A/N: Hey guys! Sorry for the small wait... Thank you for sticking with me.

I would like to let you all know that I will be replying to every review I get (unless it is anonymous) from now on. I have really been a slacker as an author and I intend to fix that. XD

Anyways...

This chapter will be a sick!fic due to the fact that I randomly developed a fever. Seriously... I went out with a small cough and a headache... and on the way home I lost my voice so then I took my temperature and... *sigh* OH WELL. XD

Warning: Descriptions of illness. Some minor curse words.

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock... Unfortunately.


I Think I'm Dying

"John..."

The voice pulled him out of sleep's warm embrace, his eyes fluttering open. The world was blurry around him, but he could faintly make out the tall form standing in front of him, silhouetted by the light of the open doorway.

John blinked the tiredness away, sitting up and letting his warm duvet fall off his shoulders.

"Sherlock?" He asked, his voice heavy. "What time is it?" He answered his own question, eyes traveling to the bedside table.

The clock's red letters blinked at him. 4:30.

"I do not want to go on a bloody case with you at four thirty in the morning, Sherlock. GO back to bed."

"John," Sherlock repeated himself, and the sound of his voice made the blogger instantly alert. The detective sounded croaky, his voice cracking and raspy. Sherlock was leaning against the doorframe, and John could just make out the slight tremor to his figure in the soft light.

"What is it? Sherlock, what's wrong?" John asked, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. His feet touched the carpet, the cold air making a small shiver run up his spine. What we he would do just to go back to sleep...

"I..." The detective cleared his throat. "I don't know whats happening..."

"Tell me what's wrong," John said, standing up.

"I think I'm dying," Sherlock croaked.

John's heart fluttered and he felt a pulse of adrenaline thunder through his body. "Why? What's wrong?" His hand groped along the wall, the plaster feeling rough under his fingers. He felt the smooth surface of the switch plate and he flipped the light on.

Sherlock was pale, his curls sticking to his forehead with sweat. John stepped forwards, hands going to Sherlock's shoulder. He could feel the slight heat coming from the detective's dry skin.

"Sherlock, I need you to describe to me exactly what is going on so I can figure out what's wrong..." John said.

"My..." Sherlock blinked and tried again. "My throat is scratchy... my head... I can't breath through... nose." Sherlock was gasping, as if he had just run a marathon.

"Ok, Sherlock... I need you to calm down... Come this way," John said, grabbing Sherlock's wrist and pulling him out of his room. He led the man to the couch, gently pushing him down onto it.

"Have I... been poisoned?" Sherlock asked, closing his eyes and attempting to bring his hands up to cover his face.

"Sherlock, how can you be so smart and not recognize the symptoms. Your sick," John said, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"I don't get sick," the man said. The sentence would have sounded sinister if Sherlock hadn't been still struggling to breathe, his face pasty.

"Sherlock, you are a human being. It happens to the best of us," John said, stepping out of the room for a moment and heading into the kitchen.

"But I'm better than the best," Sherlock mumbled and John rolled his eyes. Sherlock... always so modest.

John looked through the cabinet under the sink until he found what he was looking for, hands clasping around the small black bag. He pulled the bag out, his other hand reaching for the pile of towels sitting next to a jar of what looked like tongues.

He stepped back into the sitting room, his washcloth dripping with cool water from the tap.

"I brought you a cold cloth," John said.

"Wha' for?" Sherlock slurred, his hands still covering his face.

"Have you never been sick?" John asked incredulously.

"Must have deleted it," Sherlock mumbled. John ignored this, gently pulling Sherlock's hands down and laying the cloth on Sherlock's forehead.

The detective's eyes opened and he blinked as John unzipped his doctor's bag.

"Open your mouth," John said.

"Why?" Sherlock asked.

"I need to take your bloody temperature, Sherlock," John responded. "Please just open your mouth. Don't make me force you..."

Sherlock let his jaw drop open and John stuck the thermometer in the sick man's mouth, watching as the number rose.

Beep. Beep. 39 degrees.

"We need to get your fever down, Sherlock..." John said, reaching for his bag and pulling out the paracetamol and popping out a tablet.

