"John!" Sherlock whined, his voice nasally and rough. He spat out a cough that shook his thin frame. There was no answer.
"John!"
"What? I'm coming!" John yelled from downstairs. He made it to Sherlock's room in a matter of seconds. "What's wrong?"
Sherlock rolled over in his bed, burying his face in his pillow. His dark curls were a sweaty mess against his pale neck and bare back.
"John, I feel ill…"
John sighed. "Well yes, you look it too." He pulled the blankets closer to Sherlock's shivering body. "But, now we know not to jump in the Thames in January, just to try and swim up to a boat when the police were already on board, right?"
Sherlock made no reply.
John shook his head. "I thought not. C'mon. Sit up so I can get some water in you."
Sherlock sat up, dramatically groaning with every movement. As soon as he was fully upright a cough shook his body again and he almost doubled over. John could do nothing but watch and rub his back soothingly.
After 94 seconds of coughing (and John did count) Sherlock stopped, staring at his palm. John leaned forward, trying to see what he was looking at.
"Sherlock? What is it? Show me."
Sherlock, still shaking, slowly showed John his open hand.
"John… Blood."
* Gasp, cliff hanger? Cuz I love to torture y'all.
Might resolve this in another 221B (because I am addicted now), might not. We shall see…