The sick detective
Chapter 1: Stormy night
John Watson former soldier and now blogger to a mad man was enjoying his quiet evening. The days where he could stay at home without the detective and his craziness were rare and he used them for all the things he couldn't do when Sherlock was next to him, especially when the detective was bored. He couldn't hear his own thoughts when he was bored. But not today. Sherlock was out in the storm doing whatever he found was justified while observing a suspect. Not a real one. Sherlock had the assumption that the owner of a fish restaurant was involved in a worldwide smuggling ring.
John, being a sane man, had told Sherlock he would stay at home. Not even the detective would get him to go out in the storm to watch innocent people enjoying their life inside their warm homes.
That meant John had the living room for his own use without Sherlock complaining about the TV or criticizing the fictional characters in the books John read. Not that he wished for Sherlock to stay away more often. He would get lonely and bored himself without him but once or twice a month was enough for John to relax. And the observation Sherlock was doing wasn't dangerous. He would have never let him go alone if there was even a slight chance that he could get hurt.
John called it an early night and went to bed before midnight. Laying down he fell asleep in seconds under his warm and soft blanket, ignoring the noises of the rain drumming at his window and the wind howling around the house not knowing that his friend was freezing and shivering in a dark alley while watching his target.
Sherlock gave up after nothing had happened until 4 a.m. His suspect had gone to sleep around one and hadn't got up anymore since then. No lights inside, no one came, no one left. He was cold and wet and dreaming of hot tea and his bed and a hot shower. Maybe not in that particular order.
There was no cab around and he had to walk back to Baker Street, his wet clothes glued to his icy skin. He had stopped feeling the cold hours back. The rain that fell on his head now was ignored as his hair was already soaking wet it couldn't get wetter even if he were to jump into the Thames.
Arriving back home, Sherlock was tired more than ever before at least he felt like that. Pushing his tired body up the stairs all thoughts about shower, tea or bed were gone. To walk through the door and collapse on the sofa was all Sherlock was able to do. Still in his soaked clothes and wet hair he fall asleep not caring about a thing except sleeping.
John woke up quite early because of his phone ringing. Getting out of his warm bed he answered the call without looking at the callers ID.
"Hallo, John Watson speaking." His eyes were dazzled from the early sunshine; he had to close his eyes for a few seconds.
"Morning John, it's Greg. Is Sherlock with you? I have been trying to reach him for over an hour." Greg sounded tired; John was aware he had been involved in much work this week and a new crime scene was nothing that helped a DI of Scotland Yard with getting rid of his workload.
"He was out yesterday. Wait a second I will check on him. Probably forgot to charge his phone. I will ring you back in a minute." John hung up and walked down the stairs not expecting Sherlock to be somewhere else than in his room. A look in his bedroom first showed John that Sherlock had never made it to bed last night. Wondering where his friend could be he called him while walking back into the kitchen.
Sherlock's phone rang and John could hear it in the living room. As he walked around the corner he found the man sleeping on the sofa the phone still in his pockets. John hung up and walked over to him. Coming closer he saw the sweat drops on Sherlock's face. He was still wearing his coat, one side of it hung on the floor and he saw a wet puddle where water must have dropped to the floor.
Frowning at the thought of Sherlock freezing the whole night in the storm and then sleeping in wet clothes John closed the gap between him and Sherlock in close to a second. One hand on his still damp shoulder, he shook him lightly.
"Sherlock, wake up." Nothing happened. "Sherlock?" A bit louder. As John lay his hand on Sherlock's forehead he could feel the heat before he even touched the skin. "Shit." Cursing at his friend's stupidity and ignorance he called him again saying the only thing that could wake him up.
"Sherlock, Lestrade called. He has a case for you. Sherlock! Case! Crime scene! Wake up." And finally he moved. He opened one eye than the next and then closed them again. A moaning sound came out of the man and he turned away from the light. John concluded: fever and headache, 'great'.
