I awoke to the sudden and rather callous sound of puking. Having been awoken from a rather domestic dream, I thought it was one of my fantasy children. I proceeded to wake and realized that I was the only one in the flat besides Sherlock. Sherlock! Everything pulled together and I realized that my friend was ill. In a hurried mess I pulled my robe on and rushed to the restroom.

There, lying on the floor was Sherlock. His hair was sticking to his forehead with sweat and his pale face tinted green. He didn't seem to notice me in the door way as he lurched for the opened toilet.

"Bleurggggg!"

"Sh-Sherlock, are you alright?" I asked timidly, knowing full well the answer.

The man jumped, not expecting to hear my voice (hard to see why with all the noise HE was making). "Y-yes," he said shakily, " just fine. Go back to b-bleurggg!" His sentence was cut of by another spew of vomit. Not knowing what to do, I stood there in the doorway, watching him. After a few moments of awkward silence on my part, I gained the courage to try and help.

"Sherlock, what did you eat last night?"

He groaned, hugging the toilet bowl. I was just about to give up when Sherlock began to whimper, "I didn't mean to," weather sweat or tears flowed down his face, I knew not, "I didn't mean for it to happen." He gulped for air as he began to dry heave. "The ingredients, they must be old."

I grew slightly impatient, "Sherlock, look at me," I pulled his head from the toilet. His storm ocean eyes were red from stress and his usually so calm expression was replaced by one of pathetic pain. I had forgotten all the names he called me, and the times he was rude and felt genuinely sorry for him. I tried a more patient tone, "Sherlock, what did you make?"

The man rubbed his face meekly, "I tried to make lunch…"

I mentally face palmed, "Sherlock, you didn't."

He nodded before leaning over the toilet again, "I found the meat behind the toes in the fridge." Before I had a chance to say anything, he cut me off, "It WAS smoked turkey, it was in the package still."

"Sherlock, I haven't bought any smoked turkey since 3 months ago!" I sat next to him, leaning against the sink cupboard, pondering what I should do.

"I suppose I'll go fetch the Pepto."

"Please."

As I got up to retrieve the medicine, Sherlock just laid his head on the toilet seat. He looked tiered, sad, and even a little scared, nothing more then a small child. I wondered if he has ever been sick before.

After half an hour of searching, I finally found the stomach medicine I was looking for and brought a cup of water as well. Sherlock had retired to his room with the threat of mess at bay. I softly knocked on his bedroom door, "Sherlock? Sherlock, are you awake?"

There was a quiet grunt from within permitting my entrance. As I entered, I noticed the piles of clothes, bones, and chemicals littering the room. I could hardly believe that he lived in this pigsty! No wonder the poor bloke was sick! I lifted my "gifts" so that my sick partner could see them He groaned. Ignoring his protests for his health, I placed my burdens on his nightstand and sat on the bed next to him. I poured the healing pink liquid into the tiny medicine cup as my friend made a face.

"That's to much!" He squeaked, weakly shoving it away.

I rolled my eyes, "No its not, remember, I'm the doctor, not you."

"A doctor can misperscri-" he stopped in pain, clutching his stomach.

I saw my chance and wasn't about to miss it, "open wide!"

As he began to protest, I shoved the medicine into his wide mouth. In shock, he swallowed most of it, but some dribbled past his parted lips. He coughed; scattering sticky drops of pink everywhere, forcing me to fetch a towel. I came back and handed Sherlock the cloth, hoping that he would mop up the mess. Instead, he just stared at it with big round eyes that said, "Kids do this all the time so it must work". I grunted and started to clean his mess, again… After rubbing out a particularly tough smudge I looked up only to realize that Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, had Pepto Bismol all over him. I let out a long sigh, "You are not a child, Holmes! I am not your mother!"

"But Joooohn, I don't feeeel well," he whined.

"You are perfectly capable of washing yourself off!"

He thought for a second, clearly his health wasn't the only thing affected by the turkey. Thankfully he agreed with me and slowly… made… his way… out of… bed. He slithered over the edge, his elbows touching the ground before his feet, and army crawled to the rest room to bathe, leaving a trail of medicine even a child can track.

I sighed and began to clean the room up. He would never get better if he had this crap around housing bacteria and germs. As I quickly, yet delicately placed Sherlock's friend, Mr. Skull, on the shelf, I heard more vomiting. It was already 4:46. Poor Holmes has been up for the better part of four hours. More whimpering could be heard over the water. I messed with my pocketed phone as I kicked a pair of trousers in the accumulating dirty clothes pile. Mycroft could help me comfort the sickly being, or at least give me tips. I decided to send a quick text.

Sherlock is ill, need help

-JW

Three minutes later, my phone buzzed next to Mr. Skull and I had to dance around the ever-growing piles of junk increasing on the floor.

What in gods bloody earth are you texting me for at 5 in the morning?!

-MH

I rolled my eyes.

I need help comforting him.

-JW

John, Sherlock is a big boy now, he can care for himself. What happened?

-MH

He ate old turkey and got food poisoning. Non-stop hurling since one.

-JW

I'm on my way.

-MH

I was shocked. What could possibly change Mycroft's mind so quickly? I decided to leave well enough alone and clean the rest of the room.

Mycroft showed up half an hour later, of course looking as though he was going to meet the prime minister that afternoon. He was carrying two brown paper bags. The contents were unknown to me. I ushered him to Sherlock's room, where the sick man was dozing, not completely dry from his bath earlier.

