his normal tone of voice. However his laughing eyes betrayed him just a touch, to John’s upmost annoyance.

“Not sure if I follow. “ Cold or not cold, John couldn’t say he understood what Sherlock was playing at.

Sherlock signed, no doubt mentally reminding himself that intelligence was not what he valued in his best friend. “I will be working in the kitchen, which happens to be right next to my bedroom. “ He looked at John, only seeing a blank face. So he continued to explain, “I will be next door if you need me. “

“Why would I need you?” The words coming out of John’s mouth sounded ever so familiar.

“You need someone to take care of you. Would like me to call Harry instead or would you rather having me tuck you in bed?” Sherlock retorted, walking back out and ignoring the grimace on John’s face on the mentioning of his own sister. From what he could gather, Harry was not great at taking care of anyone, even when she was sober.

John groaned. His head is getting too heavy to worry about any inappropriateness. Every muscle seemed to be aching; with a bit of struggle he took off his jumper and jeans, and then got himself into Sherlock’s bed.

**********************************************************************

Sherlock entered his bedroom just as John was getting used to a new bed.

“What’s that?” John asked. Rather impolitely, Sherlock thought.

Sherlock was carrying a tray, which he put gently on the bed beside John.

John stared at the mug and the toasts with jam already spread over them in amazement.

“You’ll need to have something before the pills.” Sherlock picked up the mug and handed over to John, who appeared to be in shock still of being presented with a ‘Sherlock brew’.

“But you never make tea! Ever!” John blurted out, “How do you even know where everything is?” He can’t imagine Sherlock would keep that sort of information in his ‘hard-drive’.

“Easiest deduction.”

Sherlock watched John gingerly raised the cup to his mouth and sipped the tea. His expression was somewhat doubtful. “You……are not trying to drug me again, are you?” He asked suspiciously.

Sherlock pressed his lips into a thin line.

“Don’t do that face. It’s not like it was the first time.” John said, rather ungratefully. He bit into the toast and drunk a mouthful. “But I’m too tired to worry about it.” His face brighten up a little: “It’s good. It really is. Just perfect.” He smiled up at Sherlock.

“The tone of surprise! A mere ‘thank you’ would do.” Sherlock huffed out, but waited until John finished his last bite, watching him all the while.

“Thank you.”

Sherlock’s lips curled a little.

**********************************************************************

John was lying in bed, not just any bed, Sherlock’s bed. In Sherlock’s bedroom. His atrociously neat bedroom where not a single picture frame looked out of place. As if this fact alone was not weird enough, he just ate something Sherlock prepared for him.

He could hear Sherlock dumping the plate on top of the already piling dishes. So much for wishing he could ride on tide of the strange behaviour and actually do the dishes. Too much to hope for. Obviously.

“I’m going out for a bit.” Sherlock popped his head around and announced, not forgetting to wink at John just before he dashed off. This brought John back to the first day they met. The very same day that John was tricked to forget about his psychosomatic limp, and shot a cabbie to save a mad genius. He decided a long time back that it was the best day of his life.

Now that he also peered a little into Sherlock’s caring side, too. A little rusty perhaps due to lack of practice, but very genuine indeed. Mycroft would be so jealous.

With a loud noise downstairs, Sherlock was back in 221B before the banging echo diminished. A second later, he was standing in front of John with a superdrug’s bag and a glass of water, still in his long coat. He was practically beaming with pride.

“Erm, are these ALL for me?” John took the bag and peeped in. There were different brands of paracetamols, antihistamines, nasal decongestants, as well as various anti-inflammatory drugs.

“Looks like my early theory of you trying to drug me still stands.” John said uncertainly, “Cough suppressants? But I’m not coughing much at all.”

“Attack is the best form of defence.” Sherlock snorted.

“Yeah, and I’m pretty sure if I took all these defences, my body would be attacking even the good cells.” John opened a small package of paracetamols and swallowed one white pill. “That’d be enough. And I’m going to lie down quietly for a bit. I’ll be fine.”

“We’ll see.”

Exhausted, John dozed off finally. Although at the back of his mind, John had an uneasy feeling that all these hilarious caring business so far was only a start.

