2. The Common Cold
It was Sherlock's ragged breathing that woke him from the stupor he'd fallen into in front of Britain's Got Talent, though he didn't know it right away. John shook himself into full wakefulness and tried to identify the sound that had woken him, casting about the room until his eyes finally landed on Sherlock. Sherlock, who was lying fast asleep on the couch, with one arm thrown up over his eyes. It was a rare sight – the World's Only Consulting Detective didn't sleep very often, or for very long, and it was usually when John had already retired for the night. So he couldn't help staring for a moment in disbelief, and that was when he heard it.
It was a horrid sound, like a death rattle. It took John a moment to come to the conclusion that the sound was actually emanating from Sherlock. Then it took him another minute to decide that it definitely wasn't snoring, but rather the very breath rasping through his lungs. They had had a conversation not a week ago that consisted of the detective assuring him, "I never get sick." Well, now John was beginning to doubt that hypothesis.
Concerned both personally and professionally, John roused himself from his armchair and crossed over to where Sherlock lay, perching himself on the edge of the sofa beside the spare frame of the detective. He sat there for another moment, once more making absolutely certain that he heard what he thought he heard – he was loathe to wake him if he was wrong. Yes. Yes, he was certain. Sherlock was sick. Very sick, by the sounds of his wheezing.
Gently, John shook him. "Sherlock," he said softly. "Wake up."
The sleeping detective gave a great, rasping sigh, turning his head away from the sound of John's voice. He looked as though he might fall back asleep, but then he suddenly sat bolt upright. "Fifteen-point-seven-five-four!" he cried. Then his wide eyes took in the room, and John's face, and he relaxed. "Oh. I dozed off."
John frowned. Fever dream? He pressed the back of his hand to Sherlock's forehead.
Of course, Sherlock jerked away immediately, alarm evident on his pale features. "What on earth are you doing?" he demanded. He looked as if he were truly, honestly clueless of John's intentions.
Should have expected this, thought John unhappily. Sherlock always did seem to put physical health second to his work. Well, everything was second to his work, really. "There's no use denying it, Sherlock, I know you're ill. So let's skip the theatrics, shall we, and let me help you."
The detective frowned. "I never get sick," he said, reminiscent of the conversation they'd had last week.
John sighed. "Yes, I've heard, but I've also heard the way your breathing sounds, and a healthy person's lungs don't generally make that noise." Once more, he pressed his hand to Sherlock's face, and the detective did not flinch away, to his great relief. "Hm," he murmured. "No fever then. Well, with luck, we've caught it early, and you'll be back to your old self in no time."
"I'm not sick," Sherlock insisted.
"Right," John pretended to humour him, and went on about the business of assessing Sherlock's health.
Strangely, Sherlock was completely compliant with the examination. He did not protest, or whine, or sigh; instead, he simply sat there whilst John scrutinised, poked, inspected, listened, and otherwise probed him. He scowled, but that was the most venom he mustered in the doctor's general direction. It was almost as though he were trying to prove a point – and that did occur to John, but not before something else crossed the doctor's mind: He's going along with this because he feels that wretched. Good! Maybe from now on he'll think twice about being so reckless all the time.
"Well, judging by your breath sounds and the obvious sinus pressure, you've got yourself a nasty cold," John concluded when he was finally finished. He pushed a bottle of over-the-counter cold medicine into Sherlock's hand and bagged his torture devices. "Rest, and a few of these little magic pills, and you'll be fine. Try to take it easy for a couple days, eh?"
"Not sick," Sherlock stated again, but this time John ignored him and headed to bed.
Six days later, Sherlock's symptoms had not subsided. John was becoming increasingly agitated by his condition, but as it did not seem to be getting worse, he couldn't very well tie him to his bed and force him to stay away from Scotland Yard. Sherlock had agreed to 'take it easy' for two full days, and then after that it was back to solving crime. He was still sniffly and wheezy and coughed a lot, not to mention the sudden, frequent sneezing fits. But there was no fever to speak of, no body aches, no real serious symptoms at all. John accompanied Sherlock on his case assignments, and watched him carefully; aside from the persistent and ever-present symptoms of congestion, he seemed at the top of his game.
They were standing over a body when he finally got the answer to What in the hell is wrong with Sherlock Holmes? Lestrade was explaining the finer details of a homicide when Sherlock suddenly turned away from the crime scene, sneezing violently and repeatedly into the sleeve of his coat.
John frowned, but Lestrade just shrugged. "That hay fever still giving you trouble?" the D.I. asked casually.
Sherlock nodded. "The pollen count has been atrocious this last week."
The doctor looked from one man to the other and back again, his expression frozen in a mask of shock. "Allergies?" he cried, staring incredulously at Sherlock. "All this time, you've been suffering from allergies? Why the hell didn't you tell me?"
"You never asked." He sniffled. "I told you I wasn't sick."