The Fever

Prompt: 67%

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock

The first time Molly Hooper ever called Sherlock Holmes by a pet name, he was nearly delirious with a fever. He was lying on the couch, struggling to breathe without coughing, and aching everywhere. His brain was pounding between coughing so hard and his inability to stop thinking for one minute.

And sweet Molly Hooper slipped into his flat after he sent her a desperate text message (Am dying. Need assistance.—SH), took one look at him and rushed to his side, murmuring, "Oh sweetheart, what's wrong?"

He didn't have it in him to comment about the pet name, but if he were being honest with himself, he didn't exactly hate it, and he grunted in her direction, "I think I have a fever. My brain is pounding. My chest aches. I keep coughing. And when I tried to get off the sofa, I fell over and it took several minutes for me to be able to get to my feet again."

"Have you taken anything yet?"

"No."

Molly moved away from him and went to his kitchen. It took her a few minutes, but she finally returned with a thermometer, a cup, and a bottle of pills. "Is this safe to use?" she asked him, waving the thermometer in his face. He squinted to look at her then he nodded his head. "Alright then, open up."

He opened his mouth obediently and allowed Molly to slip the thermometer beneath his tongue. As she waited for it to detect his temperature, she went back into the kitchen and searched through the tins in his cupboards. She found one tin of soup that hadn't expired and was relieved to see that it was chicken noodle. She opened it and put it in a glass bowl before moving it to the microwave.

"It's 38.8 degrees Molly!"

Her brow knitted in worry, especially after he shouted he coughed extensively. After the soup was heated through, she brought it to him and a spoon. He was sitting up now, nursing the glass of water she left on the table in front of him. "Here's some soup. It'll be easier if you have a bit of food before you take medicine."

He managed to eat the whole bowl of soup and even drank the broth. Molly set the bowl and spoon aside and shook out two pills from the bottle and refilled his glass of water. He took the medicine without complaint.

"Are you tired?" she asked, ruffling his curls. He nodded his head, and Molly managed to get him to sit up so she could sit beneath his head. He nestled into her lap without complaint, and Molly immediately began rubbing his temples.

He was asleep in a matter of seconds.

Molly wasn't sure how long she had been dozing but woke with a start when Sherlock began coughing, his body curled tightly as he whimpered in pain. She soothingly rubbed his back, even more concerned when she realized he was sweating profusely. When his coughing fit ended and he was able to relax, she checked his temperature again and was horrified to see that it jumped up another two degrees. "Okay Sherlock, can you strip for me? Take everything off but your pants. I'm going to start a bath. We have to try and lower your temperature."

Sherlock sat up slowly, his breathing labored. She catalogued his symptoms and made a beeline to his bathroom, pulling back the shower curtain around his tub and thanking God that he didn't have any experiments running. Since John had moved out to live with Mary after they got married nearly six months ago, sometimes you couldn't even guess what state 221B Baker Street was going to be in. Molly liked to think that since she and Sherlock began an "exclusive relationship without using the terms boyfriend and girlfriend" he managed to keep the flat in a neater state.

She turned on the taps, making sure the water was lukewarm. She waited until the tub was half full before turning off the water and returning to Sherlock's side. He was sitting on the very edge of the sofa, his clothes in a pile beside him. It looked like he was mentally coaching himself to stand up.

When he was standing, he was wobbling on his feet a bit, but he was able to keep standing. With the help of Molly, he managed to get to the bathroom without much trouble.

He eased himself into the tub and Molly gently began scooping water over his shoulders, hoping the cool bath would help reduce his fever. "Why did I have to keep my pants on? You've seen a penis before, Molly." Sherlock eased himself backwards until he was reclining in the tub, his knees sticking out of the water. At his height, Molly was certain he would struggle fitting into any normal size bathtub.

"I've never seen your penis before," she said, feeling a blush cover her cheeks. "And I'm trying to preserve as much of your dignity as possible since you're sick."

"Thank you."

His eyes closed, and Molly took this time to listen to his breathing—it would be better to call it wheezing, it sounded awful. After only a few moments of silence, he was overcome with coughing, and Molly winced as tears ran down from his eyes and he gasped for breath. "You should probably go to the A&E."

"No…" he groaned, shaking his head.

"You need to see a doctor."

