"What happened to you?" Sally Donovan said, scowling at Sherlock as he stopped next to the body.

Sherlock ignored her and crouched down, pulling the latex gloves more firmly up around his wrists.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade echoed, probably the same sentiment.

"He's got a cold," John said, when he didn't answer.

"A cold?"

Sherlock stifled a sigh and tried to focus on the corpse in front of him, hoping to escape before he could retreat back to sneezing, sniffling, watering eyes and headaches.


"You shouldn't have gone out," John said, handing over the cold medicine.

Sherlock put them on his tongue, picked up his mug and turned away from the microscope enough to take a large gulp to chase down the meds. "Don't be stupid."

"No, I'm serious. You barely even picked anything out of that crime scene," John said critically.

Sherlock turned back to the lens, his irritation not hitting words. John was supposed to say that he was good, not that he had had a horrible time at the crime scene. But that didn't matter. He had a case. He just had to get through these experiments.

John returned to making dinner, Sherlock to his experiment. At least, he did until he groped for tissues and found none.

"John," he complained, pressing his fingers to his nostrils. "John, there's no tissues."

"Give me a sec."

Sherlock sniffed heartily, pinching his nostrils. "Make id quick."

"Use your sleeve."

Sherlock scowled and put his eyes back to the microscope, opting not to waste time answering the statement. He couldn't use his sleeve now - this was a dry-clean only jacket.

John left the kitchen shortly, plopping their box of tissues onto the counter next to Sherlock's microscope. "There."

"Danks," Sherlock muttered grabbing two and blowing his nose heartily.

He sniffed and binned the tissues, going back to his microscope.

Two minutes later, his nose was running again.

"Ugh. Are you cooking something with onions?" he muttered, removing his eyes from the lens and grabbing another tissue.

"What? No. Why?"

"My nose keeps running," he muttered, sniffling.

John laughed dryly. "You're sick, Sherlock. It's just part of it."

Sherlock sighed and crumpled the tissue, again returning to the microscope.

He wasn't consciously aware of it, but, five minutes later, when John told him (forcefully, making him hide a wince) to blow his nose, he realised he'd been consistently sniffling through his experiment.

"This is so tedious, John!" he said, blowing his nose heartily again. "I've gone through ten tissues in ten minutes! And I'm getting nowhere on this experiment; I can't work like this." He rubbed his nose. "It won't stop running."

"Can't help you," John said.

"I thought you were a doctor," Sherlock muttered sulkily, clearing his throat.

"It's a cold, Sherlock. I can't help it asides from cold medicine and taking it easy, which you're not doing."

Sherlock sighed, which turned into a little cough.

He was just about to throw his tissue away when he was struck with an idea. He twisted the end of his tissue between his fingers, forming it into a suitable nib to shove straight into his nose. It was a little uncomfortable - it tickled - but it was a suitable cork in the bottle while he worked.

"You need to have something to eat," John said shortly, "so take a break and- What the hell?"

Sherlock glanced up at John. "What?"

"Why have you got a bloody tissue shoved up your nose?" John reached forward and pulled the tissue free. "Sit down and have something to eat."

Sherlock huffed in annoyance, rubbing his nose roughly. "My nose tickles now, thanks," he muttered, flopping into the kitchen chair. "It was better than having to blow my nose every ten seconds."

"Practical or not, no," John said, putting down a steaming bowl in front of him.

Sherlock glanced down at it. "What is this rubbish?"

"It's soup. Chicken noodle. Homemade." John sat down with his own bowl. "It's good for you, especially when you're sick."

Sherlock sighed and picked up his spoon. "Wonderful."

"I thought you liked my cooking," John replied, blowing on the surface of his spoonful of soup.

Sherlock frowned. "I never said anything of the sort."

John smiled, putting the spoon in his mouth.

"Why are you smiling at?" Sherlock muttered, putting his own spoon in his mouth.

"Oh, nothing."

Sherlock swallowed the soup and licked his lips. "Is this really going to help my cold? Mum always used to give it to me, too, but I never could figure if it helped or if it was more of a placebo effect..."

John shrugged. "Probably a bit of both. It has nutrients and it's easy on the stomach when you don't feel like eating."

Sherlock just shrugged, leaning over the bowl slightly as the steam floated up. His face hurt. Well, his eyes and sinuses, anyway.

"You need to go back to bed, you know," John said critically.

Sherlock sighed again. "I know that I need to, but I'm going to finish this experiment first. And then go to Bart's, prove or disprove the murder weapon, and then send Lestrade on the right way to their suspect," he said, picking up his mug of tea and taking a drink.

"You're tired."

Sherlock knew that it wasn't a question, but all he did was shrug.

"Given that you didn't argue with me, that's really a big tip-off, you know," John said critically, not looking away from his dinner.

Sherlock stretched. "Oh, I'll sleep later. This takes priority."

"I know I'm not going to change your mind, so, if you say so. If it gets worse, you are going to have a lie-in, if I have to drug your tea."

Sherlock paused, mug halfway to his lips. John looked up at him and Sherlock put his mug back down again, pushing it away slightly.

"Anyway," he said shortly, picking up his spoon again.

He didn't really think that John had drugged his tea (although, to be fair, this would have been the time because he probably wouldn't have noticed), not yet, anyway. But he wasn't sure that it would have mattered. He was exhausted, anyway, and he was dozing off by the time that he had finished three-fourths of his soup. He was full and warm and darest he say cosy, so he propped his head up on his hand and let his eyes slipped closed for a few seconds.

"Sherlock."

Sherlock frowned, opening his eyes tiredly. "What?"

"Go lay down."

"I don't want to," Sherlock muttered.

"I didn't say you had to go to sleep; just rest for a few minutes."

The pros and cons went through Sherlock's head at not-quite the speed of light. He could rest, get a second wind to finish the case. On the other hand, he might fall asleep. He decided that, given the nature of the case, the pros outweighed the cons. Especially because he wasn't absorbing much when he was half-asleep and miserable.

"Fine. Just a few minutes," he muttered, pushing himself to his feet and trudging to the sofa. "I'm not going to fall asleep."

"Okay."

Sherlock sank onto the couch, sighing heavily. He propped his head up on the pillow and rolled to face the back of the sofa, pulling his legs up.

"You want the hot compress again?"

Sherlock again weighed the option, finding this one had no cons at all. "Sure."

John put the compress against Sherlock's eyes - Sherlock had to shift his arm a bit to hold it there - and fanned the blanket out over him again.

"John," he complained. "I'm not staying here. Just a few minutes," he repeated tiredly.

"I know. You may as well be warm, though." John tucked the blanket around his shoulders. "Just relax."

Sherlock sighed, burrowing in the sofa cushions and his blanket. "... Maybe a half hour," he murmured.

"Anything you say, Sherlock," was John's patient reply.

Sherlock closed his eyes again.

When he opened them again, it was pitch dark in the sitting room and the flat was eerily quiet. Sherlock deduced that it was half past one in the morning and, while he had fallen asleep just after dinner with the promise of a half hour in mind, he simply closed his eyes and drifted off again.


Thankfully, I'm more or less better from my own cold now, but Sherlock's only on Day Two. Sniffly sneezy Sherlock.

I do not own Sherlock. Thank you!