A/N: Sorry for the wait, but on the plus side, my exams are over, so I can now try and do one prompt a day! :)
"Aah-aah-choo!" A loud sneeze woke Molly from her sleep. Turning over in the bed, she was greeted by a sniffling, red eyed Sherlock. "Mo-Molly, I'm sorry for waking – " Sherlock mumbled pathetically, unable to finish his sentence before he began to cough loudly.
"Oh, Sherlock, you must have caught a cold from Emma when she was round at the weekend!" Molly said, getting up to fetch a box of tissues from the living room. From the bedroom, she heard a weak denial of "I'm not ill!" from Sherlock, followed by another enormous sneeze.
Returning to their bedroom, she passed him a tissue, and gently pressed a hand to his head. "Judging by the coughing, sneezing, and your very high temperature, I would say that you most definitely are ill, Sherlock," she replied, slightly shocked by just how warm he felt. "You stay in bed and I'll get you some food. What would you like?"
"Nothing, I'm on a case, I don't eat when I'm on a case," he protested, attempting to wave her away.
"Well, you are not on a case anymore, doctor's orders, so I'll get you some soup," Molly said, tucking her fiance in before he could try and get up, and heading to the kitchen to make some chicken soup.
Whilst the soup was heating up in the microwave, Molly phoned up work to say that she would not be in that day. Meanwhile, Sherlock had managed to sneak through to the living room, where he now lay on the sofa, still sniffing.
Hanging up the phone, Molly put the soup on the tray and told Sherlock to sit up and eat something. Being ill seemed to make it easier to get Sherlock to behave, and he obediently ate the soup without a fuss, clearing the bowl.
Having finished his soup, Sherlock put the bowl down, and curled up on the sofa, head in Molly's lap, allowing her to gently tug her fingers through his curls, relaxing him and making him feel rather sleepy.
After Sherlock had fallen asleep, Molly was content to sit quietly and watch him being calm and peaceful compared to usual. Little did she know what awaited her when he next awoke.
Sherlock's nap lasted about twenty minutes, until he woke, sitting up, and declaring that he felt much better. Doubtful, Molly took his temperature again, and was relieved to see that it had gone down slightly. Relieved that he seemed to be improving, Molly went and got dressed. When she returned, she felt a sense of dread as she realised that Sherlock was scratching at his arms, clearly uncomfortable.
Praying that her diagnosis was wrong, she cleared her throat. "Sherlock, have you ever had chicken pox?" Sherlock looked up at her, brow creased as he sorted through his mind palace to find the relevant data, which Molly hoped he hadn't deleted. Then he spoke. "As far as I can remember, no."
"Well then, I think I know what's wrong with you," she said, almost smiling before she realised how difficult it would be to keep the restless detective from scratching. "You obviously have chickenpox."
Sighing as he realised that her diagnosis seemed correct, Sherlock came to the same conclusion that he would be unable to stop himself from scratching. "Is there anything you can suggest to help me not to scratch?" he asked Molly, unable to find a solution himself.
"Well, there is one thing which I remember my mum doing when I got chickenpox, but I don't think you'll appreciate it," she replied, grinning.
"Just tell me so I can stop this infernal scratching!" he exclaimed impatiently, clenching his fists to stop himself from scratching.
"She made me wear a onesie, so that all my skin was covered," she revealed, laughing inside at Sherlock's horrified expression. "I'll go and get you one from Primark."
Without waiting for him to reply, she gathered her things together and prepared to leave, ignoring him begging her to think of another solution.
An hour later, the door to the flat opened, and Molly came up the stairs, holding a large brown paper bag from Primark, and looking apologetic. "There wasn't much choice, so don't get annoyed," she said, pulling something out of the bag. Sherlock simply stared at the item for a moment, then stripped out of his current pyjamas and pulled it on, clearly fed up of trying not to scratch.
Sheepishly, Molly pulled another piece of clothing out of the bag. "I saw this one, and I couldn't resist," she grinned, also changing into her new purchase, a kitten onesie.
Just as they had got comfortable on the sofa in their onesies, the doorbell rang, and they heard Mrs Hudson answer it, welcoming the guest in. Sherlock immediately deduced who it was, and he looked aghast.
Confused by Sherlock's dismay, Molly turned towards the door and saw Mycroft Holmes standing there, looking thoroughly amused by the sight of the pair. Smirking, he spoke, directing his speech at Sherlock. "I always had you down as the dragon slayer, not the dragon, brother mine."
Turning to Molly, however, he gave a rare, genuine smile. "Sister dear, I hope my brother is not being too much trouble. He always was a nightmare when he was ill." Molly smiled, and reassured him that she was ok.
Sherlock, however, already frustrated, hatched a plan to ensure that at least if he was miserable, his brother would be too. Standing, he approached his brother and gave him a hug, much to Mycroft's shock. Eyebrows raised, Mycroft stood stiffly until his brother let go and returned to lounging on the sofa. "I think you might want to check the dosage of medicine you are giving my brother, Molly," Mycroft said, still utterly confused, and left without another word, not seeing Sherlock's satisfied smirk.
As soon as she heard the front door shut, Molly rounded on Sherlock. "That was very sly, and not very nice, William Sherlock Scott Holmes. Trying to give your brother chicken pox –"
Sherlock cut Molly off with a kiss, having already deduced that she had already had the disease and was therefore immune to it. "Hush, hush, Molly, Mycroft has dealt with me for almost forty years, I'm sure the irritation of chicken pox will seem minor in comparison."
When Sherlock went to move towards the bedroom, Molly stepped back. "No, Sherlock, you are ill, we are not doing this. Now go to bed." Meekly, Sherlock complied, shuffling back to bed, a long red dragon's tail trailing behind him.
Smiling after her fiance, Molly picked up her phone and sent a text to Anthea.
You have had chicken pox, haven't you? If not, avoid Mycroft for the next few days. :) - Molly
A/N: I just couldn't help myself from writing a tiny piece of Smaug!lock and some sick!Sherlock :)