Feeling Poorly

Genre: Family, Humour

Pairings: Greg and Molly, John and Alex, Sherlock and Sally, background

Main characters: Ensemble

Greg Lestrade woke up from a fitful sleep, and almost immediately, he was afraid he was going to die.

He lay there for a few moments, the dampness of his fevered brow making him shiver, his stomach beginning to roil ominously again as his head, sporting a splitting headache, threatened to send him over the edge.

It was around this time that he became aware that he was, instead, afraid he was going to live.

"Daddy?" Greer said softly, sitting beside him on the bed. Greg felt small hands touch his forehead, brushing away his damp bangs, then felt a blessedly soothing cool cloth move against it, deliberately and gently, as if moved by a diminutive caregiver. He shifted his focus, turning his head gingerly, finding himself looking right into the concerned brown eyes of his small daughter.

"Oh, Little Love," he managed to say weakly. "Thank you, that feels so wonderful sweetheart. Is mummy here?"

Greer smiled down at him, patting his cheek lovingly. "Yes, daddy. She's upstairs with Auntie Alex looking for some medicine for you. Uncle John is very sick too. So is Uncle Sherlock. Why are you all so poorly, Daddy?"

Greg closed his eyes as a wave of nausea hit him. He lay as still as possible as his head began to spin, a cold sweat breaking out all over his body, praying for it to pass. He swallowed hard, trying to keep the foul knot moving up his gullet from escaping prematurely. He tried to keep his breathing even and calmed, and finally, mercifully, the feeling passed.

He blinked a few times, trying to remember what had happened.

Oh yes.

Sherlock.

Sherlock Bloody "Let's just grab something at this small random fly by night food truck we've never seen before" Holmes.

And John.

John Sodding "Why not looks like a decent enough place" Watson.

Greg wasn't sure he couldn't blame himself a little bit too, if he were to be completely fair minded about it.

He should have known by now never to utter those damned words. It never ended well when he did.

Greg Flamin' "What's the worst that could happen" Lestrade. He blinked as he realized he was cussing himself out.

That phrase, when voiced out loud, was a virtual guarantee of the fates rubbing their hands together with diabolical glee, and saying, "Hold my pint and watch this."

After that, all he remembered was a blur of being mesmerized by his own reflection in the water in the bowl of the loo while he kneeled in front of the porcelain goddess and offered up his dinner as a sacrifice.

Two hours later, when the retching had finally tapered off enough, Molly had helped him into bed, with Scott and John helping her as Greer slept, kissed his forehead, and left him to sleep in peace.

"Well," he said to Greer, "I think Daddy and your Uncles might have eaten something for dinner yesterday that was a bit off, and it didn't agree with us. Do you remember at Christmas when you ate something that didn't agree with you, how ill you were?"

Greer frowned. She did indeed remember that, and even now she didn't remember ever feeling that terrible before, or since.

"Oh, poor, poor Daddy," she said sadly, leaning herself over and popping her long legs out behind her to lie on the bed next to him, resting her head on his shoulder. "You must feel just AWFUL."

"Well, I've felt better, Little Love," he said, suddenly feeling exhausted. Greer moved her hand to rest across his chest.

"Shall we have a nap, daddy?" she said, yawning softly as she nuzzled her head against his neck. "I'm so tired and it's time for my nap anyway. You look tired too."

"I think that's a very good idea, Greer," Greg agreed, relieved, as he tilted his face to rest against her hair, somehow finding comfort in that.

Upstairs at 221A, Rosie found herself running back and forth between their flat, Uncle Sherlock's upstairs, and even venturing into the basement flat of 221C to keep an eye on Uncle Greg. While there, she had set Greer up with a small pan of cool water and a wash cloth. She didn't know if it would do Uncle Greg much good or not, but either way it would give Greer something to do that made her feel like she was helping. Besides, Rosie wasn't completely sure that Greer's efforts might be for naught anyway, if Uncle Greg had the same wretched headache her own daddy had.

The general notion that Rosie planned to someday become a nurse like Alex was very nearly common knowledge by now, and Rosie was finding herself in a trial run – emphasis on the "run".

"I think they must be near finished the worst of it," Sally said, as she came downstairs from 221B. "Sherlock didn't get a wink of sleep. I thought the Git was two shades darker than a corpse on a good day. Now he looks like he's died and just forgot to stop breathing," she finished, with a yawn.

Sally winced at the memory of her husband draped over their bed, utterly miserable, after managing to drag his lanky frame up over the edge of it, under what little remained of his own power. Sally was surprised, frankly, that he'd managed to find the strength to move after he had spent the better part of three hours seated on the floor with his legs wrapped around the loo, hunched over the bowl - and this had followed four hours of sleepless tossing and turning. She had stayed up with him for awhile, mopping his fevered brow and, brushing back his dark curls, murmuring soothing words to him.