"You're a doctor."

Molly frowned and crossed her arms over her chest. "Not that kind of doctor."

Sherlock weakly crossed his arms over his chest and tried to glare the best he could; Molly tried not to laugh. He just looked wounded. "You've worked on living people."

"A long time ago. How about I call John? If he says you need to go to the hospital, you'll go. If you can make it on your own here, than that's what we'll do."

"Okay."

Molly pulled out her mobile phone and called John. She talked softly so as not to bother Sherlock, because it looked like he was asleep again in the tub. John was alarmed that his fever was that high but was glad Molly took the right precautionary steps to help bring it down. He told her he should be over by the time Sherlock finished his bath.

Molly allowed Sherlock to soak for a few more minutes, before she got up again on a search for pajamas in his bedroom. She returned to more of his coughing.

She helped him get redressed, flushing brightly as she pulled down his pants so she could replace them with a dry pair. She knew she shouldn't be embarrassed, but she couldn't help it. When he was in a pair of black pajama bottoms and a loose cotton tee, they returned to the sofa where Molly pushed the glass of water in his hands and forced him to drink.

"I'm cold," he complained, once he had his fill of water.

"I won't give you your robe, but I'll grab a clean sheet from your closet if that's alright?"

"Fine. Hurry back."

Molly did as he requested, hurrying back to the sofa and unfolding the sheet over him. "Sit the way you were earlier…please." Once Molly was back on the couch and his head was resting in her lap, he looked up at her blearily. "I am 67 percent certain that I am in love with you, Molly Hooper."

Molly smiled softly at him, gently massaging his scalp. "Only 67 percent?"

"On the contrary, I believe it could be well over 200 percent, but with the fever, I've deduced that my opinion might be a bit skewed. I'll have more sufficient data after my illness."

He would admit his deeper feelings for me while he's sick and has a fever! Molly couldn't be angry with him though, because she knew it must have taken a lot of effort for him to even begin to consider this conclusion. "I could kiss you right now."

"You could kiss my forehead?" Sherlock offered, tilting his head back.

"Oh baby," she whispered kissing his forehead, his cheeks, the tip of his nose and then his chin. "You're so sweet when you're sick."

"I don't have the energy to be an arse," he whispered, before turning his head away from Molly so he could cough.

"Christ! That sounds terrible!"

Molly looked up as John crossed the threshold of the flat, carrying a small black bag with what she assumed were his medical instruments. With an official doctor looking over Sherlock now, she felt a lot more at ease.

After John checked Sherlock's temperature, satisfied that it was decreasing at a steady rate, and listened to him breathe, he had a diagnosis. "It's pneumonia. You should get an x-ray just to make sure, but that guy we chased all around London four days ago had walking pneumonia, no doubt about it. I'll write you a prescription for an antibiotic and an inhaler to help you breathe." John packed away his materials and stood up. "I'll run to the pharmacy for you. And I assume you have no food, correct?"

"Correct," Sherlock said wearily, leaning his head on the back of the couch. "Take my wallet. Do a bit of shopping. Please." He pointed across the room to his chair, where his wallet was resting beside his violin.

"I will. Have you been keeping up with your fluids?"

"Not really. I've had a bit of water since Molly arrived, but I've been on this couch for nearly two days before that…"

"Then you'll need electrolytes too."

Molly watched their exchange with a bit of a grin on her face. She was perched on the edge of a sitting room chair, giving the doctor and patient a wide birth. When John was satisfied that Sherlock was capable of surviving with just Molly until he returned, he took Sherlock's wallet and Molly's short grocery list and left Baker Street.

Cuddling with Sherlock once again, Molly sighed as she ran her fingers through his hair. "I'm going to get sick, aren't I?"

Sherlock sighed the best he could, wheezing a little. "If you become ill, I will fulfill all of the responsibilities expected of me as your monogamous partner."

Molly smiled and kissed his forehead one more time. "Thank you, love."

He nuzzled deeper into her lap, and the small smile that graced his features after the third utterance of a pet name didn't go unnoticed by Molly. She continued running her fingers through his hair, long after he fell into a deep sleep with a bit of a smile on his face.

Fin.

BB/N: This story was a bit difficult for me to write! I actually wrote it three times today, which was a bit frustrating. Thank you for reading! :)