AN: As usual R&R and I apologize for any inconsistencies with the story and show. :) Six episodes isn't a lot to go on. Also I wrote this at one in the morning. And this is the first time I've really written Sherlock cause last time he was pretty out of it. And sorry if Sherlock gets a little OOC
John walked out of his bedroom and into the kitchen. Sherlock was, as usual, already awake.
"Morning." Muttered John as he went past Sherlock to make the coffee. Much to his surprise there was already coffee in the pot. That was fairly unusual. Generally Sherlock would wait for him to make it whenever he got up. He would proclaim that he had been to busy thinking to bother with coffee. That didn't prevent him from immediately getting a cup after Watson had made it though.
"I'm sure you're wondering why I made coffee this morning. Normally I would wait for you, but since I can't have a nicotine patch and you slept in until eleven o'clock I felt obligated to." John looked up at the clock. It was indeed just past eleven.
"Sorry." He grumbled as he reached for the coffee. Sherlock flipped a page in the newspaper and looked insolently up at John as he continued his quest for caffeine.
"Feeling a little under the weather today are we John?" Watson ignored this and sat opposite Sherlock. He wasn't even sure why he bothered sitting at the dining table as it was perpetually covered with Sherlock's clutter. Then again so was everything else. He sipped his coffee, trying to ignore it's overly bitter flavour. He looked up to see Sherlock watching him.
"Normally you complain when I make the coffee that bad." John glared fiercely at him.
"You did this deliberately Sherlock?" He demanded. "Christ's sake I just wanted some coffee." Sherlock raised a single eyebrow. "Don't look at me like that. I'm not in the mood for your games today." Sherlock's expression changed to one of mild concern.
"You sure you're alright John?" Watson was spared from replying by the screech of the kettle. His head pounded while Sherlock made himself tea. Evidently Sherlock was aware that the coffee was truly awful this morning. John buried his head in his arms and jumped when he felt a hand on his shoulder.
"Back to bed then, John?" He tried to shake his head, but the effort made the room spin. "Come on, up you get." Sherlock grunted as he helped John stand.
"I can walk Sherlock." Groused the doctor when Holmes didn't immediately release him.
"Yes I'm sure you can, but I don't want you knocking into my experiment. You'd probably ruin the whole thing. Oh well, plus there's also a highly corrosive acid that could cause you significant damage if any got on your skin." Sherlock began to lead John into the bedroom.
"Where are we going?" Mumbled the invalid.
"My bedroom, obviously." John stopped walking and Sherlock made the incredibly annoying face at him. "Your bedroom's on the next floor. The stairs are very narrow and I don't feel like traipsing up and down the stairs whenever you require assistance. It would also be difficult to get you up there right now. A struggle which at this point in time is completely unnecessary. My bedroom is right here and convenient. Need I go on?" The doctor shook his head mutely. Sherlock sat John on the bed. He immediately flopped over. "If you get worse just shout at me." And with that the detective had gone. John felt a little strange, sleeping in Sherlock's bed. He had been so taken aback by the hitherto unprecedented show of compassion he didn't have time to react. John wasn't sure how long he had been lying there when he began to shiver. He curled up on top of the covers and wished he could just die already. Shortly after he began shivering he began to ache all over. The deep tired sort of ache that makes you wish for rest, but permits none. There was a soft knock at the door.
"Watson it's Holmes. I'm coming in." Sherlock swirled into the room and glanced at John and clasped his hands. "All right, you've clearly got a fever. Probably achy and in pain, also judging by the way you were in the kitchen I'd say that your headache can only have gotten worse. I will be back in a moment." Just as swiftly as he had come, he was gone. John crawled under the blankets and buried his head under them. He tried to ignore Sherlock when he re-entered the room. This proved to be entirely futile as Sherlock just pulled his blankets back.
"Don't bother hiding I know where you are." John tried to get back under the blanket, but Sherlock still appeared to be holding it hostage.
"Gimme that. I'm dying." Moaned John as Sherlock just stood grinning wickedly.
"Course not. John Watson die? Don't be absurd you've just caught a bug." John wondered briefly whether this was Sherlock being nice, or deliberately being an ass. He abandoned this line of thinking as fruitless, of course he was being awful, that's what Sherlock did.
"Go away," he griped quietly. Sherlock rolled his eyes and tossed the blanket back over him.
"Nonsense, I have medication, but I really suppose if you'd rather I leave..." He trailed off. Watson rolled over and looked up at Sherlock who was smirking down at him. Well the Sherlock face that equated to a smirk, he would never be that undignified.
"Bloody Hell Sherlock, just give me the drugs." Sherlock sat on the bed beside him. He was deceptively gentle as he helped John to sit and poured some of the purple liquid into a spoon. John reached for it, fingers trembling.
"Absolutely not. You're shaking John." Watson looked down at his hands and noticed that they were indeed quivering.
"So what?"
"So I'm not going to let you spill that wretched goo all over my bed. Look at my duvet it's spotless, you'll ruin it. Now open your mouth." John did as he was told, glaring all the while. Sherlock deliberately tilted the spoon into his mouth. When the vile liquid touched his tongue John felt his stomach surge.
"Sherlock!" Gasped John just before he threw up. Luckily Sherlock had gotten the message and the bucket just in time. Sherlock held the wastebasket as John lost the entire contents of his stomach and continued to dry heave.
"Well that was rather unpleasant." Sherlock remarked calmly when he was done.
"You think?" Asked John crossly.
"Hold this I'll be back in a moment." Sherlock handed the bin of sick to John and jumped off the bed. The sound of the tap running permeated the flat. It was a pleasant sound, thought John. He began to relax only to be jolted back when he almost dropped the wastebasket. Sherlock re-emerged carrying a glass of water, washcloth and thermometer. John scowled up at him. Sherlock set the cloth and cup on the bedside table. He then took the basket from John and set that well out of the way on the floor.
"Open up, John." The doctor flushed deep scarlet.
"I can take care of myself Sherlock." he protested.
"If you were capable of taking care of yourself you obviously wouldn't be sick. Now open." John complied unwillingly. "Don't look at me like that I'm being helpful and kind. Think about it John when am I ever kind? You should take advantage." The thermometer beeped and Sherlock pulled it out of John's mouth. "Not too bad only about one oh one."
"Sherlock?"
"What is it John?"
"I feel like shit right now."
"Sorry John."