AN: Haven't written these two in some time…but I recently got back on the wagon. Bear with me here: The events of The Final Problem took place right before March 23, 2020. Just as lockdown was implemented.

Sunday, March 22, 2020

He wasn't feeling well.

Though considering the time he had had of things the past few days, it really shouldn't be surprising.

But Sherlock Holmes was rarely ill, so this was off putting. He hadn't really been paying attention to the news of late. There was the business of Euros, of Mycroft, Mary, John…all of these things were pressing in their own right. He supposed that he had simply run himself ragged.

Sherlock laid on the sofa in the basement flat of 221B, since his own had been destroyed, staring at the ceiling. Mrs Hudson had been kind enough to furnish it while he stayed with John for a few nights.

There was a thing…a thing that was bothering him, aside from the cough and the headache that was forming.

This thing was persistent, and demanded his attention, but his head ached with such acuity that he could not really turn his mind to it.

He knew vaguely what it was. He knew, in his heart, that he needed to speak with Molly Hooper. But there was just no way he could at the moment. And texting seemed to be a paltry effort.

"Hoo hoo! Sherlock!" Mrs Hudson opened the door.

"Hm…" he groaned, fearful of coughing.

"Oh Sherlock, you are a right mess, aren't you? And it is rather cold in here, isn't it?" she went around securing the small windows, gathering up some things…"I'll have the bed here in an hour, all right?"

He nodded. "Thank you," he said softly. Bit of a cock up, really. He should not be lying here idle. Exercise was what he needed. He swung his legs down and rubbed his face. He longed for a warm bath…some soup…how irritating that he should be sick! Sherlock swung his coat on and shoved his hands in his pockets. His phone was within his reach, and he left the flat.

He honestly didn't know where he was going, but he needed out. He needed fresh air after the stagnancy of the basement. He walked, occasionally taking note of the people he passed by.

Everyone was in a bit of an odd state. There was frantic looks on people…they were skirting about the sidewalk…

What was going on? Was there a threat he didn't know about? Surely Mycroft would have alerted him to any terrorist plot…

He stopped at a newsstand. It was the 22nd of March, which he vaguely was aware of. The Times' headline read:

NHS Facing an Italian-Style Crisis if Lockdown is not Implemented

What? Sherlock picked up the newspaper.

"Buying that, are ya?" the clerk at the stand asked.

He nodded, then took out some money from his pockets.

What was happening…? He opened the Times and read…

Global Pandemic

Coronavirus

Thousands Projected to Die

Jesus. That must be what he has…He looked around.

He was tainted. He could get Mrs Hudson ill. Might've done already. John, Rosie…they were all compromised. "Good god what have I done."

Sherlock began to panic. He couldn't stay at Baker Street. He'd need to stay someplace else. But where…?

He took his phone out and scrolled down the list of about seven contacts.

Mycroft.

Mummy.

Mrs Hudson.

John.

Billy.

Lestrade.

Molly.

Everyone but Billy was out of the question. But he was a junkie, and in his current state he didn't really need that temptation.

Lestrade…he could see if Greg could put him up. He texted him, and then considered Molly. But honestly he would rather take money from Mycroft for a hotel, after what he had done to her.

His phone rang out with a receipt.

Sorry mate, but I've got a live-in girlfriend now, and she's got a kid. There's no room here, especially if you're sick. Keep me posted on how you're feeling. -GL

"Damn," he hissed, and walked over to a park bench. He started to text Mycroft.

I think I've got this virus. Can you set me up in a hotel?

His phone rang, and Sherlock's eyes rolled. "Yes?"

"You're ill?" Mycroft held a hint of concern.

"Yes. How are you feeling?"

"Fine. You'll need to tell John. Mrs Hudson…"

"Yes I know. But I need a place to stay, Mycroft," he interrupted. "Can you accommodate me?"

"Between you and me, Sherlock, everything will be closed starting tomorrow save food and emergency services. There is no place to put you…" there was a pause. "You could stay here, if you like."

"With you."

"Yes, Sherlock, with me."

He laughed a touch. "Honestly, I don't think that's wise unless I am truly stuck."

"Where will you go then?"

"I have one more option…" he sighed, then swallowed. "I'll let you know." He really, really did not want to ask her. But he had no other choice…well. There was Mycroft's offer. He supposed if Molly was completely disgusted by the idea, he'd stay with him.

But Mycroft's overall health was a concern. He wasn't sure just where his brother was in that area. And he was loath to ask.

Molly, he was sure, was in relatively good health. He seemed to remember something a thyroid issue. Or was it blood pressure? He couldn't recall. Well, if she had co-morbidities that rendered her unable to accommodate him, he'd just go to Mycroft.

