A/N: *lightning flashes* *maniacal laughter*- Wait, not yet. That's next chapter *clears throat* Carry on.

25 Days of Christmas

Chapter 11

11 December, 2013

The next morning John had gotten up early to the sound of silence. It was only while he was drinking a cup of coffee in front of the kitchen sink that he noticed a note conveniently attached to the coffee cannister. It seemed to have been ripped from another sheet of paper. In the top and right corners, there were half-letters and musings in the same hand as the actual note, only in black ink instead of blue. The writing was legible, but slanted a little too far to the right, and the usually tight mix of cursive and neat print seemed... loose. It had to have been written some hours ago, far before dawn. Sherlock usually got his second wind sometime around five a.m.

Went out, be back[...] at some point
SH

Signs his notes just like his texts, John mused. A small smirk quirked his lips as he re-read everything. There was a noticeable pause where Sherlock had obviously thought about his word choice. In his mind's eye, John could just picture Sherlock standing there for a good minute, trying to calculate the exact duration of whatever it was he was doing. John smirked. Of course, despite his mild amusement, John was also slightly concerned. Sherlock had never left him a note before; usually he came and went as his leisure, shrugging off John's bombardment of questions and worry when he finally slipped through the door at some ungodly hour.
He didn't have long to ponder this new development however. He needed to leave. Three minutes ago.

Later that evening, and still no sign of Sherlock, John began to worry. Sure, the note Sherlock had left him had left the duration of his absence rather ambiguous, but that gave John all the more reason to worry. He pulled out his mobile, staring at the 'create message' screen. He was about to type (using the ol' hunt 'n' peck), when Sherlock stumbled through the door. He looked exhausted, yet satisfyed. A smile slowly spread across his face as he tried to catch whatever breath he had lost - he looked like he had run across half of London. And he very well might have.
"Y'okay?" John asked, no small amount of concern in his voice.
Sherlock nodded vigorously, leaning against the doorway. "Never better," he huffed. "Solved a kidnapping in..." he checked his watch, "just over thirteen hours."
John simply stared at him. He knew very well he would be given the full report later (his friend was quite the show-off, and that was what show-offs did, of course). At the moment, his doctor senses were tingling. His eyes narrowed.

Sherlock was at least three shades paler than normal, and his cheeks were a brighter red than what the (mild) cold or any exertion could have stained them. The circles under his eyes seemed darker, and there was something about the way he held himself that screamed "I'm getting ill". John walked with purpose over to his friend.

"Hands," he commanded. Sherlock frowned quizzically, but presented his hands to the doctor. John pulled off his gloves and felt his fingers, phalanx by phalanx. Cold. Hands, cold. Next, John undid the scarf around his friend's throat and slipped his hands under Sherlock's collar, feeling around his shoulders and clavicle. Warm, maybe a little hot. Normal after a run. Alarms started going off in John's head when his right hand trailed up Sherlock's neck, while his left came to rest on the detective's forehead. Hot. Burning, in fact. Sherlock was completely still under his touch, breathing deep and slow. Controlled. John frowned and withdrew his hands in order to cross his arms over his chest. "You're getting ill."
A scoff. "I don't get ill."
"There's a first time for everything." John pointed towards Sherlock's room with his head. "Bed. Now."
Sherlock narrowed his eyes as if he was about to protest, but whatever he was about to say was interrupted by a sudden coughing fit. John raised a brow pointedly and held out his arms. Obediently, Sherlock deposited his coat and scarf into John's waiting hands, then proceeded to trudge to his room, coughing into the crook of his elbow.

When Sherlock disappeared around the corner, John allowed himself a sigh. Hands now empty (and Sherlock's things hung in their proper place), the doctor ran his fingers through his hair. He only hoped whatever it was wasn't serious.

themoreyouknow

phalanx (plural, phalanges): the bones that make up your fingers