**********************************************************************

John woke up to a pleasant aroma which made his stomach rumble. Slowly, he climbed out of bed and followed the smell into the kitchen.

Still feeling a bit dizzy, John took a good while to mentally take in the whole operation: the kitchen was as messy as always, with Sherlock’s experiments everywhere. And Sherlock, to John’s great surprise, was cooking what looked like pasta in some sort of tomato sauce. John watched as Sherlock dressed the two plates with parmesan cheese.

“Perfect timing John, please have a seat.” Sherlock seemed to know John was there without looking.

John sat down obligingly, fighting an impulse to ask Sherlock to where his original careless flatmate had disappeared. Maybe he was dream-walking.

A plate was dumped onto the only clean space to John’s left. It was definitely pasta, with sliced sausages in tomato sauce, covered by melting parmesan. It looked very inviting indeed.

“Penne con Salsiccia Picante.” Sherlock beamed at him. John secretly rolled his eyes: why couldn’t the man just say pasta with spicy sausage?

Scrupulously, John scooped up a slice of sausage, which seemed to be a comparatively safer option somehow. It tasted normal.

Sherlock huffed audibly.

John then tried a piece of pasta with some level of reluctance. It was……interesting. Rich in tomato sauce, but a little spicy to Sherlock’s taste. But John liked it. Very much.

“Did you really make it yourself? Or did you ordered a takeaway from Angelo’s?” John mumbled while swallowing a forkful.
Sherlock answered with an air of presumed superiority: “Just because I don’t waste my time cooking doesn’t mean I can’t.” Obviously.

“It’s actually very impressive. Paste is nice on its own – smooth and pliable. I love the sauce too. There is something curious about the taste…” John slowed down as he tried to figure out whether it was the red cooking wine. “You should consider changing your job, at this rate you will soon cook Gordon Ramsey out of a job.”

“Gordon Who?”

“Never mind.” John smiled, picturing Sherlock doing an episode of Hell’s Kitchen, minus the swearing. Maybe he’d do a good job there too, criticising the poor lads by speaking one hundred words per minute. Sherlock simply ignored his grin.

Not long after dinner, John felt an overwhelming wave of drowsiness. He was going to watch a bit of the evening telly, but clearly his body wasn’t cooperating.

“I think I’m off to bed now.” John stood up, rubbing his sleepy eyes. “I’ll wash the dishes tomorrow. Good night.” He wondered into a room and collapse onto the bed.

Sherlock’s gaze followed John as he dragged himself back to Sherlock’s room, instead of his own bedroom upstairs.

Seemed to be working then. There was an almost unnoticeable grin rose at the corner of Sherlock’s mouth.


**********************************************************************

John had a rough night. To say that he did not sleep well was an understatement. He felt that all night long he was on the edge of unconsciousness, not quite asleep, yet not completely awake. There were a lot of scenes in his dreams but he couldn’t quite recall everything, apart from the distinctive sense memory of falling.

Many vaguely familiar faces surrounded him, not leaving him alone no matter how hard he ran. And then he found that his limps came back and he could not run anymore. Those faces were getting closer and closer, almost flying towards him now and John turned around and there they were, looking monstrously huge all of a sudden. He desperately wanting to move away, to run, but his legs felt like jelly. Then he started falling.

Sherlock was with him in a few of his dreams. Not entirely with him. One moment he was there, the next he was gone. They were running about in the dark London alleys. Sherlock was ahead of him. So much ahead that John would lose him because John could not run anymore. He opened his mouth but only the horse-like breathing came out of it. He watched helplessly as Sherlock’s coat tail disappeared around the corner into complete oblivion.

John was so alone. Alone and terrified. He was aware that something was chasing him, that someone wanted to hurt him, that they knew they could get to John by hurting Sherlock. John knew their plan, but could not speak or move a muscle.

This must be what hell was like; watching the enemies approaching yet could not warn your friend.

**********************************************************************

John had no idea what time it was. He was aware that he turned a lot in bed, sweating and shivering. He heard Mrs Hudson came to check on him, but he could not open his eyes and talk to her. There were other footsteps, or did he just dream of it? He could not tell.

