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Sherlock Holmes rarely fell ill; yes, he had experienced inhuman suffering more than once as agonizing cough or blocked nose prevented him from concentrating on the criminal cases he was dealing with, but colds rarely took on a more serious form, so he did not worry about them too much, which this time turned out to be a mistake. Despite an unbearable sore throat, Sherlock had taken part in the mission imposed on him by Pinkerton, where, forced to spend the night in a dingy inn with a leaking roof, he froze and did not blink for almost the entire night, which only helped the disease develop in his body, which was why he was now bedridden, wrapped in two thick blankets, and condemned to long hours filled with shivers running through his body, cough that ached his lungs, and a fever that sometimes fell, sometimes rose without warning and at a sudden pace, and his only solace was the presence of the other man who had given up cleaning the house (something he had planned to do the night before, and what he had been planning to do for at least a week) in favor of spending time in the bedroom, keeping an eye on his partner’s health. William's presence, even if he was just sitting on the other side of the room with his eyes gllued to the pages of the novel, was a medicine in itself for Sherlock, and he secretly enjoyed the temporary inability to work and the opportunity to spend the whole day by his beloved's side, though, of course, he would have preferred to dust off the chandeliers and be healthy.
"Do you need anything, Sherly?" William said, interrupting his reading; he closed the book, having first inserted a paper bookmark between the pages, and placed it on the windowsill, then got up from the chair and walked over to the bed, where he sat down on the edge of the mattress.
His voice had a calm, somewhat hypnotically sweet tone, and the name he spoke sounded extremely soft, carried through the air, carresing Sherlock's warm cheeks like a calm wind swaying a curtain. One word warmed the detective's heart, who had felt only the chill of a returning fever for the past fifteen minutes, and the warmth spread throughout his body, bringing him a little relief; he coughed shrilly, causing William's ruby eye to flash with worry, but he did not care much about it, as after a while he replied in a hoarse voice, adjusting the way his body was leaning against the wooden headboard:
"Everything is fine." He swallowed with difficulty, as each such effort had cost him a little pain, grimaced significantly, then sighed deeply and focused all his attention on William. "I cannot allow you to take care of the home alone; besides, I promised you that I will help you with the cleaning today."
Cleaning was certainly not one of Sherlock's favorite activities – mess, as long as he knew his way around him, did not bother him at all, and he felt there was no need to worry about whether the books were neatly stacked on the shelvves or the curtains were perfectly wrinkled, William, however, valued order, and Sherlock also tried to maintain it as well. Unfortunately, it was not always easy for him or he often forgot about it, although he never refused an offer to take care of the cleanliness of the small flat together, even if he did not always see a reason for it, but he could not deny that it was much more enjoyable to carry piles of books and dust the barely touched shelves of souvenirs from various missions than to lie under a few blankets and suffer from the constant chills that accompanied the fever.
He rose from the pillows, which had cost him a considerable amount of strength, which he lacked since he opened his eyes a few hours ago, and a sudden cough attacked his lungs; supporting himself first with his elbows, and then with his hands, he sat down on the mattress and moved his legs, intending to pull them out from under the thick layers of bedding, which was effectively prevented by William's sudden movement, who leaned towards his beloved and placed his hand on his knee.
"Cleaning is not so important that it cannot wait." William sighed, a lock of golden hair that fell across his forehead moved slightly, and a shadow of joy twisted his lips into a gentle, not too wide smile as he saw Sherlock's eyebrows furrow in response to his words. "Besides, you are sick now, and you need to be taken care of."
"Liam," a groan escaped Sherlock’s lips, he tilted his head and fell back onto the bed, sinking into the soft sheets; squinting and blinking rapidly to clear away the tears that suddenly burned in his eyes, he looked at William, silently enjoying the familiar glow in his healthy eye – that glow was often like the only lantern in a dark forest, and he felt healed for a split second. As he moved his head, a saltwater-soaked cloth slipped from his temple and fell onto the sheet, but he did not care at all, and, without a fleeting glance at the piece of material, continued: "I am not a child, and a little exercise never hurt anyone. When we lived in England and I was sick..."
