RUNNING HOT II (a multifandom fever!fic comment meme)

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Colds, flu, infections, insect-borne pathogens. Poisons, curses, spells.

Chills, sweats, delirium, hallucinations.

Huddling for warmth. Cool cloths. Unanticipated handsiness.

Delirious confessions of love. Confessions of love while the other person is unconscious.

Repressed memories rising to the surface.

The possibilities are endless.

Comments

Proceedings Of Sherlock's Society Of Clinical Medicine, 2/?

[anonymous]

"You can't possibly," John started. "Oh, god, no, I'm so not up for anything even resembling sexual activity right now."

"You aren't exactly the height of sexual attractiveness right now, John."

"Thanks. Thanks a lot. And no cases either, I can barely remember my own name right now."

"It is in fact a case, but you don't need to do anything," Sherlock said with a roll of his eyes. "I had a case some years back concerning a murder victim who was suffering from malaria at the time of his death. I couldn't prove the identity of the murderer because I lacked sufficient data on the blood chemisty of malaria patients."

"Of course," John said, resigned to his fate. "Shall I just lie back and think of England while you treat me like a laboratory rat then?"

"If you like," Sherlock said, and began rifling through his drawers for phlebotomy supplies. He knew he had some tubing stolen from the last jaunt to hospital somewhere in there. Ah, yes, they were just behind the spare glass slides and cover slips.

John was burning hot, closed eyes sunken into his pale face, when Sherlock got back to the bed.

"I'll be gentle," Sherlock said, as he swabbed a patch of skin on John's inside elbow. Someone else had gotten there first -- ah yes, John must have gone to a licensed doctor to get his diagnosis and medications. Waste of time. Sherlock could do blood films as well as any tech, and John wouldn't even have to leave the comforts of 221B.

So he thought as John winced and hissed as Sherlock drew two vials of blood, then slapped a bandage over the broken skin. "All done for now," Sherlock said. "As soon as your fever starts coming down again, we'll do another set. Smaller tubes this time, I don't need quite as much blood to assay for lactate dehydrogenase activity. However, in order to measure your serum arginase levels --"

"I'm in too much pain to punch you right now," John said, "but rest assured that it's coming. As soon as I can move again."

"I quite look forward to that." Sherlock quirked a smile. "Take your pills."

John did, or he tried. Sherlock had to help him sit up, and his entire arm was trembling when he reached out to take the glass of water that Sherlock offered and as soon as he tried to take hold it, the entire thing went all over the bedsheets.

"Sorry," he mumbled.

"John, do you really suppose water is the worst substance that has touched my bedsheets?"

"I don't want to think about that," John moaned.

"Here." Sherlock held the pills up to John's red lips. "Open."

John did, slowly. Sherlock could feel his hot breath over his own fingertips. Then with his other hand he offered a second glass of water. John drank it slowly, Sherlock's eyes cataloguing the movements of his throat as he swallowed. Then he helped JOhn lie down, hand feeling the sweat and shivers through John's pyjama top.

"Sleep," he murmured.

John did.

Or he tried, anyway. It was difficult -- the aches and pains stabbed through his muscles, the fever burned at his skin. The sheets were too hot and too cold by turns, and he woke from half-remembered dreams with his throat hoarse from shouting. Sherlock was at his side, a wet cloth in one hand and soothing nonsense words spilling from his lips.

John fell asleep like that, over and over again.