At 7:30 the next morning John drifted downstairs, running his hands across his freshly shaven face. Sherlock was sitting on the sofa, wearing the same clothes from last night and deeply absorbed with something on the laptop screen.

"Good morning." John's voice was perhaps a tad more curt than usual, but he was in a considerably better mood than last night and was mostly over the petty bickering.

Sherlock did not look up from the computer.

"Coffee?"

Sherlock didn't respond.

"Sherlock? Coffee?"

"Not hungry."

"You don't need to be hungry to drink coffee."

"Coffee destroys my concentration."

"You look like you could use the caffeine."

"Caffeine is for those who lack competence."

John rolled his eyes, pouring himself a cup and sitting down next to Sherlock, who was still absorbed in the laptop.

"Lestrade has a case for me."

"Just for you?"

"Well you can tag along, I suppose. We're leaving for the morgue in half an hour."

John took a sip of the coffee, and it was then that he noticed Sherlock's appearance for the first time. His skin was even paler than usual, and there was something in his breathing which seemed both shallow and wheezy. His clothes were still visibly damp from the previous night, and even at a distance, John could feel the heat radiate off him. John reached over, pressing a hand to Sherlock's clammy forehead for a split second before Sherlock hissed and moved away.

"What are you doing?"

"You have a fever." Even in the brief moment of contact, John still registered the alarming heat of Sherlock's skin, and the misty eyes and damp clothes were not helping much.

"I'm fine." Sherlock snapped, turning back to his blog.

"You look terrible."

"That's a bit below you, John..."

"You slept in your wet clothes..."

"I was thinking about important things. I didn't have time to bother with frivolities."

"You have a fever."

Sherlock opened his mouth to retort, but instead let out a series of nasty sounding coughs. John waited patiently for them to subside, and after a few minutes of deep, bone rattling coughing, Sherlock managed to look up eye him beadily, as if daring John to say something about it.

"Im not sick." Sherlock said loudly, retorting to the unsaid words which hovered in the air.

"Of course not." John pulled a thermometer from the table and put it in front of Sherlock's mouth. "Open up."

"I. don't. get. sick." There was an almost desperate quality in Sherlock's voice, and he leaned back into the sofa, coughing violently. He sighed deeply, rubbing his temples with his fingers before allowing his head to collapse onto the backing.

"You're sick." This time the words held a little more tenderness, and John gently nudged the thermometer into Sherlock's mouth. He paused, taking in the damp tendrils of dark hair, the fever-glazed eyes. He gingerly moved the sweaty curls off Sherlock's forehead, allowing his thumb to graze the blazing skin underneath. Sherlock slapped his hand away forcefully just as the thermometer beeped.

"This is ridiculous. I'm fine. I'm working. I'm leaving." Sherlock stood up, taking a half step into John and stifling another bout of coughing.

"A 102 degree fever does not make you 'okay'."

His eyes narrowed in irritation. "I don't remember asking for your opinion."

"I'm a doctor."

"Fabulous observation."

"I'm your doctor.."

"Correction: my assistant, who happens to be a doctor.."

"You're sick."

"I'm going out."

"You have a cough that sounds like it might crack one of your ribs at any given moment.."

"Fine. Alright. I have a slight cough. I'm not sick."

"It's more than the cough..."

"People go out with coughs all the time. If normal people can manage I have no doubt I can..."

"What part of a 102 degree fever are you not understanding?"

"I don't have time for this nonsense."

"It's snowing."

"Is there a point to this endless stream of excuses?"

"SHERLOCK." John was impressed with himself when Sherlock actually paused and looked at him, albeit full of impatient conceit.

"Let me lay this out for you. Either you can be cooperative, take some antibiotics, work on your blog or whatever you want to do HERE AT THE FLAT... REST... and you can be back to normal in a day or two. Or you can ignore me, and wind up stuck here for a good week with pneumonia. Your pick."

He paused for a moment, a look of overly-exaggerated contemplation painted across his face. "I pick... going out and seeing what Lestrade has planned for me today." Sherlock smirked at John's deflated expression, jumping over the coffee table to avoid John, and slammed the bedroom door. John groaned, the angry bitterness of the previous night hitting him like a truck. He was finished. Wordlessly, he stood and tossed his almost full mug into the sink. He paused in the kitchen, weighing his options. Before he could form a solid sense of his bearings, Sherlock emerged from the bedroom, neatly dressed in a fresh shirt and blazer, combing a few fingers through his now tidy curls. He strode to the coat-rack, pulling on the worn greatcoat and scarf.

"I'm going to look at a body. There's a cab waiting outside." And with that, Sherlock slipped down the stairs, door crashing shut behind him. John stood in the kitchen, frozen.

"Fine." He said out loud. "I'm not following him." The kitchen's silence mocked him. really? it said. you're really just going to let him go out there on his own, and-

"Goddamn it!" John shouted at the silent flat, grabbing his coat and running down the stairs in hot pursuit. He found Sherlock standing on the curb, looking dejected.

"We lost the taxi." He sighed, a stream of steam billowing from his mouth. "Fancy a walk?" Sherlock turned, heading down the street, and John had no choice but to run behind him: a little boy tagging along after his hero.

*John just can't stay away from that good-looking rebel, can he? I know the feeling well. Angst and fluff yet to come! Should be up by the end of the day! Reviews very much apprecaiated!