A/N: Here's chapter 2! Sorry for making it a bit long. My mind went off again (as usual).

Whistles Aren't Just For Taxis


"I hate to say I told you so but," Sherlock wasn't able to finish his statement as Watson glared at him. He shrugged. "I did warn you not to frolic in the rain while you have colds."

"I wasn't frolicking in the rain." Watson said in a weak, raspy voice. "I was looking for evidence." Her last statement was followed by a horrible coughing fit.

"Yes and look what it got you. Your colds upgraded to a full blown fever and you have a sore throat as a cherry on top." Sherlock said.

"Well thank you for pointing it out captain obvious." Watson said sourly.

"My, my, aren't we a bit touchy today Watson?" Sherlock teased.

Watson rolled her eyes. "Just hail a taxi cab so we can go home. I feel horrible." She realized her mistake a little too late as Sherlock already got hold of his whistle and blew it loudly. Not a second later, a yellow cab pulled up beside them.

"Well, what do you know Watson? My whistle didn't fail me today." Sherlock remarked as they sat at the back. Watson murmured her response. It was starting to get cold and Watson was pretty irritable when she's sick. It's normal for her to get grumpy when she's ill. She was an ex-surgeon after all.


It was raining when they were called in to investigate a case in the Upper East Side. It was a murder of one of New York's known socialites. It was apparent that theft was also involved and that the victim fought back with the suspect considering the state of disarray of the expensive hotel suite. They were hoping to find the murder weapon in the suite.

"Watson, it isn't wise to go out there. You're feeling under the weather." Sherlock called out when Watson wandered off outside the terrace.

"I'll just be a minute." she heard Sherlock's grumbling as a response. Watson was just having a mild cold. She'll just have some decongestants when she gets home. As she surveyed the terrace filled with shattered glass shards from the sliding doors, she saw a glass shard that had more volume of blood than necessary, the raindrops almost washing the blood away. "Sherlock!" she called out. When Sherlock went to the terrace, he shoved her back inside.

"Hey! That was rude." She complained as she stumbled near the couch. But she was ignored as Sherlock shouted, "Captain! I believe Miss Watson has found you the murder weapon!"

After that incident, Watson's cold got worse. She took some decongestants but to no avail. She woke up the next day feeling weak and sore. Her cold broke out into a high fever and she can't talk properly without her throat aching.


The cab dropped them off in front of the brownstone. Sherlock got out and held an umbrella for Watson as it started to drizzle. He would have made tea for Watson - the one she made for him when he was sick - but the herbs weren't available when he went to China town.

"Watson, it wasn't necessary for you to go to the precinct today with me. I can just bring home the files for you." Sherlock scolded her.

She gave him a smirk. "But I'll be bored if I only stayed here. And I recall someone telling me, boredom is more distressing than any sickness."

If Sherlock knew that he was this stubborn when he was sick, he would have strangled himself.

"As much as I appreciate you quoting me, your stubbornness isn't helping this whole ordeal. Go upstairs and rest." Watson just narrowed her eyes at him and with a 'hmph' went up to her room. Amidst Watson being sick, Sherlock can't help but break into a small smile at Watson's childish behavior. He was always used to seeing the cool, concerned and nagging Watson. Seeing this side of her was helping him understand her better.

Watson, against Sherlock's advice to rest, spent most of the evening cuddled in the couch in the study room, helping Sherlock with the case. She was only able to put in a couple of contributions before Sherlock started to shoo her to her bedroom. Watson protested but Sherlock turned a deaf ear. Watson trudged off to her room sluggishly once again. She was about to sleep when Sherlock entered her room with a tray in his hands.

"I hope that isn't Clyde in the soup because I will decline your offer." Watson said pointedly, still obviously crossed with Sherlock for limiting her actions.

"Don't talk rubbish Watson, Clyde is safe in the desk drawer. I must say, your illness is making you crabby."

"I hate being sick." Watson ground out.

"I surmised as much." Sherlock muttered. "Here, have some soup. It should help." He was on his way out when he heard her utter the words "Thank you."

In the wee hours of the morning, Watson woke up after having a rough coughing fit. She reached over her bedside table for some water and found it half-full. She drank it all and tried to go back to sleep. Her body was too sore to go down and fetch some water. She would drink the water from the bathroom sink across the hall but Sherlock especially bought her some distilled water for 'health purposes'. But, it seemed that the odds weren't in her favor as another coughing fit ensued, forcing her to drink more. She groaned as she pulled herself up. She clutched on to the railings as she went down the stairs. The lights were still on in the study room but she can hear Sherlock's light snoring. She proceeded towards the kitchen and grabbed the water bottle at the top of the fridge. She took out her mug and tried to open the bottle but her grip was weak. She tried again but to her frustration, her arm hit her mug and crashed on the floor as she was gripping the bottle. The high pitched sound was still ringing in her ears when she saw Sherlock ran to the kitchen.

"Watson! What happened? What are you doing out of bed? My god, you look horrible."

"Thanks." She answered lamely.

"Why didn't you call for me? You didn't have to get out of bed. And why are your feet bare? You could get yourself cut and have an infection from the broken mug! Seriously." Sherlock reprimanded her.

"You were sleeping soundly and I was thirsty so I thought -" she was cut off by Sherlock as he took her by the arms and led her upstairs towards her bedroom.

"Rest." He ordered then he went out of her room. She didn't bother complaining this time. Her throat was starting to hurt again. Sherlock returned with a couple of water bottles and medicines. He helped Watson up and let her drink the water and the medicine. After a few beats of silence, Sherlock reached into his pocket and held his hand out to her. On his palm was the whistle he always used for hailing cabs. Watson raised an eyebrow for an explanation.

"Use this if you need anything else. I'll just be downstairs." He explained. Watson still looked skeptical. "It's better than calling out for me. No voice remember?" he gestured to her neck. When she didn't respond, he forced the whistle into her hand.

"Sleep now, Watson. Good night."

Not more than a couple of minutes, Sherlock heard Watson use the whistle. She must be having a hard time trying to sleep. He ran up the stairs.

"Anything you need?" he asked.

"Tea please." She rasped. Sherlock went out and returned with a pot of hot tea. Watson accepted the tray and nodded her thanks. He went down the stairs again and started reading the files instead for he was being restless. After a while, Watson blew the whistle again. When he went up to her room, she asked for some biscuits and so, he returned with a plate of them. Sherlock was already sensing a pattern when Watson blew the whistle yet again.

"What is it now?"

"You forgot to open the other water bottles. I have a weak grip." She said sheepishly. And he just sighed.

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" Sherlock asked Watson after she blew the whistle for the nth time.

"Can't say I'm not." She smiled. "You're on my beck and call. It's fun."

"Sadist." He said but he was smiling. "What do you need?"

"Arrange my pillows?" she asked with a yawn.

"I have created a monster." He palmed his face. But he arranged and fluffed the pillows nonetheless. "There, is it any better?"

"Yes." She said as she drifted to sleep. He decided to sit on the armchair in her room as he watched her. "Sorry for bothering you Sherlock." She mumbled. She's saying sorry? What she doesn't know is that he's willing to do anything to make her feel better. He walked towards her and moved the stray strands of hair away from her face. After a while, he took the whistle from the bedside table, pocketed it and sat back on the armchair.

"You know what? No need for whistles. I'll just stay here where it's closer."