Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.
Hello again, everybody! Thank you so much for all the interest you've been so kind to bestow – I'm glad you're enjoying the story. Without further adieu, please read on =)
John, in all the time he had known Sherlock, had never been this frustrated. He had left the flat for two minutes – just long enough to get some pastries from the shop downstairs, the ones he knew were Sherlock's favourite – and when he came back, the consulting detective was gone. His coat hook was empty and his dressing gown and pyjamas thrown on his un-made bed. John stared at the empty bed, fuming, although he found it odd that his first impulse was to throw the pastries into the garbage. Why, after all, should Sherlock be spoiled after doing such a thing? John took out his phone.
"Detective Inspector Lestrade, please." he said, waiting for the call to be put through.
"Greg, where are you? Is Sherlock there?" John paused and then threw up his hand, bakery bag still in it, in aggravation.
"What happened to 'you need to rest' and 'if you get my team ill'?"
John listened while Lestrade tried to justify his actions.
"I don't bloody well care if you made him promise to come straight home and rest. It's Sherlock! I want you to personally escort him back to Baker Street."
John hit the end call button with more force than necessary. He sighed, trying to calm down. He should be used to this by now; Sherlock was unpredictable and answered to no one. John felt annoyed with himself; he should have just called for Mrs. Hudson instead of believing Sherlock was asleep.
The doctor took a few deep breaths, clearing his head. He had a patient to attend to, one he was willing to bet would not have benefited from the cold February wind.
John had the kettle on when Sherlock came up into the flat an hour later. John noticed Lestrade did not accompany him.
"How are you feeling?" John asked, trying vainly to sound pleasant.
"I'm fine." Sherlock replied, rubbing his eyes. John raised an eyebrow. His friend certainly didn't look, or sound, fine. Sherlock's voice was rough and scratchy, accented by a horrible sounding cough. His eyes were red-rimmed and runny and there was a periodic sniffle to be heard. The angular face was pale white under the dark hair and Sherlock's shoulders were drooping.
"I'm making a cup of tea, if you want." John said, hoping he sounded innocent enough, although he had no doubts that Sherlock knew exactly what was going through his mind.
"Thanks." Sherlock said, making his way to the couch.
"Did you solve the case?" John asked a moment later, putting a steaming mug and a pastry on the coffee table.
"Piece of cake."
Sherlock sneezed violently.
"Tissue?" John asked, passing him the box. Sherlock took one and blew his nose. John sat opposite the couch and watched as Sherlock's shaking hand brought the tea cup to his lips.
"Is there a problem?" Sherlock asked, almost choking as the hot liquid burned his already swollen throat.
"No," John said. "Nothing at all besides the fact that you should be in bed."
"Boring."
"It's supposed to be boring, Sherlock. It's called resting."
"No, it's called being lazy. I have complete control over my body." Sherlock took a violent bite of pastry as if to prove his point. John merely watched with a raised eyebrow as Sherlock chewed and then he saw something flicker across Sherlock's face. The strong man rubbed his nose, his mouth still full. He closed his eyes, fighting for control over the sneeze but lost horribly. Sherlock was lucky that John was not a prideful man and had a tissue ready to catch the flying food particles.
"What do you say we get you to bed now?" John said, after Sherlock wiped his nose.
"It is getting rather late, isn't it?"
John merely nodded, despite the fact it was still supper hour, and watched Sherlock stumble down the hall to his bedroom. He shook his head as he picked up his computer.
The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson
26th February
The Patient at 221B Baker Street
Well, it's finally happened. Sherlock seems to have caught flu, much to my surprise. I would have thought that he, of all people, would be able to resist the winter illness but I was wrong.
And now I am paying dearly for my mistake.
Sherlock is, for lack of a nicer word, a HORRIBLE patient. This morning, after I found him ill, I tried to convince him to rest. I put up with his requests all day and then, when he finally falls asleep (or so I thought) this afternoon, I decide to run to the bakery to get some cakes for when he wakes up. Surely, I thought, that he would appreciate my gesture. I was wrong (again). When I return to the flat, Sherlock was GONE. Of course, it took me all of two seconds to realize he had gone to help Detective Inspector Lestrade, who had come calling this morning.
When he came back from his little escapade, he was whiter than a sheet. I got some tea into him and then he had the nerve to tell me he had control over his body. It's a good thing I didn't believe him or else I'd be wearing the pastry he had in his mouth when he sneezed.
I am going to need more than luck to get through the next few days.
John put down his computer after hitting the 'Post' button. He felt better, having vented to the internet community. He even managed to have a laugh at the comments later that evening.
I told you I was sorry, John, but to be fair, it wasn't my fault. I did tell him to stay home this morning but when he arrived on my crime scene, I couldn't turn him away. Solved the case almost instantly.
Greg Lestrade 26 February 18:52
I hope you feel better, Sherlock! Molly xoxo
Molly Hooper 26 February 19:41
Oh dear, Sherlock. I told you to bundle up. Was that what all that racket was last night? I thought Marie Turner's cats were fighting out by the bins. I'll be around if you dears need anything.
Mrs Hudson 26 February 20:29
I could've turned him away in a heartbeat. Freak.
sallydonovan 26 February 20:48
Reviews are always appreciated =)