"S'okay," he had muttered in a nearly unintelligible slurred baritone. "Be fine, jusneed... a min... oh bollocks..." as a fresh wave of nausea overtook him.

Sally had been amazed that the twins hadn't woken up from the ruckus. Then again, when they slept, they slept hard. She was grateful for that, even if it did mean oversleeping and crankiness in the morning. She already had Sherlock to deal with, what were two more children throwing tantrums?

When she finally judged he was safe to go back to bed, she tried dragging her beloved long legged streak of misery, quickly realizing his dead weight was too much for her to budge. For someone so slender, the man was damned heavy. Finally, nudging him to roll over, she managed to coax him to belly crawl. How he managed to get himself up onto the bed was a mystery she'd never be able to solve.

"I love you old plod," he muttered softly, as he opened his eyes briefly, gazing at her with adoring gratitude." Sally sighed, looking at the clock. 6:00 am.

Oh bloody well. "I love you too, Git," she said, as she tucked a blanket over him and kissed his damp temple tenderly. "Sleep now, love."

Alex sighed. John hadn't fared much better himself, spending the majority of the night hugging one of Rosie's oversized pillows, occasionally calling it "Mummy", and leaning over the loo in a fit of culinary regret and unadulterated misery. Alex herself had divided her time between the three flats, supervising Rosie's efforts and making sure everything that needed taking care of was indeed taken care of, grateful that Daniel was at a sound sleeping stage.

In retrospect, John might have guessed that their dining choices might be a bit on the sketchy side, but they were famished and it was late, and the last flying rat's ass they had left to give had just flown away.

John also knew that many food borne illnesses weren't easily detectable by smell or taste.

With these words of little comfort running through his physician's brain, he drifted in and out of sleep. The kink in his back and his near inability to move his arm where it had spent the night propping him upright over the loo seemed the least of his troubles. When it seemed the hurling stage had passed, he had consented to allow Alex and Rosie to prop him up and drag him back to bed, tucking him in carefully but firmly, letting him know in no uncertain terms that he was not to get out of bed without their help.

Rosie, much like she'd set Greer up to do, sat beside her dad on the bed, dabbing his forehead with a cool cloth.

"I don't know if this will help much, daddy, but it can't hurt anyway," Rosie said softly. John had opened his eyes, gazing up at his daughter.

"Thanks Little Lamb," he mumbled, smiling weakly before closing his eyes again. "Feels quite nice actually, and yes sweetie, it does help," he managed, drifting back to sleep.

Molly, having gone on the hunt for ginger root tea, finally found some in Sherlock and Sally's kitchen. Just the thing to settle dodgy bellies, she thought to herself. Always worked like a charm on Greg, anyway. Carrying the small box, she headed back down to what had become their muster point in the kitchen at 221A.

"Would you like me to make a pot before I head downstairs?" she asked Sally, as Alex strolled in.

Sally yawned loudly, unable to suppress it. "Sure, why not. Sherlock's finally fast asleep but it'll be ready for him when he wakes up at least. I'm glad he's sleeping. He's going to be an insufferable baby when he's fully awakened and starting to recover in earnest. You'll think he was about to draw his last flamin' breath."

Molly giggled softly. "Greg's quite the opposite. He's going to insist on getting out of bed and getting the hell on with his day, even if he's barely able to stand without collapsing again. It takes quite the effort to keep him in bed when he's ill. Stubborn bloody copper, he is," she shook her head. "I almost think I'd prefer it if he behaved like Sherlock. At least he'd be getting proper rest."

"John is somewhere in the middle, I reckon," Alex said. "He knows he should be in bed but there's truth to the old adage that doctors make lousy patients. Fortunately he still has a soldier's mentality at times. If you issue an order, he just may listen."

"Mummy," Rosie said as she came into the kitchen. "I think maybe they're starting to feel a bit better. They haven't used the fresh buckets we put by their beds yet."

"Well that's good news darling," Alex said, kissing Rosie's blond curls. "Why don't you go nick yourself a little nap with your dad then. I think he'd appreciate it if he woke up and saw you were there." Rosie, unable to hold back her own yawn, nodded silently, leaving to join her dad down the hallway, just as Greer had stretched out with Greg, for a cuddle and a nap.

Alex, Sally, and Molly heaved a collective sigh of relief as Mrs. Hudson wandered in. "Have you seen the potatoes, dear? I can't make soup for my boys without them. I thought we had some somewhere," she muttered.

Alex smiled with gratitude at their elderly landlady and Baker Street house mother as she went to retrieve the small sack from the pantry. "Bought fresh from market yesterday, should be enough I'd think."

Mrs. Hudson nodded and smiled softly in thanks as she set to work.

"I'll have them all set to rights soon enough, you just watch," she promised.

"The sooner the better, I reckon," Sally said with a half smirk.

Alex and Molly shared a knowing look.

"Couldn't possibly agree more," Molly said, shaking her head and turning to leave with her tea.