The key scraping in the lock rouses John from his restless sleep. He sits up in his chair and rubs his eyes before standing up and pulling the door open. A loud sigh from the other side of the door causes John to open the door faster and peer out.

"Sherlock?" He asks quietly. "You weren't supposed to be home until tomorrow morning."

"My flight was early. Are you going to let me in?"

"I was going to come and get you from the airport."

"It's aeroport, and that's okay. I just got a cab."

"Didn't want you to have to come back exhausted and try to tell the cabby where to go."

"Worked out anyway. Can I come in?" John looks into the hallway, looking for Sherlock before stepping back.

"Yeah. Sorry. What time is it?"

"I'd say about one in the morning."

"Really?"

"Yes." Sherlock shuffles into the flat, leaning against the door to close it.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah. Just…."

"Exhausted."

"Yeah." Sherlock drops his bag on the floor near the door and tries to make his way to his bedroom.

"Sherlock, how long has it been since you've eaten?"

"Two days."

"Sherlock."

"John. 'M so tired I can't think properly."

"Sherlock Holmes, tired."

"It happens."

"I'm going to make you a cuppa. You sit on the couch."

"John, don't you think-"

"No. Sit." John pushes him into the couch cushions. Sherlock doesn't even attempt to get back up. The bags under his eyes are more apparent in the light, his cheeks are sunken and he looks like a skeleton. John tisks quietly under his breath while he makes tea for his friend. "You could have texted me." Sherlock doesn't say anything, but leans back into the cushions, laying his head on the back of the couch. He closes his eyes and shifts on the couch to be more comfortable. "You look terrible. Didn't you take care of yourself out there?"

"'Ohn. You 'ere sleepin' in the chair. Why?" The words came out slurred, but John could still decipher them. Barely.

"I was waiting for you."

"No. You 'ere sleepin' in the chair a' wee'. Why?" John looks up from the kettle and looks at his friend.

"Like I said. I was waiting for you. The flat just isn't the same when it's only me here. I almost went and bought a dog."

"I 'as gone for three days." Sherlock offers a strangled chuckle.

"And I was bored as hell. Here." John hands Sherlock his mug and Sherlock drags his eyes open.

"'Ohn, I can't. 'Oo tired to even try." Sherlock shakes his head weakly and tries to push the mug back into John's hands. He only nudges it enough to knock it off the sofa and the mug shatters on the floor. Sherlock jumps, every nerve in his body alert. "GOD!" He shrieks.

"Sherlock?" He looks down at the broken mug and relaxes into his seat again, breathing heavily. "What's wrong?"

"'Othing."

"Don't. Too early. What's wrong?"

"'Othing." Sherlock wearily rubs his eyes and mumbles under his breath.

"What?"

"'Oom one-o-one."

"Room one hundred and one?" For a response Sherlock nods his head. "What happened in room one-o-one?"

"It was emp'y."

"Empty?" Another nod. "Tell me what happened Sherlock."

"Dreams."

"Bad ones?" A third nod.

"I haven't slept properly in three days." And with that, Sherlock passed out on the sofa, falling to the side as his muscles released and he finally slept.

24 Hours later

"John?" Sherlock wakes up in his bed and calls out, not wanting to be alone anymore. The door to his room is opened and John leans against the door frame. Silence. Sherlock lets out a sigh of relief and flops against his bed again. "Sorry." John doesn't say anything but crosses his arms and looks at the bed. Finally,

"I skipped work today. You had an hundred and three fever. What the hell happened Sherlock." Sherlock winces, quietly cursing under his breath. "And don't tell me we'll talk about it later. Because we won't. We'll talk about it right now." John's silhouette leaves the door frame only to reappear with a tray. "I brought you this." He lays it across Sherlock's lap and moves to turn the light on.

"Don't." Sherlock calls after John and then he looks down at the tray on his lap. "What is it?" John pulls the chair from Sherlock's desk and drags it to the bed.

"What?"

"What did you make me?"

