Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.

Wow … hello, everybody! As always, thank you so much for your interest in the story. I'm simply blown away by your response and rest assured that a) every single review/fave/alert made me smile and b) if I had more time, I'd thank every one of you personally. However, as you may have noticed, I am a tad busy and don't have time for many updates/e-mails at the moment. But, as it is Friday, here is a chapter for you to enjoy =)

Sherlock woke to the slamming of the front door and the first thing he did was squint his eyes shut, the streaking pain in his head forcing him to lie completely still. Each footstep made a pounding noise that lessened slightly when John got to the top of the stair-case. Sherlock didn't dare move, sensing that any sudden motion would send more pain rocketing through his skull and quite possibly make him vomit. He took a few deep breaths – in through the nose, out through the mouth – before daring to allow his head to turn ever so slightly to see the clock. How was it only 11:15? Hadn't he spent a better part of the morning suffering in the bathroom? That felt like it should have been days ago, not merely two hours.

Sherlock decided it was safe to try and sit up a little ways but he immediately regretted this decision. Although he was now somewhat upright (which, he had to admit, made it easier to breathe), leaning against the pillow for support, he felt the urge to lean over and take the bin in his hands. He wondered why he hadn't thought to leave it on the nightstand as the change in pressure made his sinuses ache mercilessly. Sherlock held his head over it, expecting at any moment something to come from his stomach but all he managed were dry heaves.

Looking over, Sherlock saw his glass of water sitting there, shimmering in the light he had failed to turn off. Putting the bin beside him, Sherlock, trying to move as little as possible, stretched out a long arm and grasped it in his hands. He shakily lifted the rim to his lips and slowly, methodically, drank more than half of it. Sherlock felt the cool liquid run down his raw throat and into his empty, aching stomach. He closed his eyes, willing it to stay down. Satisfied, he moved to put the glass back, noticing that there were condensation marks on the outside of the cup from where his hands had been. Sherlock, his head beginning to spin slightly, took the thermometer from the night stand before shifting down slightly in his bed. He put the thermometer in his mouth and waited, rather dreading the result. He knew he was running a high fever but he didn't know what else to do for it besides take some more paracetamol. The thermometer beeped and Sherlock squinted at the tiny numbers – still around 103 – and put it next to the glass of water. After that, Sherlock slipped into a sort of trance as the hour wore on. He wasn't sleeping, per se, but he wasn't what one might call conscious of his surroundings. He could hear John moving around in the apartment – making something to eat, typing an e-mail (much longer than a blog post. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Sherlock wondered if he had a new girlfriend), making a cup of tea, sitting down in his chair (there was a slight squeak developing in the underside of the cushion that required a squirt or two of some lubricant), taking a shower, and finally, going upstairs. Sherlock could tell that he did indeed have a new girlfriend and John was taking her somewhere formal tonight. Sherlock heard the zipper of a garment bag, the methodical brushing on of shoe polish (John had been, and still was very much, military), and the chipper sound the dress shoes made on the floor. Sherlock winced as John dropped something heavy on the floor above him, the sudden noise creating a sporadic pain behind his right ear. Sherlock heard John come down the stairs, take his keys and wallet, and leave again.

Amidst analyzing John's actions and movements, Sherlock kept finding his mind wandering to the most random places – the time he had spent with Molly immediately after the fall.

"Sherlock, are you ready to go?" she had asked as they were getting to leave in the middle of the night. In his state, her voice was loud but gentile. There was a sense of compassion and care. What he wouldn't do to have Molly looking out for him right now.

As Molly slipped away, his mind flashed to seeing John and Mrs. Hudson at the cemetery. The pain he could feel as he watched John beg him to be alive and the kind thoughts he had towards Mrs. Hudson for sending his things to a school. For a moment his heart started racing as he found himself out on the moor in Baskervilles. The glowing red eyes haunted Sherlock and his own eyes snapped open. When that had happened, the calming sound of John's stocking feet above him reminded him he was safe. Of course, Sherlock's mind drifted to Irene. He had enjoyed his trip to save her, and relished the fact that no one knew he did it. Secrets like that were always the best to keep, especially when you get to watch someone lie to convince you otherwise.

After what felt like hours, Sherlock finally managed to fall into a dreamless sleep that was interrupted by a deep cough. Forcing himself up to be able to breathe, Sherlock felt quite disoriented but it didn't matter. Something told him that his nausea medicine had worn off and this cough was very quickly going to turn into a gag.

Staggering blindly into the bathroom, Sherlock fumbled for the light switch and when he couldn't find it, trusted his sense of direction to get him where he needed to be. It was his bathroom, after all. He should know where the toilet is. After vomiting violently, Sherlock, shivering, crawled over to the bathroom door and reached up for the light switch before wasting no time in swallowing two more nausea pills. He waited for them to work, willing himself not to vomit them up, and tried to clear his head.

He needed to eat. He needed to drink. He needed sleep. He needed to get his fever down. The last one, Sherlock realized, was something he could do in the bathroom. Not wanting to stand and support himself, Sherlock, who had been supporting himself against the bathtub, leaned around and turned the cold water on. He splashed some onto his face, feeling its cooling effects, and continued to do so until he started to feel more awake and alert. Sherlock turned the tap off and attempted to stand up, deciding he should dare to find some crackers. Again, he was forced to use the wall for support, but Sherlock managed to make it to the kitchen, where he found a package of soda crackers in a cupboard. He smelled them and when he saw they didn't have anything growing on them, he decided they were safe to eat. He nibbled on a few and then decided to take them back to his bedroom, giving them the status of a work in progress.

Back in his room, Sherlock laid out on the bed, on top of the bedclothes. While grateful to be done vomiting, Sherlock missed the cooling relief of the tap water on his face. He laid out, arms and legs extended, feeling the sweat beading on his back and face. It was the most disgusting feeling, made worse by the fact that there was nothing else he could do. Given that he had just taken more nausea pills, Sherlock didn't want to risk taking more paracetamol. The only thing he could do was sweat it out.

I know it's a little short but there's only one chapter left (I think … that's the plan, at least!) which will be quite a bit longer. I'm sorry if this chapter was too similar to the last one – I needed to torture Sherlock just a little bit more *insert evil laugh*. Oh, and for the record, I'm not a Sherlock/Molly shipper … I think they're cute friends but I'm not sure I'd want to see them as more than that.

Anyways. Enough blabbering. Reviews are always appreciated!