By the time John regained his sense, it was way past midday. He blinked a few times trying to read the time. 15:45. Wow, that’d be record. Where was Sherlock? Was he out?

John was so unused to sleep with someone that he almost jumped when he realised that Sherlock was lying in the same bed next to him, fast asleep.

Sherlock obviously did not care about conventional aspects such as two males friends should not sleep in the same double bed. And John had in fact used to sleep in a room full of men back in his military days. So he decided not to make a big deal out of it.

Slowly he turned over to his side, and looked at the man sleeping peacefully in front of him.

‘Caring is not an advantage, John.’ John remembered Sherlock’s own words only too well. True. He would not be able to do what he did if he cared too much. But that wasn’t entirely true, was it? Sherlock was clearly very fond of Mrs Hudson. And despite his on-going sibling rivalry nonsense, he and Mycroft cared about each other in their own Holmes ways. And John was pretty sure that Sherlock would kill for him too. Oh he cared all right.

But the dinner was different. It was a whole new level of caring that John had not experienced before. Was Sherlock really started to try out the caring business even without noticing himself?

In his sleep, Sherlock looked so much younger than his age. His dark curls drape over his pale forehead, eyes closed, long eyelashes shaking slightly. Intelligence aside, Sherlock’s appearance was really strikingly beautiful. John thought to himself.

He remembered how Sherlock used his innocence look to get what he needed from time to time. Sometimes those puppy eyes would aim squarely at John. Despite the fact that John had long figured out Sherlock’s tricks, he would still fall for it. Oh well. Sherlock would not harm him anyhow.

He reached out a hand and ruffled Sherlock’s hair in retaliation.

He could feel a faint sheer of sweat on Sherlock’s forehead. John moved his hands lower. Sherlock’s got a temperature. Damn, John thought, he must’ve passed the bug onto Sherlock.
 
**********************************************************************

Sherlock was still asleep on top of the duvet in his blue silk gown when John got up.

John put his feet on the carpet. The heaviness was completely gone, muscle no longer hurt, John felt like a new man especially after last night’s nightmares.

He grabbed his duvet from his own bedroom and covered Sherlock up. Sherlock was only slightly disturbed.

John quietly sneaked out for some fresh air. The kitchen looked like it was struck by a tornado. There was literally nowhere to put down anything. He opened the cupboard, no clean mug. He sighed, and picked up the washing liquid.

It took John a good hour to get the kitchen worktop back to normal living standard. During the process he found a bagful of cooked pasta and various burned objects. It appeared that Sherlock had tried more than once to cook that simple dish.

Not so much a genius in cooking then. John grinned, basking in the warmth of knowing how hard Sherlock had tried. It made John want to give him a hug.

Sherlock was like an annoying younger brother John never had, in a way. He was no doubt brilliant in his field of work; he was bossy and enjoyed ordering people about; he was enigmatic, energetic and enthusiastic. However if you could get past the cold and controlled appearance and get close enough, you would find that Sherlock was really very affectionate and trusting.

When Sherlock first said the hurtful things about not caring for anyone, John was upset given the circumstances. But he knew Sherlock better now. Beneath his sociopath persona, Sherlock was so alone, so wanting to be understood, to be accepted as who he was.

Sherlock would straightaway piss off half of the Scotland Yard for making some ill-timed, inconsiderable comments; he would ditch John for an exciting criminal. But he cared. That was what John’s instinct taught him when they first met.

John Watson was a soldier. He fought for his honour and belief. For his faith, he killed to save. Just like that, he would kill a dozen cabbies to save someone he instinctively believed in, even on the first night they met.

The impact of Afghanistan was so immense that it almost changed John’s perspectives. It used to be the ideal combat field for him, being the danger-loving, risk-seeking man that he was. After he got shot and was dismissed, all the excitement was drained out of his life. 'Nothing happens to me.' Until he met Sherlock. Until they met. The recognition was mutual.

Sherlock was unique, but so was John. There was no one like him that would have suited Sherlock so well. His profession as a GP was obviously handy to Sherlock at many levels. His military training sub-consciously attributed to his obedience and submission to superiority. His admiration of Sherlock's brilliance allows the man to relax and 'be human'. His incredible tolerance and caring nature made him able to work around Sherlock, in the way that Sherlock would feel most comfortable.

