Sherlock strolled along the street, trying to keep his eyes focused straight ahead. The people around him were distracting in the very worst of ways. He didn't understand how other people lived such dull and atrocious lives. Heading back to the apartment didn't hold much distraction for him either, considering Watson wouldn't get off of his medical shift for another three hours. Sleep, however, was always a welcome reprieve.
He mentally counted the steps and he hopped up them and pulled out his keys from his pocket. He was slightly excited that he had actually remembered them. Most days he had to get Mrs. Hudson to open the door for him.
When he opened the door he was surprised to see Watson lying on the couch in his robe, watching the telly.
"Why are you home?" he asked.
"You're the detective; you figure it out." He said lazily.
"Consulting detective. Well, I can see that you are sick. Obviously." He replied, moving no further into the room.
"Then why did you ask?" he asked, turning his head to face him.
"I only meant why are you here? You run the risk of me getting sick as well."
"Well I'm sorry, Sherlock, if my inner bacteria offends you. Where am I supposed to go when I'm sick?"
"That's your issue," he said taking a wide berth around the couch to throw his jacket on a chair.
"It's just a cold," Watson replied with a sniffle, turning back to the television.
"Nevertheless," Sherlock said crossing his arms, "I have no desire to get sick."
"Most people don't," John mumbled.
"I heard that." Sherlock said, taking an awkward step closer.
John slowly turned from the ridiculous talk show and looked over at Sherlock. "Why are you staring at me?"
"I'm attempting to determine your stage of illness to decide if the best course of action would be for me to stay with Mycroft."
Watson rolled his eyes and started to protest but stopped suddenly. "Well, if you really feel like that's the best option. We can't have you getting sick, you know."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow and leaned in closer.
"Not helping." John said quickly.
"Fine."
Sherlock moved towards the window and pulled out his phone. He began typing a message. Need help now. Respond asap.
He sent the message to Molly and turned out to look at the city below them, contemplating the radius of infection based on the range of John's coughs and used tissue. His phone buzzed in his hand.
What is it? Want me 2 come?
Sherlock rolled his eyes at her insistence to use jargon instead of just writing things out. John sick. What do I do?
It was a few seconds before the phone buzzed again.
Ur ridiculous. Make tea. Let him sleep.
With a furrowed brow, Sherlock appeared in John's line of vision again. "Do you want tea? I can make you tea."
Watson rubbed his nose with a tissue and wondered what the odds of Sherlock poisoning the tea were. Surely he wasn't trying to help.
"Tea would be lovely, actually, thanks." Though he said it more like a question.
"Right. One moment."
Sherlock disappeared into the kitchen and began searching through the cupboards for tea. He had absolutely no idea where the tea actually was. He opened one door and found an experiment he had thought he had lost.
"This may take a little longer than I thought," Sherlock called. "I'm having a bit of trouble finding the tea."
Sherlock bent over to open the cabinet below the sink and heard a shuffling of steps on the floor next to him.
"Sherlock, why on earth would we keep the tea below the sink? Even your mind must find that odd."
"John," Sherlock said sternly as he straightened himself and pulled on his suit jacket. "You're sick. You shouldn't be up and about."
John shook a little container on the counter with a smile. "In the amount of time it would take you to find this, I could just make myself a cuppa."
Sherlock scowled as he leaned against the sink.
"You know," John said as he moved to the stove, "for a detective you're a little off your game…"
Sherlock's scowl deepened. "Oh god."
John set the water to boil, "What?"
"I must be getting sick."
Sherlock's hand reached involuntarily to his throat, sending John into a small fit of laughter. It was short lived though as it turned into a hacking cough.
"What would I do without you, Holmes?" John mumbled as he pulled a cup from the cabinet and added the leaves to the water.
"Your life would be considerably more boring," he agreed.
Smiling, John poured himself a cup of the steaming liquid and shuffled back into the living room. Sherlock followed at a safe distance.
"Better?" he asked as John took a drink and lay back on the couch.
Watson nodded and pulled a pillow under his head. Sherlock nodded slowly, remembering Molly's second piece of advice. He walked back into the kitchen to get himself a cup of tea. The warm liquid felt good against what he believed to be his worsening throat. He grabbed the cup and decided to head to his room to sleep. On his way, he noticed John had already dozed off. Setting his cup on the top of the television, Sherlock reached over and grabbed one of the heavy blankets. He draped it over John and grabbed the cup before resuming his trek to his room.
It wasn't long before John's eyes shot open to the sound of violin sawing in the next room. Just before he strained his burning throat to yell at his flat mate, he noticed the heavy blanket on him. Sighing heavily, John pulled the blanket over his head in an attempt to filter out some of the dissonance. Baby steps, he thought, baby steps.