"You're sick."
A brave approach by Doctor John Watson, very brave indeed. A blunt proposal, a sharp observation made by an obstinate practitioner. He was daring, making a statement- an accusation like that.
And Sherlock despised him for it.
"Am not," the detective countered, angrily brushing a curl away from his face in order to take a look through the microscope properly. He couldn't see through it right, it was out of focus. There must have been something wrong with the lens...
"Yes, you are. I'm a doctor. I can tell you have a bloody low grade fever."
"Nope," Sherlock said, popping the 'p'.
"Sherlock!"
"You see, but you do not observe, John. I'm hot because the heating's broken, obviously. And my cheeks are flushed because..."
"Hmm?"
"Because I'm wearing... make up."
"Nice try. And the heating isn't broken, for your information. Oh detective, who can't tell he's burning up."
"I'm not!"
"You're wrong." Sherlock seemed incredibly offended by these two words, and shot John a death glare.
"I'm not even going to reply to that." And he turned back to the microscope, brow furrowed, attempting in vain to identify some pancreatic enzyme active sites.
"Oh, nice. The cold shoulder, I presume?"
His flat mate did not deign to grace him with an answer.
"I'm dealing with a teenager," John sighed, throwing his hands up. "Fine, don't talk to me." Silence. "Oh for- Never mind." John dragged both his hands over his face. "Arrogant git," he muttered, walking away.
Sherlock heard John shuffle off, stomp up the stairs, and shut himself in his room. There was a shifting of what could only be cables, and a faint click that the detective labelled as the opening of a laptop. John was now occupied. Good.
The lanky man leant away from the science equipment, letting a breath escape in a huff. Retreating into his mind palace, he analysed his symptoms.
Fever, an oncoming pain in his lower abdomen, thickening of mucus in his sinuses, a tingling in his chest. And a rather odd churning sensation in his stomach... Mind over matter. Sherlock knew it was stupid to think that way, but he was the world's only consulting detective. His brain was superior, and his transport would not win. If he wanted his tea and toast to remain in his stomach, they would.
It was an hour later that Sherlock started to doubt his theory. Abandoning his experiment, he migrated to the sofa, falling onto it without his usual grace and taking a few deep breaths. It's at this moment that John completed his blog post, clicked 'publish' and clambered downstairs. Groaning internally, the detective hauled himself up, using the back cushions to support himself, and smiling as the doctor came in.
"You're not flushed anymore, so maybe you were right," John said upon entering, knowing full well that it was because the detective had actually paled considerably, and had adopted a grayish tinge. There was no way now that Sherlock could deny his lapse in good health.
"Of course I was right," Sherlock forced out, snapping his lips shut immediately in order to ensure that words were the only things he spewed. John raised his eyebrows, wandering into the kitchen to make some tea. While boiling the kettle, he quickly identified the nearest basin, and while the detective was occupied with controlling the nausea, subtly nudged it closer to the couch.
"Here," John said as he placed the tea on the table, intentionally nudging it so it sloshed over the sides. Sherlock greened, and the doctor sighed. "Sherlock."
"I'm fine," the detective countered tersely, sucking in a deep breath. John sat down on the sofa next to him, keeping one eye on the bin and the other on his flatmate, sipping his tea absent-mindedly.
"You going to have some?" He urged, pointing at the tea. Sherlock grimaced, paling even further, if that was possible. But, if he was to keep up appearances...
"Absolutely," he muttered, reaching for the mug. He had barely raised it to his lips when it slid out of his hand and stained the carpet. Shaking, he folded himself over and groaned. "Oh God..."
"Are you sick now?" John queried just before the detective retched, and, rolling his eyes, held the basin under his chin. Now was not the time for 'I told you so's- those would come later- so instead, the good doctor rubbed circles on his best friend's back while he vomited noisily into the bucket.
When he finished, he was so out of it he almost fell into the basin. "Woah there," John yelped, putting it aside and hauling the detective upright. Sherlock moaned miserably when John laid him back against the cushions, and the soldier felt a pang of sympathy when he winced at the painful clenching of his internal organs. "It's alright Sherlock, I'll get you a glass of water. Oh, and we need to check that fever."
