Sherlock sat curled up in the corner of the sofa with a box of tissues in his lap. He was completely miserable and, though he was loathe to admit it, exhausted. All he wanted to do was stretch out on the sofa and sleep, but that was not going to happen. Every time the detective reclined, he started coughing fitfully. True, his use of the nebuliser meant he was no longer wheezing as much and it didn't feel like he was going to cough up a lung, but it was still unpleasant. He couldn't even yell 'Bored!' properly without setting of a coughing fit.
There came a knock at the door and Sherlock pulled a blanket over himself, not from modesty, but because he was chilled. "Come." He hoped it wasn't Mycroft. If it was, he was going to cough all over him. Sherlock found himself smiling at the prospect.
Lestrade stuck his head in the flat. "You look like hell," he noted as he stepped the rest of the way in.
The detective closed his eyes and groaned. "What do you want? I can't be much use to you like this." He gestured at himself and his microbe riddled body. He longed to be able to roll over and present his back to the room so he could hide his infirmity from the world.
"Can't a friend drop by out of concern?" the DI asked with a crooked smile.
John came in from the kitchen, drying his hands on a tea towel. "Don't mind him. He's feeling sorry for himself. Have a seat. Tea?"
"No thanks." Greg sat in Sherlock's chair and John settled into his own seat across from him. He winked at the doctor as he held up several files. "If he's in that bad a mood, I suppose he won't be interested in these."
The detective cracked open a single eye and looked in Lestrade's direction. "Cold cases?" He opened his eyes fully and sat up a bit straighter, his shift in position causing him to cough. "Let me see." Sherlock held out his hand, unable to hide his eagerness. At least it would give him something to do besides sit there whilst his brain rotted.
Lestrade got up and gave his friend the files, then sat back down. "The first one isn't a cold case. It's the one we were working when you got sick. We still haven't solved it. Everything we've got is there."
The detective started coughing and there was an alarming amount of wheezing involved. It wasn't time for him to use the nebuliser. Greg looked on alarmed. The doctor tossed Sherlock's emergency inhaler to him and the detective actually missed it, it clattered on the floor. Sherlock bent and picked it up. He put it to his mouth and inhaled a single puff, waiting to see if that would be enough. Thankfully it was and he set the inhaler aside. He opened the top file and began reading.
"Jesus," Greg said under his breath. "I had hoped he'd be better by now."
"Oh he is." John stretched out his legs in front of him. "You should have come by yesterday. It was hideous. I just wish he could get some sleep. He really needs it."
"He's being stubborn about it as usual?"
The doctor shook his head. "For once, it's not really his fault. The medicine that stops the wheezing tends to make people jittery. Then there's the cough. Every time he lays down, it starts up again." John gave a laugh that was without humout. "Not to mention the antibiotic he's on apparently gives him restless legs. Hang around long enough and you'll see it. It's like he's riding a bike and can't stop."
Sherlock blew his nose, then dropped the tissue in a bin John had placed by the sofa. "Who has the dog?"
Lestrade blinked. "What?"
"The victim's dog, Lestrade. Who is taking care of it? That's your killer." Sherlock closed the file and tossed it onto the coffee table along with the others. He closed his eyes for a moment, feeling not triumph at a case solved, but a deep boned weariness.
Greg was about to ask him to walk them through it, when Sherlock started coughing again. The DI grimaced in sympathy. When the fit had passed, Lestrade looked at his young friend. "Tell you what, text me your deductions when you feel up to it, yeah. Save your breath."
It was a measure of how bad the detective felt that he nodded his agreement. Even the promise of John's awed praise wasn't enough to temp him to talk at the moment.
The doctor frowned. "Sherlock, I know it's hard, but try to get some sleep, just a couple hours, yeah?"
Sherlock nodded and stretched out on the sofa, resigned to two hours of misery.
Standing, Greg shifted from foot to foot awkwardly. "Feel better, Sherlock." He headed out the door, smiling sadly as his friend raised a hand to wave him out.
John got up and went over to his flatmate. He picked up the blanket that had slid off of him and spread it over him. He hoped Sherlock would manage a little rest.