"Let me get you a glass of water," John said, dashing from the room and grabbing a plastic cub from the cupboard. He was back in an instant, pressing the cool cup into Sherlock's hands.

The detective swallowed the pills down wordlessly, wincing as his throat ached. He felt as if the pill had left gouges running down his esophagus, and he swallowed a bit more water, lying back on the cushions.

He could feel John inspecting him, his face heating with shame and fever. He didn't like the feeling of pity John was sending him, as if he were weak and useless. Stupid transport! Betraying him at a time like this!

"Get some rest, Sherlock..." John said, noticing the detective's eyes sliding shut.

"'m not tired," Sherlock mumbled, already dropping off into sleep.

John grabbed a book from the coffee table, sitting down in his armchair. He may as well stay up now and watch over the detective.

XXXXX

John woke to the sound of coughing, his body jolting him rudely out of sleep for the second time that day.

His book had fallen to the floor face up, its spine creasing. John looked over to the couch to see Sherlock, who was struggling with the blankets. His face was no longer pale, but now his cheeks were red and flushed.

"John," Sherlock said. "Come help me. We need to go to Scotland Yard. Lestrade has another case."

"Are you kidding me?" John asked. "Sherlock, you woke me up early this morning claiming you were dying. There is no way we are leaving the flat today. At all."

"John. I am in perfectly good health now," Sherlock said. "I was simply delirious with fever. It has abated."

John rolled his eyes. "I don't believe that for an instant. Take your temperature and prove it to me."

Sherlock's eye traveled to the table, where the thermometer lay. He looked back at John, as if wondering whether or not he should comply with the doctor. Something in John's eyes made him pick up the small object, putting it into his mouth.

Beep. Beep. 38.5 degrees.

"I won't say I told you so," John said, standing up and stretching, his neck feeling sore and stiff.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "John by saying that you won't say I told you so, you said I told you..."

"I know, Sherlock. That was the point," John said. "Now, drink some more water... I'm going to go and take a shower. Do not leave the flat."

Sherlock didn't reply, watching as John walked out of the room, his hand still rubbing at the back of his cramping neck.

The detective stood up, swaying for a moment. He decided he would just pop out for a few moments to visit Lestrade and be back by the time John got out of the shower. What the doctor didn't know wouldn't hurt him.

XXXXX

John turned off the water, pulling a towel off the rack and ruffling it through his hair. He stepped out of the shower, swinging his robe on and opening the bathroom door.

"Sherlock?" he called as he stepped into the kitchen. "I'm just going to make you some lunch. Do you want soup?"

He stepped into the sitting room, eyes going to the empty couch.

That complete bastard.

That was when his phone rang, the little screen lighting up from the table. John grabbed it and pressed it to his ear.

"Hello?"

"Hey, John?" Lestrade asked. John could hear a noise in the background, soft enough to almost be covered up by the static.

"Yes," John said. "Does Sherlock happen to be with you?"

There was a few seconds of silence, confirming what John already knew. "That complete prick!" he growled.

"He doesn't look good John... He passed out a couple minutes ago and we only just managed to get him up," Lestrade said, his voice sounding heavy with worry. "Should we call an ambulance...?"

"No, Sherlock hates hospitals. That wouldn't help him any..." John responded quickly, imagining the detective lying strapped to a hospital bed, a paper gown over his thin form. He almost laughed before he was shoved back into reality by Lestrade's voice.

"I think you should come and pick him up..."

"I'm on my way."

XXXXX

Lestrade studied the younger man sitting before him.

Anyone could see that Sherlock wasn't well when he had stumbled into the police building, his face red and his chest rattling with coughs. The DI had promptly told Sherlock to go home, but the detective wouldn't listen, insisting on seeing the reports of the newest murder.

It wasn't until the detective slumped forwards into a dead faint that he knew some form of action had to be taken.

John.

That was his best option. He had called Sherlock's flatmate here a while ago, relieved when the blogger picked up after the first ring.

Now, he was standing in his office, Sherlock slumped over in the office chair, his face pasty white.

"Where's John?"

That was the first coherent sentence out of Sherlock's mouth since he had collapsed. It sounded slurred and weak.

