The thin man had been sitting quietly in his chair for over four hours now; without making a sound or any movements at all. It was almost like Sherlock wasn't really there.

Sure his clever and extraordinary flat mate did that from time till time, wandering around in his mind palace, as he had put it. He would be quite then too. Sometimes he would start talking or finish their conversation for hours ago when John almost forgot where they were talking about back then. It was a common thing for Sherlock to do. It was just how he worked.

But this time, though, his flat mate didn't react when he called his name. Usually Sherlock would snap back easily. This time Sherlock didn't even flinch. In fact, the only thing that changed in the past four hours was the color of his skin. He looked rather pale.

This morning John had seen the man shuffle out of the bathroom, pale and worn out, before they got to the hospital for a case. He didn't make a big deal out of this but the thin man also looked… thinner somehow. And the way his shoulders hung, Sherlock wasn't doing well. He was most definitely off his rocker.

The doctor knew there was something going on with his friend the moment he set his foot inside the building after he had gone to the grocery store. Mrs. Hudson was taking out the garbage and met him with a worried look. "John? Is everything okay with you two? I thought I heard some noises upstairs." She had asked. With a gulp and a bad feeing John sprinted upstairs. There was no sign of danger, luckily. Only an exhausted looking detectivewrapped up in his bathrobe and sweatpants; sitting in his chair. Sipping a cuppa tea out of a weird experiment sample glass. His tea normal tea cup lead out shattered on the floor and Sherlock didn't make any attempt to clean it up. His troubled head rested on one hand. His skin was even paler than it usually was. Brows knitted in a deep frown; probably indicating that the poor man was experiencing a headache or at least a slight discomfort. Oh yeah, the doctor in him was showing his face when he putted al the groceries away by himself. Sherlock looked so awful that John didn't nag about 'being helpful with putting the things away'.

But that was all before Sherlock took a long stroll in his own mind and John worriedly figured it was time to call him back to the real world, even though he knew Sherlock wouldn't like to be bothered.

With a bit of a shuffle he walked towards the occupied chair, John Watson finally decided to confront his friend anyway.

"Sherlock." He tapped the man's shoulder after calling his name once more. Unfortunately, he didn't reply as he normally did. His hanging head wobbled to his side, hands still in a praying-like position. It was actually getting kind of creepy now. With two hands now, John tried to wake him from his trance.

"Sherlock. Everything alright? You have been sitting here far too long. I called your name several times and I can't figure out if you were just ignoring me or didn't hear me at all." John hadn't expecting those big blue eyes popping open startled like that, against his strong voice. John never meant to startle him. Christ he didn't mean to use his sharp tone as well. It just sort of happened.

"John? Is our apartment on fire or something far more dangerous? Because, you are practically screaming in my ears right now. And for some reason it makes my heart skip a beat." 'There it was', john thought. 'A snarky remark'. It almost made him sigh heavily with relief, until the poor man started to flutter his eyelids.

Yes… he was either tired or ill.

"Sherlock. You have been sitting there for a long time. I was actually getting worried you fell in some sort of a thinking-coma." The doctor patted his shoulder to give him some sort of comfort. And yes, he also felt the warmth radiating from his skin even through the fibers of his terrycloth bathrobe.

"I-I was thinking. Now leave me alone I need my space," Sherlock snapped at him. Again his hands folded up together like he was praying. His fingertips touched his chin. Now, John could see his finger where trembling.

"Sherlock?" he grabbed his trembling hands, now noticing the coldness of it. The clever man didn't even know how to react to this and only stared up on the doctor.

"You are faint. Weakness in your fingers usually adds up to a low sugar level. How long is it been since you had something in your stomach? Tea doesn't count." Now, Sherlock frowned, obviously not amused. His feelings were all over the place and his temper started to get worse.

"Why do you even bother asking me boring stuff like this, John? You know I had some breakfast this morning. Omelets!" Now his voice was raised, but his words came out weaker, like he just woke up from a nap.

