Childlike Tendencies

Sherlock knew that he was sick the moment that he woke up.

Maybe it was because he woke up with a headache, a sore throat, and exhaustion. Maybe it was because he had gone to bed with a dull ache spreading through his body and shivers starting to make his frame tremble. Maybe it was because he had sneezed three times, out of the blue, when he had been sprawled out on the couch listening to the telly. Maybe it was because John had brought home a cold from who-knew-where.

Whatever the reason, Sherlock knew that he was sick the moment he woke up... and he instantly knew that he hated it.

The last time that he had been sick was when he was twelve. He had had flu and it had been miserable and, try as he may to delete the memory, he couldn't. It had been a traumatising experience full of nausea and dizziness and chills and sweating and headaches and sneezing and runny noses and watery eyes and- Essentially, it had been a real pain in the arse.

Sherlock, dismissing his childhood memories, rolled over and fell back asleep.

"Are you going to join me for dinner? Or going to continue being ridiculously lazy and sleep the rest of the day away?"

Sherlock pried his eyes open at John's voice. Dinner. What time was it? Glance at the digital; it said six-thirty. At night? Couldn't be. Window. Sun was setting. Yes. Six-thirty p.m. How?

"I'm sick," Sherlock mumbled, not looking up from the blankets.

Sick. Had to be. He didn't even know what time it was. Or what day it was. How could he sleep for so long? Disgusting!

"What?"

John's footsteps, closer. Voice, worried. Conclusion, didn't notice anything was wrong. Thought Sherlock was being lazy.

"I'm sick," Sherlock repeated stubbornly, tightening his grip around the blankets.

"With what?" More footsteps. At the edge of the bed. "Sherlock, if this is some ploy to get out of eating, you really don't have to go to such extremes." Voice, annoyed now.

Sherlock groaned quietly. Why did his head have to hurt so much?

"Sherlock?" John asked, his voice taking on the worried quality again. "You're really sick?"

"Did you think I was saying it for the fun of it?" Sherlock mumbled, untangling one of his hands from the blankets to rub his running nose.

"You never get sick."

"I'm sick!" Sherlock retorted.

John raised his eyebrows. "Alright... Symptoms?"

"Headache, runny nose, sore throat, chills, sweating, generalized aches, and exhaustion."

"That's called 'you work too much'."

"John..." Sherlock groaned, drawing the blankets infinitely more close.

There was suddenly pressure on Sherlock's forehead. He looked up at John unhappily, finding the doctor pressing his hand to his forehead.

"You are a bit warm... You're really being serious?"

Sherlock sighed. "Yes, I am. Please find me the thermometer. The last I seen it, it was behind the mouthwash and next to the cluster of mold growing in the far right corner of the medicine cabinet."

"Yeah, I'll just get the one out of the medical kit... Give me a second."

While John was gone, Sherlock pondered on why his transport insisted on falling victim to such illnesses as inane as the 'common cold'. He hated being sick. It was annoying and tedious and boring and dull and-

It short-circuited his brain.

(In short, as Mycroft knew and John would come to realize, it made Sherlock revert to a five year old. Even moreso than usual.)

"Alright. Let's check your temperature," John said as he walked back in, powering the digital thermometer on.

Sherlock took it without protest- he wasn't eager to be sick, but he was already ready to get rid of this cold- and waited for the temperature reading to settle. When it did, the thermometer's chime signifying that his temperature had been taken, he found it was at thirty-eight three.

"I told you I was sick," Sherlock mumbled, handing the thermometer back to John.

John's eyebrows furrowed slightly at the reading. "I should know not to doubt you, but you're never sick..." he muttered, before looking up. "Have you taken any paracetamol?"

Sherlock shook his head slightly. "Haven't been out of bed."

"Okay... Well, you need to eat. I can make you soup, or something else, if you'd like."

"No."

"Sherlock-"

"I don't wanna eat," he grumbled, snuggling closer to the blankets. "Tea would be nice, though..." he mumbled, peering at John over the edges of his blankets.

John looked at him, still frowning slightly and looking worried. "... Fine. That's better than nothing, I guess. I'll bring you medicine, too. Just stay in bed."

Sherlock watched John leave, feeling tired and a bit pathetic.

No, Sherlock decided, being sick as an adult was not any better than being sick as a child.

Yes, another sick!fic... This is a bit different, and a bit difficult, for me, though. I'm not exactly sure how accurate this is, but... Mainly, it's for smiles and humour rather than the angst and h/c, but, since it is a sick!fic, there still will be h/c. :) The chapters will be short; my muses have been uncooperative for awhile and this is a bit of 'therapeutic' writing on my behalf. If you like the idea of Sherlock being an uncooperative, ill five-year-old consulting detective, then perhaps you might like this!

I do not own Sherlock.

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