To those who read or commented on or favourited the last chapter, you have my heartfelt thanks! I love you. I hope you all enjoy this chapter :)

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Chapter 4: Restless and Ruffled

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The cleanliness of the flat lasted approximately three hours, before the manic maelstrom, that was the sickly Sherlock Holmes, blew through the rooms on a rampage that left nothing but chaos in its wake. John had managed to save a few items, mostly medical supplies and a few biscuits, and had hidden them in Mrs. Hudson's cabinets downstairs.

Everything else had been laid waste.

The kitchen was already full of experiments again, and Sherlock had taken great pleasure in finding the items of food that John had been looking forward to consuming the most, and promptly ruining them. In ridiculously petty ways. The remnants of the cheeseboard for example, had been replaced with congealed body fat, earwax and some unidentifiable yellow gunk that John thought had probably once resided inside a body as well but he had no desire to work out what exactly it was.

It jiggled.

The shortbread had been filled with ants. The stew had been poured down the sink and had clogged up the plughole and pipe below it. And John had taken a tentative bite of a pink lady apple and found the inside to have been hollowed out and stuffed with one of his only remaining neck ties. He pulled it out of the hole he had just bitten and held it in his palm forlornly; it was covered in pieces of brown apple and damp with juice. Just, why..?

Why?

Why on earth did he have to live with such a bloody annoying maniac?

It wasn't John's fault that Mycroft had invaded their flat and cleaned it and filled it with food, but seeing as he was the one in closest proximity, he was the one who had to deal with the irritable detective's retaliation. The only thing that made this slightly better was the knowledge that Mycroft was also dealing with the backlash from his little stint, as Sherlock had kidnapped John's laptop again and been chuckling to himself darkly from the confines of the pillow fort in his bedroom.

The British government was probably on red alert right now, and Mycroft pulling out whatever hair he had left thanks to his brother's online acts of juvenile vengeance.

Sherlock's tomfoolery had eventually petered off though; the man must be feeling sick again. John almost felt glad, and then the doctor and friend in him immediately felt terrible for even thinking such a thing. Though he had to admit, he much preferred slightly submissive sleepy Sherlock to rambunctious cunning manic Sherlock.

John looked about the kitchen and pondered for a moment where all of these miscellaneous body parts had come from, Mrs. Hudson would not be pleased to see the flat filled with its usual gruesome artefacts, she had so enjoyed having afternoon tea at the clean table.

No doubt Molly had been called in immediately to deliver all of these organs and dismembered fingers, he knew for a fact that Sherlock couldn't have left the house; the man was much too wobbly to even make it down the stairs. Completely exhausted from his violent purge of everything useful from the flat, he had now taken up residence on the sofa bundled up in some thin pilfered shock blankets, in an unidentifiable long-limbed lump, coughing and hacking, and outright refusing to let John come anywhere near him. He had almost fallen over the back of the sofa the last time John had attempted to take his temperature, growling at John's attempts at smalltalk, and turning his pale nose up at any food offerings, nostrils flaring with resentment.

"I don't see what the problem is!" John had finally snapped, when Sherlock had refused the third cup of tea John had deigned to make for him, "You never usually have any trouble taking advantage of me."

John was thinking of the time when they had first met, and he had taken a cab all the way from the other side of London after a confrontation with, and subsequent bribery from, his new flatmate's 'arch-enemy', who also turned out to be his intimidating elder brother, and the sodding British government to boot, all just to send a text for Sherlock, who hadn't fancied using his own phone which was just inside his left jacket pocket.

It didn't make sense that Sherlock wouldn't take advantage of the fact that he was a bloody doctor and could help the idiot get better faster; he was supposed to be a man of logic.

"John," said Sherlock, with a raised eyebrow at his statement, "People are already talking about our distinctive relationship, there is no need to fuel the fire further."

What? He replayed the words that he had just uttered in his head. Oh. Oh. "I didn't mean like that! You know what I meant."

A small smirk.

"The point is, you normally don't mind me helping. Sort of."

A throaty sigh. Sherlock looked as though he wasn't going to bother responding, but then he put an arm over his eyes and said: "This isn't a case, John. There are no insights I need to glean from you hovering over me like a mother-hen. In this, you are quite dull. Superfluous."

"Well thanks for clearing that up." Said John, setting his tea mug down with more force than was strictly necessary, and causing the brown liquid to slosh over the rim and onto the tabletop.

Sherlock lifted his arm and eyed the spillage for a moment, correctly deducing that he had somehow angered his flatmate, before rolling his eyes. "I didn't mean that." He said, a little softly. "Your help is… bothersome, sentimental." He settled on the right word, "Annoying."

"You've just said the same thing twice!" Snapped John. "Was that supposed to be an apology?"

Sherlock growled in frustration. "No! I'm not going to apologise for pointing out the obvious. John, I value your skills as a doctor, I value your loyalty and your skill with a gun… and your other… things," John was looking at him now with his eyebrows raised, as if to say 'go on, try and dig yourself out of this one'. Sherlock failed miserably. "However, you are an incessant worrywart, there is nothing you can do for me that I cannot do for myself, and I do wish you would just piss off and let me die in peace."