"When we lived in England," William interjected, repeating Sherlock's words. More instinctively than consciously, he lifted his hand to rest on the soft sheets right next to a long strand of dark hair, allowing himself to playfully twirl curls around his slender fingers. "That was almost a year and a half ago; we live in New York now, and I swear to you, Sherlock Holmes, that as long as I am here, I would not allow you to do anything in this state. Anyway, you took care of me when I was in a coma, so now it is time for me to return the favor."
Sherlock's brow furrowed again, albeit slightly, and his lips quivered as he suppressed the irritating shiver in his chest that preceded a coughing fit; he did not want anything to interrupt this moment. He had never expected anything in return from William when he had decided to stay by his side for months, nor had he expected it when he had jumped off a bridge without a second thought, because all he felt was a burning desire to save the one who had become closest to his heart, and he thought that the sentence spoken in their conversation certainly sounded strange and he had already parted his lips. to deny it, but it was not words that came out of his throat, but a strong cough, that made him move to the other side of the bed almost violently (where just a moment ago he had felt no strength left in him) and hide his face in his arm.
For a long moment he could not see William's face, but he could easily feel the concerned gaze that enveloped his figure, and the hand that rested on his back, stroking it with indescribable gentleness, as if any bold movement combined with the nagging symptom of a cold could instantly transform the body that had survived even the piercing cold of the Thames’s depths into millions of glass particles like the miniature diamonds that form when a crystal vase is shattered.
"Sherly," William said firmly, getting up from the bed, "you should rest..." He adjusted the pillow Sherlock rested his head on with one hand, then montioned for him to lie down comfortably on it. "Wait here. I will be right back."
As he had said, it was not even a few minutes before William returned, carrying in each hand cups devoid of any ornamental design; one was emitting a thin steam and the other a smell so strong that Sherlock could smell it even through his blocked nose. William sat down on the edge of the bed in exactly the same place as before, first focusing all his attention on his almost paper-like complexion, dark circles under his watery eyes, the chapped and pale lips, and the eyelids clearly drooping from fatigue. Only then did he put one of the cups on the bedside table and lean over his partner, placing the back of hishand against his temples to assess his body temperature.
"The fever is almost gone, but you better get some sleep," he said, reaching out to grab a spoon and scoop some liquid from cup he held in his hand, then pointing it towards Sherlock. "I made the syrup from Louis's recipe." His gaze fell briefly on the pieces of onion and garlic in the cup, which, combined with a few other ingredients, were the source of a somewhat sweet aroma that had been wafting throughout the flat for several hours.The moment it reached William’s nose, it triggered a wave of nostalgia that quickly manifested itself in his behavior and his voice softened as he added, "He always prepared it when Albert or I had a cold. He also often prepared milk with honey for our sore throats," he pointed to the second cup he had brought, "and nursed us until we felt better." He turned his gaze to Sherlock's face, and his heart swayed in his chest as he noticed (and it could not escape his gaze, for he had stared at his familiar face for hours, so he remembered every imperfection, every wrinkle, and every curve, so that he could easily see any changes) how Sherlock's gaze momentarily become distand, bierfly darted away, and then returned, softened, looking from eyes adorned with tears that were like drops in a lake; it was not hard to guess that keeping them open was not the easiest thing, so William brought the spoon closer to his face and only withdrew his hand after Sherlock had tasted the medicine. "Now this syrup is saving you too, so you'll have to thank Louis."
"I will," Sherlock said sleepily, letting his heavy eyelids cover his eyes, but he did not open them immediately or after a long moment.
The thought that Sherlock had fallen asleep flashed through William’s mind, so he very slowly and carefully placed the cup on the bedside table, then leaned on it and tried to get up, but was stopped by a hand that wrapped around his wrist and weakly tugged him. Almost immediately, he turned and glanced at the guilty man.
"Is there anything else you need, Sherly?" He asked softly, tucking a golden lock of hair behind his ear and leaning over Sherlock.
"Just one kiss," Sherlock said, opening his eyes for less than a second to hide his azure eyes before William could feast his eyes on their color "so that I can recover quickly."
"Then get well." William leaned in even closer until his lips touched Sherlock's hot cheek; this kiss, just over a moment, but it was enough to satisfy the sick detective.
