A/N: Ever have that one chapter that refused to be written? That was this chapter. I am SO sorry for the delay! Life caught up with me and writers block sucks! The next chapter should be easier, so I will try not to take too long again.

Anyway, here it is! Hope you like it!

John put a cough drop in his mouth and continued to watch telly until he grew bored, which didn't take very long. Then he flipped through the channels to find something more interesting, only to realise that it was still a bit early for anything more than crap telly. Besides, he was coughing so loudly that he couldn't hear the programme anyway. Somehow, if at all possible, he was feeling worse. His fever was taking it's toll on him now and he shivered beneath his growing pile of blankets. His muscles were aching as if he had lifted weights all day instead of coughing up his lungs. His sinuses were starting to drain, but his main symptoms were still fever and a nagging cough.

He had a terrible feeling that today was going to be a dull repeat of yesterday.

Quickly growing tired of 'channel surfing' as he liked to call it, he noticed that Sherlock was still cleaning his violin bow and had not said a word since he threw a box of cough drops at John's head. After a while John became more interested in watching Sherlock than watching telly. He silently observed while Sherlock cleans every last hair from his bow and carefully took a dusting cloth to the back surface of his violin. Watching his flatmate focus on a task he was deeply engrossed in was sort of relaxing, like the relaxed feeling you get when you watch rain fall down a window.
John nearly managed to drift back off when Sherlock suddenly stood from his cleaning session to walk to the kitchen and John could smell the bagels that Sherlock was making for himself. John swallowed, his stomach grumbling unpleasantly. He coughed and groaned as searing pain shot through his temple and he felt his eyes were about to pop out of their sockets.

It was mostly the headache that was ailing him now, excluding the cough of course. Every sound was the equivalent of a blaring siren, every light source was brighter than the sun.

So naturally Mrs. Hudson's footsteps as she walked into the flat sounded like gunfire and when she turned on a lamp the blinding pain was unbearable. He covered his eyes.

"Morning, boys." She whispered, keeping her voice low. She noticed John's current position, huddled on the couch with three blankets and a hand over his face. "Feeling any better, John?"

John chuckled silently.
"Worse, actually." He croaked, voice barely above a whisper. Oh, and it hurt.

Mrs. Hudson raised an eyebrow, not able to understand John's nearly silent words.

Sherlock sighed and plopped down at the table by the windows to read the newspaper.
"He's lost the use of his vocal cords. No doubt from the strain of his constant coughing." Sherlock said, nibbling on his bagels.

Mrs. Hudson shook her head.
"Oh, poor dear. You need something for that cough, young man."

John grabbed his throat, trying a bit harder to speak up.
"I've already taken medicine. Tea isn't working as well as it did yesterday." Ouch.

Mrs. Hudson tutted.
"Sherlock dear, can you please hand me that thermometer?"

Sherlock looked up from his paper and rolled his eyes as he passed the digital thermometer over.

Mrs. Hudson smacked him on the arm playfully.
"Don't roll your eyes at me, young man."

He looked up at her with a wide smile on his face before his lips quickly slipped back into his default frown, eyes going back to his paper.

"Good boy." She bent down to kiss him on the cheek.

"Here you are, dear." She passed the thermometer to John, who took it gratefully.

He slipped it under his tongue and waited, not knowing what to expect. It beeped, and he pulled it out.

38.1°

No wonder he felt like crap.

"Well, wonderful..." he mumbled to himself, voice cracking oddly.

Mrs. Hudson tutted again.
"You need to save your voice, John. It'll come back faster if you do."

She handed him a yellow legal pad and a pen.

He raised an eyebrow and quickly wrote down one word.

'thanks.'

Mrs. Hudson smiled.
"Anytime, Luv. Call me if you need anything."

He continued to communicate this way for several hours, occasionally texting when Sherlock wasn't in the room or just wasn't paying attention. Which was most of the time, as he was busying himself with his microscope, fiddling with droppers and files for hours at a time.

Growing curious as to what he was doing, John quickly scribbled a note on his pad.

'Experimenting...no case?'

Sherlock looked over to the paper, having seen John write from the corner of his eye.
"Hmm, no. Lestrade hasn't given me anything. I was going to go to the morgue, but Molly conveniently decided to go on vacation and I have no access to the lab."

John nodded.
'Any clients?'

"Nothing on the website."

'Milk?'

Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"Text Mrs. Hudson."

John sighed, taking a moment to examine all of Sherlock's tools.
'What kind of experiment are you doing?'

Sherlock looked genuinely confused. John rarely asked about his experiments, except to make sure there was no deadly chemicals in the tea pot.

"I am documenting different types of mint candies and how they dissolve or break in rain and mud, for example, on the bottom of a shoe."

John raised his eyebrows.
'Lovely.'

Sherlock then turned and focused on his work. John knew that Sherlock wouldn't be much conversation if he had his full attention on his experiment, so he stood with shaky feet and walked to the couch turning on the telly and bundling in the blankets until his fever and headache lessened.

