Author's Note: Hey guys! Just another Sherlock Sick!fic. Constructive criticism welcome. Also, suggestions for the plot are welcome.
Disclaimer: Well, I still don't own BBC Sherlock, nothing is mine but the story.
I got a call from Mrs. Hudson as I was driving back to Harry's apartment. "Hey John, I think Sherlock might be sick, he won't confirm it, but he didn't sound like himself this morning, but he said he's fine and stopped talking to me, can you come check on him?"
I sighed, dialing Harry to let her know I wouldn't be home until later. A 15-minute drive later I pulled up to the flat, subconsciously climbing the stairs, carrying my work bag over my shoulder. I knocked on the door, not really expecting an answer. I grabbed the keys off my key ring, opening the door quietly.
"Hey Sherlock? It's me, Mrs. Hudson called and sent me to check on you." With no response, I slipped my shoes off, padding into the living room. "Sherlock?" I hear a crash from the bathroom followed by a string of quiet curses. Sighing, I walked through Sherlock's bedroom into the attached bathroom.* I walked in to see Sherlock lying shirtless on the floor, the smell of vomit acrid in the air. Hearing me, he rolled onto his back, glassy eyes flickering and meeting mine. He groaned, a shaky hand running through his disheveled hair.
"I told Mrs. Hudson I was fine," Sherlock mumbled. I sat down next to his legs, leaning against the wall.
"Well clearly you weren't too convincing," I slid a hand onto his forehead, "Damn it Sherlock, this isn't fine, you're burning up," he coughed, feebly swatting my hand away. He sat up abruptly, abs tightening as he retched into the toilet.
"Oh Sherlock," he finished dry heaving, spitting into the bowl once more, and leaned his cheek onto the porcelain. I reached my hand to touch his back, ignoring the slight sheen of sweat. Sherlock tensed at my touch, back muscles straining, "Sherlock, I promise your bed is more comfortable than the toilet seat." He huffed, eyes rolling slightly. I smiled lightly, "Am I going to need to carry you? You know I can and you know I will." His lips twitched but his head remained on the porcelain.
"Shut up John, I can handle this, I didn't even ask you to come, you could have stayed with Harry, I can deal with this on my own."
"Yeah, but last time you were 'handling' your pain, you ended up passed out the living room floor, so apologies if I don't exactly believe you." I grabbed his waist, pulling him towards me as I rose to my knees. His head flopped against my shoulder, face in the crook of my neck. I smiled realizing how out of it he must be to be in this position. I rose to my feet, with no response from Sherlock. He remained unresponsive as I pulled his arm around my shoulder, my arm wrapped around his waist.
His eyes flickered open once he was on his bed, he rolled onto his side as I grabbed my bag from the hall. "Hey Sherlock do you want to put a shirt on?"
His eyebrow twitched, lips quirking upwards, "I don't know John do you want me to put a shirt on?" I smirked at his attempted humor.
"I don't think I should really have input on this matter." He nodded lazily into his pillow letting out a sigh. I walked into his closet grabbing what looked like a moderately clean t-shirt, throwing it onto his bed. "Okay, I'm going to grab some stuff from the store, I'll be back in a bit, just get some sleep," I walked out of his room, "Oh and put a shirt on!"
*I looked up floor plans of the flat and there's a small room off of Sherlock's bedroom, not confirmed to be a bathroom but I decided it was.