Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.

Hello, everyone! It's been forever since I posted something new and while I had this idea for awhile, it's taken a bit to actually write it. Some of the credit for this story must go to Cumberbatch Critter, as the idea came from a conversation with her. Here's part one of three. Enjoy!

Sherlock had barely opened an eye before regretting it. Most days, he loved waking up and getting to work but today was not most days. He should have taken it as an omen; waking up with a headache just spelled misery for the coming day. However, he had never had much time for his transport and pushed himself into a sitting position. His eyes began to run in the bright light and he brushed tears from them, willing himself to wake up.

Sherlock forced himself to get out bed and make it, pulling the sheets up carelessly before straightening the duvet. He surveyed his closet and decided it was a good day for all black. By the time Sherlock had washed up and went into the kitchen, he felt no more awake than he had fifteen minutes earlier.

"Morning." John greeted him, coming into the kitchen.

"Morning." Sherlock said from the coffee pot. Maybe a nice strong cup of coffee would heighten his senses. Sherlock sat with the morning paper and hid behind it, lest John notice the red eyes.

"Do you want some breakfast?"

"Just toast, thanks."

A moment later, a plate with two pieces of toast was slid across the table and Sherlock glanced down at them wearily. His stomach, he felt, could not take much food this morning. However, he picked up the piece of bread slathered in peanut butter and bit into it aggressively. Sherlock managed to swallow the sparse breakfast but soon regretted it. Sitting at the table, his stomach was threatening to revolt so he got up and started walking around the kitchen.

"What are you doing?" John asked, tea cup halfway to his mouth.

"Observing."

"Observing what?"

"Nothing, you wouldn't understand. Go back to your breakfast."

John merely shook his head before taking a sip of tea.

"What are you doing today?"

Sherlock glanced up, unsure if talking was a good idea but he couldn't very well ignore John's question.

"I don't know. I haven't checked the website."

Just to avoid suspicion, Sherlock went back to the table against his will and opened the laptop.

"Anything good?"

"Nothing."

Sherlock couldn't decide if he was happy or not that the website was void this morning.

On the one hand, a case would keep his mind off of, well, everything but on the other hand, Sherlock had a sinking suspicion his stomach would only cooperate so long.

No.

The mental pop-up in his mind told him that no, he was not going to be sick, he was in control of his body and it wouldn't do anything he didn't want it to. It was a good mentality, Sherlock decided, but it didn't last long.

It took no more than John holding up a Ziploc bag of earlobes half an hour later for Sherlock to clasp his hand over his mouth, which was ridiculous because he had put them in the fridge in the first place.

"Sherlock?" John called, still holding the bag by the corner, as Sherlock ran for the bathroom, slamming the door closed. John glanced at the baggie, tossing it back in the fridge, and sighing. He switched the kettle on, pulling out the peppermint tea.


Meanwhile, Sherlock was discovering the true meaning of misery. Several times he vomited, although the last couple of times his body simply went through the painful motions, not realizing there was nothing left to bring up. Finally, after several minutes, Sherlock stood up shakily, brushing his teeth while he studied his reflection. He was not what one might call the picture of health; he was ghastly pale, not to mention the bit of sweat that had acquired during his … experience. His eyes were still red and running, accented nicely by dark bags underneath. Sherlock splashed some water onto his face again, hoping to freshen up a bit.

Sherlock opened the door hesitantly, realizing that John was most likely going to go all doctor on him. But John was calmly washing up from breakfast, rubber gloves immersed in the soapy sink. Good.

Sherlock proceeded to his chair and sat.

"That," he said. "was disgusting."

"It always is." John answered without looking up. Sherlock braced himself for the questions but none came. Odd … good, but a bit odd. The flat was silent for awhile and the only noise Sherlock could hear was the sloshing of the water in the sink.

"Here," John said, startling Sherlock. He opened his eyes – when had John finished the dishes? – to see John holding out a teacup.

"Thank you." Sherlock said, taking it and putting it aside immediately.

"It's peppermint," John said, sitting with his own cup. "It'll calm your stomach."

