On the morning of his parents' 50th wedding anniversary, Sherlock Holmes came down with the flu.
At first, John chalked up Sherlock's malaise to his reticence to attend the party that afternoon. It would be a grand affair, held in a sprawling rose garden an hour outside of London. There would be a chamber orchestra, candlelit walkways, lavish food, strolling minstrels. Every last detail had been carefully planned by Anthea, and-because Mycroft had insisted-twelve crack-shot bodyguards would be on hand, doubling as waiters. Nothing was too good for the elder Mr. Holmes and his bride.
John was looking forward to the party, although he knew it would be ripe with cheerful well-wishers bearing tastefully-wrapped gifts and wanting to hug Sherlock and remark about how much he'd grown since they'd last seen him twenty-five years earlier.
If someone dared to pinch Sherlock's cheek, John honestly didn't know what would happen.
Perhaps Sherlock was also anticipating the cheek-pinching, as he was still sprawled across the couch, dressed in his striped pajamas and ratty blue dressing gown an hour before the party was to begin.
John, who was already dressed in his best suit, poked him. "We're going to be late. Mycroft will never let me hear the end of it if you aren't there on time."
"Screw my brother," Sherlock muttered. "He can go f-"
"Very nice." John poked him again. "Get going."
Sherlock grumbled and leaped to his feet. He was in the middle of a biting comment, but he lost his words as a wave of vertigo crashed over him. Zigzags of light flashed in front of his vision, and he felt John's hands on his hips, holding him steady.
"Sherlock, I swear if this is an act just to get out of going to the party, Mycroft won't have to kill you, I'll do it myself."
"I'm fine," Sherlock muttered, and with every last ounce of strength he stiffened his spine and walked carefully to his bedroom. He closed the door behind him and John decided he would give his best friend ten minutes alone before storming the door.
Ten minutes later, John found Sherlock sprawled on his bed. He'd managed to wiggle into his dress shirt, although he hadn't fastened a single button. His dress pants hung from one bare foot.
"Hey." John shook his shoulder. "Sherlock."
Sherlock startled awake, muttering something about being late if John didn't hurry up.
John waggled his fingers as Sherlock's eyes slid into hazy focus again.
"Hello, there," John said. "Are you feeling all right, then?"
"Never better." To prove it, Sherlock jumped to a standing position. However, he was still tangled in his pants, and when he tried to step he lurched forward and would have gone flat on his face had John not caught him. And that's when John felt the heat radiating from the man he held in his arms.
John sighed, caressing small circles around Sherlock's back. "You're well and truly sick, aren't you?"
Sherlock sagged against him, relieved that his best friend understood. "Don't tell Mycroft."
"I think he'll notice when you don't show up at the party."
"Not show up? I have to go," Sherlock said. "He'll never shut up if I don't."
"Well, he'll have to just get over it."
"My parents, John."
"They'll understand."
Sherlock was shaking his head. "I would disappoint them."
"I don't think you could ever disappoint them, Sherlock. They love you."
Sherlock pulled away then. He sat down on the edge of the bed, covering his mouth with his fingertips. John wasn't sure if it was nausea or regret that caused this action. Either way, he sat down beside his lover and asked, "What is it?"
"I've been a rubbish son," Sherlock whispered. "I avoid their phone calls, visit only on major holidays, and even then I complain. I didn't even help with this party. It was all Mycroft. It's always Mycroft.
It's their 50th anniversary, John. How many people reach fifty years together?"
"Not many," John agreed. "But they're both in perfect health, Sherlock."
"Someday they'll be gone. Maybe someday soon. And they'll never know that I… They'll think I didn't…" A single tear had trailed down his marble skin, and he thumbed it away.
"Okay." John reached for Sherlock's shirt buttons. "Let's get you dressed, all right?"
A few moments later, they were both presentable. As they waited for the cab's arrival, John masked his worry, sneaking glances at his best friend. Sherlock was perspiring from the effort of getting dressed and walking outside.
The cab ride was worse. Traffic was backed up due to an unseen car accident miles down the street, and with the cab's every weave in and out of traffic, Sherlock's stomach jostled.
"Are you sure you can do this?" John asked quietly.
"Of course," Sherlock hissed.
