The Doctor and his Patient
"John..." Sherlock's voice was weak and quiet.
"John?" He tried again a little louder but his throat was dry and painful. He had just woken up and he knew he wasn't well. He was on the sofa in the living room, and there was a fuzziness in his head which was making thinking difficult. In fact now he considered it, his head thrummed painfully. He couldn't remember when he had fallen asleep but he remembered not feeling quite right the night before and must have eventually collapsed exhausted. He felt groggy and looked down at himself. He was still dressed; he groaned slightly looking at the now very creased suit from yesterday.
Why hadn't John woken him? Where was he?
Sherlock attempted to sit up and the room spun violently, the sudden inertia made him fall back down and crack his head on the arm of the sofa. That did nothing to help the headache that was already there. The movement had also alerted him that his empty stomach was roiling and that his chest was tight and painful. Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut and curled into the foetal position.
This was how John found him a little after 9am on that July morning. He gave one look with his expert doctor's eye and quickly had a diagnosis.
"Flu." he said out loud. Sherlock was sweating in his sleep and the day was already heating up outside. It was to reach 29 degrees apparently. John sighed, that would not be good. He placed a gentle hand on Sherlock's brow, it was damp and hot.
'He's already got a fever.' John thought to himself.
Sherlock stirred then at the touch, one of his eyes flickering open slightly. He winced in the sunlight and opened his mouth but only a croak escaped. He coughed a bit then tried again.
"Johnn... 's that you?" It was barely a whisper.
"Yes, I'm here. You've got the flu, but don't worry, we'll fix you up."
"No, 'avent..." Sherlock grumbled weakly " 'm fine, 'sall fine..." His voice trailed off and he was asleep again. John shook his head and looked down at his companion. His face was gaunt and pale, and there were dark rings round his eyes. Sherlock's thick black hair was damp and stuck to his forehead; he looked like a hopeless child.
John mentally kicked himself for staying at Sarah's and not noticing the symptoms the day before. He set to work, opening the windows as wide as they could go to let in what little breeze there was. He filled a glass and a bowl with water then ran to get a flannel, these he placed on the coffee table besides the sofa. He also got a blanket and threw it over Sherlock.
John considered how he would get food into the detective, as he hardly ate at the best of times. He decided to make some toast anyway, that might be a start. By the time he was finished it was half 10 and he was sweating. He took off his jumper before flopping down into his chair. Then he remembered to ring the surgery to tell them he wouldn't be in for a few days.
He watched Sherlock as he slept, and realised it was growing ever hotter outside. He checked the weather on his phone, 20⁰C already. John blew out his cheeks and went to find some lighter clothing.
He heard a thud downstairs and he quickly pulled on the shirt he had in his hand and ran down to the living room, not bothering to button it. Sherlock had fallen off the sofa, and was tangled in the blanket, coughing and cursing meekly. John helped to pick him up.
"It's very warm John." Sherlock said groggily then he looked a little shocked at seeing John's shirt undone, he gave a wry smile.
"It is, Sherlock. Here, drink some water." he gave him the glass and quickly did the buttons before Sherlock could say anything. The detective took the water eagerly, gulping it down quickly.
"Good. Now try some toast?" John tried lightly but to the suggestion Sherlock turned a shade paler and slightly green. He turned his face away, clutching his stomach and taking deep breaths.
"No, no food." He said feebly. John considered him sternly but decided not to push it; he saw how hard Sherlock had fought not to bring the water back up.
'It can wait a while' he noted mentally. Sherlock threw off the blanket and then undid his jacket.
"Sherlock, you have to keep warm!" John said as he tried to pull the blanket back over the younger man.
"I AM warm." Sherlock snapped irritated, trying to bat John away. He couldn't stand feeling weak and being fussed over was even worse.
John was patient with him though and let him give out.
"So, I have flu..." Sherlock said slowly, John could see he was remembering everything he'd ever learnt about the virus.
"Yes, which you know means you have to stay warm and hydrated and that you have to eat! And that this could last all week." John listed calmly.
"Urgh!" Came the response as Sherlock flopped back to lie on the sofa again. He ached all over, his head still rang painfully too and he kept coughing, which was becoming irritating. He felt exhausted even though he had only just woken up.
No, he wouldn't give in so easily. He slowly sat back up and propped himself upright, he looked at John and flashed him a See-I'm-Just-Fine smile. The doctor ignored him completely but got up and promptly came back with some paracetamol and ibuprofen.
"Take these, they'll ease the aches." John said simply and went to refill Sherlock's glass. Sherlock considered refusing but decided against it eventually. As he waited for the medication to take effect he asked
"Where were you last night?"
John looked up at him and raised an eyebrow.
"Don't you already know that? And I sent you a text."
Sherlock wondered briefly where his phone was. He didn't remember the last time he'd seen it, but the thought of getting up and searching for it wasn't very appealing. He studied John for a moment then said
"You've changed your clothes. But I assume Sarah's?" John only nodded in reply. Sherlock seemed happy with his deduction, if he was honest, the flu was making his mind sluggish, not that he'd admit it.
