What to do with an ailing flatmate.
Well, this is a turn-up, thought John. Not only was he still recovering from chasing after Sherlock earlier in the week in a successful bid to capture a blackmailer (the worst sort of white-collar criminal in John's opinion), he was exhausted from two double shifts at the clinic and, oh, look, it seems he'd also caught the flu that was going 'round!
What are the chances, thought John as he wearily pulled himself up the stairs to 221B, that I'll be able to relax on the sofa with a nice cuppa, ice my shoulder (turns out the blackmailer was quite adept at hand-to-hand combat and while successful in the end, John did end up getting bashed about a bit), take some paracetamol and make it an early night.
As he got closer to the top of the stairs, John's dream of a quiet night in began drifting away on clouds of some awful blue smoke that was creeping from under the door.
"Sherlock! What the hell…?" John yelled as came through the door. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen, mainly due to the dense blue smoke filling the room. John rushed to open the windows and turning around saw Sherlock hunched over his microscope.
"What in the name of all that's holy is going on here?" demanded John. Sherlock looked up at John, blinked his eyes a couple of times and only then seemed to realize that he was surrounded by a blue haze.
"Hmmm … that's not right" muttered Sherlock, going back to his microscope. "No kidding it's not right, stated John. What were you trying to do, anyway?"
"Experiment" said Sherlock, "but it seems that the reaction was not as expected. I'll have to adjust the formula and try again". "No", declared John, "no, no, NO. All I want is one evening of peace ... after this crazy week, can I least have one evening where nothing explodes, stinks up the flat or causes the water to turn green?"
"The green water wasn't my fault!" said a petulant Sherlock, finally looking up from his microscope.
"Bags under his eyes, left shoulder held higher than the other, obvious swollen glands, nose irritated due to extensive use of tissues" were the thoughts flying through Sherlock's brain as he took a good look at his flatmate.
"You're sick" accused Sherlock. "Why are you standing there breathing on me and potentially contaminating my test results? A man's life is at stake, in case you care. Go away until you're better!"
"Fine, fine, I'm going to bed" said John as he wandered off to his room, forgetting all about tea he'd been dreaming of since about 2:00 that afternoon. "Don't forget to close the windows or we'll freeze to death" he added as he trudged up the stairs.
Sherlock waved him away and got back to work. A couple of hours later, with his experiment satisfactorily concluded and the results sent to Lestrade: "arrest the sister", Sherlock sat back from the table and stretched. "Why is it so cold in here?" he thought. He looked around as saw the windows were open; it took a couple of seconds before he remembered the blue smoke and John's yelling. As he was heading over to close the windows, he heard what sounded like a sick goat bleating from John's room. "Now why would John have a goat in his room?" thought Sherlock.
Remembering the way the good Doctor looked earlier in the evening, Sherlock deduced that John had managed to catch the flu while working at the clinic, and the week's adventures certainly hadn't helped any.
Sherlock closed the windows and stared out at Baker Street. Suddenly, the sick goat sounded more like a barking seal. Sherlock glared at the ceiling, stomped to the kitchen and turned on the kettle. He got out John's favourite RAMC mug and dropped a tea bag into it. As the kettle came to a boil, he quickly poured the water into the mug and grabbing the honey on the way by, headed up to John's room, with a quick stop by the loo.
The barking emanating from John's room was painful to Sherlock's ears; he threw the door open and marched in, brandishing tea, honey, a hot water bottle and the bottle of paracetamol in his hands.
Poor John, hoping to get some comfort, was curled up under his duvet shivering slightly despite the warmth of the goose down. The sound of the door banging off the wall made him jump and as he was trying to untangle himself from the covers he rasped "A case?".
"Drink this, take these, and stop that infernal racket" said Sherlock. While the words were harsh, Sherlock's voice was gentle and, if truth be told, slightly apologetic. John blinked up at Sherlock. "You made me tea?"
"Lemon tea with honey will help the cough, paracetamol will help the aches, the hot water bottle will help your shoulder, and the windows are now closed which should help with the cold."
Looking surprised, John reached for tea, added a little honey and took a sip. "Wonderful; just what I needed. Thank you, Sherlock" he said as he smiled. Sherlock turned to leave the room and as he was heading out the door, said "Get better; your illness is extremely disruptive. Also, I'm lost without my blogger."
As he walked into the living room, he picked up his beloved violin and then began playing one of his own compositions. In his room, John was finishing his tea and getting settled back into bed, the hot water bottle cradled beneath his shoulder, and a gentle smile on his face. "Well, thought John, whoever says Sherlock has no heart is wrong. I've proof that he cares … in his own way". John lay back down and as the gentle sounds of the violin wafted up the stairway, he fell into a deep slumber.
After about an hour of playing, Sherlock put away his violin and listened for any disturbance from John's room. Hearing nothing, he thought to himself, "I don't see what all the fuss is about. It's not that difficult to care for an ailing flatmate. Now, where did I leave those fingers?"