A/N: Wow, this story is really popular! More than 500 views since yesterday?! Holy criminy! ...Okay, on a more serious note, this is the third and final "story" before Sherlock and John grow up and confess already! :-) In this chapter, John gets food poisoning from one of the food stuffs he ate the night before and Sherlock nominates himself as doctor. I was inspired by feeling crappy after staying up late all those nights. ...Whoops. Enjoy! Please R & R!

(Third-Person P.O.V.)

Sand blew in his eyes, stinging his very soul. All he could see for miles upon miles were desert dunes that peaked into the very sky, it seemed. The sun was beating upon his back and he crawled across the desert sand, his lips begging for water. Perspiration flowed from him in cascades and he could feel his energy levels slowly beginning to drop. His lips were now bleeding angrily, demanding,

"Where's my water?!" But he would not come across any for miles. Finally, the heat got to him and he collapsed due to heat stroke.

John woke up with a start, realizing it had all only been a dream. However, the heat and the cracked lips were real, along with the pool of perspiration he awoke in. Which meant, of course, he had soaked Sherlock with his own sweat. He was amazed with Sherlock's ability to sleep through almost anything, but right now, he was suffocating the life out of him. Plus, he had no idea what the dream even meant.

All of a sudden, he felt a lurch in his stomach. Oh, shite, he thought. His face turned green and he tasted scallops, the substance that made him sick: bingo. He struggled to get free from Sherlock's grasp, but naturally, the taller man only tightened his grip.

"Zzzz...No, Teddy! Don't leave me! Stayyyy..." Sherlock begged in his sleep. John cursed. If he didn't do something about this soon, he was sure to throw up on his best friend. Just then, he came up with an idea.

"Hey, look, Sherlock! A dead body!" he said, as if he were talking to an awake five-year-old. Sherlock sat up in his sleep, immediately releasing John and allowing him to breathe.

"Where?!" he demanded eagerly. ZOOM! Just like that, John sprinted to the bathroom as if he were Usain Bolt, leaving poor Sherlock behind. The other man got on all fours and placed his hands on random spots in front of him like an old lady looking for her glasses. "Zzzz...Hey. Where did Teddy go?" he whined childishly.

Once John got to the bathroom, he slid onto his knees, threw open the toilet cover, and retched loudly. Sherlock was immediately awakened by the sound of his friend puking his guts out and rushed to the bathroom as quickly as his legs could carry him. He opened the door with a force that made it slam into the wall.

"John! John, are you alrigh - " He was stopped by the single image of John laying on the floor, clutching his stomach and cringing in pain. His face was pasty and colorless and his lips were dry and quivering. There was a speck of puke by the corner of his mouth and his whole body was trembling. The most noticeable feature, though, was his eyes. They were glistening with unshed tears and the main message they seemed to be protruding was, "Please help me."

It was the worst he had ever seen his friend and it broke Sherlock's heart to see him that way. It was because of the man laying on that floor that made him realize that he did, in fact, have one. Carefully, Sherlock strode over to where he was and helped him up. Instead of leaving it at that, however, he picked him up bridal-style and carried him out. John could've argued against it, but he was too tired and nauseous to do so. And besides, Sherlock was handling him so steadily and gingerly, unlike the doctors that handled him in the hospital.

He felt himself being placed into bed and the covers being swarmed around him. Sherlock gave him a throw-up bucket for the moment.

"Sleep. You'll feel better," he whispered. Eventually, John fell asleep when Sherlock's hand smoothed his hair down in a steady pattern. Sometimes, he woke up and hurled. Each time, Sherlock would wake up and rub his back while he did. Then, he would fall back asleep by the hushing sounds coming from Sherlock's mouth and the hand stroking his hair. It was like that since midnight.

In the morning, Sherlock moved John to the sofa and covered him in a blanket, also taking care to clean out the throw-up bucket and leave it next to him. The smell alone made John throw up, as well as the taste of scallops. He could never eat them ever again without recognizing that taste and feeling sick.

"I am the doctor, now," Sherlock announced with pride, "And you are my patient." He smiled and brushed some of John's hair out of the way to feel his forehead. Immediately, he frowned in thought, forming duck lips. "Hmm..." Then he placed the thermometer in John's mouth. " Ah ha. Just as I thought. You have a temperature of 101.5 degrees Fahrenheit. I shall get you some crushed ice to cool you down. After all, you must have your fluids."

He walked to the fridge with a casual swiftness and fetched some ice chips in a plastic cup. John noted how quick and observant he was. Back in the hospital, the other doctors were sluggish and clueless. He felt slightly grumpy because he couldn't drink anything caffeinated, but his grouchiness was revoked by the idea of his best friend (and the apple of his eye) taking care of him.

