"Molly, I think I'm going to die."

"I've heard that before, Sherlock, and I'm not going to help you jump off a building this time. You have a bloody cold! You are not going to die, for god's sake."

"Then why do I feel like I am?"

"Possibly because you are the world's largest whining three year old! And the world's worst patient! And a hypochondriac. And…"

"Bloody hell, woman, you're a doctor! Do something!"

Molly couldn't help thinking that she should have told John Watson to find somebody else to take care of the ailing detective, but the thought of spending the next couple of days going in and out of the his bedroom was too tempting to pass up. John had begged off the task, sighting the fact that he had an infant daughter at home whom he wished to protect from any invasive germs. She suspected his real motivation was his familiarity with Sherlock's behavior while ill, his overwhelming neediness and rampant self concern. Molly decided that she could put up with all that if she got to see the man in his pajamas, and apply compresses to his aching head, and, perhaps, his well toned abs. She was now reconsidering her decision.

"Sherlock, I am doing everything that I can. I have given you paracetamol every four hours for your fever. You are awash in cough syrup, which you actually spit out at me the last time I administered it, and I am carefully administering antihistamines. Your fever is down, the river formerly flowing from your nose has decreased considerably, and both lungs are still residing inside your chest, as opposed to being hacked up onto your bedroom floor. What else do you expect me to do?"

"As I said, you're a doctor. Cure me!"

"Sherlock, as you know, there is no cure for the common cold…"

"Dr. Hooper, I assure you that this is a highly uncommon cold! It has to be something far worse!"

"Like what, Sherlock?"

"Ebola?" the whining hypochondriac suggested.

"Ebola is a hemorrhagic fever, you prat, and you are not bleeding from from any orifice. At least not any that I am willing to check! So, as I was trying to say, the common cold! It can be caused by any one of over two hundred viruses. Antibiotics will not work against viruses. You just have to suffer through this. I assure you, you will survive…"

"Mooooooollly!"

"As I was trying to say, you will survive, unless I drown you in the vat of chicken soup which you insisted that I prepare for you."

"Mrs. Hudson wouldn't be so mean to me!"

"Mrs. Hudson packed a bag and went to visit her sister at your first sneeze, Sherlock."

"I want my Mummy!"

"I'm sure you do, but evidently she doesn't want you. She said to inform you that she and your father were attending an adventure camping session in Switzerland for the next few days."

"My parents do not camp. Mummy thinks she's roughing it if she has to sleep on sheets of less than 1600 thread count!"

"Well, evidently they would rather spend the next few days in a cold tent with burlap sheets than tend to their sickly younger son. Maybe they'll bring you a souvenir, Sherlock? A cuckoo clock, maybe?" Molly tried to lighten his mood, but was failing miserably. "What do you need, Sherlock?"

Ah!, thought the detective, this was more like the old accommodating Molly Hooper! He looked up from what he thought of as his death bed and, gazing into her warm eyes, said in a slightly childish voice, "When I was a child, and sick, Mummy used to lay my head on her lap, and run her fingers through my hair. I found it very comforting."

Since Molly had often fantasized about running her fingers through his dark curls, although not under these exact circumstances, she was not averse to acceding to his request. She sat on the bed with her back against the headboard. Sherlock Holmes quickly moved to position his head on her lap, and wrap his arms around her hips, effectively locking her in place. Molly started to gently massage his scalp, and the detective seemed to hum with contentment. Well, maybe he was humming. It could have been the wheezing returning.

"How does that feel, Sherlock?"

"Very nice, actually, Molly." He closed his eyes, and almost seemed to drift off, but spoke again after a moment of two. "Aren't you afraid of catching this plague, Molly?"

"It's only a cold, you git. And I'm probably already infected, the way you've been sneezing all day in my direction. Feeling any better?"

"I'm feeling a bit warm. Perhaps you should check me once again for fever." His voice seemed a bit stronger, but he was trying to sound as pathetic as possible. When Molly tried to move away to fetch the thermometer, her held her in place. "Why don't you do it the way Mummy used to?"

"And how is that, Sherlock?"

"She would put her lips to my forehead to see how warm I was."

If this had been anybody else in the world, Molly might have thought of this as a romantic overture. But this was Sherlock "I'm married to my work" Holmes, world's only consulting detective and confirmed asexual, as she and virtually everyone else, thought. So she bent to place her lips gently on his forehead, and felt that it was surprisingly cool to the touch.

"Your fever seems to have broken, Sherlock. I think you're on the road to recovery."

"Perhaps you should try again, Molly, at a different location." Sherlock then moved one of his hands from around her hips to the nape of her neck and, pulling her face closer to his, pressed his lips to hers. After a moment, he pulled away from a rather stunned Molly Hooper. "How was that?", he asked with a slight smirk.

"That felt a bit warmer, Sherlock."

"Strange. I was going for really hot, Dr. Hooper. Perhaps I should try again?" And when Molly voiced no objection, he did, indeed, try again.

It was quite a while later when the couple was interrupted by the ringtone of Molly's mobile. She slid out from under the sheets, and fumbled to find her clothes, and her phone.

"Hello, John. Nice of you to call to check up on him."

Sherlock, of course, could only hear Molly's part of the conversation, but this did not deter him from commenting. "Yes, give him my sincere thanks for having abandoned me in my hour of need!"

"Yes, as you can hear, he's feeling much better. No, you needn't come over. I've got the situation well in hand."

"The situation, among other things!" Sherlock snickered as he grabbed at his pathologist.

Molly continued speaking into the mobile, trying to keep her voice steady as the man in the bed planted kisses up and down her shoulders and back. "No, really, John, I can handle things perfectly well!"

"A statement with which I most heartily agree, love." After saying this, the detective took the mobile from her hand, and spoke to his best friend. "For someone who spends her days carving up cadavers, John, I must point out that Molly's bedside manner greatly exceeds your own. Good night, now. I definitely need more tending too!"

If John was more than slightly confused by the conversation, he chalked it up to Sherlock's overindulgence in cough medicine, and decided that he didn't need to know any more at this time. He wished them good evening, and signed off.

Molly slid back under the sheets, and cuddled into his arms once again. Sherlock seemed to have made a remarkable recovery, but there was no doubt in her mind that he had, indeed, been ill at some point. Perhaps all he had needed was the proper motivation to get well, and she had been more than happy to provide it. But she also knew that, given their close contact, her own bout with the sniffles was soon to arrive. So she pulled him closer to her and ruffled his hair once again, determined to make the most of whatever healthy hours were left to her!