John snorted.

"That was last Friday. It's Tuesday now. I made omelets last Friday… Sherlock. How didn't I notice this? You skipping out on meals again?"

Sherlock seemed to notice his defeat too and knew he wasn't going to win this argument. "We were busy."

John bit his lip to hold his swears against himself for not seeing this.

"Don't feel bad, John. Digestion slows me down. It takes too much energy. You know how I work. I have told you this like a thousand times." John frowned as he took his place on the coffee table to face the man properly.

This wasn't going to be fun…

"Yeah, you have told me that before. As much as I pointed out earlier that this is a bunch of bullshit. I'm blaming myself for not seeing the signs earlier. You know… For a genius you can be so thickheaded sometimes. You're human, Sherlock. And every other human being needs to eat, drink and sleep as well. Otherwise, you'll turn into a bag of bones. And you know that." Sherlock, clearly not in the mood to argue, only just rolled his eyes and waved him away.

"Fine, make me something then, as long as you go out of my personal space. It's already hard to focus my thoughts as it is." There it was. A clear indication that Sherlock wasn't feeling well. He just admitted it himself. And that never happened. John nodded quietly. It was time to put this man down for a bit.

Then the exhausted man wiped his forehead and that was the straw.

"Sherlock… Now you're sweating. Why didn't you tell me you were getting ill? Oh you know what, never mind. There is no point at telling me this. I know how you work, right?" Sherlock only grunted when John felt his cheeks. He was in fact burning up. "The famous Detective, always looking for clues. But missing the biggest clue of all, today. Sherlock. You are sick."

"Bowing, Jawn," Sherlock mumbled dryly. Even ignoring the doctor wasn't going so well. He kept staring up on those stern dark eyes. Then he scraped his throat, trying to sound normal.

"What now, doctor?" he asked when John bit his lip again while remembering something.

"I think you might be having the flu that is going on lately. I have been in contact with this flu a lot, lately. Yesterday I threated four patients with the same symptoms and it is possible for you to catch it through me. Tell me, when was the last time you've slept?"

Now even more annoyed Sherlock sunk into his sofa while folding his arms around him like the room was turning cold against him. He started thinking for a moment. And the long pause was enough for John to swear softly.

"That's it. You're having a laydown until dinner. No if or but's. Doctor's orders." He was using his strong voice again.

"Why are you using your strong voice again?" Sherlock noticed, pointing out the obvious.

"Yes, I am quite aware, my apologies. Just… get your ass to bed. I check up on you later."

…

It took John longer than expected to make Sherlock something blend. Just soup, really. Nothing too special and something easy to digest. When he entered his friend's room, Sherlock was fast asleep. Still dressed in his bathrobe, sweatpants and slippers. He didn't even pull his blanket up for some warmth and comfort. It even looked like he just passed out immediately when his bottom touched the matrass. For some reason it made John chuckle, while putting the steaming cup of soup down on his nightstand.

"Oh, Sherlock, when do you learn to take better care of yourself?" he mumbled. Carefully he draped a blanket over him; hoping that it wouldn't wake him. Sherlock was a light sleeper. If he managed to get a shuteye, which was almost never, God knew how hard it was to let him stay asleep like that.

Sherlock was sweating. His curly hair where silk and wet. Tiny little crystals where sparkling in the damp light from the hallway. Now that John was very close to the detective's face he could hear his breaths coming out in a slow and steady pattern. At least he was breathing normal. But Sherlock did look sickly pale. His hand touched his cheek; warm. Definitely running a fever. The sick man turned around in his bed and buried his face deeper in his pillow. He was on his side now with his back facing the door. John's gentle touch had almost arisen him. 'He had to be more careful next time. Or not? What should he do now? Let him sleep for a little while or give him some medicine with the soup now?' John bit his lip.

He didn't have much time to choose because, faith chose for him.

"Jawn? W-whatsgo'ng on?" Sherlock asked; barely conscious. Eyes didn't quite focus onto something solid yet.

