Chapter Seven

"Here."

John ripped the packaging off the grape ice lolly, offering it to Sherlock. Sherlock turned away.

"Sherlock."

Sherlock stared at the wall.

"Do you want to puke again when you take your antibiotics?"

Sherlock didn't respond.

"Because you didn't eat anything before, and you spent twenty minutes vomiting your guts up."

Sometimes, he had learned, it was just better to be blunt. Especially when it concerned something disgusting like vomiting and someone stubborn like Sherlock.

It worked.

Sherlock huffed and turned back to him, raising his hand and grabbing the melting lolly from John's fingers.

"Thank you," John muttered, licking the melted grape from his fingers. "It shouldn't be this difficult to get you to eat a lolly..."

Why would this HELP? It's just frozen water.

"It'll help," he said, watching Sherlock take an experimental lick. He made a face immediately afterwards.

It doesn't taste like a real grape, either.

"Of course it doesn't taste like a real grape," John muttered. "Artificial flavouring..." he continued, walking away from the couch.

Sherlock had woken up only a half hour ago, and John was making sure that Sherlock ate something else before he took his antibiotics. He had complained that his stomach had hurt before; the medicine said to that with food if it irritated the stomach, so Sherlock was going to eat something. Sherlock might think he was going to get by doing what he wanted while he was ill, but John was going to make damn sure that Sherlock did what he was supposed to.

(He was going to try, anyway.)

How dull.

John decided that while Sherlock was having the semblance of his lunch, John might as well make something for himself. After a quick look-about in their cabinets, he decided that he may as well just heat up some soup. (Partially because he didn't trust much of what was in the cabinets, partially because he didn't want to have to listen to Sherlock complain about him eating. Again.)

After dumping the soup into a pot on the stove, John glanced up to watch Sherlock take a large chunk out of the ice lolly. He sighed, grabbing a spoon to stir idly at the mess of soup in the pot.

Vegetable?

"No. Chicken noodle."

Dull.

"Maybe so." He glanced up again, in time to watch purple drip onto the sofa. "Sherlock! You're making a mess."

Sherlock gave an idle shrug.

John finished heating up his soup and joined Sherlock on the couch, handing the dose of his antibiotics off to him. "Water's there." He nodded to the bottle that Sherlock had gotten out earlier, leaning back against the cushions. "Are you feeling any better?" he asked, swallowing down a spoonful of hot soup.

Sherlock shrugged again and, having been playing with the lolly stick the past two minutes, placed it onto the coffee table and instead picked up the water bottle. He placed the pill in his mouth and chased it down with a large gulp of water.

I'm fine.

"You're not fine..." John muttered, taking another spoonful of soup.

Sherlock didn't respond asides from leaning back more comfortably, closing his eyes.

"If you're tired, go to bed," John advised, fishing a piece of chicken out of the bowl to go with the noodles.

Sherlock shook his head.

Stubborn idiot, John wanted to say, but he kept his mouth shut because he was a doctor and doctors were compassionate and caring. Even if their patient was Sherlock Holmes.

He, however, did complain, not ten minutes later, when Sherlock's head suddenly dropped directly into his lap.

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock didn't respond. His eyes were closed and his breathing even as John stared awkwardly at the mop of black curls splayed out haphazardly, realizing that he'd fallen asleep again.

"I told you to go to bed," he said, although lowering his voice. He knew that if he wasn't sitting here, Sherlock would have simply plopped onto the couch cushions and slept like that. Of course, that knowledge didn't make it any less awkward.

He sat there awkwardly for another moment, wondering what to do now, before eventually settling on- carefully- manoeuvring the detective so John could stand, letting Sherlock stretch out across the couch with a much more suitable pillow underneath his head.

Sherlock, thankfully, did not wake up. John did not want to be the one to explain that Sherlock had just fallen asleep to use him as a pillow. It was already awkward enough.

John took his bowl to the sink. He noted the time and, deciding that it was by far past time to get a shower (the Bond marathon had stretched on), he set off for the bathroom.


He watched Sherlock's condition deteriorate throughout the period of two hours.

Sherlock had already been awake by the time that John had finished his shower. He had claimed that it had been an impromptu power nap and John simply snorted, tightening his dressing gown around him before nipping upstairs to get dressed.

When he had returned, Sherlock hadn't moved and was still staring at the ceiling, so John took it as a sign that he still didn't feel well and settled into reading the paper for entertainment.

When that had bored him, he had picked up his laptop and began typing out a blog that explained the latest developments in life: aka, Sherlock's illness. As with typical doctor-patient confidentiality, he didn't disclose the full details of the illness, only mentioning that Sherlock was, for once, under the weather.

He went on to type about other potentially boring things, such as the limited selection of ice lollies at the supermarket and the wonderful development of the film age that was Bond.

This was what happened when they didn't have a case. He talked about life. The boring life behind the exciting cases, and it was just that: boring.

Of course, with Sherlock Holmes as a patient, he couldn't stay bored.

It was about this time that he noticed Sherlock had moved, was now curled up in the corner of the couch, hugging his knees to his chest. He had gotten paler and John could see the tips of his hair trembling.

John, not expecting Sherlock to admit that something was wrong, decided to just let it go and monitor his condition.

It did not get any better.

At one point, John watched Sherlock's eyes flutter closed, his entire body seeming to pause. John suspected that he was holding his breath.

He closed his laptop, looking at Sherlock. "Okay, what's wrong?"

Sherlock opened his eyes. "Nothing."

"Oh, so you're talking now," John said. "I highly doubt that it's because your throat feels better. The way I see it is that you don't want to bother unwrapping your arms from around your knees to actually move and pick up your phone. So, what is the problem?"

"It's just my stomach," Sherlock grumbled, closing his eyes again.

"Sherlock, you're pale as a ghost."

He didn't respond.

"Does it hurt, or is the queasy feeling again?"

"Both," Sherlock replied without opening his eyes.

John placed his laptop on the floor, crossing the room. He pressed his hand against Sherlock's forehead, frowning at the increase of temperature.

"You're warm... I need to take your temperature."

"I'm fine," Sherlock rasped, tightening his grip around his knees.

"Don't be ridiculous. It's obvious that you're miserable! You should be sleeping!" John complained, turning away from him and heading for the bathroom. "You're going to bloody get your fever up high and then it's going to be a whole new battle..." he muttered, under his breath, as he disinfected the thermometer and dried it off.

He returned to Sherlock, handing him the thermometer. Sherlock didn't argue (which frightened John more than he would let on) and slipped it under his tongue.

John left his side again, walking back to the bathroom to grab a few cloths.

It was time to battle this illness once and for all, whether Sherlock wanted to cooperate or not.


John's finally had enough of watching Sherlock suffer. Meanwhile, Sherlock's so miserable that he's unwilling to actually move. Oh, the boys at 221B get into so much trouble.

Thanks for reading!