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He woke up to a cold rag on his forehead.

A slow shiver edged its way down his spine, shaking his entire body as he raised an arm to brush the rag off.

Fingers caught his wrist.

Sherlock opened his eyes.

John was staring down at him, eyes worried. Sherlock immediately knew that his fever hadn't gotten any better, most likely worse from John's expression. Immediately after rationalizing that, he could start to feel just how worse he felt.

His throat, which had merely been an annoyance earlier, felt like it was on fire. He swallowed and immediately regretted it; pain seized up around the movement and he resisted the urge to press his fingers, because they were cold, against his neck. And yes, the cold. He was shivering, now, harder than he had been before and it was useless to try and stop it. He could ignore the cold on a normal day, not even notice the temperature, but when he was sick, it was utterly useless to try and fend it off. It wasn't even there, technically speaking. Technically speaking, he was simply hot.

Nonetheless, his fingers felt like they had just recently been held under the snow. He curled his hands into fists, removing his arm from John's grasp to place it back under the blankets.

His head was throbbing in a generally painful way. It had been generally steady before, a pulsating throb that kept in time with the ticking clock. It was still throbbing in that annoyingly steady way, but there were moments where the pain doubled, perhaps tripled, as sharp stabbing aches took control.

The stabbing pains in his head shot straight down his body, leaving unpleasantness in their travelled path. Something new that had happened was his stomach had taken on the illness as well. It hurt, just like the rest of the aches and pains his body had adopted, but this was a pain that made him think he was liable to vomit if the problem didn't get fixed soon.

"You're awake?"

John's voice was normal, probably, but to Sherlock's ear, it was entirely too loud. Too loud and too grating, and the pain in his head intensified briefly, a whole new fresh wave of pain crashing over him.

"Sorry." John's voice was quieter now, and Sherlock reasoned that he must have flinched or something of similar extents.

"I'm-" His voice gave out and he coughed. It was a terrible idea, and he should have known that there was a reaction to every action.

The cough, one simple little cough, led to a whole new round of the insatiable urge to continue coughing. The continued motion sent pain to every nerve ending in his body. The pain continued the chain reaction by causing little black splotches to break out across his vision and he squeezed his eyes shut to force them away.

He, at some time, became aware of John's voice in the background. "Breathe... Breathe," he was saying. Sherlock did his best to follow the command, although his sarcastic remark had died before it had even gotten to his tongue.

"I'll get you some cough syrup," John was saying. He stood, but Sherlock shook his head slightly.

"No... No, I used it all in that experiment three weeks ago," he whispered, swallowing. He couldn't bring his voice above the whisper, although it seemed rather imprudent to do so, anyway.

"Are you kidding me?" John sighed heavily, pressing his fingers against his eyes. "Okay. I'll go downstairs and see if Mrs. Hudson has any. You okay on your own for a minute?"

"I'm fine, John," Sherlock replied bitterly, folding an arm over his eyes again.

Truth be utterly told, he couldn't quite recall having ever felt so bad in his life. And he had had his fair share of run-ins with danger and the resulting injuries that had occurred. He had always been fine with those. He could handle those without blinking. This, however...

His stomach gave a particularly nasty jolt and he swallowed, deciding it was better to throw the blankets off and go to the toilet before he ended up being sick in his own room. From the moment that his bare feet touched the floor, however, he regretted the decision altogether.

It was like sleeping onto pure ice. His toes, already cold, felt like they too had just stepped into the snow rather than onto the hardwood floor. He fumbled for his dressing gown and pulled it tight around him, noting how extremely cold silk cloth could be to the skin.

He slipped the bathroom door open and stumbled into the bathroom. The movement hadn't done any good- had probably done worse, actually; perhaps he should have stayed in bed- and he just barely managed to make it to the toilet before proceeding to get violently sick.

It was easily one of the most disgusting experiences. Vomiting, that was.

If only John hadn't ordered spaghetti the night before.

