A/N: Alright, so I caved and finished this one early so I could post before bed. It's midnight here, so shhhh, it works. Little short, though.

25 Days of Christmas

Chapter 13

13 December, 2013

"John?" a voice called urgently.
John jerked awake, hand briefly gripping the arm of his chair (he had fallen asleep there sometime earlier that night). He didn't even bother to rub his bleary eyes before he jumped up. It took him maybe two seconds to pop into Sherlock's room. "You alright?"
Sherlock was gazing up at him, eyes wide. "I can't breathe properly," he said. It sounded like his throat was clogged (with far more than sleep), though it was more hoarse than anything. Like it was sore. John immediately went into doctor mode. He didn't even bother using his hands, instead he went straight to pressing his lips to Sherlock's burning forehead. Sherlock sat there quietly while John pressed to fingers to the inside of his wrist, taking his pulse. He did have qualms, however, when John tried to listen to his breathing.

"I said deep breaths," John said three minutes later, after retrieving his stethoscope (ah, the conveniences of living with a doctor).
"It hurts," Sherlock complained, after which he coughed for several seconds.
"I know. But I need you to do this for me."
Sherlock begrudgingly complied.

After John made sure that it wasn't anything life-threatening (at least not at the moment), he put Sherlock back to bed. "Try to get some more sleep," he had whispered after re-taking Sherlock's temperature, pushing dark curls off of his pale forehead. Not a tick after he had shut the door behind himself, someone's mobile went off. "Oh for fuck's sake," he groaned quietly to the ceiling.

"Where's Sherlock?" a tinny voice John recognised as Lestrade's asked.
"Sick and in bed," John replied, rubbing his face. He refrained from yawning.
"What?"
"Sick. And. In. Bed."
"Yeah, I caught that. But Sherlock doesn't get sick."
"Well, there's a first time for everything."
"Okay..." There was a pause. "How bad?" Lestrade asked, voice both desperate and genuinely concerned.
"Pretty bad, no cases."
Another pause. "You sure?"
"Very. Call Mycroft or something, I'm sure he can help you."
"Uh..."
"Look, maybe if you don't have any idea in the next couple days. Maybe. But he's not going anywhere for at least a week."
"Really? A week?"
"Depending, yes."
"...Alright... well I hope he feels better."
John let out a world-weary sigh. "Me too, Greg. Good luck."
"Thanks mate."
There was a click, and he was gone. John set Sherlock's phone down on the table with a 'tap'. Glancing at the clock on the screen, he saw that it was four a.m. Great. On the spot, he decided not to go into work that day.

At about one p.m. a very dishevelled looking Sherlock trudged into the sitting room, wrapped up in a heavy blanket. He found John sitting on the right hand side of the sofa, absorbed in his blog. The doctor looked up when he heard a cough.
"You should be in bed," was the first thing he said.
Sherlock grimaced. "You're out here," he said quietly.
John shot him a surprised look. "Yeah, I am."
"You're also in my spot."
John looked to his left to see a good expanse of cushions there. "There's plenty of room," he said, undeterred by the fact that Sherlock wasn't feeling the greatest.
Sherlock simply sighed and curled up on the far left of the couch. John watched him closely for the rest of the afternoon.