"Then why are you drinking it?" Sherlock asked.

"Because it also tastes good."

John could tell Sherlock was waiting for him to ask questions and part of John – the doctor part, obviously – wanted to ask them. But all he asked was,

"Are you okay?"

Sherlock scoffed a bit. What a stupid question.

"Of course I'm alright."

John merely raised an eyebrow and sipped his tea.


By afternoon, Sherlock was far from alright, not to say that he had been alright that morning to begin with because he hadn't been. He had merely been able to hide it better.


By early evening, John didn't need a medical degree to know that Sherlock was suffering from some sort of virus that made him a permanent fixture in the bathroom.

"Sherlock?" John called through the bathroom door about half an hour after he heard Sherlock vomit last.

"What?" Sherlock sounded absolutely miserable.

"Can I come in?"

"If you must."

John decided that he really must, to use Sherlock's terminology, and opened the bathroom door. Sherlock was huddled in a ball by the toilet, knees drawn in and head resting in his arms.

"Why don't you go to bed?" John asked.

"Because I'll be sick again sooner or later." Sherlock's voice was muffled by his dressing gown sleeve. He had long abandoned his black suit for the comfort of his pyjamas, although nothing would make him comfortable right now. Not when his body was insisting on being ill.

"I'll bring you a bin."

"No."

There was no way that Sherlock Holmes was going to vomit into a bin. How humiliating. John sighed.

"Fine, then I'll bring your bed here."

John went into Sherlock's room and pulled the blanket off and took his pillow in his hands, bringing them to the bathroom.

"Lie down," John said when Sherlock looked at him warily. "Trust me, you need to get some rest."

Sherlock groaned as he did was he was told. He hated it but he knew John was right. He accepted the pillow from John and curled into a ball while the duvet landed on top of him. Sherlock instinctually pulled it close, not realizing how cold he had been.

"Have you taken any medicine?" John asked, a look of amusement on his face. This was quite possibly the most ridiculous thing he had ever seen; a grown man curled up on the bathroom floor. Sherlock mumbled something along the lines of 'thrown it up' and John sighed (again). He'd have to get something that dissolved under the tongue. He checked his watch – it was almost eight o'clock on a Sunday night, which meant most stores would be closed.

"Are you sure you don't want to go back to your bed?" John asked awhile later as Sherlock lay shivering on the floor. Despite his instance of being sick again, nothing had happened.

"It'd be a lot more comfortable and the bathroom's not that far away, especially if we open the door from your bedroom."

Sherlock wasn't inclined to move. While it had seemed ridiculous for John to bring him a pillow and blanket, he had gotten quite comfortable on the bathroom floor and didn't feel like moving. Moving would take effort, moving would hurt.

But again, Sherlock knew John had a valid point. If he could just fall asleep and stay asleep, he'd be on the whole a lot less miserable.

"Fine," he muttered, sitting up slowly. The world was spinning dangerously – Sherlock hated that feeling – and his eyes were watery. He sniffed – ugh, stupid nose … so trivial and yet demanding his attention – as he fumbled with the blankets. John reached a hand down to help him up but Sherlock ignored it. His pride had been hurt enough without John having to help him to bed.

Sherlock finally got to his feet and reached a hand to the wall to steady himself. He let John worry about the pillow, blankets, and undoubtedly a bin, and fumbled with the lock on the door to his bedroom. Sliding the door open, he made straight for his bed, collapsing onto it with a large sigh.

"John?" he muttered, eyes already closed as John tucked the pillow underneath his head and replaced his blanket.

"Yes?"

"This is atrocious."

John smiled sympathetically.

"It will go away eventually." John answered. "Just give your body some time to heal. I'll be upstairs if you need anything tonight."

"Where else would you be?" Sherlock muttered and John rolled his eyes.

"Good night, Sherlock."

Okay, so I know it's nothing special but I have to set the stage for parts two and three, which I'm very excited to write. Now if only my schedule will allow me time to write … anyways, reviews are always appreciated!