Eventually John watched as Sherlock's head nodded forwards and he fell asleep again. John got up and moved him so he was lying down. The detective stirred again but John shushed him gently.
"It's ok, just sleep. It's only me."
He obliged and was soon snoring softly. John smiled and tucked the blanked back round him. He dabbed his brow with the cool flannel though to keep him from being too warm. He liked to look after people, it was his job after all and it wasn't often that Sherlock was ill or even weak enough to accept help.
The day passed slowly, John kept an eye on Sherlock from his armchair. He woke a several times and when he did, John would encourage him to drink and eat. By the afternoon and countless threats that he would hospitalise him, Sherlock managed half a slice of cold toast, just to please John. He fought the waves of nausea and managed to keep the toast down. John seemed satisfied with that.
Each time he woke, he stayed awake a little longer as it was so warm. The atmosphere was thick and heavy, he silently cursed his thick hair which stuck to him uncomfortably as he sweated.
There seemed to be no air and Sherlock found his only relief was laying the cold flannel across his face until it grew warm. It was late evening but the temperature in the flat was high and horrible for both John and Sherlock. It even made movement difficult, every effort strained. There was nothing to do but lay there and get on with it.
"This heat is insufferable! What kind of weather is this anyway?! Are the windows even open? Where's the fan?"
"You broke the fan in your last experiment, remember?" John reminded him.
Sherlock was bored, he wanted to get up but every time he tried, his limbs protested and his head would swim. John was watching him closely, making him feel even worse.
"Damn it!" he murmured, frustrated at himself for being ill. Everything he asked for, John got it for him without question; a magazine, his phone, his dressing gown, the newspaper, a book, some old case files to keep him entertained. And though Sherlock was grateful, it only reminded him that he couldn't do it himself and that grew increasingly frustrating for him.
"I'm contagious! You had best not come too close doctor." He said suddenly.
John gave a bark of laughter. "I've had my flu jab, I have nothing to worry about." He looked smug. Sherlock grumbled to himself at this, it wasn't fair that he was the one who had gotten ill, why wasn't it John. Then he could look after him and not feel so helpless.
"Why don't you try to eat some more?" John offered lightly.
Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "I'm not hungry." He replied shortly, it was a lie.
"Of course not." John's experience as a doctor told him the truth and gave him a huge amount of patience.
"Well I feel a lot better compared to earlier so there's no need for you to keep fussing like a mother hen!" Sherlock protested angrily. "You make a good housewife." he added hoping that annoying the Doctor would stop his attention. John just made a face at this. He considered that Sherlock must be feeling slightly better to have the energy to argue but that was likely because of the medication, it wasn't over yet. He gave Sherlock a level stare and said coolly
"Don't make me insert a feeding tube, through your nose, and force feed you toast mush. Don't think I won't do it."
Sherlock's mouth fell open slightly, "You wouldn't! You'd have to sedate me." Sherlock said, but he wasn't as confident as he sounded. The older man fixed him with a stare that told him he'd already considered it. The detective pouted, looking between the toast and the doctor.
His companion's expression remained impassive.
Eventually Sherlock gave in and sulkily munched his way through another half a slice. Afterwards, he did feel a little better for it, not that he would tell John that. He didn't need to anyway; he could tell from the shorter man's face that he knew full well. With nothing else to do Sherlock consigned himself to sleep once more.
John felt himself drifting off in the hazy heat the room had absorbed during the day, but he sat up, determined to keep an eye on his patient. It was nearly 10pm and as he watched Sherlock sleep the detective started to mumble and his face was pulled into a frown. His head flicked this way and that and his hands twitched. He went very pale then and his mumbling increased in volume. John moved to the sofa in concern, watching his friend struggle with the nightmare he was clearly having. Sherlock's shouts were incoherent but quite desperate and he flailed his arms about suddenly. John knelt beside him and touched his forehead, it was clammy with sweat.
"Shh shh, hey, it's ok" he said very gently, reaching out to still the ill mans arms.
"John!" Sherlock gave a shout, his breathing was shallow and he started to cough.
"It's ok, I'm here. I'm here, there's nothing to worry about, shhhh now" John continued calmly. Sherlock's eyes flashed open and he sucked in a lungful of air, his eyes stared wildly around the room for a moment then he relaxed, the tension slipping away from his body. He looked down then at John's hands around his own wrists and frowned.
"Ahem, yes. You were having a nightmare." John nodded curtly and let go of him.
"I don't remember." Sherlock said, he sounded as tired as he felt. Suddenly his whole body convulsed as he dry heaved. There was nothing in his stomach so he simply retched. Then his whole body shivered, he suddenly felt cold. He looked up at John miserably and groaned. Sherlock seemed to have conceded defeat at last.
"Come on; let's get you into your bed." John said and helped lift him to his feet. Sherlock shuffled beside him slowly and sunk face down onto his sheets. He had already burnt up again with his fever and his room was mercifully cooler than the living room had been. He grumbled something about 'weakness' and 'never ill' into his pillow. John chuckled to himself. It was going to be a long week.