Sherlock coughed.

"Don't cough on my laptop!"

John's voice broke the otherwise silence and there was the sound of footsteps. Sherlock barely had the split second to remove his fingers from the keyboard before John slammed his laptop closed.

"Go to bed!" John ordered. "You're sick and you look terrible!"

Sherlock scratched at his neck slightly. "I only look terrible because of these heinous spots."

"Do not scratch," John said, striding across the room to place his laptop under his chair. "It'll just leave scars."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose and steepled his fingers together, looking towards the smiley face on the wall.

He wouldn't complain, he wouldn't give John the satisfaction, but everything was being so annoying. Everything itched! And no matter how much he scratched (which he was trying not to do), it didn't go away; it just got worse!

He also had the irritating cough, which he couldn't seem to kick, either. He clearly still had the fever, as he was shivering slightly, and there was the beginning of a headache beginning to gnaw at his temples.

He wouldn't admit it, but John was correct when he said that Sherlock looked terrible. Sherlock felt terrible.

He would not admit that.

Instead, he had clung to his laptop and searched for anything that might help him understand this disease, that might help him get rid of it. Unfortunately, this seemed to be a perfect example of a waiting game illness, one that only went away with time. He could take paracetamol for the fever and there were various ointments and lotions that would help the vesicles that itched. Apparently, oatmeal also helped with the itch, but Sherlock was not keen on the idea of soaking in breakfast cereal.

He scratched his chest.

"Stop it," John grumbled.

"I can scratch if I want to," Sherlock replied, hauling himself to his feet. "Have you had chicken pox before, then?"

"Yeah. Harry and I had it in primary school," John said, rustling the newspaper. "It's not fun. Take my advice when I say you should be resting."

"I don't need to rest," Sherlock said flippantly, pouring himself a cup of tea.

"You do need to rest, and stay hydrated. The fever will be all over the place thanks to the chicken pox, but you need to try and lower it."

Sherlock looked at John, taking a pointed sip of his tea.

"Hot tea is not going to help the fever." John sighed. "Please, just go to bed."

"It's only afternoon," Sherlock replied.

"You fall asleep at strange times, anyway. Stop trying to act like you're fine; I can see that you're not and this is my niche, so I know what I'm talking about," John added quickly. "You're pale, there's creases on your forehead so I'm assuming that you have a headache, not to mention that you're still scratching."

Sherlock stopped scratching and picked up his tea cup again.

"And you look tired. So, please, go to bed."

"You won't stop complaining until I do, right?" Sherlock asked.

"Good, you're catching on. There's hope for you yet."

Sherlock only rolled his eyes and headed back to his bedroom.

Sleeping was dull.

Therefore, Sherlock didn't want to sleep unless it was imperative, and it wasn't. He might not feel like his usual self, but it certainly didn't mean he needed to sleep.

But, John had said to rest, to go to bed, and Sherlock had followed those instructions.

He was sprawled out across the bed, his eyes scanning over the familiar words of Mary Shelley's most famous work. He flipped a page idly, sighing after arriving to the end of Chapter Fifteen. He glanced up, looking towards the window.

It was past afternoon now, and slowly sinking towards evening. It was getting progressively closer towards something that could be called night-time, bed-time even, but Sherlock hardly cared. Morning, noon, night... It didn't matter. He didn't want to sleep, so he wouldn't.

... But he was tired.

After a few hours of silent reading, Sherlock found his eyelids drooping. He blinked hard and sank a little lower.

It didn't take long for his attention to deviate from the pages in the book. He rest the book against his chest, stretching slightly.

He really could have done with a cuppa, but he wouldn't dare ask John for it.

Sherlock sighed and rearranged his pillow, placing his arm over his eyes.

He didn't want to fall asleep. He was not going to fall asleep...

... and yet, when he opened his eyes again, it was eight in the morning.

Sherlock groaned quietly, picking up his book and dropping it onto the nightstand. The movement was meant with a rush of uncomfortableness- aches and pain radiating throughout his body- and he stopped moving. He took a deep breath, pushing himself into a sitting position carefully. Everything ached...

There was a dull throbbing gnawing at his temples. He pressed his fingers against them, rubbing them slightly. Headaches... Headaches were dull. And painful... And...

He coughed slightly, flinching. Pain spread from the motion, from his throat to irritating each ache that was pervading his body.

Sighing in irritation, Sherlock rubbed the back of his neck. Sleeping with his pillow propped up hadn't done anything great for his neck. He ran his fingers through his hair before, carefully, coaxing his body onto its feet.

He had just stood up when his neck started itching.

He slapped his hand against the back of his neck, rubbing it slightly. It was irritated and pain shot through it when he rubbed it. He must have been scratching it more than he thought...

Everything else seemed to want to follow the model of his neck, because the itch travelled. It started with his neck and spread to his scalp, sinking down to his chest and arms, torso and legs.

Shivering and sorely resisting the urge to scratch, Sherlock stumbled into the bathroom.

He could tell that he had a fever even before he took his temperature. His body was aching, his head was starting to pound, and he just felt... freezing.

This chicken pox lark wasn't so fun.

Sherlock found the thermometer and disinfected it, just in case, before placing it under his tongue. It only took a few seconds for the reading and the display read thirty-eight point five.

Sherlock sighed, powering the thermometer off.

"What a pain..." he murmured, looking at his reflection. His face was covered in spots, and he didn't even want to see the rest of his body. It was just... a tedious waste of time.

Sighing, Sherlock rubbed his forehead briefly before deciding to forget about the chicken pox and get on with his morning routine. He brushed his teeth and was just running a bath (he didn't feel like standing for a shower) when there was a slight knock against the bathroom door.

"Sherlock...?"

Sherlock immediately looked towards the bathroom door. "Yes?"

"Are you decent...?"

Sherlock tightened his dressing gown, flipping the collar up. "Yes."

The bathroom door opened and John peered in hesitantly. "I heard you running bath water, so I brought oatmeal."

"... Oatmeal."

"Yes, it helps with the itching."

"I know," Sherlock said. Helping the itch aside, Sherlock still wasn't particularly eager to bathe in cereal. It was just... gritty and nasty and rather seemed like it would have the consistency of bathing in a tub full of dirt.

"Here, then." John pressed the container of oatmeal against Sherlock's chest. Sherlock gripped it automatically, looking at it with disdain. "Only a scoop and don't have the water too hot and don't soak for an hour like you usually do."

"Fine," Sherlock muttered.

John left, closing the door behind him.

Sherlock was left alone, covered with spots and holding a container of oatmeal.