He was miserable.
It was horrible.
Positively macabre.
He had a cold.
Sherlock, being someone who was fairly active, if not in body, in mind, didn't have time for being sick. But when it hit, it hit with the force of driving straight into a brick wall.
"It's because you don't take care of your body,"
John had said. "You don't eat or sleep like you should, and who knows what kind of germs you picked up rooting through that skip yesterday."
Sherlock sneezed once, twice, and again. It followed with a weak sounding cough and he groaned out loud, grabbing his pillow to press over his face. Perhaps he could smother himself and totally end all of this misery. Except self-suffocation would work that way and John surely wasn't going to kill him over a little cold.
The snot was disgusting. Nasal drainage, actually, to be technical and precise. But, when it came down to it: snot. And he seemed to have it everywhere. Blankets, pillow, shirt sleeve. He wouldn't even get started on the two boxes of tissues he had gone through.
"You can use a tissue more than once,"
John had said. Sherlock wanted to throw his used tissues at him. No, he couldn't use a tissue more than once! These were value brand, ridiculously cheap. He blew his nose once and he was lucky if it didn't end up on his fingers. John had given him a handkerchief, but Sherlock had tossed it aside when, after he went to blow his nose a second time, found that the hankie was still damp and cold. Disgusting.
The other thing was that his brain completely shut down. It was like his body put everything towards rectifying the situation, which meant no cases, no experiments, no wanting to get out of bed for even the most menial tasks. He was exhausted.
Sherlock rolled over and sighed into his pillow, sniffling heartily. His sinuses were congested. He really couldn't deal with this for much longer.
He was just about to doze out for the uncountable time when his lungs seized up, a tickle forming in his throat. He coughed himself back to consciousness and continued to cough until he was gasping for breath, tears forming in his eyes.
"You're got it bad," John commented, standing in the doorway with a jar in one hand and a mug in the other.
Sherlock glared at him through watery eyes, flopping back against the pillows. "I'm tired... Can't sleep... Cough," he muttered weakly, another small cough punctuating the statement.
"Yeah, here. This might help." John handed over the jar.
Sherlock took it, squinted at it, and found it to be a type of vapour rub. "... I don't know what this is for."
"It's for congestion, cough, too. Put it on your chest, maybe a little on your throat, nose. It'll help, trust me. I brought you tea."
Sherlock sighed and screwed the cap off. Anything had to be better than this. "My throat hurts," he commented.
"There's honey in the tea. It'll help," John repeated. He walked over to the chest under the window, flipping the latches. "It's chilly in here, which is doing nothing to help," he said, pulling out another blanket.
Sherlock just finished up smoothing out the vapour rub on the aforementioned places John had pointed out and reached for a tissue to wipe his hands off. "Yes. Are you sure I don't have a fever?"
John draped the blanket over Sherlock and picked up the tea, handing it to him. He pressed his hand against his forehead afterwards. "No, you don't. It's just a cold, Sherlock. It'll wear itself out with medication and proper treatment. Budge up."
"Huh?"
"Sit up a minute."
Sherlock did, somewhat begrudgingly, as John situated his pillows so that they were at an incline. He couldn't deduce the actual degree of angle. It distressed him.
"There. That should help you sleep, too. Help your cough."
Feeling ridiculous, Sherlock gingerly leaned back against the pillows.
When the tea was gone (mostly by design of Sherlock being remarkably clumsy and letting it slip from his fingers) and John had left the bedroom, Sherlock hesitantly leaned his head back more firmly against the pillows. He drew the blanket closer and shuffled over, sighing in pure exhaustion. Doing nothing wore him out. He hated it.
He sighed quietly, again, when he settled into a comfortable spot. His exhale whistled through his nose and he sniffed again. The whistling prevailed and Sherlock let his lips part slightly, permitting him a different method of breathing. He closed his eyes again and let the churning darkness beneath his eyelids lull him back to sleep.
He didn't cough once the rest of the night.
I don't actually like this chapter very much and I'll be re-writing a sick!fic, but with Sherlock more out of it. This ended up being more sick!fic than sleepy!lock, but since it had some of that element, I decided to put it up all the same...
I do not own Sherlock. Thank you!