His throat was absolutely on fire- a stark contrast to the rest of his body- and he knew that the tap was only a few feet away. His entire body had different plans, it seemed, as it was all but shutting down as he sank onto his knees. It wasn't prudent to leave the bathroom just yet, and so-

"Sherlock?"

John's voice was like a gun to his head, only with the trigger being pulled, more like, and the sudden reoccurrence of pain sent him vomiting again.

"Oh, geez..." John was in the doorway, watching Sherlock with a worried face.

Sherlock rubbed the back of his hand against his mouth, trying to ignore the taste now pervading his tastebuds, before he waved disdainfully. "I'm fine." He had meant for it to sound absolutely sure and quite true, but he'd forgotten that he couldn't get above a whisper and the vomiting had only made it worse.

John walked into the bathroom, setting down a bottle of what appeared to be cough syrup. He went to the sink, turning on the tap. "Is this the first time you've vomited?"

The particular phrase of words irked him, most likely because he was vomiting at all. Maybe because John was asking him about things that were better left never discussed. Possibly a combination of the both.

"Yes," he said shortly, blinking in nearly concealed surprise as John offered him a glass of water. He gratefully took it, taking a small sip. Best not to overdo it. Another sip. His stomach churned in response. He curled his fingers around the toilet seat tightly. He was vaguely aware of watching his knuckles turn white.

"Sherlock," John started. Warning tone of voice. Likely to chastise him for resisting the urge to be sick once again.

Sherlock swallowed hard, making up his mind that, no, he wasn't going to get sick anymore. He pushed away from the toilet and stumbled to his feet. His legs still were uncooperative; he stumbled sideways, slopping some of the water down his front. The resulting gasp was involuntary, but the water was cold to the extreme.

"Okay," John said quickly, taking the cup from Sherlock. "You need to go back to bed. Are you sure you're not going to be sick again?"

He lifted his head slightly and started back to the bedroom without so much as breathing a response. He wasn't a child, and he would have no part of John talking to him like one.

"Well, I'm going to have to do a Tesco's run," John said as Sherlock gingerly slid back under the duvet. "We're almost out of paracetamol and I'll get you some ginger ale and peppermints... Are you going to be okay on your own?"

"John," he said, wincing a bit as he laid back, "you may find this hard to believe, and trust me, so do I, but I have been sick before." He paused to take a breath, finding himself to be short on essential oxygen. "I can take care of myself."

"Sherlock, the latter isn't hard to believe; it's flat-out impossible. Stay in bed. I'll leave this here." He sat the cup on the nightstand. "Let me get you the bin from the kitchen." Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, but John continued on. "Just in case you feel ill again. I don't want you up walking around while I'm out."

John left the room and Sherlock sighed heavily, coughing a bit. His chest ached. He pressed his fingers against a point of pain there, wishing it away. It was inconvenient and... rather painful.

"And honey. Honey would be good," John said as he walked back in. "Is there anything else you want? Something from downstairs?"

The thought of food, much less food from Speedy's made him feel ill all over again. Trying to maintain as much dignity as he could, because he was fairly sure that the colour had just drained from his face, he shook his head.

"Okay. I'll be back soon. Just stay in bed."

Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief when he heard John grab his coat and descend the stairs.

Finally, he was alone. Alone with his thoughts.

... And the pounding headache.


"Sherlock!"

Sherlock pried his eyes open, ignoring the shiver as it wracked his body. There was more important things to worry about now. Seeing as how the voice that had just called his name didn't belong to John... There was only one possibility as to who would be visiting.

Sherlock threw the blankets off, nearly falling out of the bed in his haste to get to his feet.

He stumbled across the room and swung his bedroom door shut, flipping the lock for good measure.

"Sherlock, don't do that! I warned you that I was coming over, and it's not my fault that you ignore my texts, either, so you can just deal with this one."

Sorely resisting the urge to tell Lestrade to shut up, because he was talking entirely too loud for anyone's good, he tripped to his dresser and wrenched the drawer open.

