Sherlock never told John how seriously close he had come to vomiting onto the table that morning. He was perfectly content to keep that information to himself. It was bad enough to have to be reduced to a bin in the middle of the living room... God forsaken human illness.

However. That wasn't as bad as the fact that, when he woke up the next time, he had found John fussing over him and, when he had opened his mouth to say something, he had very nearly, very, very nearly, vomited all over John. He had taken off at a dead and unsteady sprint to the bathroom and avoided a better part of the mess.

Now he was in bed again, staring at the ceiling. He was shivering terribly but John had taken away his blankets and he didn't think he could stand again. He called him several different types of names in his head but didn't voice complaints out loud- until John had put a cold, wet cloth on his forehead. It had sent chills down his spine and he had protested loudly.

John had shushed him, made him take medicine, and gave him a pitcher of water and a mug and told him to stay hydrated. That would have been a lot easier to do if, immediately after taking the medicine, the round of coughing hadn't kicked in.

"Sherlock..." The way John said his name made him think that whatever John was about to say was going to be a very stupid idea. Be that as it were, he couldn't quite figure out what John would be saying. It had to have something to do with his health, obviously, maybe a chastisement or-

"Budge up there."

Sherlock was a little bemused to find John making him sit up, propping his pillows up so he wasn't laying flat. After a few tenacious moments of wracking coughs and a gnawing chest pain, Sherlock was able to breathe freely.

John muttered something that Sherlock didn't catch before he exited the room. Sherlock, abandoning pretense, slumped back against the pillows and massaged his chest. He felt so... intolerable. To himself. He was laying around. He was sleeping. He was being forced to stay on bedrest and house arrest and, on top of all of that, his mind was clogged, literally clogged, with the fog of illness.

He let out a deep breath, which was the big mistake within itself. The coughing started all over again. He couldn't breathe!

John, again, Sherlock hadn't been aware of him walking back in, thumped him hard on the back. He wasn't sure what that was to accomplish, but John's touch seemed to work wonders. It was weird; one moment, he was choking, and then John was there, and everything just seemed to work itself out.

He puzzled it, sipping whatever it was that John had pushed into his hands. John didn't have any special capibilities or attributes that would lessen a cough; that was absurd, no person did. He was a doctor, but you couldn't stop a cough from a touch, unless you were to go to some form of acupuncture and Sherlock knew that John didn't have a needle in his hand. Sherlock knew that John wouldn't be the type of doctor to dabble in such pseudoscience, anyway. So, it was baffling to him, then. Why was it that John, of all people, John, could calm him down with a simple touch?

He groaned through his teeth, carding his fingers quickly through his hair.

"What hurts?"

The overwhelming desire to figure out the mystery was tearing away at Sherlock and just casting a glance towards the worried-looking doctor made him grow not only more irritated, but angry as well.

"Nothing. Go away," he snapped, shivering hard. The liquid in the mug he was holding trembled precariously close to the edge. John made to fix the blankets. Sherlock slapped his hands away. "Stop bothering me."

There was a flicker of anger, or defiance, perhaps, through John's eyes before the doctor turned and marched out. Sherlock watched him go with a small bit of interest; John's back was ramrod straight, chin up, head high, pace steady but quick. When John was agitated, when something was bothering him, or etcetera, John fell back into his old army ways. It was... interesting, Sherlock guessed.

He looked down in his mug, narrowing his eyes a bit. What was he... Ugh! He couldn't smell! And he couldn't taste, either, so John could have fed him arsenic and he wouldn't have known! But his throat felt a bit better, so he honestly couldn't complain.

He managed to sit the mug down before easing into a more restful position, flinching at the sudden onslaught of pain in his head. He just felt... so weird. His legs felt weak, his body was achy, his head was throbbing, now his chest hurt, the cough was annoying, on top of the repeated episodes of vomiting and the fever, and adding it all up, he figured that he probably had the flu that John had-

Sherlock sneezed just then, the power behind it tearing a whole new path of ache down his throat. He muffled a groan into his pillow, clamping his mouth shut afterwards. There was no point moaning about it. It wouldn't help.

