4

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock opted to ignore John's voice as the doctor shrugged his coat off in the sitting room. He had fallen asleep, with his head on the kitchen table, for an undetermined amount of time. His head was still pounding, albeit maybe worse, although he didn't know how that could even happen. He imagined that the hard wood of the table wasn't helping anything, but he wasn't taking the chance of getting up.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" John's voice was closer now, too close. He didn't sound particularly happy. It was making Sherlock's head hurt worse. "I thought I told you to stay in bed."

"Lestrade..." Sherlock muttered, raising his head wearily. "Lestrade dropped by."

"Is that why you decided to ignore doctor's orders? Not only to get out of bed, but to get dressed, and come out here to help on a case that probably wasn't important to begin with?" Yes, John was angry. Sherlock really wished that he would lower his voice. It wasn't doing him any good. If John was already angry because he had done something that involved bringing his fever up, making himself feel more ill, why was John insisting on making him feel worse by talking loudly? Actually, why did it matter to John? It was Sherlock's pain, wasn't it? Why did John care-

Sherlock coughed, proceeding to rest his head against his arm again. He was too tired to think. It was a scary feeling.

"Sherlock, sit up." Sherlock didn't both to reply. "Sherlock, you need to go back to bed." Sherlock still didn't bother to raise his head again. "Sherlock-"

"John," he moaned, tucking his face into the crook of his arm. He chose to ignore the fact that his pride had just taken a personal blow as the pain had overtaken him.

"You're the one who got out of bed. I mean, what the hell is so important that you had to get dressed?" Sherlock suddenly found himself subjected to hands cradling his head, raising it. He blinked against the light, leaning back out of John's reach. "It's not like Lestrade cares about what you're wearing. Hell, he called me earlier to ask me if you were on something, Sherlock. He thought you were on drugs."

He would think that, wouldn't he? Always assuming the worse... Always assuming, always wrong...

He dropped his head back onto his arm.

"Sherlock, go back to bed."

"I'll just sleep here..." he mumbled.

"Geez. You aren't even trying to keep up a brave face anymore. You must be feeling bad."

Sherlock raised his head at that comment, fixing John with one of the weakest glares that he was fairly sure that had ever graced his face.

John watched him for a moment before sighing quietly. "Come on, then." He offered a hand. "Back to bed."

Sherlock contemplated John's hand for a moment. Bed sounded nice. Much more comfortable than sitting here at the table, where his back was beginning to hurt again. Where it was brighter than his own bedroom. Where it was much colder than his own bedroom. There were blankets in his room... The blankets and his duvet and the bed where he could stretch out...

However. There were cons to every pro and, at the most present moments, the thought of the 'cons' made him want to vomit or pass out, or maybe do both simultaneously, so, instead of taking John's hand, he dropped his head onto the table once again.

"No, thanks."

"Sherlock," John said distastefully.

"I think I might be sick," he said suddenly, raising his head again. The world had taking on doing its odd spinning again. It did not go over well with his general state of health.

"Yes, Sherlock, you're sick. Now, go back to bed."

If Sherlock hadn't been so exhausted, or hadn't been fighting against unyielding nausea, he might have rolled his eyes or called John an idiot. "No, John," he said less-than-patiently, pushing away from the table and hauling his tired body to its feet. "I think I'm going to vomit again."

"Oh." John looked back at him. "Taking the fact that you're not vomiting onto the floor now, I'm assuming you can make it back to the bathroom?"

It wasn't a question of whether or not he could make it to the bathroom, because he would. The most prominent question was... When is the world going to stop spinning so I can open my eyes?

"Sherlock?"

"Vertigo," he murmured, without opening his eyes again.

"Oh. Uhm, the offer still stands. If you'll actually accept my help."

Sherlock reopened his eyes, blinking hard. The world was still spinning a bit, but it wasn't bad enough to keep his eyes closed.

So, now he was faced with a slightly annoying question: did he accept John's help? Either option he had at the moment was utterly distasteful: vomit in the kitchen or accept John's help. Either option was a metaphorical hit to his pride-

Between the two point seven seconds that elapsed between him opening his eyes and his thought process, the nausea returned with a vengeance. He gagged and pressed his hand over his mouth quickly, taking an immediate step towards the bathroom. He stumbled slightly and John gripped his arm before he could argue.

"Okay, if you puke here, I'm not cleaning it up. Come on."

Pressure against his back, John pressing a hand against his back, using it to likely guide him. To support him. Something.

He raised a hand, gripping John's shoulder tightly.

His body was controlling his mind, and his body had made the decision to accept John's help.

"So, you're dizzy, nauseous, have a fever... Still have a headache?" John muttered, glancing up at him. Sherlock glanced sideways at him before nodding slightly. "Uhm... Cough, vomiting... Anything else?"

Sherlock chose not to answer that question in favour of not opening his mouth. He looked back ahead.

"I'm not sure if you're just not answering me because you're being your normal self, or if it's because you're trying not to throw up..." John mused, more to himself. Sherlock ignored him again.

He stumbled away from John once they hit the bathroom. He stumbled to the toilet, sinking into a sitting position against the wall. He wasn't going to be sick- again- if he could help it, but he dubbed it useful to be in the bathroom, anyway.

When Sherlock looked up from the floor, he noticed that John was leaning back against the bathroom counter, looking at him.

"What?" Sherlock asked, staring up at him.

"I'm just wondering why you're trying to ignore the fact that you will end up vomiting sooner or later."

"It's just a matter of... self control," he muttered, coughing slightly, resisting the urge to flinch. He swallowed and closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the wall.

"Sore throat, too?"

He nodded slightly.