Sherlock came back with the crushed ice in his hand and set it in John's hand for him to hold. Then he went to the kitchen once more and unpacked all his beakers and graduated cylinders. John laughed weakly.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock smiled at him with an undefinable sincerity.

"I am conducting the scientific experiment of making lunch for my dear friend," he replied, making John's heart flutter. He watched curiously as he used the graduated cylinder to pour broth into a beaker. Or was it water? John didn't know: his mind was getting fuzzy with drowsiness.

Soon, he fell asleep on the couch. Sherlock observed the sleeping man for a minute and thought about how adorable he was before he gently caressed his face and whispered that it was time to wake up.

John awoke and saw that Sherlock was smiling almost shyly at him.

What a nice thing to wake up to, he thought.

"Your lunch is ready," said Sherlock. John took a look at the tray in his hands. There was green tea and chicken noodle soup. Since he couldn't quite reach his food without cringing from abdominal pain, Sherlock took the pleasure in feeding him. Slowly and expertly, he spooned the hot soup into his mouth and cupped the back of his neck to lift his lips to the tea cup.

John was astounded by his careful grace. The doctors in the hospital weren't NEARLY that elegant in skill. They were clumsy bumblers that were about as proficient as a turkey. Next, Sherlock sat next to John and they talked for a while to preoccupy his mind from his illness. After a while, he clutched his stomach in pain and moaned silently.

"What's the matter?" Sherlock asked, chewing his lip in concern.

"Oh, it's nothing, I just have to go to the bathroom," John replied. Immediately, Sherlock helped him up and guided him there with one arm slung under his armpit. Once, John felt dizzy and started to fall forward.

"Woah, easy, there," Sherlock chuckled, catching him just in time. He opened the door and closed it after he was assured that John made it safely. He could hear sounds of agony coming from the bathroom and nodded understandingly. Diarrhea was tough business.

Later, John came out with a humiliated and tortured look on his face which disappeared when Sherlock led him back to the sofa. Pretty soon, John stopped throwing up altogether and he was told that the green tea would mend his stomach and play a significant part in stopping the abdominal pain. He slept for most of the day and Sherlock observed him silently.

He was fascinated by the long eyelashes that rested upon his cheeks. He was fascinated by the rhythmic patterns of breathing that flowed from his nose. But most of all, he was fascinated by the smile that formed on his face and the hand that reached out to grip his, whether it was intentional or not. Sleep was good for the body as well as building Sherlock's attraction to the lethargic man.

That night, John was in much better condition than he was, say, twenty hours ago, but he still needed a large amount of rest. Sherlock kept this in mind and advised John that he ought to get to sleep no matter how hard it seemed at the moment. After all, John HAD slept for most of the day since midnight.

The blonde-haired man thought about how excellent Sherlock had been all day. He thought about his quickness, his gentleness, his kindness, his devotedness...

"I don't know how I'll ever repay you," he admitted out loud in a tired voice when Sherlock tucked him in that night. The taller man merely chuckled.

"Balderdash. Taking care of you is my reward." There was a passion in his voice connected to those words and John quite liked it. His heart caused him to speak his next thoughts.

" I feel even better already. You're a damned good doctor," he drawled. Now it was Sherlock's turn to blush and batter his eyelashes sheepishly. He found that he could no longer hold in his inner-most confession.

"John? This is going to sound ridiculous, but I don't like hiding my feelings all that much. John, I lo - " He was interrupted by the sound of John snoring in the spot next to him. He chuckled, shook his head, and stroked his hair. "Never mind, I can wait."

Then, he yawned and lay down before falling asleep as well. After two more days, John was well again. They headed back to England and John was able to eat solid food once more. Sherlock felt sad, because this meant that he wasn't the doctor anymore. At the same time, though, he was glad for his friend's well-being.

"What are you smiling at?" he asked jokingly one night as they got into their shared bed at the flat.

"Well, I was just thinking about how funny it was, that thing you said. Back at the hospital, the doctors demanded lots of money in return for being their patient even though they weren't very good. Yet, here you are, as an outstanding doctor, but all you ask for is the opportunity to take care of me. Nothing more, nothing less," said John.

"It's true, though. I don't need money to get that smile of yours every time I assist you," Sherlock replied. John only smiled and looked away, blushing.

"I really like you," he whispered, before falling asleep. Sherlock heard the words escape his mouth and blushed before following his lead.

And I, you, he thought, whilst stroking his hair and gently planting a soft peck on his forehead.