"I'm not sick," Sherlock protested weakly, opening his eyes. "I'm not."
"Sure." John took in his flat mates appearance and shook his head. Sherlock's mouth said he wasn't sick, but the pallor of his face, the sheen of sweat on his forehead and the involuntary shudders that passed through his body said otherwise. Not to mention the now vomit-filled basin John held in his hands. "If you're not sick, then I'm not an adrenaline junkie." He wandered to the kitchen and filled a glass by the tap, placing it more gently on the table before Sherlock in order to avoid another hurling episode. "Open," John ordered as he thrust a thermometer in Sherlock's direction. The detective glared but obeyed, his bowed lips snapping over the mercury and glass.
"You are sick," John clarified, and when Sherlock opened his mouth to argue- "Ah! No. Keep it closed while the thermometer is doing its job." The taller man could've killed John with the look he shot him next. The doctor smirked, pleased that he caught Sherlock out at an opportune moment.
When John took the thermometer back he sucked in a breath. "Thirty-nine point three. That's high."
"Is it?" Sherlock spat back sarcastically, letting his head fall back onto the sofa. John rolled his eyes.
"Well, if it goes over forty I'm taking you to a hospital," John countered, and Sherlock's head snapped up. Big mistake. Another wave of vertigo and nausea hit him and, wimpering pitifully, he let John hold the bucket out for him once more as he hung his head over the rim and coughed up his stomach contents.
"You should be in bed," John suggested but, looking at the lidded eyes and weary expression of the detective, he just pushed him into a lying position and threw the nearest blanket over his skinny form. "Get some sleep," John ordered as he went to wash up the bowl, but Sherlock was already gone.
John swore by the afternoon that Baker Street was the new hell.
Around lunch Sherlock's fever had rocketed to forty point two, and despite John's original threats, Sherlock's slurred pleading had stopped him from calling an ambulance. Instead, he had been kneeled down next to the sofa with a bowl of water and a cloth, wiping down the detectives face as he shivered and moaned, caught between sleep and consciousness. John wasn't surprised that Sherlock's body had rebelled so- for one, he barely ate or slept, but he also never got sick. So, when he did, it was bad.
"Shh," John soothed as Sherlock opened his eyes blearily and coughed, groaning as he retched, bringing up nothing but the water he'd drunk. John helped him sit up so he wouldn't choke, and left him that way while he went to empty the basin. When he returned, his flat mate sat shaking, bile staining his shirt and trousers.
"Oh Sherlock," John said, putting the bucket down and using the cloth to wipe his mouth. He hated seeing his best friend this way- he was always so strong and arrogant, so smart and annoying. The sympathy John was experiencing for the detective right now was almost overwhelming.
"Let's get you into the bath. It should help with your fever too," John said, before realising Sherlock was probably unable to stand. "I can't... carry you. Uh... Let me ring someone."
Grabbing his mobile from the armchair, he punched in a number, eyes trained on Sherlock as the dial tones played out. After a few rings, a husky London accent broke through the speaker.
"John mate, what d'ya need?"
"Greg, hi. Is there any chance you could come over?"
"Uh, dunno. I'm sort of working. Why, what's wrong?"
John sighed. "Sherlock's sick. Really sick. His fever's over forty and he won't stop vomiting. I need to clean him up and get his fever down but I can't carry him to the bathroom. I really really could use a hand."
"Jesus. I'm on my way." And with that he disconnected the line.
"Lestrade's coming Sherlock," John said, rubbing his back and holding him upright. "We'll get you cleaned up and try and get your fever broken. It'll all be fine."
Ten minutes later Lestrade could be heard clambering up the stairs, and John tucked some cushions behind the detective so he could get the door. "Bloody hell," the Inspector commented upon seeing Sherlock, and John was almost expecting a snarky remark from his flat mate. Sherlock hadn't even registered Lestrade's arrival. Sighing, John took him under the arms. "Can you get his legs?" He asked, and Greg scooped him up under the knees. "Try not to jostle him about too much," John said as Sherlock moaned, causing both the doctor and the Inspector to grimace. Between them, they carried him to the bathroom.
