"And where do you think you're going?" John looked up from his book as the detective's door finally opened and he emerged, fully dressed in his coat and scarf.
"Out. I have a case."
"Oh no you don't." He set the book down and stood up, blocking the door. "Case can wait, it's cold out there and you don't look well. You don't need to be over-exerting yourself."
Sherlock scowled moodily. "I'm fine. I'm tired of being cooped up in here, and I need this. My mind is scratching itself raw, John. I need a problem."
"You already have a problem. Listen, I don't want to have to deal with you being sick, so if we can avoid that I'd really like to."
"I'm not... sick."
"What was that?"
"Nothing." Sherlock frowned and pulled his gloves on. "Get out of the way."
"Hell no. You take that coat off and go back to bed, doctor's orders. Understood?"
Sherlock's eyes narrowed skeptically, and he didn't move for several minutes—but when he finally figured John wasn't going to step aside no matter what, he grudgingly pulled off his scarf and gloves, but he left the coat on.
Maybe to spite him.
Maybe to try to keep warm in the already cozy flat.
Two or three days passed, Sherlock grumbling the whole time and insisting that John let him out of the flat or, by god, he would break out.
But the doctor wasn't being lenient about this.
No check-up, no case.
That was it.
End of story.
Period.
Done.
Of course, that didn't mean Sherlock was going to let him get anywhere near him, maintaining loudly that the whole thing was unnecessary, irritating, and senseless, in typical Sherlock fashion.
What wasn't so typical was how tired he looked despite his bad temper, or how listless and drained he was now. He talked a big game, as always, but he certainly didn't look it.
John decided the best he could do was keep him in the flat and hope he rested at least a little. He chalked it up to being a combination of nerves, over-working, and probably at least a cold.
He supposed the detective wasn't used to being sick, as he really hadn't ever caught anything in all the years he'd known him.
Nothing to do but wait it out and hope for the best.
One afternoon John was in the living room, trying to amuse himself by watching some old re-run on the telly. Sherlock had retreated to his bedroom to sulk a while ago, and John hoped he would sleep at least a little bit.
When at first he heard the thud he assumed it was part of the show, but his reason quickly kicked in and he looked up at the detective's bedroom door.
"Sherlock? Everything alright in there?"
He didn't get an answer, and his instincts as a doctor forced him to get up from his chair and walk over to the door. He called one more time, to be sure, and thought he heard a soft groan from inside.
The door squealed weakly on its hinges as he pushed it open.
"—Sherlock?"
Sherlock was lying on the floor by the bed, collapsed in a heap. A barely audible whimper forced itself from his lips, and his eyes were half-lidded, clearly feverish and out-of-it.
His skin was warm to the touch, and he didn't have the strength or presence of mind to hold his head up when John rolled him over.
John could feel panic starting to rise in him.
This wasn't supposed to happen.
Colds didn't do this.
He brushed a damp curl out of the detective's face, trying to get some sort of reaction from him, but the only response he found was another drowsy groan.
"Sherlock, talk to me. Come on. Come on… Jesus…"
He kept a hand on the side of Sherlock's neck, just over his pulse point, as he pulled out his mobile and dialled quickly.
Come on, pick up…
Pick up…
