Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.

Hello, everyone! It's been a week since I posted Part One … surprise, surprise. Actually, to be honest, I am surprised that I've updated in only one week. If you knew my schedule, you may be surprised as well. My crazy life aside, thank you, as always, for your wonderful words of support and encouragement. They mean the world to me and put a smile on my face. So without further adieu … Part Two!

John had left Sherlock sleeping soundly enough and when the blogger checked on his friend before heading up to bed, he was still snoring softly. Good, maybe this virus would be short lived, John thought as he climbed the stairs. He fell into his own bed, tired from the day and he fell asleep quickly.

John woke up around four o'clock the next morning, regretting his midnight cuppa. He urgently had to go to the loo so, sliding on slippers and dressing gown, John went downstairs. He relieved himself and then, keeping the light off, went into the kitchen for a glass of water. John was on the way to the cabinet to get a tumbler when he fell. It was quite a spectacular fall, one in which John's foot got hooked around something and he went sprawling, hitting his head on the counter before his path diverted him to the floor.

"Ow!"

"Ow!"

"Sherlock?" John exclaimed, surprised by the second voice. "What are you doing here?"

John was tangled in Sherlock, who was lying on the kitchen floor. He slowly unwound himself from the detective, feeling slightly dizzy from his hit on the head. The doctor tried to stand but fell again when he put weight on his right foot.

"Really, John, could you be more careful?" Sherlock complained as John picked himself up a second time. John switched on the light over the sink and turned to look at his friend.

"You're one to talk," John said, leaning on the counter to take weight off his foot. "What are you doing here? It's four o'clock in the morning."

"I was resting, like you told me to."

"On the kitchen floor?"

Sherlock paused for a moment.

"I don't really remember how I got here," he began. "But I'm fine … more or less."

John was suspicious of Sherlock's 'more or less' and saw on Sherlock's face that he was less fine than more. He looked around quickly, pulling a mixing bowl from the cupboard and handed it to Sherlock, who was sick in it.

"How distasteful," Sherlock said, setting the bowl aside when he was through. "Honestly, I was doing so well until you woke me up."

"Then go back to sleep," John said. "In your bed. Come on, up."

John left the safety of the counter and helped Sherlock off the floor, noting his head hurt a lot more when he was leaning over. He'd have to get some ice on that soon. Sherlock didn't complain too much as John tucked him back in-between his sheets, although he did notice the limp.

"You really shouldn't be walking on that if you hurt it."

"I'll be fine," John said, sticking the thermometer in Sherlock's mouth before the detective could say anything else. His head was pounding now. The thermometer beeped and John wasn't surprised to see Sherlock's fever as high as it had been earlier that evening. Dutifully – and painfully – John retrieved some more paracetamol and a glass of water.

"The least you could do," John said when Sherlock ignored him when he re-entered the room. "Is take the medicine that I limped to find for you."

"It's your own fault for getting yourself injured," Sherlock said without turning over.

"My fault? For tripping over you in the kitchen. Right, completely my fault." John said sarcastically.

"That's what I said, isn't it?" Sherlock said, rolling over and taking the pills from John's hand. He gulped them back and laid down again, silently dismissing John.

The doctor turned off the light and hobbled into the kitchen where he retrieved an ice pack for his head and one for his ankle before flopping on the sofa. It wasn't as comfy as his bed but he didn't think he'd make the stairs. Settling himself with the ice, he shortly fell asleep.

When John awoke, it was to the sensation that he was going to vomit. John wasn't entirely sure why he felt that way – at first he thought that he had caught Sherlock's virus but then he remembered the night before. His head was pounding mercilessly despite the presence of the ice pack, which had been there for almost four hours. The doctor sat up hesitantly but he regretted this choice. The world began to spin as he rose to the point where he had to run to the bathroom.

Run is a bit of an overstatement. John stood up quickly and went towards the hallway but one step on his ankle and down he went. He hit the floor hard and ended up puking into a canvas magazine holder. After catching his breath, John slowly picked himself up knowing he would have to go to hospital. Throwing up after hitting one's head was a sure sign of a concussion and his ankle was quite swollen and very painful.

