Sherlock was completely in control of himself when he woke up the next time. It was just past three p.m. He was still a bit disgusted that he had slept that long.

He nipped off to the bathroom upon waking; the idea that he couldn't have made the short walk before seemed absurd now. He must have been able to; John must have marred his thinking, made him think that he wouldn't have been able to walk that far. John's fault.

He slipped into the living room, circling around to the kitchen. His mouth tasted like hell. Even though the last thing he had eaten had been that soup, his mouth tasted like a combination of vomit and cotton. He wasn't sure how that happened, but he determined to get rid of the taste.

It wasn't until he was sipping at his tea, wandering around the flat with still-cramped legs, did he notice John.

The doctor was sitting on the couch, head resting on his fist. For a moment, Sherlock thought John was watching him again. But, after a quick deduction (eyes closed, body slumped, breathing evened out), he realized that John was asleep.

Sherlock stood, watching him for a moment. He contemplated sitting his teacup down and forcing the doctor into a bed or, at the very least, a more comfortable position. He arrived at the most possible outcome of this, John yelling at him, and he let it go. He didn't need John angry with him again. It got annoying when he was.

So, instead, he stood, sipping at his tea, eyes locked on John.

Sleeping was boring. Sherlock hated sleeping. But John did it so easily, so effortlessly, and made it seem so attractive. Well, almost.

He seemed so utterly peaceful. John was a man of action. He had been a military man. He was a doctor now. He was Sherlock's colleague. So, he was a man who loved action. He was always busy, he always kept his mind going (more than most people of his caliber), and he seemed to not like inactivity. Except sleep. Maybe for John, sleep was a good thing, though. His body lost all of the tension it normally held, his forehead smoothed out, and he looked so peaceful that it made Sherlock think that sleep was essential to people of John's caliber.

Sherlock sighed after some contemplation, deciding that it was a lost cause to try and wonder if sleep was essential or beneficial to people like John. He wasn't a person like John, so he figured it was pretty much stupid to think about.

He trailed back to the kitchen to place his teacup into the sink. This was boring. Oh well. He'd just go back to his experiment that was currently stashed under his bed, hidden away from John.

Well, actually, he had something else to do first.

John woke up, yawning, completely stiff and utterly uncomfortable. He groaned slightly, stretching his arms above his head. The blanket that had been around his shoulders fell haphazardly onto the couch.

It was only after the motion had occured that he frowned, pinching the fabric of the blanket between his fingers. Blanket? He hadn't fallen asleep with a blanket. Blinking, he glanced in the direction of Sherlock's bedroom.

He stumbled to his feet, blinking hard. God, he was tired. His head was just throbbing. He was just going to check on Sherlock and then he would nip upstairs and get some proper rest. Time of day be damned, he was exhausted.

"Sherlock? You okay?" he questioned, pushing the door open. Empty. John frowned, a slight panic rising in his stomach. He turned back around right as Sherlock walked out of the bathroom. He jumped. "Jeez, Sherlock!"

After the initial shock, John let his eyes assess Sherlock as he mentally coaxed his heart into a calmer state. The detective looked much better. He had regained his colour, the slight bit that he had at all, anyway, his eyes were clearer and much more brighter, and he was able to stand on his own two feet without swaying. That looked good. John reached up to press his hand against Sherlock's forehead; Sherlock didn't fight it although he tensed up immediately. John didn't understand his aversion to physical contact, but now wasn't the time. His forehead was warm, but damp, and the way that water droplets clung to the dark hair and eyelashes spoke to John of a recent shower. It was highly unlikely that Sherlock would take a cold shower, so John couldn't trust the surface temperature of his skin just yet.

"I see you're awake," Sherlock replied, brushing past John to the bedroom.

"I see you are, too." John's gaze followed Sherlock as the detective paraded around his room, picking up various things. Compared to the rest of the cluttered mess in the flat, Sherlock's room was amazingly neat.

"Obviously."

John slumped against the doorframe of Sherlock's bedroom, letting his eyes slip shut. They stayed shut for a second too long, it seemed, as Sherlock voiced an inquiry.

"Are you alright?"

John's eyes sprang open again. "Yes, I'm fine. How are you feeling?" He was fine, asides from being tired. He was so God forsaken tired that he was fairly sure that he could have fallen asleep against Sherlock's door right now.

"Wasteful. Dull. Irritated."

"That's really not what I meant. Illness wise?" John prompted.

"Fine."

"Sherlock..."

"Bit achy."

"Fine. Take some more paracetamol at 4:00. You also need to take an antibiotic once a day for the next five days. You've already had today's dose."

Sherlock gave him a hateful look. "You got antibiotics?"

"I'm fairly sure you had a touch of pneumonia. Trust me, I did not want to get antibiotics, either, but something had to give."

John didn't know how easily it was for Sherlock to relapse, because he obviously had had a history with drugs, so he hated giving Sherlock anything. Even paracetamol. Maybe he was being too cautious, but he also knew that Sherlock's mind worked in weird ways, so the more that he could keep Sherlock away from any drug, the better.

"Ugh," was Sherlock's ungrateful reply.

"You know, just once, you could say 'thank you'."

"Why on earth would I do that?"

John knew that it was Sherlock's reflex to avoid 'thank you's. He knew that it was a reflex to say that he was fine, that he didn't need help, and all of that. But at Sherlock's quick reply, John felt the surprise spring up on his face before he could stop it.

Sherlock Holmes had a knack for hurting people, even if he couldn't see it himself.

"Oh, I don't know," John replied, turning and striding off down the hallway. He had put up with too much Sherlock for the past twenty-four hours. They had been glued at the hip, almost. He had put up with sick Sherlock, ungrateful Sherlock, irritated Sherlock, argumentive Sherlock, pathetic Sherlock, demanding Sherlock, pleading Sherlock, confused Sherlock... Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock. John realized that, on top of sleep, he just needed John time.

He stumbled on the stairs, cursing himself for his clumsiness. His feet felt heavy. All of his extremities felt heavy, actually.

Oh, come on, John, you're a staircase away from your bedroom. Then you can sleep.

It was bit more pressing than just sleep, though. He paused on the landing, fingers tightening reflexively around the banister. His head was throbbing, pounding, making his ears ache. He blinked hard to clear it; he opened his eyes to find darkness starting to take the edges of his vision.

In a split second, because he suddenly knew that was all he had, he realized that this wasn't just being tired. This was a half second away from passing out.

He tried to move away from the stairs, but he felt disconnected from his body. His voice worked for a quarter of a second. "Sher-"

Darkness swallowed him whole.

And there's my twist. -Innocent smile- And now it's time for further reviews! Yes? Haha!

Thanks for reading!