Merry Christmas guys! Or happy existing day if you don't celebrate Christmas!

Sorry for no Sheriarty in this chapter, but there will be some in the next one. And if you're lucky, that chapter will be up TODAY! (or tonight?)

My plans are to post "Chapter Four" and "Chapter Xmas" today, "Chapter 5" on New Years eve, and "Chapter 5.5" on New Years Day in celebration of Series 3! Oh yh, and New Years, I suppose..

Anyway, please enjoy! And remember I may not be able to post much after New Years since I will be going back to school and am likely not to have done any of the H.W I need to do..


Disclaimer: DeiDei does not own Sherlock! It would've been a nice Christmas present, but the Hobbit Monopoly was equally good!


[A month later..]


It was a quiet and peaceful Friday evening. The cold winter air was blocked out by the marvellous idea of insulating windows and the heaters arranged around the flat. Nothing but a nice cuppa with a few biscuits and whatever was on the telly. In this moment, John Watson was a very content man..

"JOHN!"

..but not for long.

Huffing a sigh, the ex-army doctor heaved himself from the sweet comforts of his favourite chair and shuffled down the hall to his flatmates bedroom, which was actually being used for once.

"What is it now Sherlock?"

The man in question was currently riddled under half the blankets in the flat, a bin overflowing with tissues beside the bed and another bowl beside it "just in case". His eyes were puffy and rimmed red, the same red that covered both his nose and his cheeks. His voice was hoarse, his vision blurred and his now-evil nose would not cease in running, draining him of the fluids he so desperately required. In short, he was positively miserable.

If you had asked John a few hours ago, he would have felt all the sympathy in the world for the poor detective and would be willing to do almost anything to help him get better. However, four hours of echoing sneezes, harsh coughing, pitiful groaning and rough shouting had sent John to the end of his tether. That was without mentioning that the genius of a detective had all but forced him to cancel his date with Mary (which had somehow managed to last much longer than usual due to the lack of Sherlockian interruptions).

As he had expected, the reason he had been dragged from his comforts was because Sherlock needed more tea and water. Both glasses resided on the bedside until, half their contents having been drank. However, the tea was now too cold, and the water had become too warm. He "couldn't possibly drink them now" (!). At one point John made the mistake of asking why he couldn't simply make half a cup of tea, since that was all Sherlock managed to drink in time for the temperature change. The result hadn't been pleasant.

Sighing heavily, John carried yet another mug of steaming tea and glass of ice water to his flatmates room, wondering how someone who was so stoic could end up being so clumsy..


*FLASHBACK*


It was a simple case, really. Obvious. Sherlock had it solved in a matter of hours. Then it was just waiting. Outside. In the damn cold. It had stopped snowing but that didn't mean it wasn't still icy everywhere. Not exactly the best time to be waiting out a murderer, but it couldn't be helped. If we didn't catch him now, there would be another poor woman lying on a slab by morning. Why "we" consisted of only him, Sherlock, Lestrade and about 3 other officers, John didn't know. Maybe most of them had already left for their Christmas Holidays, like normal humans would.. but when were they ever normal.

After an hour of waiting in the chilled evening mist, John was starting to loose feeling in his hands, regretting the fact that he hadn't brought his gloves. Although, he hadn't thought he would spend more than 10 minutes outside, and had saw no need. Still, it made him feel a little better to berate his past self. He was almost about to complain to the detective, when he noticed the lithe figure manoeuvring his way out of the alley and down the street. Almost immediately, they went into action.

Lestrade called out, raising his gun and torch into the other man's face. In response, the man bolted from the scene, changing his direction from the factories they were currently hiding out beside, to the harbour. Both John and Lestrade let out a heavy sigh, as they saw the blur of Sherlock Holmes race past them and after the criminal, seemingly unaffected by the iced pavements and frosty weather.

In hindsight, it probably would have been a good idea to make the detective wait for them, or to slow down at least. Although, being completely honest, whilst what happened next could easily be expected on some sort of TV programme, it wasn't quite the thing you believe would happen to you. This was exactly why, when John arrived beside the pier with a semi-unconscious criminal skidding on black ice and no detective in sight, he couldn't quite wrap his head around it. Luckily, the sounds of splashing and coughing, accompanied by a pale hand attempting to grip at the ice covered planks was enough to bring his thoughts back to earth.


*END FLASHBACK*


That had all happened at around 7 in the evening, the skies getting darker in these winter months. Thankfully, for both John and Sherlock, the strength of Watson and Lestrade combined was enough to pull the flustered and shivering detective out of the water without pulling in either of them in his place. Sherlock had started to show the effects of the chilled water almost as soon as they arrived back at 221B, brushing past John sluggishly and collapsing onto his barely used bed, whilst John simply sighed, clicking the kettle on and falling back into his favourite chair.

This was how the two of them found themselves a couple of hours after the incident, although the good doctor was feeling much more drained than he previously had been. After all, it was past half eleven at night. Usually he was curled up by ten. Hearing the semi-silence from the other room, John felt it was safe to take a well-earned break now, since he had spent a good portion of his time on his feet today, as well as having to sort out his flatmate when he ended up bringing up what little he had eaten during the day.

After a brief attempt of stumbling up the couple of stairs to the bedrooms, he leant against Sherlock's door, checking him over in as much detail as the detective used on a new face. He was getting a little bit more colour into his cheeks, and his position suggested the stomach cramps had gone away for the time being. However, being the ever running almost-machine that he is, the Great Sherlock Holmes cannot simply sleep when he is ill(!) Instead, he was hovering on the borders between sleep and awareness, although, that didn't make him any more likely to move before the early hours.

"Sherlock? I'm going to bed now. It's almost midnight and I'm shattered."

The not-quite-sleeping man simply gave a grunt in acknowledgement, which John deemed enough for him not to feel guilty about having a couple of hours.


A further three hours of staring at a mostly blank wall left Sherlock very bored indeed. It had took this long to muster up the will power to move his lagging limbs, and drag his (unfortunately) frail body out of the bed, his sheet and gown wrapped around him and held like a lifeline. The staggering shuffle to the kitchen took much longer than planned, something he would later put down not wanting to wake John rather than it being out of his control. Thankfully, his vision had cleared enough over the past couple of hours so that looking into his microscope wouldn't be a complete waste of time.

Despite his original enthusiasm at getting out of bed and back to his experiments, it was barely half an hour later that he was yawning again. As much as it pained him to do so, the detective eventually admitted to himself that it would be better for him to make his way back to bed now, rather than lose the energy to do so and be found by John in the morning. He was sure to get berated for that. Sighing softly through his sore throat and congested sinus', he heaved himself to his feet, clinging onto the fabrics draped over him. Obviously, fate would not happen to be on his side, as it was far to late that he realised quite how tangled his bed sheet had become amongst the nick-nacks he kept about the kitchen. In a matter of seconds he noticed his mistake, as he fell like an aged tree. The suddenly-much-louder-than-it-should-have-been thud was harmonized by the sound of shattering glass and wood against tile.

"SHERLOCK!"

"Shit.."


Well, here's hoping I can get that Xmas chapter up tonight. If not, it should be up by the end of Boxing Day.