I like John Watson. He's a decent fellow, and a very respectable hobbit. A little tight-laced at times, but generally a beautiful and caring man. Messing with him is delightful.

Not brit-picked, I come from a land of life, liberty, and the pursuit of Kim Kardashian's ass. So, forgive. I'm also proof-reading all of these by my lonesome, so... (this stands for help me plox)

Enjoy!

John Watson was in a quandary. He didn't know whether he was delirious with exhaustion and mad with hunger, or if he was mad with exhaustion and delirious with hunger.

Either way, he figured he was both. Parading around half of London, non-stop, on the other day's breakfast usually left an average man feeling slightly worse for wear. He swore he could feel the layers of his sweat clinging to him like infants to a breast, refusing to cascade down his body, it clung to him and cloaked him. His hair was damp, but he knew it had been a good 48 hours since his last shower. All in all, he could have woken from the dead and not felt worse.

So, he made toast.

It was all his brain registered, actually. He knew there was nothing actually edible in his refrigerator; and since he knew that, he spared himself the horror of actually checking. His weakened, over-worked heart would probably give if he were to subject it to another severed head or dissected stomach. There was bread, however, and that alone was enough to bring tears to John's eyes. He just needed something in his stomach; anything, really.

When his toast had finished, he haphazardly searched the cupboard for some jam. His fingers danced around the familiar bottle, that seemed to have gone into hiding on the top shelf, and almost dropped it in his haste to retrieve it. His face was Christmas when he popped open the lid and realized there was indeed jam inside.

He forced his knife inside, violating the jar with his unnecessary haste. His fingers shook with impatience. His tongue danced about his bottom lip, coating it in saliva.

This jam was slimy, he realized—well, more slimy than would be considered "appropriate." He checked the expiration date, and was faced with the fact that this particular jar had expired a week and a half ago.

Damn. Double damn.

"To hell with it," The man shrugged, spreading the jam regardless. He was too hungry, damn it, and now was not the time to be a picky eater. Logic was, as his roommate had pointed out many a time, not his forte.

That had to be the exhaustion speaking. Because when he bit into his toast, it took him a moment to realize how disgusting his mistake was. It was almost offensive in its taste, like a burp filled with grape soda and stale Cheetos, and as he swallowed he began to make some rather un-gentlemanly retching noises. The second bite of toast was due to the fact that he was starving, and wasting toast is, well, wasteful. The sounds that found its way from his throat after that second bite had Mrs. Hudson running from her apartment to his with a glass of ice water and a soothing back rub.

"Thank," he coughed, a deep, rib-shaking cough, before inhaling a desperate, "you." He gagged again, before he took a greedy sip of the proffered beverage. He drank it with fervor as his housek—landlady crooned and crowded him.

"A bit of a cold, have you, dearie?" She patted his head and took the now-empty glass of water from the man. John smiled at her, thankful for her worries.

"Oh, no," he waved her off, "I just ate some bad toast, is all." He shot her an award-winning smile. She rolled her eyes, a grin on her face.

"You boys," she reprimanded, "If I go out today, I'll stop you by some goodies. Who knows what's being consumed in here..." She began to walk out of the room, chuckling to herself about her silly tenants and their escapades and their lack of common sense.

John chuckled, rubbing his hands against his face. That sad attempt at a breakfast had managed to rob him of his hunger, which he figured was understandable. So, all that left was some-

His phone vibrated. He checked his text messages.

"Where are you?"

Check the date. Triple damn. Stupid, John, stupid. Really, who forgets what day it is? He cursed up a storm while he sent a harried reply, racing up to his room to change his ragged clothes. He peeled the dingy items off of him and realized with great anguish that he did not even have the time to shower.

"At least most of my patients have stuffy noses," he joked to no one in particular. Well, maybe that skull Sherlock was so fond of had heard him. Either way, the joke was lame and John Watson was now embarrassed that even a man who was long-dead had heard it. So, he left.

He had no sooner made it to work when he began feeling chilly. It was odd, because he was just sweating with all the vigor of a marathon runner, and usually it's either/or, not both in fluctuations. He scurried off into his office, his half-hearted attempt at avoiding any of his superiors working in his favor.

At least he had succeeded in something this morning. God, was it hot in here, or was it just him?

Before he could ponder that, however, his phone chimed as a flurry of text messages assaulted his screen. The screen felt brighter than it had been recently (no, it was not hurting him to read, thank you) as he read the messages.

"John"

"Have you seen my latest experiment? I seem to have misplaced it. -SH"

Why Sherlock assumed that John knew anything of his projects was a matter that went way above John's reasoning. He kept reading.

"You might want to get home. No pressure, but the sooner the better. -SH"

Strange. But, John mused with a fond smile, Sherlock always spewed melodramatic nonsense when he was bored. Okay, next...

"Forget that, you're at work, you should leave. Now."

"Don't talk to anyone. Just come home and everything will be O.K."

The last two, John registered with abject horror, hadn't even been signed properly.

"Don't freak out, John," he murmured to himself, hoping for all the world that his flatmate was being dramatic.

John didn't even know what was going on, for Christ's sake.

He had to be. John hadn't even touched anything in the man's "lab" (it was definitely not a lab, John would often tell him, because it was hardly sanitary enough to be considered a meth lab) so it wasn't something that could be contracted via his skin. If his chest was heaving, he didn't know. He began coughing, the kind of cough that shook your body along with your soul, and he vaguely heard his phone chime—yet again—from the desk top. He scrambled to open the message.

"Relax, John. You're not dying."

He let out an audible sigh, his body almost collapsing in relief. He gathered his things and left post-haste, avoiding eyes that were equal parts curious and irritated toward his strange behavior. John would be blessed if he could keep this job.

Again, a chime, "Yet."

That message received a very audible response.

"What?"

He checked it again. Confirmed it. Brought it to his mind-court. Objected it. Overruled. That just happened.

He ran home.

Splitting this into three parts. And don't worry, I'll try to make it as humorous as possible. I would've written one giant epic, but it's prudent for me as a procrastinator to publish things so I feel obligated to publish more. So, again, if you want to be my beta, hmu dawg.

Otherwise, leave a review! Tell me what you think, or what you didn't think. Or about that one time you felt a sexual attraction towards that old lady who sits at parks and feeds the pigeons. Thanks for reading, and do stay tuned~~~~~~