Sherlock coughed, covering his mouth with the blankets.
This was hell.
His cough had intensified- always staying dry, as a trademark of chicken pox- his head was pounding, his fever had gotten worse, his body ached, his throat was sore, and he was starting to feel just the slightest bit nauseous.
And the itch!
Everything was itchy. Face, scalp, neck, back, chest- the list went on and on. And he tried, really tried, not to scratch, and even when he passed his hand over the itchy spot- not scratching!- it just itched worse. His clothing so much as brushing against one vesicle triggered a whole patch of itching and, as with any itch that did not get scratched, it drove Sherlock crazy. (And not many things drove Sherlock Holmes crazy. He drove many things crazy, but not the other way around.)
The oatmeal bath had helped... earlier. By this time, morning, afternoon, and evening had passed; somehow, it had ended up being one in the morning again when Sherlock had woken up.
He'd had the bath, chanced breakfast, fell back asleep. He'd woke up in the afternoon, used the toilet, and fell back into bed.
Now, it was one in the morning again and how had he slept an entire day away? He hadn't even been that tired!
He coughed again, clearing his throat. Pain seared with the action and Sherlock muffled his groan into the caccoon of blankets. He just wanted to go back to sleep... so why had his transport been so insistent on waking up?
Sherlock pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead. His head was killing him...
Paracetamol. He could use some more paracetamol.
Rather having to coax his transport onto its feet, Sherlock stumbled to the bathroom with his sheet still around his shoulders. He found the paracetamol and quickly downed the correct dosage, staring in the mirror as he willed the medication to work quickly.
He had numerous red spots on his face, although a few of them were effectively hidden by his bangs. He looked more pale than usual and his hair was a terrible mess. He ran his fingers through the mop of curls, attempting to straighten it out, but it was tangled and a few dried flakes of oatmeal still stuck in it.
Sherlock sighed shakily, shivering as he stretched his neck to look at a cluster of red vesicles near his right ear. It was freezing. It was the fever, undoubtably, but it was too cold for Sherlock, for someone who never noticed the weather or temperature on a daily basis.
He shuffled back to his bedroom.
He had only just settled himself back under the blankets when he heard footsteps on the stairs. Groaning quietly, he hid under the blankets.
"Sherlock...?"
"... What?" he muttered, coughing again.
"You okay?"
"Don't you ever sleep..." Sherlock muttered, removing the blankets so he could squint towards John's figure in the doorway.
"Yes, but I happened to be awake and I heard you walking around... Thought I might as well ask how you were feeling."
Sherlock hesitated. He could tell John that he felt horrible and John would make it better. John could help him; John was a doctor. But...
"I'm fine," he mumbled, pulling the blankets over his face again.
"I don't believe that, no matter what you say..." John murmured, and Sherlock found his blankets pulled away again. "Tell me your symptoms," John said, placing his hand on Sherlock's forehead.
"Cough... headache... cold, fever, itch," he muttered.
"Thanks for the detail..." John muttered. "You've taken medicine?"
Sherlock nodded slightly.
"The fever's a part of the illness and won't go away for a bit, but trying to make it low-grade is the best course of action..."
John left the room and returned, after a moment, with what Sherlock soon realized to be a cold compress and the thermometer.
"Have you taken your temperature lately?" John asked, powering up the thermometer.
"No."
"Okay."
John handed the thermometer to Sherlock.
Sherlock, too tired to argue, took it and placed it under his tongue. When it beeped after its few seconds of deviating between temperatures, it settled on what was soon to be found thirty-nine point three, John sighed.
"No wonder you look horrible," he said, pressing the compress more firmly over Sherlock's forehead. Cold water trickled down Sherlock's temples and he shivered. "You need to go back to sleep. Your fever's up and you should still be resting. Do you want anything else?"
"... Tea?" Sherlock asked.
"Uh..."
"... Juice?"
Sherlock could practically hear the smile in John's voice as the doctor said "right away".
Sherlock couldn't fathom John's willingness to help him. Sherlock couldn't fathom how John sounded so wide awake at one in the morning. Sherlock couldn't fathom how tired he was. Sherlock couldn't fathom how he had gone from oatmeal bath and annoyance to stuck in bed and feeling terribly sick.
'That's chicken pox for you,' John would say. Sherlock wouldn't give John the satisfaction of being able to say it.
"Here," John said, handing Sherlock a glass.
Sherlock sat up carefully, taking the glass of what he quickly found to be apple juice. "Thanks..." He took a few sips of it, as much as he thought his stomach could handle right now, before handing it back to John.
"Go back to sleep... You're fever will be down later in the afternoon."
John was going to regret saying that, because one of the things he hated as a doctor, was accidentally lying to someone.
Ominous atmosphere, much?
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