A/N: I'm so sorry that it took me so much time to get back to this but my life's been quite hectic lately. (groans)

First of all, THANK YOU, so, so much for all those amazing reviews you posted for the previous chapter! Gosh, I'm seriously baffled by how many of you are reading this. (BEAMS, and hugs) So thank you! You guys are, in John's words, amazing.

Awkay, before I get all mushy, let's get to the actual business!

This idea's been requested several times and I'm quite intriqued by it. Soooo… What happened after Sherlock rescued John? And what's John's take on Sherlock's suddenly developed and fast healed 'flue'…?

'Instant Colds and Minor Concussions' – The Blind Banker

The air was tense, colored by excitement and full of rapidly fading adrenaline. John sighed and sent the text that'd taken him ten bloody minutes to type, fighting the urge to poke the throbbing wound on his temple. So Sarah had made it home safely, then. Good. She'd certainly had more than enough excitement for one day.

John's thoughts wandered longingly towards the comforting softness and warmth of his bed but the dull and, if such was even possible, intensifying jabs in his skull sneered at him that there'd be no proper rest for him tonight. Therefore he emitted another sigh, beginning to drag his ridiculously heavy feet towards the living room. It was… oddly reassuring to find Sherlock there, sitting on a arm chair in his thinking pose.

Despite the infuriating headache John couldn't fight a tiny smile. "Are you planning on getting any sleep tonight?" Why did he ask when he already knew the answer?

Sherlock didn't move even an inch. For a couple of seconds, before the response came, it was like watching a statue. "No."

John groaned and rolled his eyes. He was just able to reach the couch before his knees gave out completely. So he'd been more exhausted than he thought. "Sherlock, do you even realize that you've been awake for…?"

"I'm perfectly aware, John. And I'm also quite able to get rest if my transport needs it." For just a blink those eyes flickered towards him, that practically nonexistent glimpse scanning through everything. "You're paler than before and judging by that infuriating way you keep rubbing your temple and poking the wound your headache is growing worse. So this is definitely close to not being just a minor concussion, which is what you claimed you have. Are you sure that you don't need the hospital like the medic suggested?"

John gawked at his friend, the concussion and overall exhaustion making his head frustratingly fuzzy. Wasn't Sherlock talking to Dimmock while the medics examined him? "What…? How…?" He, however, gave up after thinking about it quickly. This was Sherlock. Of course the mad genius knew. The thought didn't bother him as much as it should've. He blamed the concussion.

"Get some sleep. I'll wake you up every couple of hours." Sherlock's eyes were directed entirely elsewhere. John wondered how many corners of that amazing mind were somewhere else as well. "And if possible try not to vomit on the couch. Cleaning it up is tedious."

John scoffed. His eyelids were already drooping. "Since when have you cared about stains?" He fell asleep before finding out if there was an answer.

Precisely two hours later John woke up to Sherlock staring at him. Blatantly ignoring the fact that he'd nearly given his flatmate a heart attack the detective demanded the name of the prime minister.

John stared for a couple of seconds, wondering if the other was serious. Then snorted. "Would you know if I'm right?"

His answer seemed to satisfy Sherlock. The detective went back to whatever he'd been doing with John's laptop. Or trying to do. Because just before sleep claimed him the doctor was able to notice that the other sat before the computer doing nothing, fingers drumming restlessly.

Five minutes before the second two hour milestone John woke up unpleasantly to a very, very intense need to throw up. He didn't have the faintest clue of how the bucket ended up beside the couch but he'd never been as happy to find somethig material. He was dazed and more than half asleep so he was fairly sure that the hand rubbing his back was nothing but a trick of his imagination.

He was almost certain, though, that he didn't imagine the familiar baritone. Even though the voice sounded awfully quiet. "… better?"

John nodded as much as his head allowed him to, spitting into the bucket once more before letting gravity pull him fully to the couch again.

John ended up dreaming of death traps. And weapons. And bullets. Eventually his mind pushed him into a particularly unpleasant yet not quite unfamiliar scenario.

It was very, very dark. Pain, such that he couldn't remember feeling ever before, ravished him all over while he lay motionless, frustratingly helpless. Where did the agony even come from? His chest… It was on fire. A bullet… He'd been shot to the heart, hadn't he? He was dying, had to be. All alone. And he couldn't make a sound.

"John!"

