Sherlock felt sick, and it was profoundly distracting. Sherlock's brain power had been overwhelmed by this fact, and he had been unable to think about anything other than this fact for an entire afternoon and night, which was very, very profoundly distracting, not least when he was trying to work on closing the case. Ridiculous, deficient, trivial transport. So, this morning he was (rather responsibly, he thought) planning to make a two-minute appointment with Doctor Google. He knew that John would disapprove; mostly because he was currently (and efficiently) hacking into John's laptop, without permission, in order to do it. Sherlock had been insulted by John's professional disdain for self-diagnosis and his (incorrect) assumption that Sherlock would simply assume the form of an idiot as soon as he stepped into Doctor Google's waiting room; that he would browse NHS Direct and then pick the most horrific disease he could find after rummaging through hundreds of panicky posts on forums. Of course, Sherlock knew where to find the most insightful medical journals, and he kept almost as current and informed as his scornful flatmate on the subject of Proper Medicine. It was invaluable for cases, and it was invaluable for all those times when he felt sick and didn't have time for-

'Is that my computer? Again?' John, in his dressing-gown, was standing in the doorway, looking just a bit incredulous.

'Yes,' Sherlock said.

'For the- How many times do I-' John sighed and stomped over to Sherlock's chair. 'Can't you just ask my permission?'

'Of course I could, John, but that would be-'

John moved to snatch the machine, and Sherlock's sentence was left unfinished as his energy went into holding on to it tightly, twisting it away so as to avoid introducing the information on the screen to John's angry, prying eyes.

'No don't, please; just let me use it for two minutes, John. Mine's not connecting, and this might be extremely important.'

John, suddenly less angry and somewhat taken aback by the 'please', mumbled his agreement while shuffling through to the kitchen to put the kettle on.

'Make sure you don't delete all my cookies when you delete the history,' he complained. 'It's so annoying when you do that.' He raised his arms in a familiar gesture of despair at the state of the kitchen, and began to straighten out the carnage; it appeared to be exactly the same carnage he had straightened out last Saturday morning. 'And stay off my Facebook!'

Sherlock didn't reply. He was reading a forum full of panicky posts about abdominal pain.

'So, what's on today then? Still the same case?' John asked. 'What might be so extremely important that you need to invade my private space and pillage my personal property? Again?'

John heard a 'ding' and a slam from his laptop as it was hurriedly shut down and closed, and he leaned around into the living room to greet Sherlock with a teasing smirk. However, he only caught sight of the tail-end of a fluster of coat and scarf as Sherlock left the room; his ambiguous reply lost through the hissing of the boiling kettle.

John was visiting his usual sites and reinstalling his deleted cookies, God help him, when Sherlock returned. Sherlock still felt sick. He must have looked sick too, because the first thing John said to him was, 'You alright?'

Sherlock froze at the abrupt question; his thoughts whirling too much to allow him to utter anything but the truth. 'I feel sick. I felt sick all day yesterday and all night.'

John felt as dazed as Sherlock looked. That was… honest.

'When was the last time you ate?'

'Oh, John, please don't start. I have to take these samples to Barts and I'm not going to have time to-'

John held up his hands. 'Okay, okay. Fine. Just saying… have some toast or something. You probably feel sick because you haven't-'

'Yes, yes, thank you, yes.' Sherlock murmured tersely, packing up some bottles and cultures into a box and spinning about, looking a little lost.

'Are you looking for something in particular?'

'Obviously,' snapped Sherlock. 'There was a flask on the side here, with a… a sort of…' He spread his hands impatiently. 'I don't know where…'

John propelled himself from the sofa and toward the kitchen with the sort of sigh that must have come out of everyone who has ever lived with Sherlock. He switched off the television. 'Well, maybe if you were a bit more organised, and didn't forget that I'm here and I have been offering to help…'

'John,' Sherlock interrupted, whirling around to face him. 'I need to find this thing, now. Ugh, John… You! You were meddling and tidying up again. Did you see it? I need to get it over to Molly because it's proof! Don't you see? It's proof that Clarke wasn't at the warehouse that day. I can prove it to Lestrade. He doesn't... I just…' He paused for breath, eyes darting around the room, pushing his hands through his hair. He was sweating, his face wan and flushed at the same time.

