Sherlock sat with a blanket pulled around him on the couch, looking and feeling miserable. He brought his feet up to his chest and shivers before wrapping the fleece around him more tightly. His nose was red and running and he was, if it is even possible, paler then usual. He was freezing, and burning at the same time. His throat stung and scratched, it hurt to swallow and he felt like at any moment he would lose the contents of his stomach. His whole body ached. Sherlock Holmes was sick.
The first day that Sherlock had realized he was sick was only two days ago. He couldn't get out of bed without feeling like a truck had run him over. No matter. He's Sherlock Holmes, he doesn't get sick. The first day he told John that he felt like, and I quote, "a dead man who has been mutilated several times, drowned in a river, pulled out again only to be run over by a bulldozer, shoved in a blender, dumped on the floor and stomped upon," was yesterday. At first John had laughed and was unbelieving until Sherlock got sick all over the kitchen floor and couldn't get up because he was too weak. Sherlock sat all day on that couch, with a pot next to him full of sick. John's footsteps alerted Sherlock and he lifted his head up quickly, expecting him. John pushed open the door and Sherlock immediately slumped over and let out a groan.
"Sherlock?"
"I feel horrible John. Let me die, I don't want to live like this. Leave me alone." Sherlock croaked, putting as much pain and suffering into his voice as he could manage without actually hurting himself. John laughed. Not what Sherlock was expecting. He was expecting pity and horror, the complete opposite of laughter and apathy.
"You aren't going to die Sherlock. It's only a fever. You'll get over it. Until then I'll make you a cuppa and you can just rest. You're body will do the rest." John headed to the kitchen and started rattling around with the teapot. Sherlock frowned,
"I don't want to wait. Ever. You're an army doctor, make me better!" John laughed again, before coming out of the kitchen so he could talk to Sherlock, teapot in hand,
"I can't make you better. I'm really good at bloody wounds, gashes, near death illnesses and things like that. You are nowhere near death Sherlock. Quit being a baby." Sherlock's frown deepened,
"John, if anyone can make me better it's you. What do I have to do? Pour this bucket of human sick over your head, because believe me, I will." This time John didn't laugh. Sherlock wasn't screwing around, he wanted to feel better, and he would do anything to do so. All laughter and playfulness left his voice,
"There really is nothing I can do. You can drink this tea, maybe that will help. You can get some sleep, and you can let it pass, but there is nothing I can do." A flash of anger passed over Sherlock's face, but was swiftly replaced by a look of sadness. He collapsed against the couch and sat there a moment before sighing loudly,
"I am dying. There is no other way on the face of the planet that I would feel like this and not be dying. I mean detox was bad enough, but this is even worse then detox. Are you sure there is no way you can help?" He looked at John hopefully. John felt pity for his best friend, unable to move, unable to eat anything without throwing it back up again, he shook his head remorsefully before continuing to make the tea. He brought Sherlock a nice hot cuppa and sat next to him on the couch,
"I know you feel really bad right now, but honestly, getting shot is probably the worst feeling you'll ever experience." Sherlock took a sip and winced as the scalding hot liquid burned his tongue,
"I've been shot before John."
"I don't think you have though." Sherlock looked him in the eye,
"John. I've been shot before." John didn't believe him. Who would shoot him? There really was no point, he'd just mock you for being weak and resorting to guns to take care of him. Although there were times he had wanted to shoot Sherlock himself, so maybe it was possible. John's disbelief showed on his face, and it hurt Sherlock. Who would NOT want to shoot him? No one in their right mind would leave him alive. Sherlock looked down at the mug he held in his hands and looked at John, and back again. Then, without quite thinking about it, he flung the nearly boiling liquid at him. John's training had taught to him move quickly, so most of the tea missed his face, but it burned his neck and upper chest pretty bad. He yelped and leaped about a foot in the air.
"What the Hell was that for?" Sherlock simply held out the cup, waiting for a refill. "No! I'm not giving you anymore! You just flung that at me! I could have gone blind, then what use would I be?"
"You didn't believe me." Sherlock's hurt feelings showed in his voice slightly, or maybe that was the sore throat that John had been unable to cure thus far. "Do you believe me now?" John considered this for a moment,
"Yes." He took the cup and filled it again, "This time, don't throw it at me okay? That really hurt." As if to emphasize his point he rubbed his chest slightly. A wry smile started to form on Sherlock's face before he sipped his tea again.
"Sorry John." John smiled for a moment,
"No you're not."
"John, I'm kind of in a bad mood right now, so it's probably best to stay as far away from me as possible. Maybe go see Sarah, take her out or something. I'm pretty sure me and the bucket will become the best of pals." John's grin widened,
"Do you really think I would leave you here, cooped up, bored, in our flat when you're sick? Think again. No way am I going to leave you unsupervised. You're sick and you need help." Sherlock actually smiled at that,
"You just don't want me to root through your stuff. Again."
"You've got that right. Plus, you're sick. Finish your tea, I need to tidy up the kitchen." Sherlock rolled his eyes,
"Yes mummy." before he gulped down the rest of the tea and held out the mug for John. John took it carefully and rinsed it out. After drying it and putting it in it's proper cupboard, John walked back to the living room to talk with Sherlock some more. Sherlock had fallen over on his side, and lay sleeping on the couch. His complaints could no longer be voiced, at least not for several hours. John let out a sigh of relief before sitting down next to his friend on the couch.
"Get well, please. You're putting me through Hell you are. And I'd rather not go back there thanks."