The oddly familiar voice came through a sea of pain, somehow managing to penetrate his desperate mind. It was nothing stronger than a whisper. Still John found himself clinging to it. Instinctively he reached towards it.

"JOHN!"

John came back to the woken world with a scream that quite nearly made his skull explode. He bounced up so quickly that he nearly rammed his head straight at Sherlock's. It took a great number of dry gags before his stomach stopped feeling like his insides had been twisted upside down.

"Do you need to throw up?" Sherlock sounded… uncertain, almost. Well, there's a first.

John shook his head, wincing unwillingly against the stab the motion coaxed. "Bloody hell…!" he panted, the nightmare still haunting him. He swallowed thickly for several times before managing to focus on his friend. Sherlock appeared exhausted and… scared. Which alone was unnerving. "Why… were you screaming at me?"

Sherlock glared at him. The not quite soothed terror in those eyes ate away a great deal of the effect, though. "Because I'd been calling out to you for half a minute with no response. Grabbing your shoulder and shaking only made you moan." The detective held out four fingers. "How many fingers?"

John sighed, unsure if he felt deeply touched or annoyed by the attention. In the end he decided that he was too tired for both. "I'm fine. I just need sleep."

Sherlock's jawline tightened. "No, John. You're most definitely not fine. And I'd very much appreciate you being honest with me, especially with matters concerning your health."

John wasn't sure if what came out of him was a grin or a grimace. "Really, Sherlock? Well, that's rich. Coming from a man who managed to develop a sore throat with no other flue symptoms during the minutes we were apart at Soo Lin's flat."

There was a moment of quite honest surprise in Sherlock's eyes. It faded away in a breath, though. "What?"

In a slightly more coherent state of mind John might've felt smug. Oh, Sherlock really should stop underestimating his blogger. "Did you honestly think that I bought your excuse? Or that I wouldn't notice the bruising?" He narrowed his eyes, pleased to find something other than the headache to focus on. "Do you have any bloody idea how bad of a idea it is to brush off being strangled? I could give you a whole list of all the complications that might've occurred! And you didn't even bother to be honest about it!"

Sherlock stared at him for a moment. Then breathed deeply, shoulders slumping just a little bit. "I'm sorry I worried you, John."

John was stunned to a point of shock for the longest time. In the end he decided that oh well, perhaps he was hallucinating. But he'd float with it, just this once. A small smile found its way to his lips. "I'm sorry, too." His chuckle definitely did his head no favors. "We're a couple of idiots, aren't we?"

His statement was sealed with him throwing up rather loudly into the bucket Sherlock was just fast enough to bring close.

In the early hours of the morning Mrs. Hudson sneaked into the aparment, feeling a bit guilty about using her spare key but too worried about her boys to really care.

"John?" she half whispered, not wanting to rouse them if they were actually getting some rest. "Sherlock?" No response.

With worry swelling in the pit of her stomach she continued towards the living room. At first the sight there made her freeze to the spot. Then a gentle, warm smile made her entire face glow.

The two men were perfectly safe and fast asleep. John on the couch and Sherlock on the arm chair, positioned so that he'd most definitely been keeping an eye on the smaller man. There was a wound that made her heart skip a beat on John's head and Sherlock's face seemed tight with not quite well disguised worry. But they were both breathing calmly and restfully, and there was an aura of peace in the flat. That and a hint of vomit's unmistakable stench that made her wrinkle her nose.

Apparently the night before had been a tough one but the pair would be just fine.

With the smile remaining Mrs. Hudson proceeded to make some tea and a proper breakfast, because she had a feeling that her boys hadn't been eating properly lately. She could be their housekeeper. For just this once. But she wasn't planning on making a habit out of it.

Scene completed.

A/N: (grins) I'm feeling quite warm and fuzzy in the aftermath of this. How 'bout you guys? Thoughts? Feelings? PLEASE, do let me know! It'd feel incredibly good to hear from you guys.

And remember that requests are still very much appreciated!

Until next time, folks, with whichever project that may be!

Take care!

Sarah: I'm really happy to hear that you considered the chapter moving! And especially real. That's exactly what I was aiming for. (beams)

HUGE thank yous for the review!

FisherofMen: We're all hurting in the aftermath of that episode. (sighs) I'm THRILLED to hear that you enjoyed the chapter!

Massive thank yous for the review!