Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.

Hi everyone! In the spirit of procrastination, here's another chapter for you! I hope you enjoy it and thank you, as always, for your support =)

After two hours, John was feeling worse than he had been before Sherlock's arrival. This, of course, was the cause of endless arguments between Sherlock and Mary. Sherlock was concerned that John was getting worse – empirically, he was; his temperature had gone up a degree – while Mary was annoyed that Sherlock was constantly bugging John and not letting him sleep.

"Sherlock," Mary complained when she saw him lay his hand on John's cheek for the umpteenth time in half an hour. Mrs. Watson was standing in the doorway, arms crossed. John wearily opened his eyes and glanced at her before letting them slide closed again.

"Shh!" Sherlock hissed.

"Feeling his temperature every few minutes is not going to change anything and it's just going to keep waking him up."

"That would mean I was asleep," John murmured, not bothering to open his eyes again. Mary sighed, but went into the washroom and returned with a folded face cloth. She crawled across her side of the bed and gently pressed the compress to John's forehead, cheeks, and neck. Mary assumed that Sherlock's silence symbolized approval.

The detective did approve of the action – he had been going to do it himself shortly – and was carefully watching John's face. Every time Mary pressed down, despite her efforts to be gentle, lines of pain appeared around John's eyes.

"Just let it rest," he advised. "The pressure isn't helping the headache."

Mary glanced up, an eyebrow raised.

"I'm barely touching him."

"But you are touching him," Sherlock said. "And it's not helping his headache, which you would see if you just observed."

John cringed slightly, more from the phrase than the pressure building behind his eyes. This would mean another row, which meant he would not fall asleep in the next five minutes.

"I am observing," Mary countered. "And what I'm observing is that it's too crowded in here. Don't you have a case or something?"

"Nothing more pressing that John's."

"I'm not a case," John murmured.

"Yes, you are," both Mary and Sherlock replied and John sighed.

"That's the first thing you've agreed on," he muttered.

"Well, you are whether you like it or not," Mary said with a gentle laugh. "Not a police case, but a medical case."

"Are you implying that I'm not qualified to look after John's 'case'?" Sherlock asked. John cringed again.

"I'm sure you would do fine but he doesn't need two of us hovering over him. Given that I'm his wife and a nurse, it seems to me like I'd be the most qualified."

"Right," Sherlock said. "You, who has known him sixteen months and never looked after him when he's been sick, are better than me? I've been at his bedside on more than one occasion and I've known him longer."

"I'm married to him; I'm a bit more familiar with his body than you are." Mary said coolly.

"If you're referring to the fact you've had sex, that hardly makes you a more worthy candidate," Sherlock said. "So you know how he is in bed. Great, that's crucial information for treating flu. Given that I've seen him naked, we're on even playing fields in that regard so being married to him gives you no real advantage."

Mary raised an eyebrow.

"Do I want to know why he was naked?"

"He barged in on me in the bath," John murmured and Mary let out a rough laugh before biting her lip. Despite the fever, John felt his face turn red as he re-lived the moment.

"I needed a plaster and I didn't know John was in the bath," Sherlock said defensively. "And the door wasn't locked."

"I see," Mary said with a smile, glancing at John. Sherlock followed her gaze and rolled his eyes.

"For goodness sake, John, there's no need to blush. For the hundredth time, I didn't see anything I hadn't seen before. It's all natural and normal."

"And mine," John couldn't help but reply. He gave a deep, chesty cough that made both Mary and Sherlock frown. They could hear the cough rattling deep in his lungs.

"Here," Sherlock said, unscrewing the bottle of water. "Drink, if you can."

Mary helped John sit up slightly and take a sip before easing him down again.

"You need to get some sleep," she murmured, positioning the compress. John sighed – he wanted to but until these two left, he knew it was a hopeless goal.

"Are you hungry?" Sherlock asked and John shook his head.

"No."

"Can I get you anything?"

"Some peace and quiet would be ideal."

Mary looked pointedly at Sherlock.

"That means you, too," John said to Mary. Mrs. Watson looked down at her husband with a slight look of hurt on her face before kissing his temple.

"Of course, Love, whatever you say."

She moved off the bed and she and Sherlock left the bedroom, Mary closing the door behind her.

"Way to go," she scolded Sherlock. "Now we've both been kicked out. If you had just left earlier, at least one of us could be in there still."

"Why should it have been me who had to leave?" Sherlock asked, going into the kitchen and putting the kettle on. "Tea?"

"Because you're not the one who lives here … and you're offering me my tea!" Mary exclaimed, following Sherlock into the kitchen.

"Do you want a cup?" Sherlock asked again and Mary sighed, rubbing her temples.

"Yes, please. And paracetamol."

Sherlock frowned over his two cups.

"You'd better not be getting ill as well. I won't nurse both you and John."

"I'm not ill, I'm annoyed!" Mary replied, stalking out to the sitting room. If Sherlock was going to offer Mary her own tea, he could at least bring it to her.