"It's going to take you probably ten minutes to solve this case. Why do you insist on making the whole thing difficult for me?"

He didn't bother trying to respond, just slipped his arms through the sleeves of a shirt and cursed his fingers repeatedly when they fumbled on every button.

"Sherlock, I'm not leaving until you come out. You'll have to eventually."

He had completely tuned Lestrade out after that sentence. He had paused, gripping the dresser drawer tightly and pressing his lips together. He would not get sick, in his bedroom, while Lestrade was in the house. No. He would rather die, frankly. He swallowed hard and shoved the dresser drawer shut, opening another drawer to grab a pair of trousers.

"Sherlock. Don't make me call John."

Sherlock laughed without consciously deciding to. It sent a thousand little needles stabbing down his throat. The laugh turned into a cough and he pressed his hand over his mouth when he gagged reflexively.

"Sherlock? You okay?"

He swallowed again. Breathe, Holmes. In and out. You are fine. Fine.

He buttoned his trousers, closing that drawer as well before walking to his bedroom door, finally opening it.

Lestrade was standing outside of it, arms crossed, but his eyes had taken on a concerned haze, which deepened when Sherlock appeared in the door.

"You look terrible."

Wonderful deduction.

"John insisted that I sleep," he said shortly, leaning against the door frame. He felt like his legs could start shaking any moment now. How ridiculous. How absolutely ridiculous, stupid body.

"Do you normally look like Death warmed over when you wake up?" Lestrade questioned, looking at him closer.

Sherlock resisted the urge to lean back. He would probably fall if he tried to do that. So, if Lestrade wanted to get his germs, he'd let him. Maybe it'd stop him bothering him at inopportune moments.

"Comical. Where's the case file?" He shivered again and bit the inside of his cheek. John had been right on the stay-in-bed thing. He shouldn't have been out of bed. As much as he hated to admit it, he needed to be resting, if only so he didn't end up collapsing in the middle of the hallway.

"Are you sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine," he replied bitterly.

"Okay." He turned away. "Kitchen table."

Sherlock rest his head against the wall briefly, taking the deepest breath he could manage without triggering an attack of coughing. After a moment, he followed Lestrade, keeping his eyes on the carpet, and his feet. Left foot in front of right foot, in front of left foot...

It took him three times of looking over the files before the case actually sunk in. It took him a few more seconds to realize that Lestrade had taken to making himself at home, having made himself a cup of tea. He was now getting the milk out of the fridge. Sherlock took one glance at the container and barely bit down the impending nausea, pressing his fingers to his eyes briefly.

He counted his breaths, swallowing taking in enough air to chase away the urge to be sick. It wasn't working as well as it should.

"Sherlock, what's wrong?" Sherlock opened his eyes to find Lestrade looking at him. He'd put the mug down and was frowning. "You look about to be sick."

Sherlock placed his hands back on the table, interlacing his fingers. "If I were you, I'd speak again with the shop owner. She knows more than she's..." A wave of vertigo. That was new. Overall spiraling sensation, did not help with his stomach problems. "... she's letting on."

"Okay... Are you sure?" Sherlock gave him an indignant glare, the best he could manage, at least. "Right, okay." Lestrade grabbed the mug, drinking down the rest of his tea in a single gulp. "Thanks for your generous help."

"My pleasure," he replied sarcastically. He would have moved, stood and stumbled his way back to his bedroom, but he was pretty sure standing would have less-than-pleasant consequences right now.

"I'll let you know when I find out more." Lestrade turned and headed out the door, only pausing long enough to look at Sherlock again, eyes worried, before going down the stairs.

He sighed heavily, letting out a breath that he was unaware that he'd been holding. He slumped forward, dropping his forehead onto the table. He just... needed to catch his breath. Just needed... needed to rest...


I finally got around to working on fanfiction again.

Anyway, Sherlock can't cope with being sick. At least, can't let other people realize that he's sick. Oh, John is not going to be happy with him. xD

Reviews are appreciated! Thank you!