John allowed himself a smug smile, his anger simmering into petulance. "Which is exactly why you know I won't leave."

He opened up a rather rumpled and tea-ringed copy of The Daily Telegraph and proceeded to pretend to read it, although he knew he wasn't fooling Sherlock who was observing him with sleepy, disgruntled eyes every time he tried to surreptitiously glance over the top of the crinkled pages at him.

"Creepy." Was Sherlock's grumbled deduction, as he tucked his nose into the crook of the elbow that he had resting on the arm of the sofa, and closed his eyes.

Despite being exhausted, the detective was never still for too long. He changed positions, facing the back of the cushions and drawing his long legs up, bare feet visible under the covers. He stayed that way for a few minutes. And then shifted, the old springs in the sofa groaning at the ill-treatment. When John looked back next, Sherlock's limbs hung over the sides of the arms with all the grace of a gangly new-born giraffe. A couple of seconds later he flumped onto his back.

And groaned loudly.

"Go to sleep." John said, returning his gaze to his newspaper.

"BORING." Came the reply.

"You're tired. Your body needs rest to recover."

An indignant snort. "I'm lying down, aren't I? I am resting."

"You're fidgeting. That's not resting."

Sherlock sat up now, flinging the covers about him like a villain's cape. "That's because I'm bored!" He snapped, and the erupted into a few coughs. "I do detest having to repeat myself, John. What are you supposed to do, anyway, when you're," he gestured to himself, pale eyes hot and bothered, "incapacitated. And don't say sleep, or I shall burn your jumpers."

"What?" John sighed, exasperatedly. It was like dealing with a poorly two year old. "Come on. You must have been sick before, surely?"

Sherlock blinked at him. A vein in the pale forehead began to pulse.

"Surely. When you were kid, you know chicken pox, a cold, something?"

"Deleted it." Sherlock said, indifferently. He was sweating again, curls lying damp and tangled on his white forehead. "Irrelevant. My mind is stagnating. Festering. Rotting."

John straightened out his newspaper, blue eyes reading over the same sentence he had been attempting to decipher for the past ten minutes. "Charming imagery. I don't want to think of your brain decomposing, thanks. It was bad enough having to see that one in the fridge. I never want to see a mouldy brain ever again, after having seen one exploded all over the kitchen. Mrs. Hudson was beside herself."

"Build up of gases." Sherlock explained, absently, "I may have added a few things to make it more interesting. It was an experiment."

"It was bloody terrifying."

"Yes, it was. And that's what's happening to mine! Come on. What are you supposed to do all day? Marinade in your own monotony?"

"I dunno." Said John helpfully, "Watch some telly. Sleep. Eat."

"I'm dying, John. Don't seek to irritate me on my death bed. It's cruel. I don't think much of your bedside manner!"

John flicked the television on and folded up his paper. Sherlock obviously wanted his full attention, and wouldn't stop whining until he had it. "Budge up." he said.

Sherlock scowled. But he begrudgingly shifted up a little so that John could sit beside him on the sofa.

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It was a few hours later, when there came a loud knock at the door. John was no Sherlock, but even he recognised the familiar sound of the quick gait and well-worn shoes on the stairs.

The Detective Inspector had texted ahead, although John hadn't known about it. He'd managed to actually steal Sherlock's phone away from the younger man while he was snoring vulnerably on the sofa, his head pillowed on John's shoulder, after the reruns of old talk shows had finally caused him to conk out. John had quickly snatched the device from Sherlock's dressing gown pocket, turned it off and hidden it.

He couldn't believe he'd actually gotten away with the theft, for all of two minutes, and then Sherlock had sat bolt upright, with his hair as bedraggled as a wet cat, he had blinked owlishly, once, twice, and then his features had dissolved immediately into anger and he ordered that John give the phone back 'on pain of death by chemical warfare'.

He hadn't even looked in his pocket, nor woken up properly if the following yawn and rub of his eyes was anything to go by, but then, John supposed that Sherlock could read the guilt in him as clear as he could see the nose on John's face.

"Give it to me." Sherlock had snarled.

John had told him no, got him a cup of tea, and said that when he was well enough to get up off the sofa, then he could get it for himself. No doubt he had already figured out where John had hidden the offending item anyway, because he was so bloody clever.

Sherlock had glowered at him, told John he was capable of getting it back any time he wanted, thank you very much, and that John shouldn't have put it in the microwave because it was too obvious, and he 'didn't really care about the blasted thing anyway', and had then fallen back in an exhausted huff with his eyelids drooping and his mouth stuck in a permanent scowl.

"He in?" Lestrade asked as soon as John had opened the door, "I've been ringing, but it kept going to answer phone."

John stepped aside to let him inside and pointed at the sofa where the sickly lump that was the great Sherlock Holmes was currently residing, coughing something dreadful and sniffling into tissues.

Lestrade looked surprised, John couldn't blame him. He never would have guessed that Sherlock could do something as mind-numbingly human as to succumb to an illness, but he had seen the truth with his own eyes, and now he was just hoping to god that this brief unnerving departure from normality wouldn't last too long. He didn't think his nerves could take much more of this.

