A weak cough passed his lips as he laid motionless in bed. He felt, to put it bluntly, like absolute shit. His fever had spiked in the past hour and every inch of his body seemed to burn, radiating heat like a bright aura. God, he just wanted to sleep, but between the alternating heat and chills and the utter discomfort he had a feeling that wasn't going to happen.

His phone buzzed insistently from the bedside table. His fingers seized it and clutched at it, pulling it towards him with a desperate effort. The thing had been buzzing for the past ten bloody minutes and all he wanted was sleep. He unlocked it. A missed call from Lestrade. Five texts from Sherlock.

Are you feeling better? SH

I hope you're feeling better. Parker offered to cook for you. Molly will be over too. SH

I'm not going to be there. Case. SH

Are you alright? If you don't reply I will assume something is wrong and notify the appropriate authorities. SH

John. SH

Christ he could be annoying when he was on a case. He was like a child, excited and rushing about and enjoying himself far too much, acting on impulse and doing as he pleased. John sighed and tapped out a reply, struggling to keep his eyes open.

I was asleep. Tell Molly and Parker to go home, I just want to sleep. I'm fine.

He dropped the phone beside his pillow and rolled over, closing his eyes. His breathing slowed, his muscles relaxed, and he'd just drifted into that in-between lucid sleep time when another buzz from the phone shocked him back into consciousness.

Molly and Parker will be over in an hour. You need to eat. SH

Bastard. Hypocrite. There were a thousand words he had for his flatmate in that moment, a mix of his usual thoughts fueled by feverish fire.

He closed his eyes once more, his mind aimlessly wandering back to the half-asleep thinking. Then a thought hit him. Missed call from Greg Lestrade. Lestrade only ever called if there was something wrong - but he hadn't tried to call again. It could wait until he felt up to it. But for now, the glorious relief sleep had to offer.

An hour later John was being prodded awake. He groaned and begged for just five more minutes like a lazy schoolchild on a Monday morning. The poking stopped and he opened one deep blue eye to find a pair of shockingly hazel eyes glaring back at him. Those eyes were far too offensively sharp for his inattentive mind to comprehend. He blinked and his vision cleared. A pale face, surrounded by hair so bright it was an assault on his sleep-filled eyes. His mind finally cleared enough to make sense of it. Parker was trying to wake him.

She stood before the bed, completely still. He stared up at her with a mix of resentment and surprise. She sighed and started tidying around his bed, moving the phone from his pillow as she placed a glass of water and packet of paracetamol on the bedside table. Parker straightened the blankets and picked his robe off the floor, sitting it on the end of the bed for when he got up. John shifted uncomfortably; he felt incredibly awkward to have this strange girl in his room, tidying things around him, taking care of him in her own way. He was a grown man and she was the niece of his neighbour - there was just something unnatural about it. But as he watched her walk away, he got the feeling this was second nature to her. It seemed Parker Scott was used to taking care of the sick. He glanced to the glass of water. Beside it was a small slip of paper torn from a notebook. In childishly girly writing, she'd written him a note.

Downstairs making soup. Molly Hooper here also. Come down when you feel up to it + sleep on your side, hardly seem to breathe on your back, thought you were dead. Mr Holmes said to tell you he won't be back until late. -Parker

John tried not to laugh. Mr Holmes. He didn't think he'd ever heard someone call Sherlock that in his life. He sat up and went to stretch, but his mind went hazy and for a few moments everything went black. It only took a few seconds for him to come around, but he grumbled quietly. John was a doctor and he despised being sick. He pulled himself out of bed, straining from the effort, and wrapped the robe around his body tightly. The material was wonderfully cool against his flushed skin. He reached for the glass of water and took a sip with a single tablet, dropping the packet carelessly aside.

He made his way downstairs slowly. The living room seemed foreign with two women sitting in it - the young red-haired girl and the more mature morgue attendant were in his and Sherlock's chairs respectively. Molly was talking away and Parker hung on every word, nodding, laughing in reply. Molly looked up and gave John a broad smile.

"Well look who's up! Hi there, John. Feeling any better?"

"A bit," he replied. "Not really."

"Well, that's why we're here. By the way, I've been meaning to ask - how did the experiment with the bleach and the hand go?"

"Experiment?" He echoed. "...you know what, I don't even want to know. Ask Sherlock when he gets back."

"Will do. Are you hungry? We made soup."

He shook his head and sat down, relaxing into lounge and closing his eyes. Molly and Parker's strange one-sided conversation continued, the television giving a low buzz of words to punctuate it in the background. The very poorly feeling John Watson drifted back into sleep, soothed by the lullaby of companionship.