John was not perfect. But he was perfect for Sherlock practically in every single way.

**********************************************************************

John was deep in thought when he heard Sherlock making a sound. He walked in the bedroom with a glass of water.

He found Sherlock curled into a ball in the duvet. “Come on now, drink a little bit of water, you will feel better.” He sat down on the edge of the bed and helped Sherlock sit up a little to sip the water.

Sherlock mumbled: “Are you all right?”

John gave him a grateful smile. “Yes. I think the worst is over now.”

“Good. Now get me some of the leftover powder in the petri dish next to my microscope.”

“OK I’ll just go and……” John stood up and walked towards the door. He recalled seeing some petri dishes from one of Sherlock’s most recent experiment. Wait, powder?

“What powder?” He asked suddenly in alarm. Surely Sherlock did not switch back to his old habit?

“It’s not what you think.” Sherlock managed a snort even with his eyes closed.

John found the write powders in a petri dish next to a few opened boxes of……flu tablets!

He stopped dead, and a thought struck him.

“Sherlock,” He asked his best friend uncertainly, “did you mix up the pills?” He paused.

“Why?”

Sherlock kept his mouth shut this time.

John said in total amazement: “You made some sort of strong medicine and made me take it somehow.” He continued to think, and then the penny dropped. “It was the bloody pasta!”

**********************************************************************

 Sherlock directed his stares from the ceiling to the corner of the room. Still not saying a word.

“What the HELL,” John gritted his teeth, “was your excuse now for experimenting on me? Did you find the cure to common cold or did you just want to test my tolerance level?”

“Well it did cure you, didn’t it?” Sherlock replied, still avoided John’s eyes.

“I thought it was a bit out of character for you to use a saucepan. Should’ve known that you wouldn’t do anything without your little hidden agenda.” John narrowed his eyes, and continued: “In all fairness you did warn me. You said, and I quote, ‘caring is not an advantage’.” Nonetheless he did feel oddly humiliated for mistaking that he was Sherlock’s exception.
“You were no use to me lying about.” Sherlock as per usual didn’t seem to have realised that he was making it worse.

“Right. So you decided to invent a stronger medicine and cure me instantly at the cost of shorten my life?”

“Oh don’t be melodramatic, John. I carefully measured all the mix to ensure your rapid recovery with minimal side effects.” Sherlock grimaced.

John wasn’t sure if the man was actually proud for what he did or not. “Are you expecting me to be grateful for what you did to me?”

Sherlock didn’t bother to reply, but his mouth was shaping into a suspicious pout.

“Oh Lord give me strength.” John murmured under his breath. He decided that he needed some fresh air before he could properly take care of this lunatic. “OK, I’ll leave you to think about what you did. Need to get some shopping anyway.”

**********************************************************************

John stepped back into the kitchen and emptied the remaining powder into the bin. He might be very angry with Sherlock for experimenting on him, but he just couldn’t bring himself to put Sherlock through the same agony as a way to revenge. He sighed. Apparently Sherlock didn’t have the same moral standard.

He washed the petri dishes and line them aside to dry, while grabbing a kitchen towel. What was he thinking when he first woke up this morning? How considerable Sherlock had been. How much he had changed. Funny that.

John was deep in thought while washing and drying the dishes mechanically, until his instinct kicked in. He turned around, and found himself once again towered over by Sherlock.

Sherlock stood half a step away from John, his silk gown creased, draping on one shoulder. His face was dimly visible in the rainy afternoon’s faded light. John could see that his hair lying flat and lifeless over his sweaty forehead, his eyes half open, looking downwards. He looked like an abandoned teddy bear. But John wasn’t going to fall for that trick again within 24 hours.

Hands on his hips, John put on his best military commander air: “Don’t you loom over me again like that!” He leaned forward a little for good measure, chest straightened, heads tilted up, subconsciously trying to make himself look taller and therefore more dignified. It seemed that the fighting has gone stalemate.

For one moment Sherlock looked as if he wasn’t sure what to do. But then the next, he simply rested his forehead on John’s shoulder.