"Yeah… you are definitely sick, Sherlock. You need some rest. How is the throat?" John had to ask because that was one of the main problems his patients got with this flu.

Sherlock, however, shook his head. "Not sore. I feel fine. Justtired… thas'all." John could see that. Sherlock's eyelids were already starting to flutter shut.

"Hey… Watson. Can you call Mycroft… he'sgot something from me…Bunnybyebye… need him… now!" And that was about the last thing Sherlock slurred before he fell back asleep; leaving a curious doctor behind; hanging on his lips.

What does his big brother have for him? Was it important? Or was this just a random fever induced breakdown?

…

Another hour had gone by. The soup he made was now in the fridge, next to a bottled human hand; another experiment Sherlock said another day. But truly, John suspected that the man had forgotten about it since he never opened the fridge last weekend.

John tried not to make a lot of sound, since he had let the door open from Sherlock's room. In case the poor bastard needed him. John suspected it was some sort of flu bug. The symptoms were there. Headache, nausea, unable to maintain a steady temperature. And the last one John really didn't want to think about it now. It could get messy in the end. A few of his patients were also threated for diarrhea. Still, those were things John Watson could handle on his own. And that was the good thing about all of this. Sherlock doesn't need to get out his room to visit a doctor. Although there wasn't much he could do for him. Just give him some Tylenol and make sure Sherlock gets lots of fluid in him. The fever, though, was pretty high. That was the one thing that John worried about the most.

But that will be taken care of when Sherlock finally gets some rest. Sleep is the best cure. And all John wanted was to let him sleep as long as he could.

…

Later Sherlock started to make unhappy noises and that got John's attention. When he was at his friends bedside, the poor sick man was already on his feet, looking for something to throw up in. Without a thought John steered the poor man towards the bathroom and let him do the messy business by himself. He was standing in the doorway in case it went wrong. To John's surprise, Sherlock was able to get back on his feet again and rinsed his mouth with at the washing bin. Although there was a slight tremor running through his legs by now and Sherlock looked weakened.

"Alright, Jawn. Tage me back to my bed," the poor man slurred. He even let him lead the way as Sherlock closed his eyes again.

"Uhm, Sherlock? You alright? Please wait until you're back on the matrass again. You can sleep soon."

…

Sherlock went back to sleep after that. In the morning he woke up again. Just slightly better than yesterday. Although his cheeks were pinkish from the fever still. John decided to make him some pancakes and fortunately he took one.

After two cups of tea his eyes started to droop again. Mrs. Hudson chose that moment to check up on the boys'.

"Good morning, fellows. How are you doing? John?" the elder woman pointed at the sleepy detective who was dozing off with a teaspoon still clutched in his fingers. John, who hadn't slept all night while staying at watch for his friend, shrugged. "Yeah, he's not well."

Sherlock probably didn't even notice the visit and dropped the spoon as he softly laid his head onto the tabletop, using the same hand as a pillow.

"Oh good gracious, he looks terrible. Can't you do something about it, John?" Again John shrugged.

"It's probably the flu that is been going on, Mrs. Hudson. Nothing to worry about. The only thing he needs is rest and something that could kill the high fever he's running for the last twelve hours."

Mrs. Hudson made a face, John didn't quite get.

"Alright," she then answered. "You're the doctor. Just inform me when he needs something from the store. I want you to stick with the poor man as long as possible." John nodded.

"That's sweet, Mrs, Hudson." And with these words the old lady left their room. Leaving the doctor behind with a snoring man, sprawled out on the table. His curls hanging in the last of his tea and his face buried in his hand.

This was not a good spot to fall asleep. He needed to get him back to his bed.

"Sherlock?" John tried. With no success. "Come on, Sherlock. You can't sleep here. Let me take you back to bed." All of the sudden, Sherlock pulled his head back up. "You have good parenting skills, John. But not to matter. I am not listening to you nor your nagging little midgets. I am going to bed. Tired as hell." Then he stood up walked towards his room but halfway through his knees started to buckle. Luckily, John was right in time to catch him from banging his head to the wall or worse. 'Wait… did he say midgets?' John thought suspiciously.

