I apologise for that abomination that was the last chapter. That was really rather bad. Not the prompt, of course, but the writing itself.
Hopefully this one will make up for it though. :P
Kudos to CarlisleLover1234, Zealister, and an anonymous guest for the prompt.
"John?" Sherlock called up the steps as he slammed the door behind him. "I'm home!"
He heard small footsteps emerge from down the hall.
"Sherlock?" his landlady came shuffling into the foyer in her nightgown, yawning. "Sherlock, what's all this about?"
Sherlock smiled at her.
"Good evening, Mrs. Hudson."
The old woman frowned at the detective.
"It's far past evening, dear."
"Hm?"
"It's three in the morning, Sherlock."
Sherlock furrowed his brow.
"I'm sure that can't be right."
He looked at his phone. Sure enough, it read *3:03 A.M.*.
"Oh. Well, I suppose we're both correct, then."
Mrs. Hudson rubbed her eyes tiredly.
"Sherlock, what are you on about?"
"It's not evening, but it's not three o'clock, either. Technically, it's three minutes past three."
The landlady rolled her eyes.
"Well, either way, you've gone and woken me up from a fairly pleasant dream. John's probably up now as well, the poor thing. He already has enough trouble getting to sleep." She clucked her tongue disapprovingly. "I do think, if he is up, you at least owe him a cuppa."
Sherlock shrugged.
"I'm sure he'll want to hear how the case concluded."
"But surely not this early in the morning. The man has to work in a few hours."
"That isn't my problem."
"It is when he's your friend."
Sherlock brushed off the woman and started up the steps, leaving her behind to shake her head and go back to her bedroom.
"John?" Sherlock called his flatmate's name once more. "Are you awake?"
He stopped outside the sitting room and looked around a bit.
"John?"
He heard a sound come from the bathroom down the hall. And it certainly didn't sound normal.
Sherlock, being curious and a tiny bit concerned, walked to the bathroom door. He found it to be slightly ajar and considered opening it the rest of the way to check on his friend, but he recalled being reprimanded more times than necessary that he should knock before entering. So, he did just that, knocking three times.
"John, are you alright?"
He heard his flatmate moan from the inside.
"Sh'lock, go..." the man slurred.
"John?" Sherlock asked, becoming more than a bit worried. "What is going on?"
"M'fine. Leave."
"No. I'm coming in."
Sherlock pushed the door completely open, and was met with a rather pale-looking John Watson slumped against the bathroom wall, his hair plastered to his head in thick clumps, beads of sweat dotting his brow. The detective wrinkled his nose at the sudden and unpleasant whiff of bile.
John was sick, then.
The doctor gave a painful-sounding sigh.
"No privacy for me, then."
Sherlock knelt down next to his companion, examining his features with unusually gentle eyes.
"You're sick, John."
"Master of deduction, right here," John wheezed, obviously trying to hold back another bout of nausea.
Sherlock ignored the snide remark and brought his hand up to feel John's forehead, noticing how his friend tensed at the sudden touch.
"What're you doing?" John asked, his voice shaky.
"You're burning up, perspiring quite excessively, and your brow is firmly knit. You are in an extreme amount of pain," Sherlock said, as coolly as ever, but not coldly.
Strangely enough, his voice almost seemed quite soothing.
"Food poisoning?" he asked, looking at John for some validation.
John couldn't help but smile a bit.
"Nice diagnosis, doctor." He felt as if his stomach was doing some sort of acrobatic routine. "Think it was that leftover Chinese of yours in the fridge."
Sherlock bit his lip.
"You ate that?"
John closed his eyes tightly.
"Did I eat one of your bloody experiments?"
Sherlock tilted his head, not sure how to answer the question.
"Not quite," he said, a bit hesitantly.
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"It wasn't quite an experiment. That's what the dish was intended for. I thought I left a note..."
"Note?"
John lurched towards the toilet and began vomiting again.
Sherlock quickly bolted into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, scanning for the note.
It had been a post-it. It was quite possible that it had fallen off or something of that nature. But Sherlock could not find it anywhere. Frustratedly, he whipped off his coat and threw it on the table. As it collided with the surface, he heard something more than the usual clang of buttons; he heard a rustle of paper.
He couldn't have.
He slowly walked over to his Belstaff and rifled through one pocket. Then the other.
He felt paper brush against his fingertips. It was the post-it.
"Damn," he muttered.
He returned to the bathroom to find John on his hands and knees trying to catch his breath, but looking on the verge of collapse. Quickly, Sherlock rushed over to his friend and helped him into a standing position.
"Sh'lock, what're you doing?" John mumbled, sounding absolutely exhausted.
"Escorting you to bed," Sherlock said.
"I don't think upstairs is a good idea."
"I wasn't referring to your bedroom, John."
John blushed a bit.
