Part 2! I think it's shorter, but ah well what can ya do? The next part will be the final part, and I've been having a few issues with it so it may be a bit longer till it's up. Anyways thank you to everyone who has been commenting, favourite or following. If you haven't read my other story 'I Consider Myself Married' (shameless advertising!) then you probably don't know that I struggle a lot with my writing, and I can't even explain how amazing it makes me feel to know that people actually like my stories, that you'll actually take the time to tell me your thoughts and so thank you. Thank you so much for even just reading these silly little tales of mine. You're all such wonderful people.

Sherlock traipsed into the living room the following afternoon wrapped in several blankets, and still shivering hard.

"Hey buddy. How're you feeling?"

He sent John a withering glare. "Don't patro- oh what's the point?" Following the usual Holmes' style, Sherlock fell dramatically backwards onto the couch. "I'm dying John."

"No you're not."

"What do you call this then? Headaches, chills, a rapidly rising temperature, full body rash. What do call this, if not death?"

"Chicken pox."

Sherlock let out an exasperated noise. "By this time tomorrow my corpse will be half rotted. And you don't even care!"

John sighed. "You're being a little overdramatic don't you think?"

"Eshin iy outh ith ishy, Ohn!"

"Stop scratching your mouth!"

"But it's itchy!"

John's eye twitched. If he ever heard the word 'itchy' again...

The detective's phone tinged the arrival of a new text. "It's Lestrade." Sherlock informed him. "Says he has a case. Three graves dug up... bodies taken... multiple body parts found in garbage bin... not enough to make a full person... all three heads recovered. Oh. Oh! This is going to be fun!"

Except for the spots, every single one of Sherlock's symptoms instantly disappeared as he sprain from his spot, whirling around in search of his coat. "Come John! The Game is-"

John held up a hand. "Sherlock! You have chicken pox."

"What have I said about pointing out the obvious?"

"Don't know. I tune you out most of the time. You're not going out. You're sick and highly contagious."
"But John, the Game is-"

"Five minutes ago you were complaining about being in Death's foyer with your coat on a hanger, and now you want to go running around London?"

"Yes because the Game is-"

"No. Where you can go is back to bed."

"But the Game is-"

"Bed. Now."

"The Game is-"

"March."

Sherlock, realizing he wasn't going to win this battle, flared his nostrils, turned, stomped his way back down the hall, and slammed his door behind him for good measure.

"Of all the lunatics I could have had as a roommate, I get the one with a catchphrase."

It took another hour of bargaining, pleading, and threatening to convince Sherlock that sleep really was the best option for him. But finally, finally he was asleep and John had a full hour of uninterrupted silence all to himself to look forward to. Thoughts about catching up on his blog, reading a book, maybe even watching some telly with no added commentary, wandered through John's mind. Nothing could possibly ruin this small victory for him

Of course the fates, as usual, were against John Watson.

Susan, John's latest attempt at a real relationship, was perched on the sofa with a smile. "Ready to go?"

"Go."

Susan's smile instantly began to fade. "The movie John. It starts in an hour."

"The- the movie. Right of... course."

She gave a small sigh of resignation. "Let me guess. The oh so wonderful Sherlock Holmes has sneezed the wrong way, and so now you must once again cancel our date to go to his aid."

John sighed, this wasn't going to be pleasant. "Susan. I'm sorry, really. It's just... he's got the chicken pox."

She looked at him as if waiting for a further explanation. When none came she grabbed her coat in an indignant fashion. "He's a grown man, John. Surely he can look after himself, at least for one night."

John chuckled. "Have you ever actually met the man?"

Susan scowled. "Do me a favour John. Lose my number."

The bang of the front door jolted Sherlock out of his sleep.

"John? John! My back is itchy.. John?"