There is a reason my Sherlock is twenty, and that is because in the original series of stories, Sherlock was twenty. I'm not sure how old John was, but I made him older, okay?
Sick
I took the thermometer out of my mouth and shook it furiously, as if shaking it could possibly change the numbers on its surface.
Nope, it wasn't working. The small digital surface still read 100 degrees. It wasn't that high, not much over normal, yet I felt my intellect slipping. Shivers constantly ran through my body, usually starting at my spine. I recalled having less of an appetite than usual, but even that was normal for me. Shivers. I looked at my trembling hands in frustration. This would never do. And yet…
It was very early in the morning, too early for me to be awake when I wasn't working (tire came more easily to me than hunger), but I couldn't crawl back under my covers and sleep. I felt the covers. Damp. My dressing gown (damn the silk) was sticking to my body. To use a child's word, it felt icky.
I tore off my dressing gown and switched to cotton—an old, tattered undershirt that I never wore and an old pair of pajama pants with the British flag on them. Then, I went into the living room, hugging myself to try and stop the shivers. I lowered myself onto the couch and set my teeth together in a perfect line, running formulas in my head. It took me a moment to realize I'd messed up the formula for force with the formula for wavelength and my teeth were chattering.
I pulled a blanket from where it was squished between the couch cushions and wrapped myself in it. I stared into the darkness, shivering still, until it was light enough out to be worth getting dressed.
I moaned as I got to my feet. Everything hurt, every muscle in my twenty-year-old body hurt like I was much, much older. John was, what? Twenty-four, twenty…I couldn't think. My brain was failing, and I'd be in no shape to solve any cases today. As I half-limped to my room, whimpering softly with every step, I realized I'd have to super-charge my brain at all times to keep it functioning.
January in London. Cold, snowy, wet, rainy. Not good weather for a fever. I stripped in the darkness of my bedroom, every hair standing on end as I dressed. Dark clothes, the darkest I had, to hide sweat. Dark purple and black pants. I pulled socks on, brushed my teeth, combed my sopping wet hair out of my face and used a handkerchief to wipe the sweat from my forehead and neck. I shivered visibly, but at least standing and walking and just moving in general were getting better with time. I shifted from foot to foot, testing the transport. Thin as I was, and knew I was, I felt heavier, like I'd gained one hundred pounds from sleep. From what little sleep I'd gotten, anyway. I was so tired, I wanted nothing more than to be able to take a day off. To watch crap telly. To drink all the tea I wanted until I was quite nauseous from it. I needed a day to get over this fever.
And I needed John not to know about it. I risked lying on my back in my bed, gone cold from exposure, shivering madly. I closed my eyes.
I must've dozed, because the next thing I heard was John humming in the kitchen making breakfast. I was almost hungry, not having eaten in a week, maybe more, probably more, yes, definitely more, thinking about soft white bread that would become toast, lightly salted butter, warm eggs.
I was hungry. Below the sickness, in the pit of my stomach, I could feel the hunger. But I didn't have the appetite for it, as usual. The same feeling came over me when I was working on a case through breakfast and my stomach tried to give a little hint with a growl but went ignored. I splashed my face with water and then stumbled to the doorway. Though I was extremely dizzy, I pulled myself together and entered the living room, diving into the armchair as usual.
"Morning, Sherlock," John called without turning around.
I didn't answer. The room was spinning. I felt aware that the Earth was revolving beneath my feet. It made me nauseous.
"Sherlock?" John was used to getting at least a grunt in response from me and, not hearing that, he came to the conclusion that I was dozing. I often did.
I sat up and stood, biting back a groan as pain returned to my legs and feet, and walked into the kitchen as casually as I could.
John turned and looked at me. "Sherlock! You look like hell! What happened?"
I ran a hand through my curls, still sticky and damp with sweat. I didn't know how to answer John, so I settled for petulance. "None of your business," I meant to snap, but it only sounded tired and irritated. I was aware the Earth was moving again, and I fought to stay upright, wondering if I was sweating enough for it to show yet. Nicotine patches. I need nicotine patches. Four, seven of them at once, to keep my brain functioning at normal capacity. I stumbled back into the living room and threw my stuff around looking for them. John stayed motionless for a while, and then resumed making breakfast. I heard the toast pop out of the toaster and smelled the eggs. I heard utensils, fork and knife against plate. And suddenly, the noise was too loud. It was blowing out my eardrums.
I crumpled onto the couch and covered my ears, moaning and talking to myself as quietly as I could manage. Then, I sat up again. The ringing in my ears that had made the ordinary sounds of 221B Baker Street so loud was dying down. I put my head into my hands and massaged it for a bit, running my fingers through my dark curls. I got up and found the nicotine patches and placed four on my dominant arm. I rolled down my sleeve and took a deep breath. I could feel the energy from the patches surging through me and felt more like myself again. A high-functioning sociopath, a genius, and the world's only consulting detective. I sighed.
The vigor I felt was good. What was bad was that I still wanted to do nothing. I wanted to be bored. And Sherlock Holmes wanting boredom is about as rare as Anderson getting something about a case right. That's why I groaned (louder than I intended) in frustration when my phone chirped. I read the text, frowning. Lestrade wanted to see me at Scotland Yard. Why, I had no clue. But I had to go.