"Sherlock?" John called, getting to his feet with the help of the wall. John limped down the hallway and entered the bedroom.

"Sherlock?" John asked again. Sherlock was sprawled in his bed and John felt bad for waking him.

"Sherlock?"

"What?" Sherlock had heard John the first and second time but hoped that by ignoring him, he'd go away. Whatever it was had better be important.

"I'm going out for a bit, alright?"

Sherlock cracked open one eye.

"You woke me up to tell me that?"

"Just so you know. I think Mrs. Hudson's downstairs if you need anything."

"Why would I need anything?" Sherlock asked, closing his eyes again. John merely rolled his own eyes and began to leave, pausing when Sherlock spoke again.

"And where are you going?"

"A&E."

Sherlock opened his eyes again.

"A&E?"

"Yes." John said a bit defensively. "I seem to have injured myself in my fall last night."

"Oh. Why did you do that?"

There was no sense of guilt in Sherlock's voice, just sleepiness and a hint of implied stupidity so John left Sherlock to sleep, hoping he'd stay sleeping while he was out.

John arrived home seven hours later on a pair of crutches and clutching a bag with prescription medication. His A&E visit had been tedious, to say the least. An incompetent doctor, an x-ray tech who couldn't take pictures properly, and a nurse who barely knew one end of a thermometer from the other. Couple that with the crying child on his left and the puking man on his right, John was not in a good mood by the time he arrived back at 221B.

The A&E doctor, once he had finally gotten around to seeing John, had ordered a plethora of tests and after all the results, he determined what John suspected: a concussion and a badly sprained right ankle. John had thrown up a few more times since that morning so the doctor had prescribed an anti-nausea medication, as well as medication for pain and swelling. John had painstakingly left the hospital on a pair of crutches and after a heck of a time trying to finagle them in and out of a taxi, managed to get to a Tesco's and then home.

The stairs had proved difficult and John was grumpy by the time he made it to the top of the staircase. The first thing John noticed was that the flat smelled heavily of vomit. He wasn't sure if that was because of his accident that morning or Sherlock, but either way, it was not pleasant. John decided he'd better check on Sherlock so manoeuvring down the hallway, he entered Sherlock's bedroom. His heart sank at what he saw.

It appeared as though Sherlock had not so much as moved since John left that morning, except to maybe throw up into the bin John had placed in his room the night before.

"Sherlock?"

John moved clumsily towards the bed and reached, laying a hand on Sherlock's forehead. Whatever had made Sherlock sick, John realized, it was not a twenty-four hour bug. His temperature was much higher than it should have been.

"Sherlock, wake up."

It was so annoying … all he wanted to do was sleep and yet John was insistent on him opening his eyes. He obliged but didn't say anything.

"Have you taken any paracetamol or anything today?"

Sherlock didn't answer, blinking slowly.

"Have anything to eat?"

Nothing.

"Not even anything to drink?" John couldn't believe it and sighed as Sherlock's eyes slipped closed again. John looked around feeling a bit hopeless.

He needed help. There was no way he'd be able to clean up Sherlock's – and his – mess and he certainly couldn't take care of Sherlock while on crutches.

John left Sherlock's room and retreated to the sofa, lifting his wrapped ankle onto the table. He pulled out his mobile, scrolling through names.

Mycroft? No. Sherlock would never forgive him, not to mention that Mycroft, if he actually came, would just be a nuisance and John already had a headache.

Lestrade? No … a good chap but not a nurse.

Mrs. Hudson? She would hover annoyingly.

Molly? Yes. Molly would do anything for them and she had medical training, she'd be okay with nursing Sherlock back to health and helping John when he needed it. John hit the call button and put the phone to his ear.

"Hello, Molly? John Watson … I need a favour."

Okay, so maybe it's a bit narrative in this chapter but I had to set the stage for … Molly! I always say this so I may as well say it again, I don't ship Molly and Sherlock but I think the relationship they have is cute. I'm excited to write Part 3 … and perhaps a Part 4 if the muses co-operate. That *should* be before Monday but no promises.

Reviews are much appreciated – thanks!