“We need to get up.”
But he didn’t move. Instead, as if threatened by the words, he pulled John closer, placing a hand on his head and stroking John’s hair with his long, exquisite fingers. John did not complain or move. His ear was placed over Sherlock’s chest and the uneven beating of his heart sounded like a lullaby.
“Don’t go today.” Sherlock asked, his eyes still closed, enjoying the warmth John’s body provided, leaning against his own.
“But I have to work.” John complained, holding him closer.
“Call in sick. A doctor can’t see their patients sick.”
“But I am not sick. That would be lying.”
“Not exactly.” Sherlock affirmed. “You are sick. Lovesick.”
John laughed this time, the trembling of his body as he did so shaking Sherlock as well. John kissed Sherlock’s chest over the shirt and smiled.
“Who told you that I love you?”
Sherlock opened his eyes, staring at the ceiling.
“Will you stay?” he asked.
John took a deep breath. He didn’t think he had a choice.
“Of course.” he answered, his body relaxing now, knowing he was going nowhere.
“Well, that told me.” Sherlock said, simply, kissing his forehead and smiling.
John smiled back. That fool was right, he did love him.
John pulled the sheets up, covering them both, and closed his eyes again, as Sherlock did, feeling his heart beating at the exact same pace as Sherlock’s.
Lovesick. He liked the symptoms.