John did not appreciate the late night dash to the toilet when the nausea kicked in later. It was something that he had been hoping to omit, hence the avoidance of dinner, but no such luck when it came to illness forged from Sherlock.

Speaking of Sherlock, the consulting detective was currently sprawled out on his bed, barely visible through the caccoon of blankets. Lucky sod; at least someone got to get some sleep in this house.

He curled his fingers into tight fists, clenching and unclenching his fingers against the stomach pain.

He was miserable.

Absolutely miserable.

"John?"

John forced his eyes open, trying to find the source of the one voicing his name. He blinked slowly, trying to form a picture through the gloom. He realized, after a short moment, that he was still in the bathroom. He must have dozed off after slumping back against the wall. He noticed, after another moment, that Sherlock was standing a few feet away.

"What..." John rasped, trying to sit up. Pain curled into his stomach, causing a slight gasp to make itself heard and he hurriedly drew his knees to his chest. The uncomfortable, sick feeling obviously hadn't gone away yet.

The bathroom was suddenly bathed in artificial light, too bright and hurting his eyes.

John drew his arm over his face to block out the light, biting his lip against the photosensitivity.

"What are you doing up?" Sherlock asked, squinting down at John. He had clearly just crawled out of bed; his hair was a wild disarray and his eyes were red from sleep. Not to mention that he was simply in his t-shirt and pyjama pants, not even having bothered to throw on his dressing gown.

"I could ask the same thing..." John murmured, wrapping his free arm around his knees. Part of him wished that Sherlock would just go back to bed. His stomach was settling more towards churning rather than flat-out pain, and he didn't know if he could continue to force back nausea without terrible consequences.

"What does one generally do in the bathroom, John?" Sherlock asked over a large yawn that brought automatic tears to his eyes. He blinked them away sleepily, raising his hand to rub the back of it against his eyes.

"Oh," John muttered, trying and failing to ignore the rush of awkwardness that crashed over him. "Sorry." With that, however, he didn't try to move.

Sherlock shuffled his feet against the cold linoleum of the bathroom. "You're ill."

"Thanks to you," John said, unable to stop himself.

Sherlock shrugged idly. "Are you going to be sleeping here for much longer or shall I wait? I'm tired."

John resisted the urge to retort that he was exhausted and miserable. "Give me a second," he muttered, grabbing ahold of the counter and gently coaxing himself to his feet. He ignored the sensation in his stomach and the way that the world was spinning and carefully headed for the door.

Sherlock's eyes were on him, ever analyzing, and John couldn't help the red-hot flash of embarrassment that he felt as he stumbled. He barely managed to catch himself against the hallway wall, groaning slightly to himself.

"Your symptoms progress quite quickly, doctor," Sherlock muttered, before he closed the bathroom door.

John swallowed and rather hoped that Sherlock would hurry up, because he really didn't want to vomit in the hallway. He would have to clean it up. He did not want to clean it up.

He, by some minor miracle, managed to fight back the nausea until Sherlock had opened the bathroom door. Then, however, he pushed past Sherlock and made hastily for the toilet, barely managing to avoid vomiting on the floor.

It took Sherlock huffing in distaste to make John realize that he was still being watched.

"What... what are you doing...?" John gasped, raising his head to look at Sherlock.

"Assessing your symptoms."

John groaned, dropping his forehead against the toilet seat. His forehead was covered in sweat. It was actually most of his body sweating, to be honest, as John could feel his pyjama shirt clinging to his back in an uncomfortable way.

"Please," John gasped, "go back to bed..."

"You should go back to bed as well," Sherlock retorted.

John seized the moment as a perfectly plausible time to vomit again. When he resurfaced, his retort was "I am a little busy here!"

Sherlock wrinkled his nose and turned back for his bedroom. "Try to keep it down," was his remark as he flipped the light off again.

Try to keep it down? Was Sherlock just trying to be intentionally punny? Either way, John thought that he hardly deserved it. He had had the tedious task of cleaning of Sherlock's vomit from the duvet, when he'd had that stupid migraine, and now Sherlock was telling him to keep it down?

John swallowed back the urge to be sick again, squeezing his eyes shut.

Of all the people, he would be the one to get sick from taking care of someone who wouldn't return the favour.

Oh well. No matter. John Watson was a resilient man. He could take care of himself.

OH THIS IS FINALLY OFF HIATUS. CREATIVITY. YES. I finally have an idea for this story!

Your thoughts, as ever, are highly appreciated! Thank you!