"How can his skinny arse be so heavy?" Lestrade panted once the detective had been deposited in the bath tub. John was too preoccupied to answer, and after stripping Sherlock down to his pants, turned the shower on and watched as it spurted out in a fountain of cool water. His flat mate cried out when it pelted his back, and John winced, knowing that to Sherlock it probably felt like millions of ice shards penetrating his flesh.
"I'll go get a flannel," John stated, turning to leave. "Keep him upright?"
The DI positioned his hands on Sherlock's, and a few seconds later the poor man leaned over and vomited into his lap. "It's alright, get it out," Lestrade comforted as Sherlock dry-heaved, and pulling off his jacket, climbed into the tub with him. John returned while the Inspector was attempting to get a response from the detective, and, sighing, handed him the cloth.
"Wipe him down with this," the doctor ordered, clambering in and resuming his post behind his best friend. Greg did as he was told, washing Sherlock's shivering frame and whispering word's of comfort as he did so. A few minutes later, when he was gently cleaning Sherlock's shoulders, the man himself looked up and watched wearily.
"Lestrade?" He slurred, blinking several times, "w-when did you g-get here?"
John chuckled and then sighed. "He's been here for a while Sherlock."
"John?"
"Yes?"
"It's c-cold," he muttered, shuddering. There was another moment of silence, until Sherlock looked around quizzically, eyes more lucid. "Why are we in the bath?"
"Your fever went over forty, we had to get it down," John answered, and Sherlock nodded. He then weakly gestured to the three of them.
"People will talk," he said, looking at Lestrade's sopping wet shirt and the way John's hair was stuck to his forehead. The three started laughing, until Sherlock dissolved into a coughing fit and his friends had to calm him down.
"Alright," Lestrade said once John had switched the shower off, "let's get you dry. I think the fever's down now, right John?"
"We'll check with the thermometer once we're back in the lounge." They both got out of the bath, slipping on the tiles and dripping all over the floor. "You think you can stand?"
Sherlock nodded, taking John's arm and allowing the doctor to pull him up. "Woah," John said when the taller man almost fell against the side of the tub, "easy."
When Sherlock was dry and redressed and they were safely back in the sitting room, John handed Sherlock the thermometer while he went to get changed. "Greg, I may have something that will fit you- come upstairs."
John fitted Lestrade with some tracksuits and one of Sherlock's shirts, before drying off and getting changed himself. "I've never seen him like that," the DI said, awkwardly scratching the back of his neck, "at least, not unless he was in withdrawal."
"Neither." John looked tired, and Greg wasn't surprised- he'd been up all day and night caring for his sick best friend. And Sherlock was no ordinary patient.
"I can tell you care about him," Lestrade stated, and he didn't flinch when John flushed furiously, an argument already half way to his lips. The DI shook his head. "That's not what I mean. I care about him, too." He nodded to affirm this. "It just means you've become friends pretty fast. Which is... good. He needed someone to come along and... befriend him."
John smiled then. "He's a right pain though."
Greg laughed. "Don't I know it."
There was a crash from downstairs, followed by a tentative: "John?"
"Duty calls," the doctor sighed, a weary smirk crossing his features. The two stumbled downstairs, coming across a scene that, some how, didn't leave them at all shocked.
Sherlock sat underneath the bookshelf, surrounded by thick and dusty novels. "I wanted the medical journals at the top," he explained, motioning to the chair on it's side. "The chair wasn't stable."
"The chair wasn't stable, or you weren't?" John snickered, walking over and holding out an arm. The detective scowled darkly, taking John's hand and allowing the good doctor to haul him to his feet. "You're not supposed to be up. What was your temperature?"
"Thirty-eight point six." John gave him a look. "I'm not lying."
"I'll take your word for it," John said. "Just this once."
"So you'll never believe me again?"
The soldier chuckled. "I'm flushed because I'm wearing make-up?"
Sherlock cast his eyes downward and shrugged moodily. "It's not completely impossible."
John stared at him for a few seconds before both he and Greg erupted into laughter. "That may not be completely impossible," he panted, shaking his head, "but you, Sherlock Holmes, are."