"Erm… Whatever you say, lad. Just… sleep. I will be here if you need me."

…

The rest of the day it was mostly getting Sherlock towards the bathroom in time and get him back under the covers for more sleep, the thin body seems to be need that the most. After eight in the evening the worse was finally over and the smelly-messy part seemed to stop completely. This whole thing had worn them both out. Sherlock slept so much and still hadn't eaten more than a pancake.

John was about to doze off in his chair when someone woke him up. The first thing he saw was the pointy end of an old umbrella. "I see you have spent a pleasant day with my little brother, Doctor Watson?" With hearing the polite and particular voice of Sherlock's big brother, John shot up.

"Oh… It's You. Mycroft. Haven't hear you come in." John whipped the last of the sleep out of his eyes while smiling up at him.

"How is he now? Still with the 'running on both ends' nonsense?" John had to take a moment to take the words in.

"Well… You can ask him yourself. He is in his room. It doesn't hurt to show your face when he needs comfort." John knew Mycroft wasn't planning on being the nice big brother at once. He was obviously here for something else. Or not?

"I did see him. He was asleep, didn't want to wake him. So I thought Imight as well ask his doctor how our beloved patient was doing." Mycroft smiled, but it wasn't a nice smile. It was all played, and yet maybe just maybe not just 'played' as well.

"He has the flu. Go figure. Oh but he mentioned something about you when he was with fever. Something about you having something for him?" John didn't know what to expect. But Mycroft did look surprised.

"And what do I possibly have for him? He isn't still talking about BunnyByeBye is he?"

John looked confused.

"BunnyByeBye was a stuffed animal he used to have. I took it away when he was twelve because it was an embarrassment for all of us. He took it everywhere. Such a moron."

Mycroft rolled his eyes at that and for some reason Sherlock's big brother started to smile again. His eyes looked down at his hands. "When Sherlock was sick, and no one was home to take care of him, I always brought him that disgusting 'thing'. But only until mom was back home. He must be feeling quite sick to actually remember that part of his life again."

John was so touched by this story, he didn't know what to say. Mycroft had left the building again and everything went quiet.

…

After midnight John went to Sherlock's room again. Just to see if he was still out. He slept the whole day away and still looked exhausted. Poor man. He was about to leave when he noticed something next to his friend.

A stuffed old greyish bunny was putted next to his curly head.

What the hell? Where did that come from? How did… Wait….

Mycroft must've put it there when he was taking a shower. He thought he heard someone enter the room. He almost thought back then it was Sherlock who was up and running. But when he was finished he saw Sherlock still lay in the same sprawled out position. But he had never seen the bunny…

Ah who cares that he had seen it or not.

Bunnybyebye… Sherlock's first friend. John chuckled and left the room.

…

The next morning the fever finally broke and the detective showed no more signs of sickness. His skin was still very pale and he needed something in his stomach but luckily, Sherlock had a bit of an appetite. He ate a toast and drank a cup of tea. Just when the man was in the shower, John promised to change his bed sheets.

The bunny was gone.

…

"Next time you manage to get yourself sick like that, please tell me."

"Whatfor?" Sherlock asked flatly.

They were on their way to the police office to meet up with Lestrade and Sally. Another murdercase was needed their expertise. Sherlock has been better for one day but now John was dead tired. He needed a break.

"Just so I can prepare myself for it. I haven't had a shuteye for two nights, Sherlock."

"I never asked you to stay at my side, did I?"

"No, but since I am a doctor, it's hard to ignore a sick guy who couldn't even hold it up for six minutes-," The cabdriver snorted, but apologized right after.

"Alright, John! We all get it. I had a bad case of stomach flu. And now you're tired."

And so it begun. Just a normal day. Another case and another murderer who needs to be caught.

The game is on.

…again.

END!