a/n : This entire story was edited & revised on 9/30/13, a few weeks after its inital publication. If you are a returning reader, you may notice some slight differences, but the plot remains almost entirely the same.

I : In which Sherlock is certainly not sick

John was on the verge of drifting to sleep when he was interrupted by the sounds of footsteps in the hall and the bathroom door slamming. Typical Sherlock to trudge around the flat like an elephant, regardless of the fact that it was 12:45 on a work night. John flipped his pillow over and pressed his face into the cooler side, trying to ignore the noise.

The footsteps marched back to Sherlock's room and the flat was silent once more. It was a humid September night and rain pattered softly on John's window pane. It was too cold for just the sheets but too warm for the blanket. Every twenty minutes or so he was compelled to roll over and either push the covers off or pull them back up again.

The glowing blue numbers of the digital clock read 1:32 when John saw them next. He had finally gotten comfortable with his feet sticking out of the blanket and was dozing contentedly when more heavy footsteps drew his attention. This time he thought he heard other sounds too, almost like coughing—no, more like wheezing. But he chalked it up to sleep deprivation and ordered himself to fall asleep. This was ridiculous. His eyes stung with exhaustion, and he knew he was setting himself up for a pretty miserable day at the surgery tomorrow.

At 4:17, there was so much thumping and slamming of doors that John marveled that all of Baker Street couldn't hear. Convinced that his flatmate was conducting some nocturnal experiment, he wrapped himself in a bathrobe and marched into the hallway, intending to give Sherlock Holmes a piece of his mind.

He found the detective in the hall, flinging things out the coat closet at random and mumbling in frustration. "Sherlock?" John dodged an airborne umbrella and stepped closer. His anger swiftly melted into concern as he took in Sherlock's disheveled hair, red-rimmed eyes, and the fact that he was wearing all his bedclothes wrapped around him like a mantle.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?"

"Gotta find 'nother b-blanket." He mumbled through chattering teeth. "'s freezing."

John stood up on tiptoe to press the back of his hand to the taller man's forehead. The clammy, hot skin confirmed what he already knew. "You're all feverish, Sherlock, you should go back to bed. I'll find a blanket."

"'m not feverish, 's c-cold! Gotta tell Mrs. Hudson th' thermostat's broken again."

"No, it's 25 degrees in here and you're shaking like a leaf. Bed. Now."

Sherlock hung his head and shuffled down the hallway, bedclothes trailing behind. Halfway to his room, he appeared to change his mind and hurried in the direction of the bathroom instead.

John sifted through the scattered contents of the closet until he found the green wool blanket that usually lived on the top shelf until the very dead of winter. Ideally, he'd keep looking for something lighter, but it would do for now. He found Sherlock in the bathroom, dry heaving with his arms braced against the toilet. All the footsteps and retching he'd heard earlier suddenly made sense.

"Sherlock, have you been vomiting all night?" He abandoned the blanket and approached. His initial impulse was to rub Sherlock's back comfortingly, but given the detective's usual aversion to unnecessary physical contact, he wasn't sure if Sherlock would find that comforting at all. He settled for a hand on Sherlock's shoulder and a sympathetic frown.

When the heaving subsided, John helped him sit down on the edge of the bathtub and handed him a wet cloth. While Sherlock wiped his face, John took a thermometer out of the cuboard and disinfected it with rubbing alcohol. "Here, hold this under your tongue for me?" Sherlock freed one hand from his collection of sheets and blankets and obliged.

"Must've eaten something bad.." his words were groggy and slurred together.

"Don't talk with that in your mouth, you'll mess up the reading."

Sherlock ignored him and continued mumbling, "You been sick too? Can't think of anything I ate that you didn't. Unless it was the…"

"Sherlock," said John. Sherlock didn't seem to hear. "Sherlock, look at me."

His eyes snapped up to John's face.

"It wasn't something you ate. It's not the sodding thermostat, you're sick. Surely you can deduce that."

"Am not."

"You are."

"I don't get sick."

John fought the desire to roll his eyes. "Everybody gets sick. Even the Great and Powerful Sherlock Holmes. Now let me see that." The thermometer had just beeped. Sherlock handed it back. "39.3. That's way too high, Sherlock. Let's get you in bed and then I'll get you something for it."

John kept a steadying hand on Sherlock as he wobbled back to his room, and helped him put the covers back on the bed so he could crawl into them. Sherlock sighed contentedly as he lay back and the pain in his head eased a little.

John left and came back with a tall glass of water and box of fever medicine. He popped two tiny red pills out of their aluminium packets and handed them to Sherlock, along with the glass.

"I want you to take those, and as much of the water as you think you can manage."

Sherlock stared at the capsules in the center of his palm, then glanced dolefully up at John. John crossed his arms and put on his very best "doctor face" — kind but stern.

Sherlock downed the pills with a tiny sip, then set the glass on the nightstand as though the thought of drinking more made him feel like vomiting again.

John went back to the bathroom and picked up the green blanket and the dustbin, and carried both back to the bedroom. He set the bin on the floor and folded the blanket up on the foot of the bed so both would be within Sherlock's reach if needed. "Need anything else?" he asked. Sherlock shook his head.

"Come and get me if you decide you do, I'll be—" John suddenly imagined a sick and groggy Sherlock attempting to drag himself up the stairs to John's bedroom. "—I guess I'll be on the couch. And if it's alright, I'll keep this door open so all you'll have to do is call out."

A tiny nod. John turned to leave.

"John?"

"What is it?"

"I'm not sick."

"Good night, Sherlock." John turned off the light with a half smile and crept back to the living room.