Sherlock's eyelids felt incredibly heavy as he forced himself to open his eyes; he no longer remembered what he had dreamed about in the last few hours, he had also lost track of time, and was not sure whether he had slept a quarter of an hour or the whole day. The noise coming from outside through the open window – the buzz of conversations, the clatter of cabs crisscrossing the streets of New York, and the barking of a dog in the neighbourhood – helped him determine the time of day, forcing him to reluctantly get up from his pillow. Almost every muscle in his body still ached, his nose was stuffy and his throat was mercilessly scratchy, but the terrible cold that had once enveloped every bone had left him, and his eyes had stopped watering, allowing him to look around the bedroom carefully. He saw William standing by the window, staring at what must have been across the street, and Sherlock, curious, withouth thinking, pulled his legs out from under the covers, and, coughing so loudly that he thought his ribs would crack, got out of bed.
He walked slowly, rather unsteadily, towards William, and when he was close enough to lean on the windowsill, he glanced down the street at the object of his boyfriend’s interest; he easily guessed it was the man with the violin, sitting on the edge of the sidewalk. It was not hard to guess that he was a street musician. He played the song Sherlock knew, but it was not one of those which he had mastered and adored; in truth, he had never practiced the tune, only hearing it once or twice, each time stumbling upon it by accident.
Sherlock rested his head on William's shoulder, and moved his hand to rest on William's waist; in response, William raised his hands, not to push away his beloved’s arms, but simply to lean against them. A hint of amusement appeared on his face, forcing the corners of his mouth to turn up in a calm expression.
"Sherly?" he asked, tilting his head to the side so his gaze could catch Sherlock's entire face, including the dark strands of hair surrounding it. "What are you doing?"
"I'm recovering," Sherlock replied seriously, moving his head slightly so that his warmer forehead (though not in the feverish way in which it had been so hot that morning) brushed against the loose collar of his spotless white shirt, and his neck became relatively cool thanks to the gusts of March wind that blew into the flat; the touch of that skin had a greater effect on the disease than warm soup, milk with honey or a medicine consisting of onion, garlic, ginger and a few other spices Sherlock could not name.
This joke amused William enough to make a soft chuckle escape his throat, a sound so sweet to Sherlock's ears that in one moment he felt healed, devoid of even the slightest symptoms of a cold, and if it were not for the irritating feeling that lingered in his throat, he would have tipped his head back and allowed himself to laugh, which he had to suppress, because he was sure that whenever he tried to laugh, only a terribly dry cough would come out of his mouth.
"Are you recovering?" William repeated Sherlock’s words.
Sherlock let out a murmur of agreement, then remained silent for a short while, listening to the melody played of the violin outside, before finally straightening his back and squeezing William's hand.
"It is Vivaldi" he said, staring into the crimson abyss of William’s eyes, and then he moved his gaze to his parted llips, but only for a few seconds, because he quickly returned his full attention to his lover’s eyes, lit with silver sparks that, like a candlelight in a dark room, illuminate the bloody color. "If I had a violin, I would play anything you want, but now all I can offer you is a dance."
"I would gladly accept this dance," William agreed.
It has not been decided who will lead the dance; one of William's hands almost immediately went to Sherlock's shoulder, and the other found a place on his hip, and they began a dance that was neither a calm waltz nor a passionate tango, nor did they dance to the rhythm of the melody, because even when silence fell, they moved on a small section of the floor, taking turns leading, turning irregularly around their axis, and sometimes stopping for a quarter of a second; their movements were not very energetic, for Sherlock's body, weakened by the cold, lacked the energy that it was usually filled with, and William, not wanting to burden him even a little, deliberately took slow steps. They only stopped their dance when, lost in themselves, they almost bumped into a table standing in the middle of the room, which caused a wave of loud laughter.
They stared at each other for a long time, until Sherlock, drawn by William’s hot breath brushing his cheek, leaned forward to carefully touch his lips by his own.
"Is this how you recover?" William asked jokingly, tilting his head and giving Sherlock a gentle look.
"Of course," Sherlock replied seriously, leaning in once more to steal a kiss from sweet, pink-tinged lips.