John nodded, then led Sherlock to rest his head on his shoulder. "Just close your eyes," he murmured.
During the long ride Sherlock managed to sleep a little, even drooling a bit on John's jacket. The detective was so hot to the touch John was grateful when the cab pulled up in front of the gardens and Sherlock sleepily raised his head.
"You all right?" John asked.
Sherlock nodded wordlessly and climbed out of the cab. After John had paid the fare and joined him on the sidewalk, the doctor advised, "Don't breathe on anyone, all right?"
Sherlock actually smirked a little. "I'll do my best to refrain from breathing," he vowed.
The party was lovely, a beautiful celebration of a long and loving marriage. Sherlock's parents were holding hands as they greeted their guests while Mycroft stood nearby, looking surly as usual.
He looked even more disgruntled when he saw his brother. "Well, Sherlock," he sneered. "You decided to grace us with your presence after all."
Sherlock ignored him and took care to hold his breath as his parents took turns embracing him. But as soon as she'd held him, his mother frowned at him. She reached up and pulled him down by the ears until her lips were pressed against his forehead.
"Mother," Sherlock hissed.
His mother stepped back, not embarrassed in the slightest. "You have a fever," she said.
"I am fine," he said.
Mrs. Holmes shook her head, but at that moment, new guests were arriving and waiting to greet the honored guests. "We'll talk about this in a moment," she murmured to her son.
As she turned to the new arrivals, John steered Sherlock away from the crowd. "Are you thirsty?" he asked. "How about some ginger ale? It'll settle your stomach."
"Good idea," Sherlock agreed, and then John was worried. Whenever Sherlock couldn't even protest, there was something very wrong.
John led him to a spot away from the beaten path. There was a stone bench surrounded by rose bushes in fragrant full bloom, but as if to prove a point Sherlock refused to sit. Sighing, John walked quickly toward the buffet tables, where he hoped to find a suitable drink.
When he returned a few moments later, carrying a glass of ginger ale in each hand, he found Sherlock had been discovered by an elderly woman who was apparently a friend of his mother's. She was regaling him with stories of what he had been like as a child. As John approached, the woman reached up and pinched Sherlock's cheeks, remarking how grown-up he looked that night.
To his credit, Sherlock smiled wanly and wished her a goodnight as she tottered away. As soon as he was alone with John, he sank to the stone bench. "John," he whispered. "I don't think I can do this."
No, John didn't think he was going to make it, after all. Sherlock was turning green quickly. They needed to get home.
"I'm going to tell your parents. They'll understand. And then I'll get you home, all right? Just hang on, Sherlock."
Sherlock was holding his stomach now, and a tiny whimper escaped his throat. He was swallowing hard against the nausea, his eyes closed.
"I'm think I'm going to be sick," he murmured.
In the few minutes they had been at the party, John had made mental note of every restroom in case Sherlock had become nauseous. As luck would have it, they were as far away as they could get from the nearest facility. "The bathroom is on the other side of the courtyard, Sherlock. Do you think you can make it?"
Before Sherlock could reply, John spied his parents. They were strolling toward them, arms linked with Mycroft, who still wore an expression of snobby scorn on his pointed features. John nearly sprinted to meet them.
"Mr. and Mrs. Holmes, my apologies." John gestured to Sherlock, who was sitting now with his elbows on his knees and his curly head cradled in his hands. "Sherlock isn't feeling well. He hasn't felt well all day. He wanted to be here, of course, but I think I need to take him home."
"I knew it," Mrs. Holmes murmured, but Mycroft, fueled with anger, broke away from his parents and stalked toward Sherlock. John had to jog to catch up. As soon as Mycroft was in front of Sherlock, he snarled at his younger brother.
"This is nothing but an act," Mycroft bit out. "Your acting skills need work."
"Not now, Mycroft," Sherlock whispered.
"Ten minutes, is that all you can give to your parents, after all you've put them through?"
"Mycroft, he's not kidding," John said. "He feels like he's going to-"
"Honestly, brother mine, it's shameful what you'll do just to weasel your way out of celebrating our parents' joyous…"
Without warning, Sherlock leaned over, his mouth open, and vomited across Mycroft's expensive shoes. The stomach contents splashed across the cobblestone, drenching the shoes and splashing onto Mycroft's suit.
