Author Note: I'm not 100% sure which direction I want to take this story, so please review and let me know if you want me to continue. Thanks for reading!
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"Sherlock! You alright in there?"
"Fine!" came the reply along with a hint of annoyance.
Sherlock was standing under the stream of water bursting from the shower nozzle, as he had been for a near half an hour. The water was hot, the pressure strong, as it pounded his back. His eyes remained closed despite John's vocal intrusion. His forehead gently connected with the cool tiles of the shower wall. And that's when he knew.
He cursed his body's continual weakness. He had been mentally fighting off a fever for hours now. But the touch of the tiles felt even more heavenly than they should; proving he had lost the battle.
Sherlock sighed; half with disappointment and half with the relief brought by the tiles against his head. At that point he decided on two things; he should get out of the shower, and he wouldn't let this or any illness prevent him from his work.
"For goodness sake Sherlock!" was the greeting he received upon entering the living room, "the heating bill is going to run me dry if you have any more showers that long."
A grunt in acknowledgement was all John got in reply, which he was in fact used to by now.
Sherlock nabbed John's laptop from the coffee table and began typing away furiously, researching points about the latest case.
However after not so long, the text became a little fuzzy. Sherlock blinked furiously, trying to revitalise his aching eyes. He rubbed his face a couple of times, his hands eventually resting against his temples, trying to massage them slightly.
Soon after this, Sherlock leapt up in anger, almost smashing John's laptop. When Sherlock's brain didn't behave exactly as he expected and demanded it to, he would go beyond having a pout.
As Sherlock stormed from the room, John rolled his eyes at the performance, dismissing it as the usual routine he was faced with most days.
Sherlock paced his room. His tight shirt felt like it was suffocating him. He was wearing too many clothes for the intense heat he was feeling. He paused, took a deep breath, running his hand down his face and decided that tea would fix all of the above.
John watched as Sherlock entered the kitchen; he looked somewhat sluggish. "Sherlock, are you al-"
"Fine." Came the sharp reply.
"I'd love some tea."
John couldn't hear Sherlock's mumbled reply to that, although he supposed he wasn't meant to. John smirked a little.
Sherlock brought over tea for the both of them.
While the temperature was cooling as autumn had arrived, it was certainly not cold. With this in mind, John was a tad confused as Sherlock hugged his mug close. However he dismissed it as Sherlock's eyes suggested he was in an entirely different world.
As afternoon approached its end, John was sitting in his chair checking through his blog. He heard a faint buzzing. Lifting his eyes, looking around and confirming it wasn't his pocket, he looked to Sherlock's phone as it lay wedged slightly between his flat body and the couch. John sighed, "Sherlock, pick up your bloody phone. I'm not getting up Sherlock. Sherlock!" John sighed again, more angrily this time, as he stood up and slipped out the phone from beneath Sherlock's body.
"John Watson speaking"
"John? It's Lestrade, tell Sherlock to come to the morgue, think we found our killer… although now we have to find his killer."
"Ok, we'll be there soon."
John nudged Sherlock, "Oi, wake up!" Sherlock only twitched slightly. John frowned, "Sherlock" John prodded him in the face. In one swift motion, Sherlock's hand whipped up to grab John's invasive finger.
"What?" Sherlock demanded.
John was a little taken aback, "Ah, Lestrade called. Can't believe you didn't wake up to it"
"What did he want?" Sherlock inquired, ignoring the second part of John's statement.
"Um, he wants us at the morgue." John gathered his thoughts back together, "Sherlock?"
"Hm?"
"Hold still for a sec"
"What? What are you doing?"
John crouched down to Sherlock's sitting level, looked him in the eyes a placed a hand on Sherlock's forehead.
"Shit."
"Get off!" Sherlock swiped at John.
"Sherlock, you're burning up! For goodness sakes, go to bed, you can't go to the morgue."
"And what are you my mother?" Sherlock scoffed, "I'm going to the morgue, and whether or not you accompany me is entirely up to you."
"Sherlock, you are pale, sweating and feverish, I can tell your vision is blurring, and you would have been feeling like this for quite some time. You allowed yourself to get worse, and didn't bother mentioning anything to your colleague and doctor!"
"Friend" Sherlock replied weakly.
John smiled slightly, "Yes, friend. I can help Sherlock, it's not only my profession, but something I want to do as your friend. I don't understand why you always shut me out and pretend like you're fine. You're a genius, but still human, I can tell you that as a fact. Let me help. Ok, spiel done."
Sherlock listened to every word. Carefully he released his answer, "I need to see the body at the morgue, but I'll be quick. You should come."
John sighed, knowing he wouldn't get a better deal than that, "Ok, but you have some water before we go; you look dehydrated."