"He's coming in a moment, you idiot," Lestrade said, not unkindly.

"Did... did I fall in front of Donovan?"

The second question made a bit of the worry bleed out of his system. Sherlock sounded more like himself already.

"Yes, plus Anderson and pretty much the entire police force," Lestrade responded.

Sherlock just shut his eyes, fingers massaging lightly at his temples. "This is not good," he mumbled.

"It's your own fault, Sherlock," Lestrade replied. "You didn't have to come if you were ill. I would have understood!"

It was at that moment that the door swung open, John bolting in with a slightly wild look to his eyes. He immediately spotted the consulting detective slumped over in the office chair. Without addressing Lestrade, John stepped towards Sherlock, his doctor bag gripped tightly in his hand.

"Tell me what's wrong," John ordered.

"You aren't going to yell at me?" Sherlock asked.

"No, I will do that later, once you feel better," John replied. "How do you feel?"

"I feel awful, what do you expect, John? Your a doctor, you should be able to make a deduction," Sherlock snapped weakly.

"I need specifics. Lestrade said you passed out?"

"I did not pass out," Sherlock replied instantly. "I merely fell over."

John raised an eyebrow. "Sherlock, I swear if you don't answer me I will throw away every single body part in our fridge as soon as we get home."

Sherlock just sighed. "Dizzy. Headache. Muscle stiffness. Sore throat. Fever about 1 degree higher than what it was this morning. Chills."

John just nodded, rummaging through his bag and pulling out a bottle of water. "Drink this and take some medicine. Once we get back to the flat you are going straight to bed. If your temperature gets any higher, I will have to take you to the hospital."

There was no response from the detective. "Sherlock, did you hear me?"

"Yes," Sherlock said, standing up. He swayed for a moment, and John's hand went to steady him.

"Come on, let's get you home."

XXXXX

Sherlock was laying back in bed, another cold cloth resting over his forehead. Walking past Anderson and Donovan had been humiliating, their eyes tracking him as he climbed into the taxi.

He banished the memory from his mind, deciding to delete the humilation as soon as he felt better. He could hear John in the kitched, the sound of a spoon clinking into a bowl making a stab of pain worm its way into his skull.

He shut his eyes as he heard the door open, the sound of the wood scraping against the carpet making him wince.

"You alright, Sherlock?" John asked. "I brought you some food. You will feel better if you eat some..."

"Can't," he said through his clenched teeth. "Head."

John put a worried hand on the detective's forehead. "Your fever has gone down... that's good... But you need to eat... Will you try for me?"

Sherlock blinked and looked at the bowl of soup in John's hand. Steam rose from the top, rising to the ceiling.

He sat up, leaning back against the headboard and accepting the soup from his flatmate. He took a sip, the soup not too hot to scald his mouth, but not cold enough to be unpleasant.

He put another spoonful in his mouth, nodding to John.

The doctor supposed that was as close to a thank you as he was going to get.

XXXXX

"Jooohn," Sherlock groaned. "Why do I feel so...?"

John looked up from his book to see the detective sprawled on the couch.

"Sweaty? Gross?" John supplied. "Your fever is breaking, Sherlock. That is a good thing."

"This is stupid," Sherlock said.

"Being sick is never fun, Sherlock," John said. Sherlock just huffed and rolled over, his back facing the blogger.

XXXXX

It was several days before Sherlock was allowed out of the flat again, his fever finally gone.

Lestrade had called that morning with a double homicide, making Sherlock jump off the couch with a grin.

"We can't be out long," John told the excited man. "We have to be back at lunchtime. You are still recovering."

"Recovering? John, I feel wonderful! A double homicide, John!" He dashed down the stairs, his coat tail flying behind him.

John followed the man with a grin. Life had returned to normal.


A/N: Sorry if this was a bit strange... my fever raised a degree as I was writing, so it may be... odd... Also sorry if Sherlock seemed a bit OOC... but... My reasoning was that Sherlock doesn't feel well. He is going to act differently because of his fever... just go with it... XD

Leave me a review please and I will do my best to respond. Remember, requests are accepted!

-Dawn