AN: hey guys!

So, the reason I'm probably going to be updating every day this week? Rather embarrassing. I fell over in the ambulance yard and sprained my ankle. I know, I know, please no jokes, I was wearing my uniform at the time (including my nice red sash) and got taken to hospital in one of my own ambulances, whilst still wearing my uniform. In conclusion, I am up on crutches and have a stupid boot thing, meaning that I can't even go and get my own Jammy Dodgers. So I write out my pain by making characters from a BBC show do stupid things.

Which really, as I spent last night giggling away in the back of an ambulance under the influence of some fairly powerful drugs, is rather a hypocritical statement to make. Anyway, moving on.

Lily x

It had been raining for three days solid. And yet, Sherlock still made me go for milk. In fact, he'd pushed me through the door so quickly that I hadn't had time to grab my coat. So as I stood there in my t-shirt in the icy rain he opened the kitchen window and gave me a cheery wave.

I did resist the urge to kill him. But only just.

By virtue of opening a cab door and flashing Lestrade's ID at the driver (Sherlock has his uses. Besides, since Sherlock had found out about him and Mycroft he'd stopped giving him cases, so having been stuck in a flat for three days with a bored Sherlock, I felt he owed me.) I managed to get there, however, being the naturally confident creature I am, I said to the cabby,

'Don't wait. I'll get another one back.'

Yes you know don't you. I didn't.

By the time I got out of the shop (Sherlock only takes semi skimmed milk in his tea, but it can't be above nine percent fat, it must be organic and it cannot be from anywhere other than Jersey. There really is no point in getting it wrong, he'd only have sent me back.) it was four in the morning and therefore, too early for cleaners, too late for clubbers. No cabs anywhere. It was still pissing it down, and the only options where call Sherlock and beg, who if he could find a cab, wouldn't have come anyway, or run.

Deciding that a wet pair of jeans was preferable to a lecture from Sherlock ('always make them wait John!') and that in any case, it'd give me an excuse to be as vile to Sherlock as he was being to me.

Anyway, twenty minutes later I squelched into the front hall at Baker street and groaned as i realised my head had acquired the stuffed up, cotton wool filled feeling that your head gets when you are on the verge of a cold. Gloomily, I wandered up the stairs, dumped the bag in Sherlock's lap and squelched up the stairs to bed. Twenty minutes later, there came a knock at my door. Predictably, when one feels ill, the knock on the door comes the second you have gotten comfy.

'Yes, Sherlock, what is it? Before you go any further, if it's anything to do with the frigging milk I'll tell you now I am not going back to that bloody shop.'

He opened my door, looking indignant 'John, from the way you are breathing it's fairly evident that you are ill. You are my friend, do you really believe that I would ask you to take the milk back?'

I thought about giving the honest answer, which was 'Yes', but decided against it because Sherlock would have gotten offended and I was dying for a cup of tea.

'No, Sherlock I don't.' I sighed and buried my head in the pillows, whimpering softly. I heard Sherlock shuffling about by the door a bit.

'Are you still here?' I snapped. Along with strong medication, cold tea and Mycroft, being ill seems to make me snappy. I heard Sherlock sigh and say hesitantly

'I was wondering if you wanted anything. Soup or tea or...'

A horrible suspicion crept over me. 'Sherlock, did you google a cold?'

He grudgingly said, 'well, no one's ever stayed long enough to get ill around me and when I was a kid, Mummy always quarantined whichever of us was ill...'

I giggled quietly into the pillow. He'd been like this when I broke my arm, Mr High- Functioning- sociopath – I – Don't – Need – Friends - They – Only – Slow – Me – Down turned into a mother hen at first exposure to anyone vaguely ill or injured. I suspected it was Mrs. Hudson's influence.

'Thank you Sherlock. Stick the kettle on.'

The next morning I woke up to the strange sensation that our flat's roof had caved in and a large amount of the rubble had heaped itself onto my chest. I coughed with a noise like nails in a blender.

'Sh'l'ck' I groaned, before giving another hacking cough, and reflecting on the possibility that something small and furry had slept in my mouth. After a few seconds my door creaked open to reveal Sherlock, poking his head anxiously around the door.

'God, you look terrible.' He asserted pertly.

I glared at him.

'You know that word Lestrade uses?' he continued

I though blearily. 'What, 'Manky'?'

'Yes. Well that's how you look.'

I rolled over and shut my eyes in annoyance. I had always imagined that manky was how you felt after three days on the piss at university. The idea that anyone could look like that made me wonder exactly what the hell had happened to me. I rolled back over and glared at Sherlock, apparently pissed off because he was perfectly healthy and I felt like shit.

'Anyway' he said brightly 'what was it you wanted John?'

I blew my nose and searched on my bedside table for another tissue. 'Tea' I said, sniffing 'and more tissues.'

Several hours later I was still feeling sorry for myself. Sherlock was sat in a chair dragged in from the kitchen and working silently on his laptop. I had been surprised that he was willing to be near me at all, sick as I was. When Mycroft had the flu last year, he'd barred him from the flat and disinfected everything in sight, but now that I was ill, he was sat quietly keeping me company. I sniffed and puzzled over it. I should have known better. Sherlock's hand materialized above me holding a tissue, I snatched it and said

'Look, I know you want to take care of me Sherlock, but you really don't have to do all this...' he smiled indulgently at me and said

'Oh, it's a piece of cake. Isn't this what friends are supposed to do?'

And then comprehension dawned like an early morning sunrise. I sat up in bed and glared at him.

'You're doing an experiment aren't you Sherlock?'

He at least had the grace to look embarrassed. I flopped my head back on to the pillows and moaned

'Sherlock!'

'John, it was too good an opportunity to miss, I had to...'

'No Sherlock! That is NOT what friends do!' I sneezed. He looked down at his laptop and then looked up, giving me a sheepish smile.

'I don't suppose it would help if I told you that the results of the experiment have come out one hundred percent positive for...'

'No, Sherlock, it would not help!' I snapped, rolling back onto my side and folding my arms. A few long moments passed, I looked back and saw Sherlock had gone back to serenely entering data into the laptop.

'Purely out of academic interest.' I said grudgingly 'What was the experiment?'

He grinned wolfishly. 'Trust me John, if you are offended at the idea that there has been an experiment at all, you will definitely not want to know what the experiment was.'