Oh. If he could just sleep through this, Sherlock thought, he would be the happiest man on the world, and he wouldn't even need a murder to make him pleased this time.

His eyes caught the light of the digital by his bed; it read 4:27 a.m.

Wait. Wait a second. Hadn't it just been eleven in the morning? How could it be four-thirty? Where had the time gone? It couldn't be... that he'd slept that long? He couldn't have been asleep that long. But he didn't remember waking up much. He didn't remember being asleep much, either. He remembered vomiting. He remembered the chills. He remembered the blankets and being in the living room and John, John, John...

John had said to himself that it was the sickness. Actually, it was just Sherlock on a normal day, but the fact that John had been by Sherlock's mostly unconscious side for the past day combined with Sherlock's anti-gratitude policy, John had found himself angry.

It had subsided quickly enough because, it was just normal Sherlock, and he had gone back into the detective's room not ten minutes later to find him already asleep again. Half of the honey tea with lemon that John had prepared was gone, so Sherlock had drank some of it, at the very least. Good. That was good.

He picked up Sherlock's mug and the pitcher of water, going to refill it with cold water again. He went back to his regime of edging blankets away and placing the cold cloth on Sherlock's forehead, carefully wiping away traces of sweat from his brow.

When John had been sick, Sherlock had tried to help. John had ruined it. He didn't realize what he'd done until after he'd done it, but he had ruined Sherlock's one moment of actual caring.

John had been laid up in bed, on his third day of bedrest, actually, growing increasingly more anxious as his illness spiked and decreased. He, who had been hanging around with Sherlock too much, had gotten a habit about him to always be doing something. Bedrest was fine. But not for so many days on end.

He had been sleeping, or trying to. Sherlock had been banging around downstairs, making his head throb worse and his vision wobble at every hit. Eventually, silence had descended and John thought that maybe now he could get some sleep. Until there was a light knock on the door and Sherlock's voice rang into the room.

"John?"

John had glanced up, looking towards the door. "What do you want now, Sherlock?"

"Tea?"

"... What?" He had huffed, eyes focusing on Sherlock. "I'm not making you tea," he had paused to cough, fingers clenching at the blankets tightly, "if that's what you're asking."

"No," Sherlock had replied, sounding like he was explaining something to a very stupid person. (He probably thought that he was, anyhow.) "I made you tea."

John had paused. Sherlock never did anything for another other than himself, overlooking the fact that he helped Lestrade out all the time. That was just murder. He liked to play with murder. That was Sherlock. What was not Sherlock was making tea and helping others out. What was not Sherlock was Sherlock trying to help John out. It had unsettled him enough to fall into silence for a moment.

"Oh," he had replied, somewhat lamely.

More silence.

"Do you want it?" Sherlock had asked irritably.

"Oh. Yeah. Thanks."

Sherlock had placed the teacup onto the nightstand before walking out abruptly. John had stared after him. Sherlock hadn't come back for the rest of the period of his illness.

So, yes, John had ruined it and John had been sorry that he had ruined it. But, it had passed.

And irregardless of Sherlock's behaviour, John was still the doctor. It was in his blood to take care of someone sick. And Sherlock was sick. Sherlock was John's patient. John was going to take care of Sherlock no matter his attitude.

As mentioned on my other story, I'm working on a new laptop, so excuse any mistakes that you may see. I'm still getting used to this layout! Haha.

Regardless, more sick Sherlock. A slight look at sick!John and caring!Sherlock. Trying to keep them in character without making it seem like royal romance. Anyway, hope you enjoyed their beautiful bromance so far. Even more panic to come. And Sherlock comes to an odd conclusion in the end...

Please tell me what you think! Thanks!