This has kind of been lurking shamefully in my mind for a while, but it's 2.38am and i've had A LOT of coffee so please don't judge me. Also, I'm aware that temperature should be in degrees Celsius but it doesn't fit into the story otherwise! Enjoy x
Fever
John fumbled desperately with the zip on his trousers. His hands were shaking so much that he might as well have been wearing a chained and padlocked celibacy-belt for all the good it did him. He had never wished to be rid of an item of clothing so badly in his life, if only this bloody zip would just...finally, mercifully, it gave just enough for him to tear them off and fling them across the room. He dived for the bed. Pyjama bottoms, that would have to do. Anything was better than the stained and stinking jeans that had saved Mrs Hudson's carpet when Sherlock had so kindly thrown up in his lap. No time to shower, can't leave him for long. He was sure the thermometer would tell of a raging fever when he got back.
John had first noticed something was amiss when he arose at a, for once, civilized hour to find a complete absence of his normally bombastic friend. This lack of unnecessary noise and motion, which Sherlock employed to "stop himself going insane" (humph! A likely story), was in itself unheard of, but further investigation yielded a far more disturbing sight. Sherlock was in bed. Sleeping. In fact, he was so soundly asleep that he didn't notice John enter and sit down on the edge of the bed. Or his gentle prodding. Or indeed his not-so-gentle prodding. Only when John resorted to shaking his thin shoulders and calling his name did Sherlock open his eyes and squint at him. Confusion and then vague annoyance crossed his face.
"Go away. I'm sleeping" he mumbled.
"I can see that," John replied curtly, "the question is why are you sleeping? What happened to 'sleeping is a waste of time' and 'why waste valuable brain-power on dreaming when you could be doing something far more useful'?"
The blue orbs appeared again in unfocused slices. They looked a little red.
"Sherlock, are you okay?" Now that he was sure this was not another of his eccentric room-mate's mood swings, he allowed himself to feel concerned.
"No, actually" he sounded husky. "I feel awful. My throat hurts, my body aches and the excruciating pain that currently envelopes my abdomen could only be surpassed by the relative supernova that is my brain making a bid for freedom out of my eyes."
John grinned: only in Sherlock Holmes world could a migraine be likened to the end of the universe. Mind you, if the world did revolve around Sherlock (and not the sun), his head exploding could really be detrimental to life on earth.
Half an hour, a cup of tea and a brief examination later and John had diagnosed the flu. Despite his normal crotchetiness about having nothing to do, Sherlock made no objections to spending the rest of the day tucked up on the sofa being waited on hand and foot. That is, most of him did. Apparently his stomach had had other ideas.
Eyeing the smelly pile with distaste as he hurried from the room, John couldn't help but feel sorry for the man. Flu was never fun, but this close to Christmas – and a white one at that – was just damned bad luck. He'd probably spend it curled up on the sofa feeling miserable and growling half-hearted insults at 'Loose women'.
He stopped dead on the threshold of the living room. Or not. No feverish room-mate reclined on the sofa. A pair of abandoned purple-silk pyjamas lay on the floor near the open window.
"Shit!" John exclaimed, rushing to the window, but there was no crumpled body at the foot of the two-storey drop. Just scuffed snow and blackness. He was gone.
Sherlock peered at the device in his hand once more. He wasn't sure what had happened to his old 'phone, but he kind of liked this new one: it was...streamlined. 104B – what could that mean? A house number? Obviously on Baker street, or the sender would have been more obvious. He set off down the road. Yes, 104B Baker street – someone wants me to go there.
And there was blood, John could see it now he was on the ground. Bloody foot-prints that headed off down the road to the left. Even without Sherlock's powers of deduction, it was not hard for him to work out that they had to be his. Who else goes walking in the snow barefoot? It was a further sign of his delusion that the normally modest man hadn't seen fit to keep his clothes on, but had had the good sense to take his coat on his late-night frolic in the snow. Typical. John set off after the tracks of his mad friend, calling his name urgently as he ran.
The door was red, and looked quite new. As Sherlock squatted down to inspect the paint he noticed scuff marks about half way between the door handle and the base of the door. Door kicked open often, too high for a child and no indents so probably not a woman, who would wear heels in this part of town. He stepped back and noticed a red stain in the snow – paint ? No, blood. A sudden sound made him start and look around.
"Sherlock?" someone was calling him. He sounded panicked. Was this his blood? Whoever had texted him from inside the house knew his number, and as he wasn't loath to give out his number to any old stranger, so it had to be someone he knew quite well. Lestrade? No. Would've sent his henchmen. The skull? Don't be stupid, skulls don't bleed. John...?
"SHERLOCK!" the cry was quite insistent this time. A hostage situation, he decided, and grabbing the nearest weapon he burst through the front door of 104B.
A screaming woman – clearly the captor, just look at her knees – met him in the hall.
"Where is John?" he demanded authoritatively. Shoes... ? Yes, Converse. Rubber soles. She was quite small, so must have John in a compromising position to have him hostage. He suspected handcuffs. And a pineapple, possibly two. He pushed past her and took the stairs three at a time.
"JOHN?"
It was the hysterical cries of the woman on the street outside 104B about "a madman" in her house that tipped him off as to Sherlock's location. Running past her with a hasty apology, he shot up the stairs after the damp footprints and into the room above. He was expecting flames or chemicals, broken furniture and maybe the odd displaced body part. Wild animals wouldn't have gone amiss. In short, he was expecting chaos. The sight that met him, however, was totally unexpected.
There, sprawled across the sofa with his coat neatly folded beneath his head and one cut foot draped across the arm-rest, still dripping blood, was Sherlock Holmes in all his naked glory. An artfully placed bicycle pump preserved what was left of his dignity, while in his hand he clutched the thermometer. Another man might have fled or laughed uncontrollably. And taken pictures. But when it comes to Sherlock, you come to expect the unexpected. With a level of maturity and tenderness he didn't know he possessed, John knelt and shook the man awake.
"Sherlock?"
"Hmmm...?"
"Time to go home." Once heaved to his feet, Sherlock seemed a little more alert.
"Don't forget my coat...don't want to catch a cold."
As they passed the owner of the house in the doorway, Sherlock absently handed him the thermometer. John glanced at it curiously.
"Jesus." 104.9 degrees. Better tie him to the sofa this time.
THE END
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