John looked at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye. Sherlock's eyes were closed; he would have looked almost peaceful if that frown of concentration wasn't permanently etched across his thin pale face. "That pale face," thought John worriedly as Sherlock sniffed and sunk deeper into his thick winter coat. Sherlock was clearly coming down with something nasty, maybe just a cold brought on from the stress he had been under. A good nights sleep is all he needed and he would be better again. John groaned as he thought about how hard it was going to be to try and convince Sherlock to 'have a good nights sleep'. He had decided to leave the lecture of 'You-need-to-take-care-of-yourself!' for tomorrow, as John himself was tired of it, but not as tired as he was of Sherlock not taking it on board. "A useless bit of data which he has since deleted" John suspected with a frown.

Sherlock sniffed again and gave a slight moan of frustration and pain as he felt the beginnings of a migraine starting. He snuck a peek at John who was now looking at him with a worried expression on his tired face. "Sherlock…" John started but Sherlock cut him off.

"It appears my brain is punishing me for having nothing left to think about." he said plainly attempting to mask his pain with his usual attitude of annoying indifference. Sherlock shivered. Now it seemed his whole body was punishing him for not taking care of it recently. His joints started aching. He shivered again and John looked at him, recognising all the symptoms instantly.
"Well that's what you get for pushing yourself too far," John said impatiently but with a hint of worry in his voice. Sherlock smiled at his ill-disguised concern for him and mused that it had really been a long time since anyone had genuinely cared for his well-being. This did not surprise him.

"221B?" said the cab driver as the cab pulled up to the familiar address.

"Yeah, that's right," said John, pulling out his wallet, looking at the measly amount left in it, then looking at Sherlock.

"It's in my jacket pocket," he said, not moving. John waited for a bit. Then, as it seemed Sherlock was not going to get his wallet himself, John reached into his jacket, with difficulty, and pulled it out. This habit of Sherlock's was getting beyond annoying.

"Thanks," John said, and paid the driver.

Sherlock moved to get out, wincing at the street lamp's glare. He pulled himself up out of the cab, but his legs buckled and he grabbed the lamppost for support.

"Sherlock?" came a worried voice from the other side of the cab. John ran round to see what was wrong. Sherlock shakily pulled himself up, rather startled at this dramatic change in his health from when he got in the cab to when he got out. He suspected that now that his mind was not working on anything, it was giving up on keeping him alive altogether. He sighed exasperatedly at his own weakness

"I'm fine John"

"Oh, please, you couldn't fool anyone. Especially not me," said John irritably, jogging round the cab as it pulled away.

"Especially not you," Sherlock replied comically, taking a wobbly step forward. Feeling John put his arm around him, supporting him, they made their way to their front door.

Sherlock was feeling increasingly pathetic as John helped him with each step. They got to the door, Sherlock pulled his arm away from John and rested his weight against the railing and closed door. John looked at him worriedly and took out his keys. Sherlock was now looking even worse, from the light of the street lamp John could see even more clearly the bags under his eyes, his gaunt expression and his pale face with a thin ill looking layer of perspiration appearing there. Sherlock scowled at him. "John please, if you look at me with that pathetic look of worry any more I'm going to die." The door opened and John scowled and Sherlock glided in and queasily made his way to the banisters for support.

"You ungrateful bastard!" John shouted indignantly after him

"If you can think of a reason why I should be grateful of you giving me puppy dog eyes then by all means, I shall be grateful" Sherlock replied snidely as he pulled himself rather pathetically upstairs. John sighed and scowled after him.

"You boys back then?" came the voice of Mrs. Hudson as she appeared carrying a tray of tea. John smiled at her, she really did like to look after them, probably because they were always in such situations were one needed looking after, such as Sherlock was right now.

"Hello Mrs. Hudson." Smiled John with a sigh.

"You two have been out late today. A case, was it?" she asked, making her way upstairs after Sherlock as John hung his jacket up.

"Yeah," said John 'Though Sherlock is a little bit worse for wear because of it."

"Oh, poor dear,' said Mrs. Hudson and she bustled into their flat clucking sympathetically as she saw a pair of legs sticking up on the arm rest of the sofa. She placed the tray on the coffee table and left the room. John moved round the room to get a better look at Sherlock's bizarre sleeping position. Sherlock was lying face down on the sofa still wearing his coat, his legs sticking up awkwardly as if he had tripped over one of the arms of the sofa and just stayed there. John rolled his eyes and went over to attempt to turn Sherlock over onto his side, but he just curled himself up into a ball like a cat and hissed.

"I'm sleeping. Isn't that what you wanted?" came the indignant voice of Sherlock as he attempted to fall asleep again.

"You should probably have something to eat first," said John exasperatedly, poking Sherlock in the arm and making him frown. This, not strictly a medical way of dealing with a reluctant patient, but its amusing, thought John. Then thinking that there might not be anything to eat, John went to look in the fridge.

Sherlock pulled himself up so he was kneeling on the sofa and let his coat fall off him. All the blood rushed to his head, which was not a pleasant feeling when your head feels like it is stuffed with cotton wool. Shivering, he decided to put his coat back on until he could get to his dressing gown. He blinked, listening to John muttering about a severed finger and a can of cider being the only things left in the fridge, and then heard him make his way downstairs after Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock got up, using this temporary lack of John in the room as a chance to go get his laptop. He felt the room spin, his legs wobble, and his joints ache as he staggered towards the armchair where his laptop was charging. He sank to the floor, leaning on the arm of the armchair, and reached for his laptop feebly.
"What are you doing?" came the cross, puzzled voice of John coming back into the room with a rack of buttered toast in one hand and his nearly finished tea in the other.

"Trying to reach the laptop." Said Sherlock as if it was perfectly natural to be lying in this position. John sighed

"Eat this, go to bed, and then you can go on your laptop." Said John with the tone of one talking to a disobedient seven-year-old. Sherlock made a small-dissatisfied moan and reached out for the laptop anyway. John nudged it out of his reach with his knee. Sherlock scowled at him.

"That was very cruel John. I never knew you had this masochist streak, I must prepare myself in future."

"I'm the masochist?" said John incredulously putting the toast on the coffee table. He then pointed at it. "Eat it." He ordered. Sherlock pulled himself up onto his legs with a great effort and trundled over to the sofa. He gave John one last sarcastic look of contempt and curled up on the sofa, his head facing the back and his knees to his chest, resembling that of a stuck up cat. John sighed. He went over to the door picking up a blanket and hurling it at Sherlock. It hit him square on the head. John smiled as he heard a muffled and indignant "ouch" and finally went to his room for a much-needed good nights sleep.