"Yes, you probably have the flu, then."

He wanted to say something along the lines of wonderful, but he had coughed again, and it was less than easy to actually catch his breath this time. At some point, and he wasn't exactly sure what moment, because it all blended together, the coughing triggered his gag reflex, triggering his upset stomach, triggering another vomiting spree.

"Hm... I did pick up cough syrup, whenever you think you won't vomit it back up..."

"Would-Would you get out?" Sherlock hissed, resting his forehead against the toilet seat.

"Oh, yeah. Let me know if you think you can't crawl your way back to your room." John's voice was sarcastic. He was angry.

Sherlock sighed heavily, taking a shallow breath through his nose. The day had gotten very unpleasant, very quickly. With a typical case of the flu, it usually lasted for... for...

He raised his head, frowning at the wall. A typical case of the flu usually lasted for... Oh, hell, he couldn't remember...! No, no, you know this, just think-

He groaned, pressing the heel of his hand against his forehead. He couldn't just not remember something. He always remembered everything. Everything that was worth remembering, that was. But, now, something as inane as the duration of the flu...

Sherlock shivered hard, struggling to his feet. He got himself a drink of water, splashing some cold water onto his face. It was a stupid idea in retrospect, but would help in the long run, he imagined. But his body wasn't having the cold without trembling, and that... was... irritating. Irritating, because he didn't have a better word to describe what the shivering was doing to his already upset stomach.

He stumbled back towards the bedroom, using the wall as a complete support. He knew John was around, most likely in the kitchen or sitting room, most likely pretending to be doing something but really waiting and wanting to help. His stubbornness and mild agitation with Sherlock was preventing him from just getting up and offering to help again. At the same time, his compassion and concern was willing him to get up and get over himself, because he had lived with Sherlock this long, and he could handle it.

Sherlock knew that was what was going on in John's mind, and he didn't even have to think about it.

He stumbled the last few steps to his bed, literally falling onto the duvet. He sighed heavily, deciding that it just wasn't worth it to bother moving, even if he was cold.

"You look exceedingly comfortable," said the familiar voice of his flatmate from the doorway.

"Shut up," he muttered. He blinked hard, pushing himself up enough to fall into a proper position, drawing the duvet over his body. "I wondered when... your compassion would win out," he muttered, fumbling with the pillow as he pulled it closer.

"I'm a doctor," John muttered, although he still sounded annoyed. "I have to deal with annoying patients. It's part of my job."

Sherlock hummed in response, wondering when the hell John was going to go back to pretending to be busy so he could sleep.

"Will you at least take some cough syrup? If you want to keep having the chain reactions, be my guest, but I think it'd be better to, you know, stop vomiting from coughing."

Sherlock sighed heavily. Cough syrup. Any sort of syrup medication was a disgusting waste of time. Literally disgusting, as the flavours were far from what they were supposed to be and the smell was enough to make someone nauseous. He hated taking any medicine, but syrups were the worst.

Faced with the alternative, however...

"Fine..." he muttered.

"Good," John said. He sounded pleased. Sherlock sighed again.

Life was not good.

First, the snow. Cold, unhelpful snow.

Second, Lestrade's case. Boring, unwholesome case.

Third, the sickness. Abnormal, uncooperating sickness.

He sneezed.

"Bless you." John was back. "Here. Supposed to be cherry, although it just smells like... medicine."

"Of course it does," Sherlock muttered, sitting up just enough to grab the dosage cup full of red-coloured syrup. "It never tastes like the flavour it's supposed to." He pressed the cup to his lips, tipping it back. He was immediately assailed with the taste of cheap, fake cherry flavour, the medical taste of the syrup before he swallowed hard.

"Sorry. None of it tastes good," John muttered, taking the dosage cup back.

"I'll improve it..." Sherlock murmured, dropping his head back onto his pillow.

"If you can make medicine that people won't complain about the taste, I'll support the experiment it takes to create it."

"Right. I'll need several different medications and... different flavourings..."

"Uh huh. I suppose you'll need a test subject, won't you?"

"Yeah..." He trailed off, frowning. "Wait, John, are you humouring me?"

"Yes, Sherlock, I am. Why don't you change into something more comfortable? Your pyjamas again?"

"... Wrong..." he muttered quietly.

"What?"

"You said "Your pyjamas again". I wasn't in my pyjamas before; therefore, I can't change into them again." He coughed briefly. His throat hurt. Tea actually sounded good right now, since he had gotten over what seemed to be the worst of his nausea for now.

"Well, there is a certain connotation to saying 'Sherlock, take your clothes off'."

"Too tired," he replied absently.

"Come on. You can't be comfortable."

"I am fine. Perfectly fine..."

"Fine. Did you want anything else? Ginger ale, maybe? I picked up some of that and some peppermints. Oh, I also got some applesauce. It's not so much a solid and it's easy on you... Maybe not the best thing for the moment, but..."

"Is tea not an option?"

"Well, ginger ale will help to settle your stomach."

"So, that's a 'no'."

"Yes, it's a 'no'. Shall I get you some ginger ale, then?"

Sherlock coughed again, ducking his head under the duvet. "Yes..."

"You know, saying 'please' wouldn't kill you." But John's voice was trailing away, becoming distant, as Sherlock imagined that John was walking back to the kitchen.

Besides, he wouldn't have said 'please', anyway.


Don't be so sure, Sherlock... /enter creepy Hallow's Eve laugh [/author is a dork and is in a Hallows' Eve mood]

Thank you guys for the support! Hopefully you're enjoying the story! It's actually increasingly difficult to write a sick!fic from Mr. Sick Sociopathic Sherlock.