Repens

These new emotions were extremely foreign, sometimes a bit uncomfortable. How had he kept himself from this for so long? It wasn't as if he wanted to join the feeling population. Actually, his theories and rationalizations concerning emotions were all still the same. The only difference was his inability to completely detach himself as he had done the majority of his life. But that was before her.

You're changing me and I can't even control it, he thought while staring at her back hidden behind a mass of curls.

Even if he couldn't see her face, he knew what she looked like when she slept. Peaceful. Angelic- and he didn't even believe in angels. Not until earlier this week. Sherlock ran his thumb in one small line over her bare shoulder- so light she didn't feel it. He didn't dare kiss her as he wanted to in fear of waking her up.

The clock read 6:59. He turned the alarm off so she could continue sleeping. With a silent groan, the strangely content detective slid out of bed and began his day. Then he heard it. Late in the night he had heard Stephanie make a similar noise but now it was worse, deeper. Having slept at her side for the last week, Sherlock had memorized all of her sleeping sounds- another unexpected aspect of being in a relationship. The girl wheezed a bit and nearly woke herself up trying to get in a good breath. He took his clothes into the bathroom and changed there, a first.

John was still asleep and Mrs. Hudson couldn't be heard making her early tea downstairs. This was the first morning in some time that Sherlock was the only one awake at 221B. It was nice, silence. On rare mornings like this, he usually began searching for his next case or getting an early start to finish one in progress. But not this particular morning.

He shuddered at the realization of how sentimental he was becoming. It was quite disgusting. Looking out the window, early rising Londoners were making their way to underground stations, hailing cabs, and beginning their walks to work. With all that had happened in the last several days, Sherlock found it a good opportunity to take advantage of the alone time.

Down Baker Street and to the right he walked, noticing several details of the persons he silently passed: a middle-aged male smoker who was having their first cigarette after going cold turkey Tuesday of last week, a young girl studying for a history exam whose notes were incorrect on several accounts, the single mother who was spending the first of her won lottery money at the grocery mart, and then him. All these people out early of a morning going on with their simple mundane lives. And then the high-functioning-sociopath who had recently discovered a beating heart inside his icy cave of a chest.

These morning walks used to happen once a week. That was before John Watson burst into his life. Walks, like the one he was one right now, kept his ears open, eyes sharp, and skills of deduction at their height. Some mornings were more interesting as others and very rarely did anyone stop to chat with him. But he could feel the subtle changes inside his mind like sprouting seeds of the humanity he'd been lacking all these years. Suddenly his phone buzzed.

WHERE ARE YOU?

After a quick grin, Sherlock turned around to make his way back to 221B.

He walked through the door to a familiar sight, John reading the morning paper in his chair. The former soldier quickly glanced up from the news section with an annoyed sigh.

"Did you get my text or did you just chose to ignore it?"

"I received it then immediately made my way back Find anything of importance this morning?"

"I was worried, and no."

"Why would you be worried? It's not as if I've never been in London on my own," sneered the brilliant man. "Nothing? No murders last night? No break-ins?"

"No, Sherlock. But we have a situation that could get blown out of proportion at any hour and it's best to be careful at all times," John explained with sincerity.

"Speaking of Sleeping Beauty, where is she?" Sherlock asked, suddenly looking around the flat.
"She wasn't with you? Still sleeping then, I suppose," John answered, disappearing behind his paper once more.

"A bit late isn't it?"

"It's only nine. Maybe she's playing the woman card this morning."

"The 'woman card'? What is that?" sneered the concerned boyfriend.

"You know, sleeping in. Being lazy for a change."

"Not Steph." His expression told Watson that he was missing something obvious.

"Why not?"

"She wouldn't risk missing something by sleeping in," he replied as his voice died half way down the hall.

He peeked into his room and there she was, only wheezing quite a bit more than earlier. The emotions he had felt in the last several days were all catching up with him. At times he felt as if he was experiencing too many firsts too quickly or not in the proper order. This was one of those moments. It wasn't as bad as when Moriarty had John in that bomb vest but seeing her like this still made his stomach sick. If it had been anyone else sick in bed, he would roll his eyes and explain the biological reasons the ill person would eventually be alright. No. This was different.

Green eyes slowly pulled open, her irises making her skin appear all the more pale. Stephanie noticed the odd expression on his face before she even felt the fierce aching of her own body.
"Morning," he nearly whispered.

"Hello," she replied with a soft cracking voice. After staring at her curious boyfriend, she breathed, "You've been up a while. What time is it?"

The unusually quiet Sherlock sat beside her on his bed, long legs dangling off the side. When she tried to speak again, she began to feel the aching and congestion.

"It's nine, but you are very sick," he half grinned, far more concerned than necessary.
"Who says I'm 'very' sick. It's not bad," she sassed while trying to sit up.

A large cool hand was placed on her shoulder to push her back down. She quickly responded by grabbing his hand and placing it against her cheek for relief from the burning sensation.

"You're burning up!" he noted with more feeling in his tone than appropriate.

"I'm fine, darling," she tried to smile.

"Stephanie," grinned the medical man, "you're extremely pale, you have a fever, your eyes are nearly swollen shut, and you look horrible."

She closed her eyes, knowing he was right on all accounts. She could feel the clammy skin holding her face together, the burning of her body, and sensitive eyes. Her only prayer was that she didn't look as wretched as she felt.

"Well thank you for giving me the sweet version," bitterly teased the ill creature.

He almost chuckled- but why? What was so comical?

John walked in, about to say something, and froze at the sight of Stephanie.

"Bloody…"

"Morning, John," the girl worked up an almost pleasant smile and pulled the cover over her chest.
He couldn't tell if she was blushing or if her face was simply that red from being sick. Instead of saying another word, the good doctor simply pointed towards the hall. He was gone seconds later.
"That bad then?" Sherlock gave a sympathetic nod. "Well, I can take care of myself. If I need anything, auntie is downstairs. No worries. You and John can't wait around another moment. The two of you must have something to do."

"We are actually still looking for a case. A rather slow morning." He watched as she tried to move into a comfortable position. No luck. "Be right back," the handsome man winked before kissing her moist forehead.

Once he returned into the livingroom, he passed by a worried John without a word. Through the livingroom to the kitchen he went. Each time John heard a new noise from the next room, he began to say something. The strange sounds were so close together he was left silent. After the noises ended, Sherlock returned with an armful of medicine, a damp cloth, and a glass of water.

"Sherlock," John giggled before his friend disappeared again. The comical genius stopped in mid-step and gave his full attention to the doctor of the house. "What… are you doing?"

"She's ill. Flu, I think."

He began to walk off again when John continued, "And this is your reaction?" No reply. John couldn't help laughing. "If this was anyone else, anyone, you wouldn't give a moment's worth of concern or care."

"Your point?" It was said quickly with the annoyed tone the military man had grown used to a long time ago. John only shrugged before opening a nearby paper."No? Alright then."

Sherlock was almost out of the room when Watson inquired, "What about the Hyde Park robbery, page 8?"

"It was the nephew. Obvious," the detective called from down the hall.