A flurry of activity followed. John managed to grab an empty ice bucket from a nearby table, plopped down beside Sherlock and held up the bucket before his lover heaved a second time. Mrs. Holmes stood at her younger son's side, murmuring comfort and stroking his damp hair as Sherlock's shoulders jerked with each retch.
His father, too, was leaning down, his hand gently resting on Sherlock's back. "Let it go, son," he murmured. "It's all right. You'll feel better when it's all out."
The only one who hadn't moved was Mycroft. He just stood there, frozen, a look of disbelieving horror plastered on his face.
In the center of the activity, Sherlock was sick again and again, until tears were flooding his cheeks and he couldn't stop trembling.
It seemed to last forever, but Sherlock finally lifted his head from the bucket with a gasp. "Done?" John asked gently. When the taller man nodded weakly, John looked around for a place to set the bucket. Seeing none, he handed it to Mycroft, muttering, "Sorry."
Now his mother was kneeling at his side, paying no heed to the sequined gown she wore. "Why didn't you tell us you were ill, Sherlock?"
Too shattered to even speak, too ashamed to face the party-goers rubbernecking in their direction, Sherlock just shook his head and, to John's surprise, hid his face in the crook of John's neck. He smelled sour, but John held him near, shielding him further from prying eyes.
"Oh, my sweetheart," his mother cooed. To John, she said, "You take him home, John. He needs his bed. And some tea. Will you make him tea?"
"I will," John promised.
"And make sure he stays warm," she said. "You'll stay with him?"
"Yes," John agreed.
"And if he gets congested, you'll use that mentholated rub on his chest, yes? And on the bottoms of his feet if he develops a cough."
Sherlock groaned, but John just patted his shoulder and smiled at his mother. "I will. I promise. I'll just get us a cab and-"
"You'll use the limousine," Mr. Holmes suggested. "It's right outside."
"The limousine is for you and Mother," Mycroft protested.
"We'll take a cab," Mrs. Holmes said immediately. "He's sick, Myc."
"It's your fiftieth wedding anniversary!" Mycroft's voice rose, earning him a sharp look from his father.
"For once, you might try putting yourself in your brother's shoes," Mr. Holmes said, his voice dangerously quiet.
Mycroft smiled bitterly. "Ironic words, considering the state of mine."
"We would do the same for you, son," his father said. "Never forget that."
"Indeed." Mycroft turned away, still carrying the soiled ice bucket. "I'll have the limousine waiting."
Against John's throat, Sherlock whispered, "Help me." John knew what he wanted; he wanted his parents to go away and for everyone to stop watching him.
Although John could shield Sherlock from the onlookers' gazes, he knew Sherlock's parents weren't going to budge. And he was grateful, as Sherlock was still trembling and refusing to raise his head from John's shoulders even as they walked. His parents stayed, one on each side, until they were outside the garden, with the limousine pulling to the curb.
John climbed in first, shedding his coat so he could use it as a blanket. He knew Sherlock needed to lie down and would collapse as soon as he could.
The consulting detective wearily accepted embraces from his parents before climbing in beside John. They fussed over him for a moment more, and then the driver closed the door and a moment later the limousine pulled away into traffic.
Sherlock shivered, staring out the window so John wouldn't see the way his mouth was trembling. John knew, of course, that Sherlock was on the verge of tears, and he rubbed his shoulder.
"It wasn't your fault," John soothed. "You're sick, is all. Everyone gets sick."
"Not everyone vomits on their brother's shoes," Sherlock sulked.
John chuckled. "Well, that's true." He tugged gently at the detective's shoulder, and that was all the taller man needed. Sherlock listed toward John and slid down to rest his head against John's thigh. When John covered him with his coat, Sherlock sighed gratefully and closed his eyes.
John stroked the damp curls. "Is your stomach settled now?"
"Yes."
"Good." Then John couldn't resist asking, "You didn't aim for Mycroft's shoes, Sherlock? Did you?"
His eyes were still closed, but Sherlock smiled wanly. "They were his favorites."
Still chuckling, John shook his head and gazed outside the window, waiting for the cab to take them home to Baker Street.