He should have known relief would not come that easily.

About an hour later Mrs. Hudson called Sherlock downstairs to help her repair stove or sewing machine or...something. John didn't quite catch what it was when they were talking, he was too busy coughing, hunched over with his hand digging into his stomach.

The pain in his head was unbearable now. He didn't care if he had been taking medicine every six to eight hours, he needed more now.

"Mrs. Hudson?" He tried to call out again. His voice was almost all the way gone. His loudest volume he could manage was a whisper, and a soft whisper at that. He literally couldn't make any sound and it was driving him insane, because all he wanted was some medicine and he felt so achy he didn't think he could stand and he couldn't call out.

He sighed and shivered as he went to get his things himself. Tugging his dressing gown together, he shakily stood and walked towards the bathroom, trying to calm his unsteady legs. Every part of him ached and throbbed as he managed to make it to the bathroom sink, only to start coughing uncontrollably again. Mucus came up and John rolled his eyes. He just wanted to take some medicine (after all, that was the reason for his little excursion to the bathroom) and sit down but he couldn't stop coughing. He waited and waited for it to stop but it never did. He just kept choking up mucus, coughing so hard his face was turning red, his vision was starting to fuzz, something unpleasant was making its way up his throat, burning as it came-

He quickly scrambled forward and vomited in the sink.

He coughed one last time to clear his airways and sat back, trying to settle his feverish body. He was shaking from the exertion of his choking fit and the resulting vomiting. He turned on the water in a futile attempt to clean out the sink. When it was mostly clean he rinsed out his mouth and washed his face, looking up into the mirror as he dried himself off. He looked positively peaky. Of course, he laughed at himself. You just vomited. You are dehydrated and haven't slept properly since Thursday. You have every right to be peaky.
He cleared his throat and cringed, arm wrapping itself over his abdomen. His stomach muscles were sore from the constant coughing.

He straightened up and wiped some sweat from his forehead and opened the mirror cabinet for the medicine he came for. He took two tablets (fearful this was quickly becoming routine) and grabbed one of the little plastic cups they kept in the bathroom and gulped the pills down with a cringe, the dreaded aftertaste of vomit lingering in his mouth. He grabbed the toothpaste and his toothbrush, hoping to rid his mouth of the ghastly taste. He grabbed a cough drop on his way out, and wrapped his dressing gown closer to his body.

He opened the door to exit the bathroom only to find that Mrs. Hudson was just outside the door frame, having heard him from downstairs.
"John?" She raised an eyebrow, shocked yo see him on his feet, "Are you alright?"

He swallowed and nodded.
"M'fine...wanna lay down." He whispered, grasping at his throat.

"Dearie, why on earth did you get out of bed in the first place?"

He winced.
"Medicine." was the only word he could manage.

"Why didn't you call me?"

He tried to answer verbally but couldn't make any sound. He sighed and pulled out his phone, typing a message. Mrs. Hudson gave him a few seconds to write it down.

He turned his phone around and showed her.

[You couldn't hear me. Don't worry, I got the medicine anyway.]

She tutted.
"You go lay back down, young man. You can hardly stay on your feet!"

She led him to the couch and sat him down before resting her hand on his forehead.

She tutted again.
"Look at you, burning up. I'll get a cold cloth."

"No!" Oh, he shouldn't have tried to speak. He reached for his notepad on the coffee table.

'The sink'

Mrs, Hudson raised an eyebrow.
"What's wrong with the sink?"

'Vomit. Couldn't make it to toilet.'

"John! Are you alright?!"

'I'm not nauseous, coughing just triggered gag reflex. I threw up. Happens.'

"Oh dear, you need to go to the surgery!"

"I'm fine, really-"

"You could hardly breathe and you vomited! You need to see a doctor-"

"John's right." Sherlock butted in, having appeared out of nowhere to stand at the door and observe their little argument.

"What?" Mrs.. Hudson asked, confused.

Sherlock walked to the kitchen and poured a glass of water.
"John is a doctor. He knows his symptoms. If he claims to not be nauseous and vomited out of reflex then his expertise is to be trusted."

"But Sherlock-"

"If you are truly worried I would suggest you get that cold cloth, Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock rolled his eyes, snippy attitude bleeding through his bored demeanour.

Mrs. Hudson wordlessly rushed past him to fetch the cold cloth.

John sighed, but couldn't help but smirk.
'You didn't have to be rude.'

"I wasn't rude, I was efficient. Drink this. You need fluids."

John chuckled, taking the glass of water from Sherlock's hands. He drank the whole glass in just a couple of sips and sat it down on the coffee table and listened as Sherlock pulled out his violin and began playing cheerfully while John reached for a book on the table.

Maybe he could finally get some peace.

A/N: Really John? I don't think so

Next chapter will be up as soon as possible!