Narcissus

It started with a bang, he ended with a whimper.

They'd been going at it for ten days straight and frankly John was battered, bruised, balls-to-the-wall exhausted.

It'd been just one case, only one, but it'd been a corker: A string of wildly unrelated thefts and arson and, oddly, baked goods or kittens left behind at each crime scene. It had taken everything John, Sherlock, Greg—the entire Yard—had to give.

Of course Sherlock had been in his element. And you know him, he always talks it out, has to hear himself think, generally needs to bask in his own genius.

Which is to say he hadn't shut up for a week and a half.

After they collared the duo late last night—a his-and-hers set of 20-somethings with far too much brain, booze, and boredom and too few boundaries—Sherlock had then talked non-stop through both his and John's statements, over dinner at Angelo's, in the shower, and then in bed. Which goes far toward explaining how the imperious detective lost his second most important weapon.

It started late afternoon of the next day, when Sherlock tried to moan as he masturbated in bed. All that came out, however, was a hoarse little wheeze.

Which woke a dozing John right on up. Turning toward his wanking lover he pointedly said, "You've got laryngitis."

Sherlock arched his neck, tried to say "Busy!" but just sort of croaked.

John frowned. "You're all sweaty, look at you."

Sherlock lost his rhythm for a moment, tried to hiss, "Not now!"

John pressed his hand to Sherlock's forehead. "You've got a fever."

Sherlock attempted to bite John's arm on general principle, and groan, "Later!"

John sat up. "Mycroft just had pneumonia. You better not be getting pneumonia."

Sherlock, snaked his other hand down between his legs, closed his eyes. He could not, however, close his ears.

John took note of the fast pulse at Sherlock's neck. "Do you feel nauseous?"

Sherlock bit his lower lip kind of hard and rasped, "Nntnwwww."

John took note of his lover's trembling. "Damn it, you're shaking, too." Another press of a doctorly hand on Sherlock's brow.

Sherlock's hand moved faster over his cock, his mouth fell open and—hell-the-fuck-lo!

John didn't go down on Sherlock just then from anything remotely resembling lust. While 221B's dynamic duo often have some damn fantastic sex, yes, it may surprise you to know that many days they don't, and even when they do it's sometimes kind of sloppy or fast or distracted or, like now, meant to get everyone to the other side so that—

"—*wheeze*croak*hiss*—"

—so that the one who was the doctor could get the one who tended to over-do it to just stay still for one damned second.

The doctor got his wish. Sherlock's body went hard and motionless as he filled John's mouth. Then, a few seconds after his orgasm—seconds, just seconds, John is still amazed the rare times he does this—Sherlock sat up with a grin, pressed his hands together and said…

Nada.

Nothing.

Zip.

He tried, mind you. He opened that voluptuous mouth wider (as if that would help) and he made a valiant effort to speak, but it looked remarkably as if speaking was something Sherlock Holmes was currently incapable of doing.

Then he coughed. Nice and gurgly and disgusting.

"That's it, get dressed, I'm taking you to A&E."

Sherlock—never up for reacting when over-reacting will do—waved noodly arms in the air, shook his head, and scowled.

John stood up, bare bones naked, pillow marks still on his face. Didn't matter, he radiated I will not fucking ask twice in big fat juicy waves.

Sherlock got out of bed, got dressed.

They were back three hours later, both unbearably smug.

John because Sherlock didn't have pneumonia.

Sherlock because Sherlock didn't have pneumonia.

He did, however, have a nice bout of the flu, which was why he was currently coughing and wheezing and flouncing round the sitting room acting aggrieved.

"You do know the flu is often a precursor to pneumonia, don't you?" John said, all doctorly as he turned up the flat's heat. "And you, you walking disaster zone, were probably this close."

Sherlock plucked the skull off the mantle, walked dramatically over the coffee table, flopped onto the sofa. He made a moue at John.

"Though the laryngitis, well I'm surprised you haven't had it before," John complained as he turned the kettle on, "What with the way you go on and on and endlessly on sometimes."

Sherlock ran his thumbs over the skull's eye sockets and thought, You wouldn't make me go to A&E.

Ha! Think again boy genius.

"And don't think I'm leaving you alone to wallow in your misery," said John, pulling out tea cups.

I would have made you go to A&E so fast your big head would swim.

Sherlock cast his moue upon the skull but she did not shut up. Apparently no one in this flat was going to damn well shut up.

"Because I'm not. Mycroft ended up in hospital for a reason, Sherlock. Because as geniuses go he's as stupid as you are."

Are you listening to our little BAMF? Turn me around so I can hear him better.