"Y... yours?"
"Yes, of course mine, John. It's only logical. It's closest to the bathroom."
"The couch is fine, really," John stuttered, squirming as Sherlock half-supported, half-dragged him into the bedroom.
"Nonsense."
Upon arriving at the bed, Sherlock gently lowered his flatmate onto the mattress and helped him lay down.
"I'll return shortly," he promised, darting out of the room.
John struggled to sit up, trying to force down the rising bile in his throat. After succeeding in this endeavour, he proceeded to look around the room.
He had really only ever been in there once, and that was to take care of Sherlock after the Woman had drugged him. But even then, he really hadn't had a chance to take a good look around.
It looked rather normal; regular bed frame, a few science posters decorating the walls, a standard dresser and bookcase; that was really it.
But then again, he hadn't really gotten the opportunity to look in the closet. He wasn't really sure he wanted to look in the closet.
Just then, Sherlock came striding back into the room, arms full of needed supplies; a bin for vomit, a bottle of water, a wet hand towel, some stomach medication, and a thermometer.
John smirked.
"Prepared, are we?"
Sherlock gave him a look of warning.
"Lie back down. Don't exacerbate the situation." John followed orders and rested his head on the pillow. "And if you must know, I did have to consult Mrs. Hudson on the matter."
John groaned.
"You woke our landlady up to tell her I was sick?"
"Of course."
As if on cue, Mrs. Hudson poked her head through the door.
"Oh, you poor dear," she clucked, walking over to John's bedside and placing her hand on his forehead. "Oh, you are on fire, aren't you? Sherlock, dear, hand me that cold compress I fixed, would you?"
Obediently, Sherlock handed the old woman the wet cloth in his hand and she placed it on John's hot skin. John winced at how cold the towel was when it first hit his skin, but instant relief soon followed suit, and he could hardly stifle a pleased groan.
"I'm sure that feels nice," Mrs. Hudson soothed. "Let me take his temperature," she said, taking the thermometer from Sherlock's outstretched hand.
After about a minute, the landlady withdrew the instrument from John's mouth and checked the results.
"39.4. You've definitely got a fever."
John nodded.
"Could've told you that."
Mrs. Hudson smiled tiredly.
"I'm making some tea downstairs if you want a cup."
John shook his head.
"Not now. I can hardly stand the thought of water, let alone tea. But thank you."
The landlady nodded.
"Well, I'll bring some up anyways if you want some later. Call me if you need anything else." And she scurried away.
Sherlock grabbed the bottle of medicine and poured out the proper dosage.
"Drink," he commanded as he handed the ill doctor the small cup.
Without too much thought, John downed the medicine in one go, washing it down with a small bit of water. He immediately regretted ingesting anything and felt his stomach do more somersaults. Sherlock held the bin in his hand, anticipating this reaction.
"Are you alright?" he asked.
After taking a few deep breaths, John nodded and closed his eyes.
"Sorry. Just need to relax."
"I, erm... I found the note," Sherlock said, guiltily.
"Oh? Must've missed it when I grabbed the plate. My fault."
"It was in my pocket. I forgot to leave it behind."
John sighed and put his hand over his eyes.
"Of course you did."
"I'm sorry."
"It's fine, alright? Just... what were you doing with food that was way past its prime?"
Sherlock nervously rubbed his arm.
"I specifically requested that I be served a rancid dish so that I could use it for future experiments on various bacteria and moulds. I figured an already spoiled dish was less wasteful."
John nodded.
"Then it was just a mistake. Thanks for thinking of leaving a note, though."
Sherlock tried to find any possible trace of sarcasm in his friend's words, but could find none.
"I really am sorry."
"And I said it's alright. I'm pissed, but I'm not furious. It's a minor case of salmonella poisoning. I'll be over it in about a week."
"A week?"
"Yeah. Longer than I would like, but that's the way it is."
Sherlock nodded.
"Do you... do you need anything else?"
John took a moment to think.
"You know, if you could bring me a clean pair of pyjamas and my cell from my bedroom, that would be fantastic."
"Okay."
Sherlock handed the doctor the bin in his hand and jogged up the stairs into the other bedroom.
"Pyjamas and cell..." he muttered.
Where would John keep his pyjamas?
He was a man of habit, and most likely left the bottom drawer empty, due to his experience with psychosomatic pain in his leg. So that ruled that out. Socks and underwear were likely kept in the top drawer, probably to deter others from looking in. After all, most find middle drawers easily accessible, and tend to ignore the topmost ones. It wasn't really a difficult leap to make, for the pyjamas were right there in the middle drawer, neatly folded in designated piles; one for shirts, one for bottoms. Sherlock grabbed the first pair he laid eyes on and immediately shut the drawer. The cell was simple to find, as it was right on the nightstand where most people, including Sherlock, tended to keep it at night. He then returned down the stairs and to his bedroom where John was currently residing.
