Epilogue : The Worst Patients
John was rudely awoken by three fingers prodding his arm. He tried to swat the hand away, but it grabbed onto his wrist and held fast.
"John, wake up,"
"'m awake," John growled. He was feeling as if he'd been forcefully wrenched from a cold, painful dream into a colder, more painful reality. Through bleary vision he saw Sherlock perched on the far edge of his bed, leaning over him. He reluctantly rolled over, causing a soaked washcloth to fall from his forehead with a splat. "What's this nonsense all about?"
"You're running a temperature. Even in sleep, your cheeks were flushed and you felt warm – I mean, really warm. And your pulse was fast, another indicator of fever. You kept shivering and trying to gather the blankets around you, which means it's still rising."
"Just let me sleep," John groaned, and buried his head back into the pillow. He was in no mood for deductions.
"I want you to take your temperature first. Now, knowing you, you've got your medical kit somewhere easily accessible, likely in a drawer or closet shelf. Care to save me the trouble of searching?"
"Bottom drawer of the bureau right beside you."
Sherlock flicked on the light to look for it. John whimpered and yanked the covers over his face.
"Ugh, Sherlock, turn it off,"
"I will in a moment. If your experience is to be at all comparable to mine, which is likely, I'm sure you're moderately photophobic right now."
"Oddly enough, I'd figured that out." John's voice was muffled by the blankets
Sherlock located the white plastic box and fished John's thermometer out. He flicked off the light so John could emerge and put it under his tongue.
"You know, you didn't have to get me up for this. The fever's not really high enough to do damage."
"You're the one who tells me not to talk while it's registering." Said Sherlock pointedly. If looks could kill, Sherlock probably would have dropped dead right there. But he was right, of course, so John was obliged to sit in sullen silence until the thermometer beeped. He whipped it out of his mouth to read it before Sherlock could, and was not too surprised to find it read 39.2 degrees. He felt bloody awful, with pressure in his sinuses and shivers racking up his spine.
"Can I…ah, do you…" Sherlock looked extremely uncomfortable. Sort of like a lost puppy. "What do you need?"
Oh. Wow. John was uncomfortable with that too. It was unusual and disconcerting to think of Sherlock looking after anyone but himself.
"You don't have to play nursemaid, Sherlock. I'm not that sick."
Sherlock laughed uneasily. "Yes, I'm sure that's why you were vomiting in the Motor Museum toilet. And twice on the side of the road coming home." For a moment he looked as if he might say more, but he thought better of it. "So, um, acetaminophen, probably?"
John wrung out the sopping washcloth and pressed it to the back of his neck. "Yeah, please. And a glass of water?"
Sherlock nodded, got up and hobbled away with his crutches. John could hear his heavy footfalls on the stairs. Sherlock was still learning to navigate them without the use of both legs.
"Oh, shit," muttered John. He'd forgotten about the crutches, and the stairs. "No, wait up, Sherlock!" He dragged himself out of bed and followed his flatmate. "No, you don't have to—"
"What?" Sherlock snapped.
"I can get it myself," said John. He clung tight to the railing, aware of Sherlock's gaze staring from behind, and inched down the staircase. He kept one hand on the wall and worked his way to the kitchen. To his surprise, it was not empty.
"Well, look who's out of bed!" said Mrs. Hudson in a motherly tone. "How do you feel, John?"
"Like a tractor-trailer is parked on my chest, to be honest." John managed a weak smile. The back of Mrs. Hudson's hand was pressed to his forehead before he knew what was happening.
"Oh my, you're burning up, love."
"I know. I came down to get meds for it."
"That's good. Sherlock didn't wake you, did he? I told him not to hover."
"Oh, he woke me all right." John's annoyance was only halfhearted. Mrs. Hudson wondered how much he remembered of the previous evening. By the time Sherlock had half-carried him into the flat, John had been too feverish to be entirely lucid. Together they had got some medicine into him, but it had come straight back up. More than once they'd considered taking him to the hospital. Mrs. Hudson remembered Sherlock standing , perplexed, in the bathroom doorway at first, but he'd slowly made his way over and began to rub John's back with stiff, awkward motions as he retched. It seemed to calm John down, at least.
"Do you feel like you could keep down some tea?" Mrs. Hudson asked. "And maybe some toast?"
"Just tea, please,"
"All right, it'll just be a minute. Now back to bed with you, dear." She gave him a gentle nudge towards the staircase.
Climbing back up proved to be a little more difficult than climbing down. By the time John reached the top he felt thoroughly worn out, which was frustrating. When he went back to his room Sherlock was sprawled across his bed, which was more frustrating.
"Sherlock," he groaned. "What are you doing?"
"I'm doing many things. Lying down. Blinking. Breathing. Talking to you."
"Don't be a smartarse. Why are you in my bed?"
"It was the nearest available surface. This large piece of plaster glued to my leg is somewhat cumbersome to drag around."
"Sherlock," said John, annoyed, "I want my bed. Go lie down in your own."
Sherlock shrugged and scooted over to the wall side, so that he was only taking up half the bed.
"Oh, no."
"I'm in quite a bit of pain right now, Dr. Watson, and I imagine neither of us wants to go all the way downstairs. Get over it."
Oh, who cared what people talked about, anyway? Sherlock was fully clothed and John was wearing pajama trousers. Sherlock was on top of the covers and John planned on crawling in to them. And face it, he was just too exhausted to give a shit. John got in the bed.
As he lay back, John thought of something. "This means you're going to have to take yourself to Physical Therapy today, Sherlock."
Sherlock smirked, "Oh, given your state, I think I'm more needed here, actually."
"Nice try. You're going or I'm calling Mycroft to drag you there. And you won't be able to kick or scream much with that leg."
"You're hilarious."
"I'm being dead serious." John laughed.
When Mrs. Hudson appeared with mugs of tea for all three of them and perched on the end of the bed, both John and Sherlock sat up to accept their mugs with grateful smiles. Just as John held his to his lips, Sherlock barked, "Wait!" so suddenly John nearly splashed the tea all over himself. "Did you take the medicine?"
John could have smacked himself in the forehead. "Damn. Forgot all about it."
"Go take some now."
"I just got comfortable here," John complained. "I will later, Sherlock, don't nag."
"Sherlock's right, John – but don't you move, I'll fetch it." Said Mrs. Hudson. Then she added with a grin, "They say doctors make the worst patients!"
"The very worst." Said John, nodding as his sipped his tea. "Except for Sherlocks, of course."
Another heartfelt thank-you to everyone who's supported me throughout this story. I'm immensely sad to finish it, but a second, more creative sick!fic is already in the works. If you have ideas/suggestions/headcanons, feel free to shoot them past me! (if you don't mind me using them in writing, of course. I'll warn you that once an idea is planted in my head, I'm liable to forget where it came from and whether I'm supposed to use it or not!)