Hello! Sorry for the minor delay in posting, got a bit caught up. As always, thanks to all who review and favourite/follow! You are all awesome and your support is very motivating!
As promised, Sherlock is in this chapter. Oh dear. Hope you enjoy!
Disclaimer; I do not own anything here...Unfortunately.
John jumped awake to the banging of a door, the sound causing him to flinch. His medication had long since left his system and he was surviving on rest alone to keep him well. He heard footsteps stomp up the stairs and knew it was Sherlock but didn't have the energy to speak to him. As long as Sherlock didn't notice him and left him alone he could fall back to sleep. He heard the front door creak open and opened one eye and squinted through the dark. Sure enough he saw a figure move across the room towards the direction of the back bedroom. Good. He was going to his bedroom.
Suddenly a light came on with a click.
John put his arm over his eyes.
"Geez, turn'tha'off..." He slurred, his voice cracking. He coughed and groaned as it burned in his throat like he had swallowed hot coals.
Footsteps walked toward him and he could feel someone breathing over him.
"...John?"
John rubbed his eyes and looked up, the harsh light now eclipsed by his flatmate.
"Sherlock, what d'you want? I'm trying t'sleep."
"On the sofa."
John scoffed.
"Duzzit matter where I sleep?"
Sherlock looked genuinely confused.
"You never sleep on the sofa."
"I do tonight, 'kay? Just go."
Sherlock stared at him again, his gaze so intense John was worried it was going to burn a hole through his head.
"You're shivering. And sweating." He observed aloud.
John sighed and rubbed his eyes, turning away from the light.
"Yeah, brilliant. Goodnight."
"Photosensitive...do you still have a headache?"
"Yeah..."
"It isn't a migraine, you are highly sensitive to sound when you have those, which is rare. Pale complexion, hoarse voice...you're ill."
"Yeah."
Sherlock was silent for a few awkward moments before muttering a timid "...So?"
John sighed. He would really, really like to be asleep right now.
"So what?"
"Would you require tissues or cough drops or something on that level?"
John sank further into the couch in exhaustion.
"It's a fever, Sherlock. I'm just tired and I want to sleep."
Sherlock nodded and cleared his throat, licking his lips.
"Oh...Good." he quietly stepped away and John heard the light click off and his bedroom door shut.
"Good?" John wondered aloud. What sort of reply is 'good'? He didn't have the energy to care. He closed his eyes and tried falling back asleep, but now that he was awake his chest and throat decided to act up. He coughed, bringing up a rather disgusting amount of mucus again. Only now he was convinced that it wasn't mucus and perhaps was molten lava. At least that would explain the painful burning in his throat. He sat up, trying to let his eyes readjust to the darkness. He looked at his watch (remembering that he never had the chance to take it off) and checked the time. 3:18 PM. He really wanted to go to bed. Wait, had he really fallen asleep on the couch? He didn't remember falling asleep at all. He double checked his surroundings. Yes, he was in the living room. He must have drifted off after Mrs. Hudson fixed him tea. Mmm, tea sounded brilliant right now. And it had done wonders for his throat. He looked hopefully at his cup, only to find it empty and the glass cold. He sighed and made his way to the kitchen, quickly putting the water on to boil before he sat in one of the kitchen chairs.
He rested his chin on his fist, noticing that his head was starting to ache again now that he had gotten his blood flowing. He shivered, coughing into his hand. He hated being sick. It was terrible, even if it was just a little cold. But knew he could carry on. He had to. He was a soldier, he wasn't going to let a couple of germs get to his system. But then again, he was also a doctor. He knew how badly a couple of little germs can get to you. He's seen it.
That didn't mean he was going to give in.
It was true that the overall general feeling of sickness was enough to drive anyone insane but he, being an army doctor, carried on and refused to let it wear him down.
He stood and prepared himself some tea with the freshly boiled water, careful not to burn himself. The last thing he needed right now was to pour a kettle of boiling hot water all over himself. He was in enough misery as it is. He carefully blew on his warm drink to cool it down before he took a sip. As soon as the tea touched his throat he sighed, relieved it had the same affects as before. It was making him tired again as well, which was good. Maybe he could get a bit more sleep now.
John snapped awake again, coughing violently into his pillow. He could not stay asleep and the tea was no longer working. He was having coughing fit after coughing fit and they just seemed to be getting worse.
He turned on his side, hoping that would help clear his airways when he heard rustling about downstairs. Oh, great. He had woken Sherlock.
Deciding there was no use staying in bed if he was not sleeping, he grabbed his dressing gown (he was feeling a bit cold. His fever was sure to have risen again) and went downstairs. He had intended to do so quietly, because even though he had woken Sherlock he didn't want to wake Mrs. Hudson and he rest of Baker Street as well. Not everybody had to lose sleep because of him. The only thing wrong with his plan of stealth was that the floors creak terribly and he was still barking into his hand every few minutes. He only hoped the force of his coughing didn't cause him to trip and fall down the stairs.
He went through to the living room and found Sherlock opening his violin case, stroking the wood in admiration before noticing that he was no longer alone.
He lifted his instrument out of its case, plucking the strings to make sure it was in tune.
"I did offer you a cough drop, but you declined." he sighed.
John licked his lips and scoffed.
"Yeah, I didn't need one at that time." he said, his voice breaking in odd places due to the strain from coughing and painful burning sensation in his larynx. His hand automatically flew to his throat in surprise.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow as he took a clean cloth and wiped the horsehair string of his violin bow.
"Losing your voice is a typical symptom of Laryngitis." he mumbled, sounding somewhat bored.
"I know." John squeaked, "I'm a doctor, remember?"
Gosh, why was speaking so painful? And when had his tonsils turned to fire? He coughed again into his hand and saw Sherlock tilt his head to the side.
"What other symptoms are you experiencing?" Sherlock asked, eyebrows pushed together.
But John was too busy coughing to answer. He tried, but that only resulted in more choking. He put up a hand as if to say 'one second'.
Sherlock rolled his eyes, as if John had chosen not to answer instead of being completely unable.
"Your fever is anywhere between 38.5 to 40.0, you have severe sore throat and minor loss of voice, not to mention this incessant coughing which is most certainly causing headache and pain in the abdominal area, judging by the way that you are currently holding your stomach. What would be your choice of medication, doctor?"
John, who had (thankfully) stopped coughing, glared at him, but he didn't have the energy to be cross for very long.
"Just...paracetamol and cough syrup..."
Sherlock nodded.
"Yes, well...I'm sure you know where to find it."
John rolled his eyes.
"Yeah, thanks."
He went to the kitchen and rummaged around until he found the medicines he was looking for. He gulped down a cap of the cold medicine, coughing afterwards. It was truly dreadful. Then he swallowed two paracetamol with some juice (having given up with the tea) and sat on the couch, wrapped in his dressing gown.
He turned the telly on and turned down the volume so he wouldn't wake Mrs. Hudson. He sighed, feeling completely exhausted. He then knew he had to thank Sarah, because there was no way he would be able to go to work at 6:30. Maybe he should ask her out again, take her to dinner and cinema as a formal thank you-
Suddenly John felt something hit his shoulder and he jumped, his eyes searching for the object that had been thrown at him.
It was a box of cough drops.
"You're welcome." Sherlock mumbled from across the room.
John licked his lips to hide the smirk that threatened to show on his face.
"Thanks."
He put one in his mouth and sat back to watch telly.
A/N Oh, Sherlock. Be nice!
Next chapter will be coming soon!
