Sickness

noun

1. the state of being ill.


"J-john?"

John Watson glanced up from his morning newspaper, and coffee. His gaze widened immediately, and a frown appeared on his face. There in the hallway to his room stood Sherlock. He swayed slightly as John looked at him with a practiced eye.

He's as white as a sheet. John noted. Visible sweat line on the forehead, dilated eyes. A small flush of fever, tremor in hands.

John stood up slowly and approached his friend. "Sherlock are you-"

He was cut off as Sherlock's eyes rolled back, and he fainted onto John. John gasped as the full weight of the detective hit him.

"Geez Sherlock! I thought you were one of them, skinny blokes."

Sherlock didn't reply of course. John gentle lowered his unconscious flatmate to the floor. As the doctor in him took over, John scuttled around collecting his supplies, until Sherlock lay comfortable underneath a blanket with his feet propped up, and a cool rag on his forehead.

John briefly wondered if he had any allergies, but then he dismissed the thought, as Sherlock would not have been so careless as to not tell them to his residing doctor.

John tried to remember the last few days as he took the unresponsive man's temperature.

37.8 C Hmm, not very good.

He couldn't recall any prior symptoms... except for last night. Sherlock had been acting peculiar, especially for his usual self. He had failed to give John any snappy retort in their previous argument. Then had gone to bed promptly at 8:30 followed almost immediately by his snores, which could be heard from the kitchen. And of course, John had no clue as to whether Sherlock had been eating or not.

He sat there for a moment and listened to Sherlock breathe. He had the slight urge to giggle, as he realized that even his friend's breathing sounded baritone.

John sighed, Sherlock had been unconscious too long. Unfortunately, he couldn't leave Sherlock lying here peacefully forever.

"Sherlock. Sherlock mate. Time to come back to the world."

Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed.

"Come on you drama queen. Save your pretty ballerina dreams for bed, why don't you?"

Well at least that got a response. John thought, as Sherlock opened his eyes and glared at John.

John helped Sherlock sit up gingerly while the latter moaned ferociously.

"Good God John!" He winced. "What in the queen's name happened?"

"You fainted," John said simply.

He watched concerned as Sherlock pulled himself into a chair, clutching at his abdomen. John sat opposite of him, watching as Sherlock bent over his stomach.

"I. Do. Not. Faint." Sherlock growled.

John snorted. "Alright then. Can you tell me where it hurts Sleeping Beauty?"

Sherlock's body shook with a chill. John bent and grabbed the blanket lying on the floor, handing it to Sherlock.

"Please?" John asked again.

"I'm fine John!" Sherlock said, his eyes flashing. "I am completely.. utterly, fine..."

Sherlock didn't get to finish his tirade, as he yelped suddenly in pain, sounding like a wounded animal.

"Sherlock?!"

Sherlock whimpered, his fingers clawing around his middle. "It hurts John. It hurts so much." He finally admitted, his voice catching. John was shocked to see his companion's bright blue eyes watering slightly.