Despite not getting pad for this job, I was expected to show up when Lestrade needed me, and he said the business was urgent. I pulled on my coat and tied my scarf around my neck. "Lestrade, Scotland Yard, coming?" I got out in one breath. John was right behind me and seconds later, we were in a cab going to Scotland Yard.
I was shivering violently, my teeth chattering loudly when I tried to set them, just from a few seconds of exposure. The cold wind had also nipped at my ears and temples, making my head swim in pain. I bit my lip to keep my teeth from chattering and glanced at John. He was facing the window but studying me intently, something he hoped he looked like he wasn't doing. I was thankful John's skills of deduction were still elementary at best. There wasn't anything in the world that could persuade me to tell him I actually had a fever.
When we got to Scotland Yard, I let John pay the cabbie while I hurried inside. It was busy, as usual, and I felt the racket impossibly loud in my ear, like speakers turned up to their top volume. I couldn't even think! I was glad when I entered Lestrade's office and quiet resumed. I sat down in a chair without being offered and forced myself not to hug myself with the cold. I set my teeth and they were chattering, but I didn't care much. John sat next to me.
Lestrade looked at me. "Sherlock, you look like hell."
"It's none of your business what I look like," I hissed, and this was much more effective than the weak rebuttal I'd given John. I hope my teeth didn't clack together as I spoke. "What did you need me for?"
"An interesting cold case just resurfaced." Lestrade pushed the file towards me. "Thought you'd want in."
I scanned the case briefly, but absorbed close to nothing before I pushed it back. "So?"
"Interesting soil samples," Lestrade replied.
An hour later, I was playing with my chemistry set. Different soil samples lay in Petri dishes scattered about and one was under my microscope. I took a break to check my temperature and also because I wasn't getting anywhere with the samples. Nothing was taking root in my brain. Not even basic concepts.
When I took the thermometer out this time, the number read 104 degrees. I recalled that this was a dangerous number. If my fever went up any higher, I would suffer from brain damage! I couldn't let that happen. But how to reduce my fever?
I swallowed. My throat was dry. Dry, dry, dry, and I was very thirsty. I filled and emptied three glasses of water and still found myself parched. Something had to be done, and I had no medical knowledge.
Well, I did live with a doctor. "John?" I called lightly, trying not to groan and complain. I didn't get an answer, so I tried again. "JOHN!" I wasn't happy with the way this one sounded, because this one sounded like Sherlock was in pain. Well, Sherlock was in pain. But John didn't have to know that all at once, did he?
John came into the kitchen like the soldier he was: quick and commanding. I was too tired to wonder how people would talk. I sunk to the floor.
John came up close to me. "Sherlock? Are you okay?"
I shook my head. "Fever. 104. Went up since this morning. Help." I almost said please, but decided at the last moment I didn't want to sound so desperate and submissive.
John pressed the back of his hand against my forehead. I sighed because his hand was cool and it felt good, not because I was actually feeling emotion. I moved into the sensation of coolness, disappointed when it went away. John helped me to my feet.
"You need to relax, Sherlock,"
"The case, John," I coughed weakly.
"The case has been cold for two years. It can wait half a day." John reasoned. That seemed logical to me, so I shut up about it.
John set me up on the couch and gave me the remote for the telly. I flicked it on and flipped channels for a while.
"I'll make tea," John told me, "and I'll bring you some juice. You should probably eat something, too."
"I want toast," I declared from my throne.
"You shall have toast," John laughed. I pretended I held a scepter and straightened up a bit. Then, I laughed, too. I laughed too much, giddy with fever. I even laughed at the crap I was watching on telly. But I drank my tea and juice and ate my toast and by the time evening came round, I felt a little better. When I told John, he felt my forehead as he stuck the thermometer in my mouth. When it was done, I asked him for numbers.
"It's down to a hundred," John told me. "If you can sleep a little, and if we can get a little dinner in you, you should be fine by tomorrow."
"Can we have Chinese?" I asked, bossy because I was sick. I recalled now that, as a child, I would be most demanding when I was sick. I laughed at a memory of Mycroft and I as children: Mycroft having to baby me while I had a fever; he was seventeen and I was ten.
"What's funny?" John asked. I told him, laughing giddily because I still felt the craziness of fever in my gigantic brain. John laughed, too. Then he ordered Chinese.
John ordered me a lot of food. I hadn't really seen such a smorgasbord on my plate since I was a child. I hadn't eaten so much at once since I was a child, either, but apparently, as John observed, recovering from a fever made me ravenous. I didn't mind. After I'd eaten, I felt better still, and quite full. I yawned.
"You should sleep, Sherlock," John told me softly, affectionately. I smiled, lying down on the couch. It was admittedly nice to be taken care of. Before John left, he brushed the curls away from my forehead and placed the back of his hand there. I sighed, for it was still cooler than my head, and my tense body relaxed.
I waited until John had gone upstairs to really sleep. As I fell asleep, I reassessed my brain. Yes, it was working better. All thanks to John's care.