1: Rain

The wind was sharp against his back, and Sherlock tightened his coat more firmly about his chest as a fresh gust of frigid air attacked the bare flesh of his face and hands. John and Lestrade waited expectantly behind him, standing a few steps back in what they knew to be the "necessary distance" required for Sherlock to function in a productive manner, lest he snap about them "interfering with the work". Today, however, Sherlock would not have minded a slightly closer proximity, if only because the stinging cold was really starting to get to him.

It was not usual for him to feel the chill in the air, let alone experience it so harshly in his body. He generally paid little heed to the weather, finding it to be unimportant, (after all, The Work always came first) and therefor not worth noting. Not to mention that living in London gave one a general immunity to cold anyway. But today, the crisp October air was like ice against his skin, and Sherlock found himself repressing a shiver.

"So what do you think?"

Lestrade's voice snapped him back to earth.

Sherlock swallowed, irritably noting that this simple action made his throat burn.

"Accident. Not murder, all self inflicted." Speaking just a few words only made his throat ache more painfully, and induced a tickle that was teetering dangerously close to becoming a cough.

"Accident?" Lestrade was doubtful. "Sherlock, she was found in her car with two gunshot wounds to the chest, how is that an accident?"

Sherlock clenched his teeth, silently willing the urge to cough to vanish. No. Do not cough. Do not cough. You are not sick. You have complete control. You are not-

He coughed roughly into his elbow, shooing away Lestrade's complaints with his free hand. "She wasn't shot, the injuries are the result of a malfunction in the car. If you notice, there is blood on the steering wheel right next to the hole that was seemingly punctured in the collision. However, if you'll notice-" Sherlock paused.

"Yes?"

He blinked a few times, suddenly feeling ridiculously overheated and clammy underneath his heavy coat. Was the earth moving very fast, or was that just him? Another throb of pain trickled its way down his burning throat, and he swallowed back another cough. The wind was suddenly too cold again, and he caught himself shivering against the harsh air.

"Sherlock?" John was sounding concerned. Better say something quickly.

Swallowing with a slight wince, he continued. "You'll notice that the bruising pattern along her collarbones is quite distinctive, almost needlessly patterned. The car struck that cement barrier and the woman was forced into her steering wheel, which thrust a small piece of stray metal into her chest. Very similar is size and force of a bullet, but nonetheless, not murder."

Throat screaming in protest against these increasingly long sentences, Sherlock turned and began to make his way toward the street without another word, John following closely behind him. The sky rumbled ominously, and he could taste the faintly lingering dampness in the air that suggested rain. Sherlock quickened his pace. The wetness in the air was thick in his lungs, and the cold did not seem to be helping matters. The pain in his throat seemed to be expanding, up into his temples, making his whole head throb. He shook his head, silently attempting to wish away the pain to little avail. He swallowed, feeling another twinge of pain as the saliva burned against his raw throat. Tea would be necessary upon returning home.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock, would it kill you to slow down?" A distant shout.. He turned. A very agitated John was sprinting a few hundred feet back behind him, brows furrowed in annoyance. Sherlock paused, glancing at the quickly darkening sky. The thought of rain, the idea of becoming drenched in icy precipitation, which would normally be only mildly irritating, was suddenly very painful. He did wish John would hurry.

Another gust of wind assaulted the bare skin on his neck and face, causing his entire body to shudder. This seemed enough of a reason to keep walking, so he fought back the urge to shiver and continued moving toward the road. God, what was happening to him? He bit the inside of his cheek angrily, stuffing his hands into his pockets as the obvious answer came to mind. Sore throat, cough, shivers. Clearly he was-

No.

Not possible.

He didn't get sick. Ordinary people got sick. There was absolutely no way in the world that he could be-

"Thanks for waiting." He jumped, having just realized that a very John was now standing directly beside him.

"Mmm, sorry. Thinking."

John rolled his eyes. "Yes, right, thinking."

Sherlock felt something damp on his shoulder, and looking up, saw that his worst fear had been confirmed.

Rain.

John looked up as well, noting the sudden alteration in weather. "Should probably get back to the street- we don't want to get caught out here when it really starts going." He looked expectantly at Sherlock.

"Obviously." Sherlock replied with the most acidity he could manage, though the grating sensation in his throat weakened it significantly. John seemed to not notice, and simply turned to continue walking.

The rain was slowly but surely quickening, and was now falling to the point where Sherlock could feel it seeping through the wool of his coat and into his shirt. The water, which should not have been nearly as cold as it felt, was like ice against his skin, and within minutes both he and John were noticeably shivering. The urge to cough was carving away at his lungs, but there was absolutely NO way he was going to cough in front of John. John would worry, and he didn't like worrying John over trivial matters like a mere cough. Finally they made their way to the edge of the field and to the road, neither saying anything.

Sherlock hailed a cab, (John muttering something about "would you mind waiting for once?", which Sherlock did not feel like wasting his vocal energy on responding to) before settling comfortably into the warm backseat. The shift from the harsh outdoors into the warmly inviting cab made Sherlock's nose run, and he sniffled very quietly into his hand when John was preoccupied with directing to cab driver. He closed his eyes, leaning back into the seat. Exhaustion washed over him. The cab seat was not exactly comfortable, but the aching sensation in his throat was quickly spreading through his body, coupled with the teeth-chattering shivers that he could not restrain. He could hear John thank the driver and settle into his own seat. Some distant part of him recognized that he should stay awake, lest John think he was ill, which was most certainly not the case. With much difficulty, Sherlock pried his eyelids open and straightened in his seat.

John glanced over at him.

"You alright?"

Sherlock sniffed, partially out of need and partially in the hope that it would emphasize his statement. "Fine." Pulling out his mobile, he busied himself with pretending to text Lestrade. He could still feel John's gaze upon him, but made a point to ignore it. The weight of John's stare eventually disappeared, leaving him to focus solely on the thick mass clinging to his chest.

Not sick.

Certainly not sick.

*Sorry, I know it's not the most fascinating chapter, but rest assured there is plenty of sick!Sherlock and doctor!John yet to come. And maybe some fluff later down the road... we shall see.

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