Ok, some short words in the beginning. I've never written a story before and probably never will again. I just had this on my mind for quite some time, and though it's neither good nor long (probably the best about it), I had to get it out of brain. So, hope you like it. Of course, I don't own anything. Oh, yeah- before I forget. I'm not a native speaker, so please be gentle. I tried my best.
---
Cold
It was official. Agent Sawyer was sick. It was in the middle of the day and he still couldn't seem to open his eyes. The vessel seemed to be moving all over the place, although they lay safely in port. He was freezing although his body was drenched in sweat. Every breath took humongous effort to find its way through his stuffed nose, and once in his chest it burned like fire, and Sawyer would pay millions to get rid of it again. But then, coughing didn't make it feel any better and it only increased the agony that took hold of his every muscle and bone, not to mention the already monstrous headache. But what did he expect?
Only yesterday he had been chasing some madmen through the streets of London, getting soaking wet in the pouring rain. Real smart Sawyer. You could have at least taken your coat or hat with you. He had caught the villains in the end, well, maybe with a little help from Mina. But the little feeling of happiness and success didn't last long. Only seconds later, when the adrenaline rush had vanished, he started to shiver from the cold. And even a quick retreat to his quarters and a long hot shower didn't help. Now, after a short night's sleep he lay in bed, hardly awake, fighting the chills.
Oh, how he hated this bloody British weather.
The thought made him chuckle slightly insight. Great, now he even started to swear like a Brit, Alan's influence rubbing up on him. But chuckling was a bad idea when your every muscle ached, and each try of a laugh involuntarily ended in a coughing fit.
A light tap on the door woke him from his self pity. Why the heck did this soft knock make his head seem to split apart?
"Sawyer, you awake?" And why was Skinner's voice throwing tantrums in his brain? If his arms would have allowed the movement he would have covered his ears with the pillow. But moving really didn't fell like an option right now.
"Yeah!", his very answer a barely audible croak, swallowed by the soft squeak of the door opening.
"Oh, boy. You look like crap." Skinner could be so charming sometimes. Seeing his friend's condition Skinner worriedly sat next to Sawyer's bed, feeling his forehead. "You're burning up. Guess, I'd better get Jekyll. Stay put."
"Nah, I'll be fine." Great, Sawyer, that sounded convincing. "Just some lack of sleep." Why was faking to be well so much harder than faking to be sick?
"Yeah, right. Somebody ever told you that you're a bad liar. Be back in a sec. Don't move." With that Skinner left as fast as he appeared. Don't move – as though I could if I wanted to. Man, that's gonna be a long week. With that Sawyer surrendered to his fate, and snuggled deeper into his blanket, enjoying the short moment of relieve until the next coughing fit…