"Here you are," Sherlock said, dropping the items in his hands on the bed.
John smiled.
"Thanks. It'll be nice to change out of these sweaty clothes."
Sherlock nodded.
"I imagine so. Would you like some privacy?"
"Yeah. If you don't mind."
The detective swiftly turned his back, letting John change without having a pair of eyes on him.
"That was an awfully quick trip," John grunted, pulling off his shirt.
"It was quite simple, John," Sherlock said matter-of-factly. "Middle drawer. Socks and underwear reside in the top drawer, the bottom drawer remains vacant."
John blushed.
"Did you go rooting through my things?"
"You're ill. There's no time for such an activity."
"So you deduced it then?"
"Well, it wasn't a difficult conclusion to come to."
John shrugged and slipped off his bottoms.
"Well, you got what I needed. So I guess it doesn't really matter." He put on the clean tee-shirt. "Anyway, speaking of conclusions, how did the case turn out?"
Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back.
"I was right from the start."
"It was the shopkeeper?"
"Indeed. With a rolling pin. I did tell Lestrade, but he was quite convinced the mother was responsible. I had to humour him."
"Good. Glad it turned out okay."
As John went to bend down and put the new pyjama pants on, he felt his stomach begin to protest and he groaned.
"Bin. Now."
Sherlock quickly turned around and snatched up bin, thrusting into John's arms just as the man started to retch again. The fit was over in just a few seconds, but it was still enough to leave John gasping for air.
"Jesus Christ," he mumbled.
His flatmate gingerly placed the bin on the floor and sat next to John, rubbing circles on his back.
"Wh-what are you doing?" John asked, quite alarmed.
"Trying to soothe you. My mother did this to both me and my brother whenever we were ill. It was quite nice. I figured it would have the same effect on you. Did I assume incorrectly?"
John shook his head.
"No. It... it's actually really lovely. I just... you're the last person I would have expected to be so..."
"So...?"
"...caring, I guess. I mean, you're just the type to deem any sort of ailment as a weakness and ignore whoever is suffering from it."
Sherlock looked taken aback.
"You are my flatmate, John. My friend. Do you honestly think I'd ignore your suffering?"
The doctor shrugged.
"Of course, a cold wouldn't call for much concern, but you are in quite a terrible state at the present moment. You are in need of care. And besides, the sooner you are well, the sooner you can join me on another case. It really is quite boring without you tagging along."
John could have questioned the man's use of the phrase 'tagging along', but said man was currently mothering him in a way that no one would have ever expected. He was just counting his blessings. Instead, John just smiled.
"Good to know I'm not a complete bore."
Sherlock smirked.
"You're certainly more interesting than most."
John looked down at his bare legs and could hardly hold back a startled yelp.
"I'm a bit bare, Sherlock," he said, immediately tensing up again.
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"For God's sake, John, you're fine. You're better off without the pyjama bottoms anyway. They'll only make the sweating even more persistent."
"I guess, yeah. But... you're here."
"And?"
"And you're my flatmate."
"So?"
"I'm practically half-naked."
"You have boxers on, John. There's no need to be embarrassed."
"I guess not. But-"
"You're fine. Just rest."
With his flatmate's aid, John laid back down on the bed and sighed. Gently, Sherlock replaced the compress which John had removed to undress.
"Thanks," the doctor smiled. "I'll need to call Sarah, though. Tell her I won't be in for a while."
"I'll call her," Sherlock said.
"No. Don't."
"Why not?"
"I know how you get with her. You'll most likely say something I'll regret."
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"I'll text her instead, then."
"Just a quick 'John has food poisoning, he won't be in for about a week' is fine."
Sherlock quickly unlocked John's phone (which John didn't even want to question) and typed out a text to Sarah.
"There. The deed is done."
"Oo-hoo!" Mrs. Hudson called from outside the room. "I've got tea."
The landlady came into the bedroom with a nicely arranged tea-tray, the cups lightly clattering on their saucers.
"Thanks, Mrs. H," John said. "I'll pass, though."
The woman nodded.
"Any for you, Sherlock?"
Sherlock shook his head.
"No. I'm fine."
Mrs. Hudson shrugged.
"Well alright then. I'll leave the tray on the table, then. Get well dear," she said to the ill doctor.
"Cheers," John said as the landlady left the room.
"I think I'll get some sleep now," John said, his speech starting to slur a bit. "I'm feeling knackered."
"Would you like me to keep you company?" Sherlock asked.
"Nah. It's okay. I'll be fine."
"Alright. I'll be in the sitting room. Shout if you need anything; I'll be listening."
John closed his eyes.
"Will do. Thanks."
Sherlock smiled.
"Anything for my blogger."