Hi again! Thank you everyone for the response to the first chapter, especially alexwacrap and BanditPonyta for their reviews. It's nice to know how much people enjoy the story, and that everyone likes the original. I'll be trying to update as fast as I can but college work is depressing me right now. In my happiness that I had found all my sources for my history coursework, I lost my USB, which has every piece of coursework for all my subjects! I've found it now, thank god! Hope you enjoy this chapter, I don't own any of the characters, just borrowing for my own enjoyment.

I walked up the stairs in 221b Baker Street, wanting to take them two at a time but Mrs Hudson was in the way. Finally we reached the top and we turned to Sherlock's bedroom door. Mrs Hudson knocked quietly on the door, before opening it. But she didn't go in, just opened it and let me go in instead, before closing the door after.

He did indeed look seriously ill. In the dim light of a foggy November day, Sherlock's room looked gloomy and sad. But it was the gaunt, wasted face staring at me from the bed which sent a chill in my heart.

His eyes had the brightness of a fever, his face was pale and sunken but with a hectic flush on his cheeks. His lips looked seriously dry, his hands which lay on top of the duvet twitched incessantly but it was his voice that scared me most.

His voice was croaking and spasmodic. It was unlike anything I had heard from him before. I was used to the deep, electrifying voice which commanded attention. But he sounded helpless, he was like a child. He lay listlessly as I entered the room, but my appearance in the room brought a gleam of recognition to his face.

"I'm ill, John," he said in a feeble voice, but with something of his old carelessness of manner.

"Sherlock-'' I began as I was approaching him.

"Stand back! Don't come near me!" he said with a sharp imperiousness which I had only associated with moments of urgency. "If you come closer, John, I will order you out of the flat."

"Why?"

"Because I don't want you to come near me. Is that not enough?"

He was still masterful, even in illness; I guess I should have seen that coming. Every time he was ill when we were living together he was still his usual self, but with the occasional 'poor me' act. He was certainly dramatic. But it was pitiful to see his exhaustion after this brief conversation.

"I only want to help," I explained.

"You will be helping me more by doing what I say."

I sighed. "Yes, fine." He was difficult as usual.

He relaxed a bit after this. "You're not angry?" he asked, gasping for breath.

I couldn't be angry with him in this state! He looked so pathetic in the bed, it would have broken the hardest of hearts.

"It's for your own sake, John," he croaked.

"For my sake?"

"I know what's wrong with me. It's a coolie disease from Sumatra-a thing the Dutch know more about than we do, though they haven't made much fuss about it. One thing is certain though-it's infallibly deadly and contagious."He spoke with now with a feverish energy, the long and thin hands twitching and jerking as me motioned me to stay away.

"It's contagious by touch, John-yes! By touch. It'll be fine if you keep your distance."

"Bloody hell, Sherlock! Do you think I care right now? It won't affect me as much as it would a stranger. Do you think I mind by doing my duty for you?" I tried to advance again, but he stopped me with a look of furious anger.

"Just stay where you are! I will talk with you if you stay where you are, but if you don't I will get you out of this room."

I have deep respect for the extraordinary qualities that Sherlock has, and have always done what he's asked me to, even if I didn't agree with them. But now, all my professional instincts kicked in. He could boss me around when we were on a case, but this was my expertise and he couldn't boss me here.

"Sherlock, you're not yourself," I said. "A sick man is like a child, someone has to take care of them. So I will treat you, whether you like it or not. I will examine your symptoms and treat you for them." He looked at me with venomous eyes.

"If I wanted a doctor, John, let me at least have one to whom I have confidence," he said.

"You don't have any confidence in me?"

"In friendship, yes. But facts are facts, John, and after all, you are only a general practitioner with very limited experience and mediocre qualifications. I hate to say these things, but you leave me no choice."

I was bitterly hurt. I have heard him criticise me before of course, yet during this time it practically hurt.

"You're subtle, aren't you? I'll just take that as blowing off anger in the state you're in, shall I? But," I said reluctantly, "if you have no confidence in me, I won't do anything. Let me go get Dr Jasper Meek or Dr Penrose-Fisher, or any of the best doctors in London. You've got to have someone, and that's final. If you think that I'm going to stand here and see you die without help from me or from anyone else, then you're delusional."

"I know you mean well, John," replied the sick man with something between a sob and a groan. "Shall I demonstrate your own ignorance? What do you know of Tapanuli fever? What do you know of the black Formosa corruption?"

"I haven't heard of either before."

"There are many problems of diseases in the East, John." He paused after each sentence to keep his failing strength. "I have learned so much during some recent researches from a medical-criminal aspect. That's how I caught this. You can do nothing for me John, accept it."

"Fine, but I know that Dr Ainstree, the greatest living authority on tropical diseases, is in London right now. I'll go get him, he can help you."I turned resolutely to the door.

A/N I didn't change what the illness was in the original story. I didn't know what disease to write about so I just left it.