Sherlock scowled and thought about not complying but he lives with two tyrants, two, when the standard issue per household is usually not even one.

"You think your giant brains somehow have a cloaking device or something, protecting you from the ills of common folk."

Well they don't, you big lug.

"Well they don't."

Ha!

"Shhhhhhhh. SHHHHHH!"

It wasn't much but it was the only sound Sherlock could make that didn't directly involve his larynx and so he put his all into it.

For all the good it did.

"Open your mouth and shut up."

Sherlock clamped his mouth closed and refused to make room on the sofa for John's bum. John's left buttock held on anyway.

"If you make me ask again there Will Be Consequences."

Sherlock opened his mouth. For one second.

John touched the skull, as if to take her away. Sherlock opened his mouth. John started sliding a thermometer in.

"Careful! I didn't get it all the way in for crying out loud."

Sherlock opened his mouth so wide he looked almost frightening.

"Stop being unnerving. Why are you acting like a six year old?"

Sherlock wrapped his arms around the skull, stretched out long on the sofa, and waited until the thermometer was in his mouth—of course—before trying to husk out an answer.

"Tttt!"

It was enough. The thermometer fell onto his chest.

John huffed in frustration. "One day I'm going to be taken to jail because I'm romancing an underaged idiot. Seriously. What are you, two? And don't answer that. Just shut up and stop fidgeting and open your mouth again so I can shove this thing in there."

Sherlock scowled and was about to argue—without his main weapon—but the second his lips parted John plugged the thermometer back in then pressed hard at the underside of Sherlock's jaw.

"No words. No trying to form words. No nothing. Just stop fidgeting and stop pretending you can talk and just stop everything all of it at once before you make me mental. Mentaler. More mental."

Now John scowled. "And also just stop it because you're making me sick. Literally. I can feel your germs multiplying inside me because that's what always happens. So just make my life a little easier, would you? Just for once be a good boy and act your age so that when I begin to die I can do so with a certain degree of ease, can you do that? Will you do that?"

Sherlock blinked at John.

John blinked at the skull.

"She said wishful thinking."

Sherlock's brows shot into his fringe and he was about to wave his arms and shout you hear her too? but John's hand was still clamped under his jaw so that conversation would not be occurring for another ten weeks, five days, and roughly thirty minutes when they were on their honeymoon—the one neither knew was only ten weeks, five days in their future.

So instead of saying anything—which he couldn't do anyway—Sherlock frowned and blinked a big I'm sorry, because John wasn't kidding. For this is what happens every time Sherlock gets sick:

* Sherlock refuses to admit he's sick.

* So Sherlock doesn't get a little sick; instead he ignores his symptoms until they take him off at the knees and he gets Really, Really Sick.

* He then requires a great deal of tending and pampering. Or rather, he accepts a great deal of tending and pampering. If John wants to slather him in toast, affection, and a certain degree of sexual servicing why on earth shouldn't he let his lover do what makes him happy?

* While he is being pampered Sherlock creates inside his person a new and virulent strain of the germ currently taking him off at the knees.

* Sherlock gets well in about four days.

* On day five John gets taken off at the knees.

* Sherlock begins to slather John in burned toast, tepid tea, John's favorite junk food (even Sherlock can not get Maltesers and Ribena wrong), and a certain degree of sexual servicing providing John can breathe, if not, then Sherlock just plays the violin for him.

* Lather, rinse, repeat with every summer cold, winter flu, and sometimes, John swears, random headaches, sprains, and contusions because seriously at this point they are so joined at the hip that if Sherlock gets a toothache it seems John goes to the dentist.

Anyway. They both knew John was going down for the count before long and so Sherlock blinked his apology and John read the thermometer and the giving and taking were in perfect balance and all was right with the world.

And then John said:

"Now, I'm going to put the telly on so that you get bored into somnolence or so indignant you're entertaining, and then I'm going to take a shower in a vain attempt to wash off the germs from A&E."

John paused a few long moments. And then John said softly, "After that I'll come back—we'll call it about twenty minutes—and if you're a very good boy I promise to shut down that magnificent mind of yours with some of the best sex you'll ever have."

Sherlock huffed out a startled breath, heart suddenly thrumming hard and fast.

Oh, it wasn't the hyperbolic content of John's message that had the great detective suddenly pressing a hand between his legs.

It was the fact that John had delivered it emulating Sherlock's voice perfectly.

This is a sequel to "Voice Over" so you probably have some sense of what's coming. Other than the boys. And I promise you, they are coming. One of them will be talking a blue streak. One of them will not. Except…he sort of will. Next chapter up Monday.