Hello, everyone! School's cancelled today and yippee, Internet's back on! [Due to the snowfall last night, my Internet died. Pity, too, since I had actually finished the chapter last night and OF COURSE, I couldn't get onto this site. -_-] Anyways, thank you for the support, it really means a bunch. :) As always, please review, give feedback, no hate comments are allowed. XD Follows/faves are also helpful! Thank you! :)


John was walking down the aisle of the pharmacy when his phone began ringing.

Not bothering to look at the screen, John took his phone from his pocket and said, "Hello?"

"John, dear, it's Mrs. Hudson."

John shifted the phone in his hand and said, "Hello, Mrs. Hudson. Is something wrong?"

"Not wrong, really…Sherlock's just been quiet for some time. Is everything alright between the two of you?" Mrs. Hudson asked worriedly.

John turned around the aisle and replied, "No, nothing's wrong. Reason why Sherlock's so quiet is because he's sick. He's sleeping right now."

"That explains it." The relief was obvious in Mrs. Hudson's voice. "And where would you be?"

"Getting medicine. We ran out." John answered. "Make sure that Sherlock doesn't try to leave the flat or anything, will you? He's tried to go to work earlier today and I don't need him getting sicker than he already is."

"Of course, dear." Mrs. Hudson agreed.

"Thank you. I'll be at the flat in twenty." John said and with an exchange of farewells, he hung up and tucked his phone back into his pocket.

•◊•

John was feeling fairly optimistic when he stepped into the flat. He placed the small, plastic bag on top of the kitchen table and was about to take the pills out when he heard something.

Running water.

John's fingers fumbled and he dropped the bags. "Sherlock, what are you doing?" John called, walking towards the bathroom door. He jiggled the doorknob, only to find it locked.

"Sherlock?" John asked, pressing his ear to the door. "Sherlock, it's me. Can you open the door, please?"

When no response came, uneasiness steadily mounted in John's chest. "Sherlock!" John growled. "Open up!"

Only silence greeted him.

John stared at the door, running through whatever possible solutions might come to mind. He could find the key—the key to the bathroom.

Where was it?

John ran back into the kitchen and began digging through random drawers, hoping to find anything that would resemble a key to open the lock to the bathroom.

"Key…key…key…" John muttered under his breath, continuing to walk around the kitchen frantically. Why wasn't Sherlock answering the door?

"What's going on up here? I could hear you pacing from down in my bedroom!" Mrs. Hudson's voice reached John's ears as she opened the door.

John whirled around and gasped, "Do you know where the bathroom keys are?"

Mrs. Hudson blinked in surprise. "Yes—I keep the spare ones downstairs. Why?"

"I need them. Sherlock's in the bathroom and he's not answering." John said, pushing past her.

"He could just be taking a moment!" Mrs. Hudson said, following John down the stairs.

"If he was, he'd be answering!" John yelled angrily and when finally spotting the keys, he snatched them off the hook and was back to the bathroom within a couple moments.

John turned the key into the lock and swung the door open.

"Sherlock, what are you—" John felt his words die out in his throat when he spotted Sherlock's head in the sink—running water and all.

"Sherlock!" John cried out, immediately pulling Sherlock out of the basin. He sat down on the tiles of the floor and gently shook his friend. "Sherlock, can you hear me?"

As an answer, Sherlock violently sat up and vomited out all the water onto the ground.

John winced and pounded Sherlock's back as he gasped for breath. "Jesus, Sherlock what were you thinking?"

Sherlock swallowed and leaned back, his head resting against the wall. "Thought I ought to take a wash—I was feeling dirty after being stuck in bed all day." He mumbled, mopping at the water that caused his hair to stick to his forehead.

"Sherlock, you could've drowned." John muttered. "I can't even leave you alone in the flat for twenty minutes!"

"Stop yelling." Sherlock cringed, standing up unsteadily. He almost immediately toppled back down to the floor until John grabbed him by the shoulders and straightened him.

Without a word or agreement, Sherlock leaned against John's frame as he led him to his bedroom. Sherlock sank into his bed and John walked back out, only to return with a towel.

"Wrap that around your head while I grab the medicine," John instructed.

Sherlock nodded silently and John headed into the kitchen, where the abandoned bags were still thrown onto the ground.

John wrapped his fingers around the bottle and walked back to Sherlock's room.

Sherlock looked ridiculous with his head wrapped around with a towel, and under a less serious situation, John may have had the nerve to laugh out loud.

However, that was not the case.

"Swallow," John said, handing Sherlock a cup of water and a pill.

Sherlock followed obediently and handed the drained cup back to John.

