Their first Christmas was just a few days away when Molly started to notice the changes. They were subtle at first, almost unnoticeable. It started with the appetite. Food was suddenly becoming more and more scarce in the flat causing her to visit the shop twice a week instead of the usual singular visit.

Next was caffeine. The very smell of coffee caused nausea and that was just no good because exhaustion was the next sign.

Sleep was like a siren, calling out, luring one in only to be fitful and almost as useless as not sleeping at all.

What was she going to do about this? Sherlock would freak out, he was always so inconsolable when something unexpected happened. He would throw a fit and Molly would be the one who would have to deal with that. She thought about calling John and asking for his help but she decided against it. If she couldn't speak to her own husband about something like this than she was not cut out for marriage.

With a heavy heart and a nervous stomach Molly ascended the stairs to her flat after a long shift at the morgue. Of course she knew Sherlock would be waiting for her, he had sent a text indicating as much. She sighed as she paused just on the other side of the door. Slowly she pushed it open and saw what she feared the most.

Sherlock was lounging on the couch, nose red, beads of sweat on his brow, fitfully fighting sleep and the virus that she had suspected has been at work in his system for a few days. This is what she had hoped to avoid. She had silently hoped she was wrong but the signs were all there. Her husband, the Great Consulting Toddler, was sick and she was going to have to take care of him. Great.

Sherlock, as she suspected, was in denial. He wanted nothing more than to keep taking cases and ignoring the fact that his body was shutting down. He had a fever and his whole body was shaking violently as he putt n his Belstaff coat. Just as he was wrapping his favourite scarf around his neck someone knocked on the door. Sherlock looked over to Molly, his face indicating that he was not happy with her having invited John over when they were quarreling. Molly simply raised a confused eyebrow at him and motioned for him to answer the door.

John Watson was indeed the man on the other side of the door but Molly had not invited him. Mary had sent him over on an errand.

"Sherlock, Molly, sorry to pop by unexpected," at this Sherlock looked sheepishly at Molly who simply rolled her eyes at her husband and focused on John. "Mary and I are having a little get together for Christmas day after next and we wanted you both to come." It was at that moment that John noticed just how poorly Sherlock looked. "That is if you're feeling better mate. You look bloody awful. Molly don't you let him leave unless he is 100%. He'll try to trick you or even bully you but he is insufferable when he is sick."

Molly snickered. "I know John, I was the one who took care of him before you came around and you somehow missed the stomach flu fiasco from four years ago." Molly still had a hard time eating Spinach Paneer because of that particular stomach bug that Sherlock had been good enough to share with her. "Didn't you notice when Sherlock went missing for two weeks?"

John shrugged. "He told me he was out of town working on something for his brother and wouldn't be in touch. I just figured it was better if I didn't know. We'd only been flat mates for a few months and I just didn't need more trouble. Any way, thanks for taking care of him. Ring me tomorrow and let me know how he's doing." John waved as he descended the stairs and Molly stood to close the door. As she turned she saw that Sherlock had gone a sickly pale.

"Sherlock?" She stepped forward tentatively. "You okay?"

Sherlock spoke very carefully as though afraid of being too loud and too fast. "Molly, I believe I am-" The remainder of the sentence went unheard and unspoken by either party because it was at that moment that Sherlock threw up all on his and Molly's feet.

Molly's startle cry and Sherlock's heaving were the only sounds to be heard coming from the flat as Mrs. Hudson made her way out. She wasn't planning on sticking around and catching whatever Sherlock had. She blamed it on all of the dead things he kept in his flat. Molly was no help either, the dear, she was the one who brought him all of those blasted body parts.