"Jooohn." Sherlock voice sounded through the flat, sounding almost pathetic. "John." the lean detective called again.
"What is it?" Johns voice finally responded out from the kitchen.
"I'm dyyyying." Sherlocks voice sounded even more pathetic than before. "Finally my enemies must have caught up to me, I'm poisoned, good-bye John." he cried out. "I'll miss our friend-ship most of all."
"You are not dying." John rolled his eyes as he appeared in the door holding a tea tray containing a pot of steaming hot tea. "You are just having a case of flu." the doctor stated in a tone that had all-ready given up on the young man whom complained so much.
Almost in responds Sherlock let out a big sneeze, before he flopped back on the couch groaning a miserable pathetic moan, he did look like shit, the detectives curls were unruly and messy, his cheeks flushed red, his nose stuffed, his eyes watery. As he laid in the couch he wore nothing but his blue dressing gown, and as he turned he reached for the blanket to pull it over his body. "No I'm most definitely dying." he stated closing his eyes shut. "Now let me rest in peace at last, and find whom-ever was responsible for my last scrutinising hours."
Ones again John was left to role his eyes as he shook his head. "You want to know what caused this?" he asked putting down the tea tray on the table in front of Sherlock. "jumping in the river and then run around the entire night without drying off did." he stated as he sat down in the chair opposed to the couch. "In October, in the rain." he stated picking up a syringe from the tea tray to look it over. "You're your own worst enemy some-times, Sherlock."
"Are you now going to poke holes in my to?" Sherlock questioned looking at the syringe. "aren't I in enough pain all-ready?" he complained.
"It's just c-vitamins." John explained in a annoyed sigh. "You lack those, your diet isn't exactly ideal and you refuse to take vitamin pills, so what am I supposed to do?" he asked grabbing Sherlocks arm in a tight grip. "Now hold still."
Sherlock turned away and winched as John stuffed in the needle and gave him the injection, perhaps a little harshly.
As John was finished Sherlock retrieved his arm and looked scorned at John as if every-thing was purely Johns fault.
John how-ever, didn't react in the slightest to Sherlocks scorned look. "Tea?" John then at last asked pouring up in the china even before Sherlock got to answer. "I'll be good for your throat." he told.
"What matters my throat when I am dying?" Sherlock muttered annoyed turning away from John now facing the wall.
John really did not feel like he had to answer that one. "I'll go out now." he informed Sherlock grabbing his own coat. "Is there any-thing you want before I go?" he asked.
Sherlock gave out a murmur instead of any straight answer.
"Some-thing you feel like eating?" John asked beneath his breath. "A specific jam? toast? Bananas?"
At that Sherlock turned around looking annoyed at John. "Why a banana?" he asked. "When have you ever seen me eating a banana?" he asked. "In fact, I think I hate bananas!"
"You never even tasted have did you?" John asked.
"I can still hate bananas." Sherlock shrugged. "It's allowed."
John shrugged. "Banana's are good." he stated. "For the throat, they are easy to swallow, are consistent of many good vitamins and oils, you know what I am going to go buy some bananas." John stated zipping his jacket. "If there is any-thing else you suddenly figure you want, text me." he stated walking towards the door. "In the meantime try and stay put and try to eat." he instructed as he walked around and Sherlock turned around again, mumbling some-thing about how he ever got to share flat with a bloody doctor of all things, and doctors were positively the one thing worse than big brothers.
It was no longer than an hour after John came home caring shopping bags filled with bananas, tea bags, milch, canned soup, Kleenex tissues and other necessities for sick people.
And John couldn't even be surprised, as the first thing he saw as he kicked the door open, was Sherlock, not lying down as he was told to, but crawling around on the floor, in bare feet's and dressing gown, digging through a whole ton of papers just spread all around the place.
"What are you doing?" John asked.
"Got to be here some-where!" Sherlock frustrated exclaimed as he threw a ton of papers up in the air.
"Well what-ever it is, it can probably wait." John pointed out. "You should go to bed."
"Don't want to, beds are boring." Sherlock proclaimed before he lithe up. "Aha!" he exclaimed standing up straight holding his paper. "I knew I had it some-where! So Louisa were at the station that date which means Johannes couldn't have seen it, it was indeed straw-berry jam." he proclaimed proudly.
John blinked a couple of times vividly. "All right, sure." he stated having given up all-ready. "I just go put these things away."
Sherlock yawned deeply before he sneezed into his sleeve, looking miserable as ever he grabbed a Kleenex from the table and blew into it, before curling the tissue together, throw it over his shoulder, and John was in fact thank-full that the kleenex hit the trash can precisely, cause he knew Sherlock would not pick it up if it didn't. "I'll go to bed now." Sherlock announced stomping towards the stairs in big movements.
"Good on you." John replied neglecting to point out it couldn't possible be more than a minute ago Sherlock had said that he wouldn't.
And neither did the detective say any-thing, he just very loudly stomped into his bed-room, a big great thump sounded and John was left with the mental image that Sherlock had plummeted down in his bed, face down in the pillow. And it actually weren't to soon after that that light snoring sounded from the bed room and John was at last allowed to exhale a sight of relief.
But as it often was in their little flat, nothing were allowed to be predictable for long.. it was not Sherlock, he was sound a sleep, thankfully, but it was of cause at that time it knocked on the door and in through it came none other than D.I. Lestrade closely followed by a certain sergeant Donovan.
"Not today." John stated by the very sight of them, he did not raise from the chair but only lowered the newspaper to get eye-contact with the intruders.
"This is important John." Lestrade tried to explain. "You know I don't come here unless there is a need to have him there."
John sighed deeply shaking his head. "I think you better hurry then, today is just not a good time." he stated.
"He's not gone again is he?" Lestrade asked in a slight frown.
John shook his head.
"No, I'm actually bored at the moment." A usually deep, but today very horse baritone sounded, it was Sherlock had gotten out of his room, but was still just in his dressing gown, and ones again he sneezed quite heavily.
"Sherlock." John shook his head. "I thought you wanted to sleep." he stated.
"Well I am awake now." Sherlock retorted.
Donovan smiled obviously amused. "Sorry to see you less than fit." she greeted. "Perhaps he really should set this one out sir." she addressed Lestrade. "We wouldn't have him get worse would we? or faint on the scene."
In return Sherlock send her a mocking scorned grimace, he could might as well have pointed a tounge at her, which just went to amuse Donovan that more. "Give me ten minutes to get dressed." Sherlock then at last stated as he turned around.
And John groaned covering his face with his hands.
"So I suppose you'll be coming to?" Lestrade asked John.
"What do you think?" John asked in a tired voice raising from his arm chair grabbing his coat. "It better not start raining!"
At the end of the day, it was another case solved for the great detective and he was beaming, it was almost like solving the case had been the miracle cure he had needed and he was completely well again as he strode into the apartment. "That sure showed that Donovan." he smiled gleefully. "Childs-play!" he triumphed as he plummeted down in his chair.
John how-ever, was far behind him, only very slowly did the doctor get up stairs.. ever so slowly, and finally as he reached the door he let out a big sneeze and then a cough, finally as he got into the living room he aimed straight for the Kleenex box on the table and blew his nose, which proved he needed that, weakly he managed to dump the tissue down in the trash can and send a tired look at Sherlock. "I hate you." he stated. "I hate you so much."
And all John got in return was a childish innocent smile, as if Sherlock had no idea what John could possible be talking about.