John awoke with a start.
His sheets were damp with sweat, his shirt clinging to his back, his heart pounding erratically within his chest. His heartbeat was loud after the silence in his dream.
"Dreaming about the war?"
John flinched.
"It's just me," Sherlock said in response.
"Oh..." John sighed, rubbing his eyes. "Sorry."
"Fevers can cause nightmares."
"I know... I'm a doctor..." John mumbled, scrubbing his hands across his face.
He was so tired. He had been sleeping all this time and he was so tired. He understood what Sherlock had meant about sleeping too much...
"Go back to sleep," Sherlock murmured.
John sat up slightly. "I don't want to..."
"Yes, well, I believe I remember telling you that while I was sick. It didn't matter to you, then, and therefore, it doesn't matter now. Go back to sleep."
John coughed slightly. His throat ached. He was thinking that some water would be nice, or juice, because he had to stay hydrated, and was debating asking Sherlock to get him some. He decided, however, the he ought to get up, anyway, and pushed the blankets aside.
"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked.
"Bathroom... Temperature... Something to drink..." John painstakingly pushed himself to his feet.
He hated being sick. It made him feel weak and tired. His head pounded with an edge of lightheadedness; nausea gnawed at his gut and made him swallow back the urge to vomit every so often. He was photophobic, plagued with hyperacusis, and he was shaking, always shivering.
John took a few steps into the bathroom, sighing heavily. He turned on the tap and ran some cool water, splashing it on his face.
"I'll get you juice."
"Fine..."
John took his own temperature- it was thirty-nine even- before joining Sherlock in the kitchen.
"Here." Sherlock handed John a plastic cup full of orange juice.
John took it. "Thanks." He took a sip, wincing as the acid in the juice burned his throat.
"Are you going to go back to bed?"
John took another drink of orange juice, shaking his head slightly. "I don't think so... I don't want to stay in bed."
"I didn't want to, either," Sherlock retorted darkly, leaning back against the counter. "But you made me. Don't make me make you."
John raised his eyebrows at the threat. Any other time, John would have questioned just what it was Sherlock planned on doing to an ex-soldier that would make him go back to bed, but, right now, he was too tired.
"I'll watch a movie, I suppose... What time is it, anyway?" John instinctually looked towards his watch, but he didn't have it on.
"Two-thirty-seven, in the morning."
"... Oh." It did explain why he felt better, why his fever was down. Granted, he knew he should go back to bed, rather than watch a movie... even if he didn't want to. "I guess I will go back to bed..."
"Good. You're finally choosing the correct response."
John just sighed, again, and set his empty glass down. He had just turned for the sitting room when Sherlock, once again, interrupted.
"I thought you were going back to bed."
"Yes. My bed, Sherlock."
"I would rethink that."
John looked warily at the detective. "... Why?"
"Too far from the toilet."
"... I have a bin."
"If you want your room to smell like vomit."
"I'll open a window."
"Cold out."
"Blankets."
"You're too warm as it is."
John groaned quietly, shivering roughly as though to prove to Sherlock that, no, he was not too warm. "I just want to go back to sleep, Sherlock, leave me alone..."
"You've had a change of heart, then?" Sherlock asked, feigning interest.
John just turned around and trudged slowly back towards the bedroom... albeit if it was Sherlock's bedroom. He just wanted to sleep...
He had had a change of heart. Sherlock's antics exhausted him.
"Do you need anything...?" Sherlock's voice was hesitant, strangely unsure.
John paused, smiling faintly back at his flatmate. "No... Paracetamol and sleep. It's the main cure for flu."
"Alright. If you're sure."
John shuffled back to bed. "I am."
John clutched the bin close, flinching at the sound of his vomit hitting the plastic lining.
"John..."
John held up a hand, shaking his head. "I'm fi-"
John had, regrettingly, coaxed Sherlock into making him some tea and toast after he had kept the orange juice down. He had been hopeful that a little bit of food would help. He had fallen asleep after eating and...
... he'd woke up vomiting.
It was not pleasant and John had the suspicion that Sherlock had only realized what was happening a half second before it did and woke John up to prevent him from choking on his own vomit.
The detective was hovering uneasily in the corner of the room, his eyes on John as he vomited repeatedly. John knew he was making him uncomfortable. He couldn't help it. It wasn't like he kept trying to-
The vomiting turned to dry heaves.
John was thankful, although he was sure that he would hate it before long.
"Ugh..." he muttered, snaking an arm around his stomach. Of course he would get more vomiting than Sherlock had had. Lucky sod. Okay, neither of them were lucky, John realized, but... it was just so gross.
John gagged and drew the bin close again, even though there was nothing left in his stomach. He was shaking, literally shaking. He had been shivering, but now he was shaking. His teeth were chattering, his heart was racing, and the blankets were trembling from his shaking.
Calm. He needed to be calm.
He took a deep breath, exhaling slowly and shakily.
"I'm okay, Sherlock..." he muttered after a moment, aware that Sherlock was still staring at him, still unsure what to do. The awkwardness, literally, oozed from his usually pompous flatmate.
"What do you need?" Sherlock asked.
John shook his head. "No. Well," he coughed, "maybe the antiemetic. And water. I need to keep water down..."
"Fine." Sherlock turned and walked into the bathroom.
John took another deep breath, pleased that it didn't proceed to make him gag. He exhaled slowly, hesitantly removing his hands from the rubbish bin. If this brief respite continued, long enough for John to get the antiemetic down, the vomiting might have reached its end, for now.
He sighed, placing the bin on the floor. He hated being sick; hated it. He drew his knees to his chest and pressed his face into his hands. Just when he was starting to feel better, too.
"John?"
John looked up towards Sherlock, who had returned with medication and water.
"I'm fine. Bring that here."
Sherlock followed John's instructions, setting the glass of water on the nightstand. "I understand that this is some sort of ploy to get back at me for my saying that I'm always fine, but the difference is that I am always fine, and you're clearly not."
"Yes, because you were fine with your vomiting and migraine and everything else..." John mumbled, taking a sip of water before measuring out the antiemetic.
Sherlock huffed, leaning against the wall. "But why are you so sick-"
"Because of your germs," John interrupted stonily.
"No, why are you so sick now, when your fever's down?"
John shook his head. "It's gone back up since I started vomiting."
"Oh." Sherlock stepped forward, pressing his hand to John's forehead. He very nearly immediately removed it, wiping his hand on his trousers with a disgusted look.
John just rolled his eyes, carefully taking another small sip of water. If Sherlock Holmes could not handle a bit of sweat, John had nothing else to say to him.
"Cool compress?"
John nodded slightly.
Sherlock left the room again.
John settled back against the pillows painfully, wincing at the fever aches. He wondered how terrible he must have looked... Sherlock was actually helping and not just watching.
John decided that he must look similar to some of the corpses in the morgue. Because, as he pulled the duvet closer, he decided that he definitely felt like them.
And, while John thinks that that's a valid reason for Sherlock to be helping him, it's actually because Sherlock really cares. :)
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