Medical Practitioner

"You should lay down."

"Do you think?"

Sherlock gripped John's shoulders firmly, guiding him down onto the sofa. He could feel the warmth radiating off of his flatmate's skin and he was cursing himself mentally for not noticing sooner. The glazed eyes, the fatigue, short temper, lack of appetite. Combined with the increased flux of illness that John had been called in to help treat at surgery... Flu. Stomach flu, to be precise, although norovirus wasn't actually a type of flu, but so commonly called and... that wasn't really important, Sherlock thought, as he looked down at his sick friend.

John was shaking, goosebumps visible on the exposed skin of his neck. Sherlock reached down and laid his hand against John's neck, feeling the sweat-slicked, warm skin there. He moved his hand up to John's forehead - warm also - keeping in mind that surface temperature by design of feeling with his hands wasn't very accurate for something like a fever. Given the circumstances, however, Sherlock felt justified in his deduction.

"I'll make some tea," he said, removing his hand. "Peppermint blend - it may help to settle your stomach, although, given your recent contact with the grubby children and equally disgusting adults at your job, I wouldn't hold out hope."

"Don't tell me that," John mumbled, easing himself into a laying position. He was restricting movement as much as possible, muscles locked against anything that would bring back a rush of pain or the nausea, Sherlock suspected. "You're supposed to tell me I'll be better in no time..." John continued.

"But I don't know that you'll be better in no time. Norovirus generally lasts anywhere from three days to two weeks," Sherlock said, pulling two mugs out of the cabinet.

John groaned.

"Oh, don't act surprised. You know this; despite my general lack of enthusiasm for doctors, you are a decent one," Sherlock replied.

John coughed weakly and curled up, hugging one of the cushions to his stomach.

Given the fact that John didn't quip on the fact that Sherlock had just paid him an off-handed compliment, Sherlock reassessed his friend's declining state of health.

John had just started vomiting five minutes ago, but he had been feeling off, as John had put it, for the past couple of days. Stomach a bit unsettled, chilled, a little achy, tired. He had assumed it was just because the increase of patients after a long break from office work. But it had reached a crescendo today with stomach pain and, ultimately, vomiting.

Definitely stomach flu. Sherlock didn't have a doubt, but now he had to think: what did one do to treat it? Not much, if he could remember from his bout with it five years ago (he tried to forget that occasion often, and even more often, failed to). Sleep, take paracetamol, and make sure to stay hydrated. In his case, he'd had diarrhoea, but he figured it was the same idea: better out than in, so to say, and make sure to replace the fluids lost.

Sherlock looked back at the kettle expectantly. "Have you had any medication today?" he asked, raising his voice for John to hear him.

"Had some earlier..." John mumbled, so faint that Sherlock barely heard it.

"Not due for another dose, then. Unfortunate." He paused again, trying to think. His bout with stomach flu had left him writhing in pain from the cramps ravaging his stomach. "Would you like the hot water bottle for your stomach? Perhaps you should go bed, where you can stretch out more easily."

John mumbled something that Sherlock didn't hear this time.

"What was that?" he asked, pouring the water into the teapot and fetching the peppermint tea leaves from the canister.

"I said," John said, a bit louder as he shuffled, "you're being... good about this."

Sherlock frowned as he put the leaves in the strainer, put the strainer over the cup, and poured the water. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"I dunno... You got a cold that one time and you snapped at me every time I tried to help..."

"Oh." He remembered that cold, too. Dastardly thing. Stuck with him for a week and a half after falling into that lake. "You're programmed to handle being catered to better. I like my independence and don't like someone hovering," he said simply.

John chuckled, which turned into a cough, which turned into a moan. The creaking of their sofa signalled movement and Sherlock looked back in time to see John try to get to his feet.

"Where are you going?" He put the pot down and switched the strainer to the other mug before crossing the kitchen. "You need to be resting. As you're so fond of telling me, pushing your body too far will only resul-"

At it was at this point that John clapped his hand over his mouth.