"Goodness!" Mycroft exclaimed, "I haven't seen Sherlock keep his room this clean in all my years!"

"I cleaned it, trying to make him feel better," I said, attempting to not sound like a maid.

"That was thoughtful of you," Mycroft eyed Mr. Skull, "but unfortunately, it will return to the way it was as soon as he is better."

I nodded. "What are in the bags?" I asked.

"Oh, odds and ends, remedies and such," Mycroft sighed.

"It is really difficult to sleep with you two jabbering on like two gossip hens!"

I jumped; I didn't know we had woken Sherlock. Mycroft went to his brother's side, "Sherlock, how are you feeling?" He cooed, rather unexpected to hear. Sherlock groaned and rubbed his stomach, "My tummy hurts." Equally unexpected.

Mycroft gently stroked the side of Sherlock's dark curly head in a brotherly way, "I know. Look, I brought you a surprise," Mycroft put the bags on the bed. His little brother looked slightly interested. Mycroft proceeded to pull items out. The first was…. A stuffed rabbit?!

"Alright, what is going on!?" I shouted, thoroughly confused, "Why is Sherlock acting like a child and Mycroft acting sweet?! This isn't normal!" The two men just stared at me like I was the one crazy. I noticed that the rabbit had made its way to Sherlock's arm. I was completely creeped out, "Ok, I've had enough!" I was making my way to the door when Mycroft stopped me.

"John wait, could you make some soup for Sherlock?"

I huffed and shut the door. I know I asked him to help comfort Sherlock, but this was insane! A stuffed rabbit? Petting? What was this, day care? Something was clearly in their tea.

I was drowsily reading the morning paper by the window. The sunrise made the room glow red and orange, a calming tint. Mycroft finally came out of the current sick room and sat in the chair across from me.

"I must apologize for frightening you. I can imagine how odd it must be to see him in his sick state."

I looked up, "He gets like this every time he's ill?"

"Well, when he's throwing up, that is."

"Why?"

Mycroft got up and I followed him to the kitchen. "When he was a little boy," he started, grabbing a kettle, "Our father was working on a series of chemical experiments," Mycroft filled the kettle with water and put it on the stove to cook. "Sherlock wanted to help. He went into Father's study where he kept the compounds. While no one was looking, he grabbed a beaker and drank it."

My mouth dropped in surprise. Sherlock seemed like the bloke who was as stiff as an adult as he was a kid.

"When we found him, he had downed the whole bloody thing and was on the floor crying. We had to take him to the hospital and have his stomach pumped. He has hated throwing up ever since, tossing him into this child like state." The kettle whistled and Mycroft and I made our tea. "I've settled him in for now, but I have to get to the office for an important meeting. Good luck, I've left things of use in the bags. Ciao."

I waved and brought my tea to Sherlock's room. He was asleep, tucked in with his stuffed rabbit. He looked better then he had this morning looking less green and slightly pinker in the cheeks. Content that he wouldn't need much attention for now, I decided to catch up on my 5 hours of lost sleep.

I dreamt of the young Mycroft and Sherlock dancing, hand in hand, with a bunny balancing on a beaker. There were splashes of green and blue anywhere and everywhere with a small bit of orange in the center. Everything was abstract and confusing. A small noise started to grow. It was crying. No, calling. Sherlock was calling me. His voice penetrated my dream and brought me back to the world awake. I looked at the clock; it was nine, a fairly good nap. I got up.

"Joooooooohn." Pause. "Joooooooohhnn."

"Coming!" I called, "Coming." I shuffled to his room once more, rubbing my eyes, "Yes, Sherlock? What is it?"

He looked up rather innocently. I think he sensed that he had woken me from a well-needed nap, "I'm hungry."

"As well you should be," I said, making my to the paper bags, "You threw every thing up. What would you like, your brother brought toast ooor," I rummaged some more, "Or soup." I shook the Tupperware, "What is this? Is that a flower?"

Sherlock nodded, "Momma made it for me. Its tummy soup." He reached his grabby hands to it.

"Hold on, do you want me to heat it for you?" He nodded so I left for the kitchen again.

When I came back with the soup now heated, a spoon, and a good rag, Sherlock was sitting up with the rabbit and Mr. Skull on the bed next to him. "There wasn't any murder, Mr. Skull, it's our food. Hm? You don't like it? Why did you order it? I shall eat all the soup then, and you shant get any." I raised my eyebrow but decided to play along, for Sherlock's sake, of course.

I bowed with the soup in hand, "Does the Rabbit want any s-"

"Miss Flufferbottom."

I blinked, "Pardon?"

Sherlock waved the stuffed rabbit's paw, "Her name is Miss Flufferbottom. And no, she has her own salad." He looked over at "her" and whispered in my ear, "She doesn't trust restaurant food."

I pretended to understand, playing my part, " And you, Mr. Holmes? Shall you have any today?"

He nodded and I gave him the bowl and spoon with the rag ready in my hand. I was about to leave when he pulled my sleeve. "Surely you wont leave us be," he said, his eyes rather large. After some considerable thought, I shook my head.

"No, no I wont leave you fine," I glanced at the skull, "folk… "

I sat on the bed with five-year-old-Sherlock and his groupies watching him eat soup and speaking in my best posh voice available. Before long, Sherlock was once more asleep. I gathered the bowl and "toys", allowing more room for the ill man to sleep.