'No, I don't know. You haven't been telling me much about this one.'

'You've been busy. I needed to… Oh! There!' He located the flask in the top of the last cupboard, and put it in the box with the others. He lifted the box again, breathing heavily. He felt bloody awful. John stood in front of him, and frowned.

'Sherlock? I think you need to sit down for a bit. You look bloody awful.'

Sherlock glared at John. 'I don't need to sit down! I have to…' He felt his head grow heavier. He thought about Mycroft for some reason, and about bees and Bach and tangents as the mid-afternoon light grew dim and turned an ethereal green.

John must have seen it too.

'Woah,' said John. The box was removed from Sherlock's hands and he was grabbed around the waist. Sherlock's body realised at last that it had been functioning too fast for too long now, and he felt his knees begin to protest. He was barely aware of being jostled upright again; of being hauled toward the sofa and of being told, 'Sit down, before you fall down.'

The rest of the afternoon was… well…

The next thing Sherlock learned was that it was five o'clock and John was ironing.

'You're ironing.'

'Um, yeah? And you're awake. Go back to sleep.'

'You don't normally iron.'

'Who do you think does it, then? The ironing fairies?'

Sherlock did not deign to answer this ridiculous question. He did, however, have questions of his own. Why was he here, watching John doing his housewife duties? Wasn't he supposed to be going somewhere today?

'I don't… I've been…' He sat up, promptly, and remembered the case. The case! 'I can't sleep!' He struggled to untangle his limbs from his makeshift jacket nest and clamber to his feet.

John had set down the iron and his amused expression twinkled through a gust of steam. 'You looked like you could sleep alright a minute ago.'

'I have to phone Lestrade.' He shook out his jacket and shoved his arms into it. 'The case,' he said, looking wildly at John through bleary eyes. 'The samples!'

'It's alright, I've sorted it,' John chuckled. 'I phoned Lestrade. Told him you were ill.'

Sherlock snarled. 'Ugh, I'm fine. I don't get ill.'

'Well, please feel free to remind me that you don't get ill the next time you collapse and start babbling about everything being green. Just how long have you been without sleep?'

He didn't expect an answer, and even as he voiced the question he had resumed ironing his shirt, as Sherlock rushed around gathering things together and making huffing sounds of exasperation. After a moment of peering under cushions, behind the sofa and then bending down to search underneath it (for his phone, John assumed), Sherlock stopped and clutched at his hair, frowning at John in an expression of utter bemusement.

'Were we on a boat?'

John frowned. 'What? No.' When Sherlock began to look more bewildered, John stepped fretfully toward him. 'Sherlock? Are you alright? We're… in the flat.'

'Yeah,' Sherlock sounded breathless. 'Yes. It feels funny, though. Floaty.'

'Floaty. Okay.' John was at Sherlock's side in an instant, catching him as he swayed and removing his jacket once again. He pushed his listless frame down to sit on the sofa, and guided him to lie down, sideways. 'You shouldn't have got up, you idiot.'

Sherlock flashed him a hazy grin. 'Don't worry. I'm okay, Mycroft.' His voice had diminished to a slurred whisper. He drew up his knees, pillowed his cheek on his hands and closed his eyes.

John tapped his cheek gently. 'Sherlock? Open your eyes a minute; I want to check you over.'

Sherlock pried open one glassy eye and whispered, 'Check what?'

'Follow my finger with your eyes.'

Sherlock did. Without complaint. John took his wrist gently and monitored his racing heartbeat.

'Your pulse is a bit fast… Have you got any pain anywhere? Headache? Do you still feel sick? Have you taken anything today?'

Sherlock shook his head minutely at each of John's questions, and he kept his eyes closed against the whirling sparkle of lights that had threatened to dazzle him. John's hand was patting his shoulder. He apparently no longer had enough energy to be able to produce coherent speech, but he must have been making sounds because he could hear John humming, 'its okay,' between the swelling sound of waves. The comforting pats on his arm slowly became soft circles, which then ceased as Sherlock felt his shoes being removed. John must have left the room then; Sherlock could tell by the unmistakeable cold draught from the door that blustered against his feet. He felt exposed in his shirtsleeves, but the cold of the sea was banished when John returned and covered him with a soft, shabby blanket and said, again, 'It's okay.'