Sherlock rolled over, yawning widely as he did so. He immediately deduced that he'd been asleep for a 'normal' amount of time, probably anywhere from eight to ten hours. It was morning, probably anywhere from seven to nine o' clock. He blinked the sleep out of his eyes, flicking his gaze towards the clock. He was correct. It was seven-thirty in the morning, and he'd been asleep for nearly nine hours.

He raised a hand, rubbing his eyes wearily. He felt like he'd been sleeping for a very long time, not that he was particularly refreshed. He didn't feel terrible, though. He was sweaty and feeling disgusting in that respect, but, otherwise, his head had stopped hurting and moving about didn't bring back the remembered edge of pain.

He sat up, running his fingers through his hair. A moment later, he scowled; remembered he hadn't washed his hair in at least two days, even if he had had a bath the night before. So then, the first item on his mental to-do list was to get a shower.

Sherlock stood, yawned again, and walked into the bathroom.

He avoided very hot water during his shower, instead keeping it just warm enough to tolerate. He was sure that his fever had broken, but he didn't want to take any chance of the illness returning.

He redressed in his pyjama pants and a clean t-shirt, towel drying his hair vigourously afterwards. He was just in the middle of brushing his teeth when John's voice filtered through the noise of the sink tap running.

"I thought I heard you rummaging around."

Sherlock barely spared him a glance before spitting toothpaste into the sink, cupping his hands under the water for lack of a glass to rinse his mouth out with. He swished the water about his mouth for a moment before spitting that out as well, grabbing the towel to wipe his mouth.

"Yes, I am awake, John."

John was leaning heavily against the door frame of the bathroom, looking remarkably tired. His hair was mussed, sticking up in a disarray that John would be embarrassed at, his eyes were hazed with exhaustion that Sherlock couldn't understand, and the fact that he was leaning against the doorway proved that he was feeling weak or was, at least, too tired to stand.

"You look tired," Sherlock added, picking up his towel and slinging it over the curtain rod.

"I think I got a few hours sleep... Maybe."

"Why didn't you sleep?" Sherlock asked absently, walking back into his room as he slipped his dressing gown on.

"Sherlock, you doubt my level of concern for people who are sick."

"Oh, more needless worry. See what it gets you? No sleep," he replied, grabbing the teacup off of his nightstand and heading for the kitchen.

"I have to worry," John said, following after him doggedly, "I'm a doctor."

"Right," he said without thinking, rinsing his teacup out and putting the kettle on. "Where's my phone?"

"Coffee table."

He sat his teacup down, padding across the room to grab his mobile. He quickly scanned through his messages- one from Lestrade about being ill, one from Mycroft that he didn't bother to read- before dropping it back onto the newspaper on the table.

"Have you taken your temperature?"

"No."

"I'll get the thermometer, then."

"Don't bother. The fever's gone."

"I don't care. I'm checking, anyway."

Sherlock sighed heavily, pacing back into the kitchen to finish making his cup of tea. Half of him wanted to take a long drink from it, just to spite John and his doctoral habits, but he resisted. John would probably yell at him. And, in a way, Sherlock guessed that he owed John a bit. Just a bit.

He swirled the last of the milk idly into his tea, watching the surface turn lighter without much interest.

"Tell me you haven't taken a drink of that yet." John was back in the doorway of the kitchen, frowning at him.

"I haven't," Sherlock replied, tapping the excess liquid off the spoon and setting it on his saucer. "Have some faith."

"With you, faith is a very exclusive term." John crossed the room, handing him the thermometer. "Now, temperature."

Sherlock sighed, placing the thermometer under his tongue. "This... is... depraving," he said as steadily as he could manage. "And stupid."

"Quiet!" John said quickly, although not angrily. "You're going to mess up the reading."

Sherlock made a point to shrug. John responded to Sherlock's careless attitude by picking up the cup of tea he'd fixed, taking a large gulp. Sherlock's annoyed glance turned to a glare.

The thermometer beeped. "John," he complained, removing the thermometer.

"If you're feeling well enough to be your usual self, you feel well enough to make yourself a cup of tea," John said, taking the thermometer from Sherlock. "Well, you're right about the fever, anyway. Temp's back to thirty-seven."

"Thank you," Sherlock replied absently. He walked around John and pulled the refrigerator door open, scanning through the shelves. "We're out of milk," he said absently, grabbing the carton of eggs from the shelf.

"Yeah, I can see that. You used the last of it," John muttered, flicking the empty milk carton. "Good tea, though."

"Of course it's good. Although I didn't make it for you," he stressed, reaching behind John's back to grab the teacup. He drank the rest of it down in one, scalding gulp as John protested loudly.

"Sherlock!"

"I made it for myself," he said simply.

John sighed heavily, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. "Right... Right. I'm tired."

"I told you to go to bed," Sherlock said, striding across the room into the sitting room.

"I did go to bed! I just couldn't sleep!"

He sighed lightly, although his gaze was directed towards The Daily Mail sitting on the coffee table. "And what is yelling going to accomplish?"

John stood in the kitchen doorway for a moment, hands clenching into fists and unclenching again. Sherlock met his gaze for a moment before John strode into the sitting room and grabbed his coat, pivoting to stride into the landing.

The quick assessment whispered to Sherlock that John was up. By the time that John took the steps steadily, but quickly, downstairs, the deduction was complete and now the voice was whispering that he had upset him.

He couldn't even begin to fathom how.

Only looking away as a response, he let his gaze stray to the fireplace. There wasn't a fire in the grate, although he had no desire to kindle one. The knife holding down his papers on the mantle was leaning precariously; probably would fall soon although he had no ambition to replace it in the proper spot. The skull was wearing a Santa hat, although Sherlock couldn't remember how long that had been there. He hadn't noticed it before, although he tried to ignore Christmas decorations when they started to materialize.

He yawned, running his fingers through his hair. The still-damp curls fell down into his eyes. He ignored them, reaching for The Daily Mail to page through the news that was, most assuredly, boring as ever.


John returned nearly two hours later.

Sherlock heard the front door open, followed by some rummaging of shopping bags (John had gone shopping, then), followed by the front door slamming closed a bit harder than was necessary. The probability of John still being angry was slim to none, so Sherlock assumed that John had several shopping bags full of groceries that he was trying to handle.

Sherlock yawned, thumping the newpaper back onto the table.

"I really hope you brought milk," Sherlock said loudly.

"You know," John started, his voice drifting up the hallway. "You- ow." There was a thump. John probably had walked into the railing or the wall, maybe even possibly tripped.

Sherlock looked towards the doorway.

He did owe John, didn't he? Even if he hadn't asked for help...

Sherlock sighed, getting to his feet. He drifted from the living room and down the stairs, meeting John on the landing. He held out a hand.

John looked at him curiously. "... What?"

Sherlock glanced at the wall, extending his hand further.

"Oh!" John said quickly. "Right, yeah. Uhm... yeah, here." He handed off two of the shopping bags to Sherlock. "Thanks."

Sherlock only rolled his eyes, turning away from John and traipsing up the stairs again. He stepped into the kitchen and carefully set down the bags of groceries onto the countertop before turning to the sitting room.

He flopped himself down on the couch, looking in the general direction of the window.

Outside, in Central London, it was snowing again.


There's going to be one more chapter, although I'm not sure what it's going to consist of, haha.

Thanks!