Sherlock shut up. "I get it. Hang on." He crossed the room in three, long strides and grabbed the wastepaper bin, taking it back to John.

He handed it over wordlessly and John snatched it immediately, hunching over it to throw up noisily.

Sherlock noted his stomach doing a strange little dance at the sound of John's vomit splattering against the bottom of the metal bin, but he filed it away without much thought. He wasn't easily disgusted by most things people would turn their nose up at, but some things didn't go well with lunch a half hour ago. He turned away and went back to making tea, taking note to line the bin for later. John would, most likely, be making good use of it.

"You never did answer me," he continued, when the noise from the sitting room had stopped. "Do you want the hot water bottle and do you want to go to bed?"

John spit into the bin, scrubbing his mouth. "Shit. Tea. I need something..." He waved his hand weakly towards his mouth.

"Okay," Sherlock said, far more patiently than he was usually capable of. "Let me add a bit of cold so it doesn't scald your tastebuds. Hot water bottle?" he asked, again, as he finished preparing John's tea to take over to him.

"Please," John muttered, taking a long, slow sip of the tea.

Sherlock nodded once. "Bed?"

"I don't think I'm moving," John replied. His hands were shaking the mug and the tea was dangerously close to spilling.

Sherlock frowned again. "You can sleep in my bed, if it's easier. Less distance for walking and it's closer to the bathroom."

John licked his lips and didn't open his eyes. He didn't stop shivering, either.

"John?"

"I'm not sure."

"That doesn't tell me anything."

"Well, now you know how I feel all the time with you," John mumbled, shifting. "Oh... damn it. This sucks."

"Bed, I think," Sherlock said, hesitating before holding out his hand. "If it's necessary, I could probably carry you."

John opened his eyes. "... You're going to carry me?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "Is that an invitation?"

John cracked a smile, but shook his head. "No... I'll just puke again."

"Walk yourself, then." Sherlock took the mug away from John and set it on the coffee table, holding out both of his hands this time. "Up. Back to my bedroom; you can stretch out."

John stared blankly for a moment before reaching up to take them, hoisting himself to his feet. He swayed towards Sherlock's chest and Sherlock instinctively reached out to steady him. "You're dizzy," he noted.

"Only when I move," John whispered. "This is humiliating."

"Could be worse," Sherlock commented, slipping his arm around John as comfortably as he could while taking most of his weight.

John simply hummed and stared at the floor. Presumably, he was attempting to not trip over his own feet.

Sherlock got him back to his bedroom - despite the fact that he would have to strip the sheets and disinfect anything that John touched now - and let him crawl into bed and settle himself under the duvet as he went to collect the hot water bottle from beneath the bottle of potassium nitrate below the bathroom sink.

"All good?" he asked, wrapping the bottle up in a wash cloth as he returned to the bedroom. "Well, better, anyway?"

John just sighed.

"I'll take that as a maybe." Sherlock raised the blankets, placed the hot water bottle against John's stomach, and waited for John's hand to sluggishly move up and hold it there before tucking the blankets back around John. "Go to sleep."

"... Thank you," John mumbled, opening his eyes slightly. "... I'm going to contaminate your bed."

Sherlock shrugged. "I wasn't going to sleep, anyway. I've got an absorbability experiment on that I need to finish."

John smiled faintly and his eyes slipped closed again. "Owe you..."

"No..." Sherlock said quietly, exiting the room and closing the door softly behind him.

Because, if anyone owed anyone anything, then Sherlock owed John Watson his whole life. It was a debt that would never truly be paid, but he did have a whole lifetime to improve on it.

Had the urge to write some doctor!lock because there isn't enough of it and caring Sherlock is absolutely adorable. More doctor!lock to come in yet another oneshot - because I apparently can't work on anything I have in progress and just write oneshots instead. xD

I do not own Sherlock. Thank you!