John was grateful when both Sherlock and Mary left the bedroom. His forehead was throbbing and his eyes aching due to the building pressure; his skin was hot and stiff and aching; his throat was dry and sore; he didn't feel like he could move a muscle without being in pain, which suited his queasy stomach just fine.

John closed his eyes and tried to fall asleep but instead found himself thinking about the arguments Sherlock and Mary had been having. It was an awkward position to be … his wife and best friend got on quite well (for which John was infinitely grateful) but when they butt heads, they really went at it. Of course, and not surprisingly, he was at the root of their problem.

He didn't want to take sides but their arguments were each convincing and simultaneously weak.

Yes, he was married to Mary. They shared a bond that he didn't have with Sherlock – thankfully. But it was a simple case of flu, something that you didn't need to have a whole lot of experience or training to be able to deal with. As long as someone was holding the bucket, John had to do the rest. Plus, though he would never say it, Mary had a tendency to hover when she was worried about John. It was endearing for the first while and then it became irritating.

However, Sherlock wasn't all roses, either. His arguments rested on the premise of knowing John longer and having taken care of him before. That, he thought, was a bit of a stretch. Yes, John had gotten sick while living at Baker Street and yes, technically Sherlock had taken care of him … to the extent that standing next to his bed, a half-eaten piece of pizza in his hand and asking if he was alright while John projectile vomited was taking care of him. The doctor was actually surprised at the level of care he was receiving from Sherlock now as past experiences had demonstrated Sherlock's nursing skills were minimal.

John sighed again. This was complicated and had the potential to become a real problem for all three of them. He closed his eyes and waited for sleep to come.

Three hours later, mid-afternoon, John has a rather violent awakening. He'd finally managed to fall asleep but woke up and barely had time to sit up before throwing up. To say it had been a little would be an understatement; no, this was literally everywhere and more vomit than John would've guessed his stomach could produce.

A moment later, the door opened and Mary and Sherlock came rushing in.

"John!" Mary exclaimed, immediately going for a fresh face cloth while Sherlock picked his way around the splattering to the edge of the bed. He handed John the bin but stayed silently.

"What happened?" Mary asked as she, like Sherlock, moved carefully closer to John. She wiped down his mouth.

"Don't know," John murmured, hugging the bin and resting his forehead on its edge. "I was sleeping."

"Oh, Love," Mary said with a sigh. "It's alright. Do you feel like you're going to be sick again?"

John waited a minute before replying.

"I don't think so."

"A bath, then?"

John nodded and Sherlock wordlessly went to their bathroom and John could hear the water running. He felt Mary press a hand to his forehead.

"Not too hot, Sherlock," she called. "He's burning up."

John hated this. He hated being a patient when he was supposed to be a doctor, he hated being so reliant on other people, and he hated being taken care of like a child.

"Can you walk?" Sherlock asked, returning to the bedroom. John wasn't sure on this front and said so.

"Well, given that the floor is rather covered in sick, maybe slide to the end of the bed," Mary suggested "And we'll go from there."

John nodded and let Mary take the bin, though she kept it close. He untangled himself from the sheets and then slowly scooted down the bed till his feet were resting on the floor. He shivered – it was cold.

"Here," Sherlock said, offering his hand. John gratefully took and slowly stood up. He felt dizzy but after a moment, was confident enough to walk into the bathroom. Goosebumps appeared on his arms when his feet touched the tile floor. Mary had followed them into the bathroom and set the bin on the closed toilet seat cover.

"Why don't you go clean up and I'll get him into the bath?" Sherlock suggested, having observed there was far less vomit on John than on the bed and floor.

"I don't think so," Mary said. "He's my husband. I'll get him into the bath. You can change the sheets and clean the floor."

"We've been over this; I've seen him naked before."

"And he didn't like it."

"Well, you're his wife so you should be the one to clean up after him."

Mary raised an eyebrow.

"I don't think so."

John was getting dizzy standing there and the smell of vomit was starting to get to him.

"Hey!" he exclaimed suddenly – and weakly. "I'm right here, you know, and while I appreciate both of your help, I think I should just do this on my own."

"John," Mary started but was interrupted by Sherlock.

"Don't be ridiculous."

"No, I mean it!" John exclaimed. "You two have been bickering all day and it's done nothing to help. I'm a doctor, which makes me the most qualified to treat a simple case of flu, and I know my body better than either of you. I don't care who cleans up out there – if no one does, I will. It's my mess – but I am going to take a bath."

"John," Mary said again, touching his shoulder. John pulled away.

"No, please, leave. Both of you."

Mary sighed and turned to leave but Sherlock stayed put.

"John," he began but John frowned at him.

"You as well. Go."

Sherlock wordlessly left the room, pulling the door closed behind him and John sighed, sinking onto the edge of the tub. He was dizzy and exhausted but it was better to do this by himself than have to listen to those two go at it again.

Painstakingly, John stripped down and then got into the luke-warm bath, closing his eyes once he was in.

Reviews are always appreciated! Thanks =)