"Soup. Obviously." Sherlock offers a small smile at the attempt to cheer him up. "Well that's something innit? A smile. What's wrong?"

"Room one hundred and one."

"You said last night."

"I did?"

"Before passing out on the couch. I had to carry you in here."

"Sorry."

"It's fine. Just start talking now or I'll have Mycroft come over." Sherlock's eyes widen,

"Anyone but Mycroft. Please."

"So start talking."

"Is nothing sacred?"

"No. Start." Sherlock sighs and puts the spoon down before beginning.

"I had room one-o-one at the hotel Mycroft arranged for me. When I checked in the clerk looked surprised. In curiosity I asked him why he was so surprised. He promptly told me that no one checked into room one-o-one. Caught now I asked him why. He replied that it was mostly superstition and that there really was nothing to be wary of, so pushing it out of my mind I went up."

"Are you serious?"

"What?"

"Are you trying to scare me or something?"

"No!" Sherlock looks horrified.

"Because you told me you didn't believe in the supernatural, that everything has an explanation."

"I was getting there John. If you had let me continue you would have-"

"I get it. Sorry. It sounded like a ghost story or something. Continue."

"Thank you. Anyway, I toured the room and then left my stuff to work on the case. The police in that area led me to the crime scene and tried to tell me what had happened. Obviously they were wrong and I told them so. They got upset and sent me to the hotel. In frustration I went to the café down the street, I wasn't going to be bullied by those idiots that don't know how to solve crime. I had just sat down when my phone buzzed. Surprisingly it was the detective-inspector from that area that was calling. He wanted me back."

"Bet you gloated."

"Not openly. Let me continue."

"Sorry."

"I went down there again and this time they actually listened to what I had to say. And we uncovered some more evidence. That night I treated myself to a good meal in preparation of an investigation."

"Where is this going?"

"You wanted to know what happened."

"You've turned it into a twenty minute long story."

"Shall I continue?"

"Sorry."

"That night I couldn't sleep."

"Why?"

"Multiple reasons. Mainly because it was too hot, and the air conditioning made a frightful noise. But after a while I slipped away. That's when the dreams started." Sherlock visibly shudders before continuing, "At first they weren't so bad. Things I had seen before, things I was used to. But then it got worse."

"Worse how?"

"Just…. Worse. Things I had seen before but deleted. Things I never want to see. My mind got creative and decided that seeing things that never happened, but making it real and horrible. In the morning I was hardly rested, my bed was soaked and my throat was sore. I took a shower and went to work again, thinking nothing of it. The clerk asked me how my night was and I told him fine. He didn't believe me. And then he told me that they could hear my screams on the first floor. I apologized and left, forgetting about it. That night when I came back from a frustrating day of no results I tried to sleep. The nightmares came back, tenfold." Sherlock closes his eyes, squeezing his lids together against the memory. "The next morning I was so sleep deprived that I stayed at the hotel and emailed the police about the case. I wrapped it up in less than an hour." Sherlock pauses.

"Go on."

"Well last night was the worst. It felt like…." He shivers again, "it felt like I was dying. All I wanted to do was die. I don't—God." He shakes his head and wipes at his face, tugging on his lips, "And then I got sick all over the room. I'm surprised you didn't notice that I was covered in vomit."

"I noticed as soon as I got close enough to smell it."

"I decided that I had to get home as quick as possible. I still feel awful. I don't want to sleep, or eat, or anything."

"Your fever has gone down but that doesn't mean that you aren't sick. You're staying in bed for the next few days."

"Don't blog about this."

"Never."

"Thank you John. I can always count on you." He places his head in his hands and leans back against the head of his bed.

"Yeah. Don't get sick on your bed again. I had to clean the sheets twice already."

"I don't remember."

"You wouldn't. You were sleeping." The room is silent for a minute and John stands up, taking the tray from Sherlock's lap. "That's cold. I'll heat it for you."

"Thank you."

"You need rest."

"I don't need to sleep."

"What's the 'rational explanation' for your dreams?"

"Someone slipped me something."

"Simple as that."

"As simple as it has to be."