**********************************************************************

OK. John thought. That was a new trick. Sherlock NEVER hugged anyone before as far as John’s concerned.

They just stood there, Sherlock’s head resting on John’s shoulder, neither of them made a sound.

“Well, what do you want now?” It was strange that this did not feel strange. John thought. He could feel Sherlock’s breath tickling lightly on his collar bone. How curious that he thought Sherlock’s predatory approach was outrageously embarrassing yesterday, yet having him this close felt wonderfully comfortable.

After another minute or so, John heard a low murmuring which seemed to have come from his own chest. “John, I……”

“I’m not going to do your bidding always. Just so that you know, in case you thought otherwise.”

“John, I am sorry.” Still buried his head in John’s right shoulder, Sherlock’s voice sounded a touch less disgruntled.

John could feel the temperature on Sherlock’s forehead. He sighed again. “What should I do with you, Sherlock?”

**********************************************************************

“Fix me.”

John blinked, he asked blankly: “What?”

Sherlock’s breathing sounded huskier than usual: “You should try and fix me. Doctor.” Hands in his dressing gown pockets, he allowed himself to lean forward against John even more.

John could feel his full body weight. The edge of the kitchen worktop cut into the small of his back. It started to feel a bit uncomfortable. He raised both arms and held Sherlock in place, and then pressed his forehead against Sherlock’s.

“You’ve definitely got it.” Probably 38 degree Celsius, which was bad enough for Sherlock. He was always slim but never unhealthily so. “Come on now, my turn to tuck you into bed.”

He tried to shove Sherlock off, but he refused to budge.

“What now?”

“You are not dashing off to ‘get some air’, are you?” Head still down, Sherlock’s deep voice vibrated on John’s skin, sending a wave of shiver down his spine.

Mentally shook one or two goose bumps off his arms, John smiled at the back of his head. “Good job you haven’t used up the medical supplies on your little experiment then.” As it seemed, all he could do was to borrow some semi-skimmed milk from Mrs Hudson for his beloved tea.

“OK now, if you don’t back off, I will have to bite the back of your neck.”

Sherlock stumbled back so fast that he almost toppled over. John chuckled, while grabbed his wrist and lead him back to his bed. It was quite possible that Sherlock did that on purpose, to make John feel sorry for him and forgave him for using John as a guinea pig. But truth be told, John no longer cared. It was quite a sight just to see this proud man put all of his defences down for once. John decided to just go with it.

**********************************************************************

“Here you go.”

Sherlock’s nose unmistakably wrinkled when he saw the pills in John’s hand. “I don’t need them.”

“Well you said it yourself. Only a fool argues with his doctor.”

“Fine.” Resignedly Sherlock propped himself up on one elbow. He tilted the glass in John’s hand and swallowed the pills with the water.

“All right-y then.” John turned and walked out of the room, deliberately ignoring the longing expression on Sherlock’s face.

A few seconds later he returned from the kitchen with a cup of tea and a book.

Sherlock had turned his back to the room, seemingly unconscious. But John wasn’t so easily fooled. He walked around to the other side of the bed and climbed on top of the duvet. He switched on the table lamp and started reading.

A moment later he heard a voice from beside him: “We must neither of us mention the hug ever again.”

“Really? Too bad. I’ve already texted Mycroft the snapshot of your head against mine.”

Sherlock didn’t actually believe him, but he groaned anyway on the thought of his brother. John grinned widely. “Sleep. You will be fine tomorrow.”

“And you will be here when I need you?”

“There is no other place on earth I would rather be.”

Sherlock turned around. John could see that tiny little tell-tale satisfaction smirk at the corner of his mouth. He curved his body around John, and settled into a comfortable position. Before he closed his eyes, he said:

“People will talk.”

John smiled his understanding smile. “People do nothing else.”

**********************************************************************

The End

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本来想写着玩的，没想到写着写着就五千多单词了。过程还是很开心的~

接下来要通读几遍修改，然后翻译成中文。并不是作者太傲娇，主要是外国背景的同人用英文写比较顺手。翻译就简单了。

谢谢各位捧场哈~ 欢迎留言评论~

@Toviv-BenAddicted