"What's going on?" Lestrade asked, obviously thinking the worst. And why shouldn't he? It must be something bloody devastating to have taken down the Great Detective. "He sounds bloody awful… Is he sick?"

"Transport betrayal." Muttered Sherlock, with a sniff, exasperation and self-pity vying for dominance on his pale face. He closed his eyes, mouth pulling into a frown. "John," He said calmly, albeit hoarsely, "I have decided that I want to live out the rest of my life as a brain in a vat. You can wheel me to crime scenes; I'm sure you can fashion some sort of trolley, perhaps pilfer one from the morgue in St Bart's. I'll have to do without the running around London after culprits, but that is a small price to pay for retaining my sanity. Fetch me the necessary extraction equipment from the kitchen and we'll say no more about this blasted mess."

Lestrade blinked. "Is he… all right?"

John let out a frustrated breath. "He's been the absolute worst patient I have ever had to deal with, and I want to kill him."

"So that's a yes, then?"

"He's fine," John said, wishing he actually believed it, "he's overreacting."

"I'm dying." Sniffed Sherlock, throwing a box of empty tissues at the wall and pouting profusely. "If you've got a case for me then give it to me already, otherwise get out."

Lestrade looked at the detective for a moment before deciding against it. "It's not that interesting," he lied, and Sherlock sat up a bit, a bloodhound catching the scent. "I think we can handle it."

"Give it to me." Sherlock said sharply, stretching his arm out from under the confines of the blankets, and beckoning impatiently with his pale fingers.

"No." Said Lestrade, "Look if it gets worse, I'll come back, okay?"

"Gimme." Said Sherlock.

Lestrade nodded at John with a look that clearly said 'good luck' as retreated to the door. "Get well soon, Sherlock." He said before he turned and headed down the stairs as if the very winds of hell were at his heels. John watched him go with a trace of amusement, he was probably scarpering before Sherlock could lunge at him from the sofa and send them both sprawling to the floor, grappling for a hold on the case file and splurging its grizzly contents all over the carpet.

Well that's what would have happened, if Sherlock wasn't sick.

Sherlock's hand dropped from where he had been reaching for the file, clenching into a fist that made his knuckles turn white. He growled in obvious frustration and thumped the arm of the sofa, but made no move to get up.

John was instantly worried, maybe there was more to Sherlock's symptoms than he had first diagnosed, the idiot must be feeling bad if he couldn't even manage to tackle the Detective Chief Inspector for a decent case.

"You all right?" he said, trying to keep the anxious concern out of his voice and failing miserably.

Sherlock fixed him with a glare. "Why don't you go and do something useful, like check on the -" he coughed, and then kept coughing.

John made a move to come forward and help him sit up but Sherlock glowered at him and gestured at him to piss off. Which he did, for a moment, before returning with a glass of cool water.

Sherlock seized it immediately, drinking down the liquid, and then taking in shaky tentative breaths once the coughing has subsided. "- the eyelids in the nutella jar, bottom right of the cup cupboard," he continued in a hoarse voice, as if he had never been interrupted. "Note down their shrivelled appearance and precise measurements. Twice. Do this on the hour, every hour until my express -" His voice went a little squeaky and he cleared his throat, "- express say so. I don't want to miss out on valuable -" here he coughed again, until his cheeks turned pink, a hand flailed about for the water he had positioned at his feet. John picked it up and placed it in his hands. He drank the rest down in one fell swoop; the hands holding the glass were trembling noticeably. John took it off him before he could drop it, "- data just because I'm feeling a little under the weather." Sherlock finished croakily, avoiding his eyes.

"Under the weather?" John huffed in disbelief, "You can barely even speak without hacking up a lung. Do me a favour and go back to bed."

Sherlock looked at him.

Well, John knew that was a long shot, but it had certainly been worth a try.

"Fine then, you can sleep here. I'll get the blankets. Just rest, for god's sake." Sherlock opened his mouth to speak but John cut him off, "Yes, okay, I'll measure your damn eyelids. No more talking." Sherlock raised his eyebrows a fraction, "And I'll note down what the shrunken bits of skin look like. Honestly, Sherlock. What can you even use this data for? No, no don't answer that. I don't want to know."

He retrieved Sherlock's duvet from his bedraggled room and stuck one of the dark blue pillows under his arm for good measure, at least he could see to it that his idiotic deranged flatmate wouldn't get a crick in his neck on top of everything else he had wrong with him. He then made his way back to the lounge with his finds, and proceeded to bundle Sherlock up on the sofa like a sick child. Which he basically was.

The detective did nothing but roll his eyes and swing his feet up onto the sofa beside him as the duvet was plonked on top of him, and the pillow wedged under his head. A fresh glass of water was placed within reach along with two capsules of paracetemol and the television remote.

And then, with one last look at the sickly detective, whose only visible trait that marked him out as Sherlock Holmes at all being the tuft of dark curls that spouted out from under the mound of duvet, John went into the kitchen, pulled out the nutella jar and measured the damn shrunken eyelids. Twice.

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