"You're following orders decently for once." John finally noted when Sherlock had settled back into bed.

"Don't get used to it." Sherlock murmured, rubbing his eyes.

John managed to crack a halfhearted smile and drummed his fingers against the surface of the nightstand. "Tea?" He offered at last.

"No thank you."

John nodded absent-mindedly and then Sherlock added, "You're trying rather hard not to strangle me, aren't you?"

John blinked and looked down at Sherlock, who was peering at him with curious eyes.

"Hm…that's a good deduction, yeah." He said quietly.

Sherlock clasped his hands at his lap and for several moments, both men didn't speak. John puffed out a small breath and stood up, the chair scraping against the floor with a small, indignant cry.

He was at the doorframe when Sherlock finally said, "John."

"Yeah?" John turned around.

Sherlock opened his mouth, as though to say something, but then closed it, having obviously changed his mind.

"I think you might want to clean up the mess in the bathroom. It'll probably reek in the morning." Sherlock said at last.

John stared at Sherlock incredulously, wondering whether to yell at him or roll his eyes.

"Yeah. I'll get to that," John said decidedly and closed the door without saying anything else.

•◊•

John threw the wet towels into the bin halfheartedly before heading to his armchair.

"How's Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson asked, bustling around the kitchen. "It looked like he gave you quite a scare."

"He's fine." John grumbled, leaning forward to examine the newspapers. "He'll be back to normal in no time."

"Well, that's good to hear." Mrs. Hudson said sweetly, squeezing John's shoulder. "Give a shout if you need me, love."

John nodded with a strained smile and Mrs. Hudson walked down the stairs. Heaving a great sigh, John tilted his head back against the fabric of the armchair. He wasn't quite sure what to do at the moment—Sherlock was sleeping, he didn't feel like updating his blog, and he definitely couldn't leave the house.

Well, then.

John picked up the remote control to the television and flicked it on.

•◊•

A loud crash from the kitchen brought John to his senses.

Startled, he sat up quickly, several swears following in quick succession. "What's going on?" He whirled around.

Sherlock was standing in the middle of the kitchen, staring down at the multiple graduated cylinders that were shattered on the ground.

John resisted the urge to groan and rubbed his temples. "Sherlock." He said quietly. "What were you doing?"

"I was bored. Decided to bring some equipment out and catch up on—" He flinched as a beaker toppled out of the opened cabinet. "Work." He finished.

John stared at Sherlock and shook his head. "What part of resting do you not understand? For God's sake, step away from the mess." He tugged his friend away from the fallen equipment and practically pushed him down to the couch. "I'm going to clean up this mess you made."

"What am I supposed to do?" Sherlock asked.

"Nothing—don't do anything!" John replied over his shoulder. "Or just watch some telly—it's on, anyways."

Muttering under his breath, John began to gather cleaning supplies. He crouched down to the floor and slowly collected the glass shards together in a plastic bag. Honestly, Sherlock acted so stupid and childish sometimes.

John ducked under the kitchen table, sweeping together any other broken off fragments from the mess. He crouched a bit closer towards ground level and winced as pieces of glass dug into his fingers. Feeling somewhat self-conscious, John crawled around under the table until he was fairly sure that every last bit of glass had been removed.

He heard Sherlock coughing over the din of the television and quickly stood up, resulting in hitting his head against the table.

John cringed, rubbing his head and put the bag of glass shards on the counter before walking over to Sherlock. He planted a hand on Sherlock's back and frowned as he felt the shivers that caused the younger man's body to shake.

Sherlock's coughs slowly subsided and he swallowed, blinking what seemed to be tears in his eyes from the strain. "You can lift your hand now, John." Sherlock muttered through chattering teeth. "It looks rather silly of you just standing there like that."

John paused and then, clearing his throat, he withdrew his hand. He bent down and picked up the remote before shortly turning the telly off.

"Come on, back to bed for you." John said, straightening himself. "I'll get food or something."

"Not hungry." Sherlock replied shortly.

"You need to get some nutrients into your body. You don't eat enough as it is," John added.

Sherlock folded his arms across his chest and stared defiantly up at the ceiling. "I'm not hungry. I refuse." He muttered.

"Stop being such a drama queen and get back into your bedroom." John replied.

Sherlock sighed and slowly stood up to his feet. "Don't bother me tonight, John." Sherlock said with a yawn.

John didn't bother replying as he watched Sherlock trudge towards his bedroom. With a quiet sigh, he drummed his fingers against the table. He might as well call some sort of takeaway place for something that Sherlock could eat—heaven knew that he couldn't cook.