Or if she despised him, which was more than likely.

He stood, feeling dizzy, and prayed that she was at Bart's and he could just ask her there. He didn't fancy texting her…he was sure she'd ignore it.

Sherlock walked to Bart's, uneasy about taking a cab. And the further he went, the worse he felt. He was nauseous, his head was pounding, and his breath was coming up short. He didn't want to get Molly ill…that would be the worst thing that could happen now, after everything else.

He made it to Bart's and called her. He never called…except that one time, last week…and he thought that maybe she wouldn't answer.

"Hello, Sherlock," she said stiffly.

"Molly…I …need to speak with you. But I need to know if you're at work."

"You need to speak with me, hm? Now? It's been days and…"

"Yes I know," he interjected. "Yes. I have a lot of explaining to do. But tell me, are you at work?"

"Yes."

"Excellent," he said softly. "I'm right outside. Out front. Please make sure that you are wearing a mask, shield, gloves…all of your PPE. Ok?"

There was a short pause. "Are you all right?"

"I'm not sure," he said. "Can you meet me out here?"

"Be there in a mo," and she was gone.

He sighed and sat on the curb, opening the paper again. This was bad. thousands of new cases everyday…China had been ravaged. Italy was catching up…

He hoped that Molly would allow this. After all, she was a medical professional. She was likely able to help him recover and keep herself safe in ways that no one else he knew could.

Except John.

But again, John was not an option.

"Sherlock?" He turned to face her, and he watched as her eyes went wide. "Oh my god," she said, sitting next to him.

He couldn't really see her face, as it was obstructed by the mask. "Hello, Molly."

"You're sick," she said. "I …need to take your temperature," and she took out a thermometer, and placed it on his forehead. There was a sharp intake of breath. "102.3," she said. "What the hell are you doing out and about?"

"I needed to leave Baker Street because of Mrs Hudson…and John has Rosie…and Lestrade has a girlfriend with a child…and Billy is a junkie…" he coughed violently into his elbow…"And Mycroft is Mycroft."

"I see," she said. "So, you want to stay at Bart's?"

"Excuse me?"

"Well, since you abused me so horrifically, I can only imagine that you're here for a hospital bed."

"Molly, I …I know that I was awful…but there is an explanation for that. I suppose I should have come to you straight away, but I was suddenly struck with illness, and now I am relatively sure that it's this coronavirus…"

She sighed heavily. "You want to stay at mine."

"Well, you have that smallish office right by the bathroom. I could just kip in there…" he shrugged.

"You want me to take care of you while there's a public health emergency and you exploited me in the most horrifying way possible," she said with some defiance.

"No! You don't need to take care of me…I'll just sleep there until I'm well. Besides, I don't want you to get ill."

"Wear this," she said, rolling her eyes, and handed him a mask.

He put it on, and turned to look at her. "Well?"

"I hate you," she said, then stood, and took her phone out. "Mike? It's Molly. Sherlock is here and I'm certain he has the virus. …No…No…he's outside. But he can't stay at Baker Street because of Mrs Hudson, so I'm wondering if I could take him back to my flat and set him up…I could probably be back in two hours… Are you sure? You know what's coming tomorrow…that's true. Oh really? Oh, thanks Mike…cheers," and she hung up. "I'll be back in ten minutes," and she left him there.

He wondered what he had ever done to deserve such a person in his life.

"We're walking," she said. "Can you make it?"

He nodded. "What did Mike say?"

"Oh, loads. He gave me the next few days off to take care of you and a few more to quarantine myself. He said that the morgue won't be busy for a couple of weeks anyway," she added softly.

"That's very generous," and he coughed, turning his head away from Molly. "Thank you for doing this, Molly."

"Mm," she replied. Her mask was still on, but she had changed her clothes and things. "I took some masks from the lab…can't wear the N-95 outside," she explained. "I mean, I could, but if I lost it…well. Let's just say I can't lose it."

They walked along, Sherlock feeling the illness wrap around him, and desperate to lie down. He felt the tension coming from her, but couldn't bring himself to acknowledge it. Partly because he didn't want to get thrown into a coughing fit again.

The flat wasn't terribly far, but far enough for Sherlock in his state. They walked down the steps, and Molly opened the door.

He nearly fell over, he was so tired.

"All right, why don't we get you in bed?" and she helped him with his coat. He followed her, not knowing or caring where he was going. He sat on a soft surface as she indicated, and felt her take his shoes off. "I'm going to the store to get some provisions…I'm guessing I'll be awhile, since word has gotten out about the lockdown. Just…try to sleep, hm?"

He listened as she left him there, and slipped under sleep's spell.