A/N: Another little ficlet between the 'Senses' series updates.

I decided to write a cute little sick!fic because I'm currently battling a very persistent and very exhausting head cold. Runny noses and migraines for me, sadly…

And three days before my birthday too… ;)

Anyways, hope you enjoy this short bit of fluff; review if you'd be so kind!

Warning: We all love John but I must say he is a bit not good in this. I'm sorry if he or I offend any readers; no one is a happy camper while sick and thus we forget our morals and politeness. John also has a terribly foul mouth. Tsk Tsk Tsk…

I'm Not a Doctor

John was thoroughly convinced that whoever had decided to create man was either a very moronic or ironic or sadistic being. He had given them the place and tools to live perfectly well yet added in that terrible tree with the apple of knowledge so one day a fucking snake – didn't see that one coming, no not at all – could tempt a naive young lady into taking a bite. A bite of fruit was all it took to sod things up and fuck humanity over.

All because of one bad apple.

Now, as he heaved out the last bits of stomach acid and orange juice from his already screaming body, John cursed apples, higher beings, food in general and the bloody irony of doctors getting sick.

Sherlock stood in the doorway, trying to look less… panicked. "I told you to stay away from the sushi, John." He didn't like how his words were shaking, as if he were the one which had given his friend food poisoning. Guilt was a sentimental emotion. Sentiment was to be squashed, killed before it had the chance to grow and spread like a weed, extracted like-

Then he watched as the uncharacteristically pale-faced man regurgitated another bit of nothing at all and he decided to, for the first time he could remember, turn off the internal lecturing, focus only on John, and try desperately to make him feel better.

Except he wasn't sure how to.

"John, I need your help."

The man slouched over the toilet groaned, "Oi, still kind of sick here, mate."

"Yes, obviously, but John I need your help with… this. I don't exactly know how to manage this, I'm not a doctor."

With a final moment over that damnable porcelain bowl, John decided he was thoroughly finished puking; better to quit now before he started coughing out vital organs or something. He stood up and, while washing his face slowly, wondered at Sherlock's statement. Obviously he cared, was obviously out of his depth trying to deal with a 'patient'; John wasn't as dense as everyone else, the man was no sociopath. But how could Sherlock help… then, as the drops of cold water splashed against his cheeks like tiny icicles, he had a simply brilliant idea.

"Sherlock, I'd like to sit on the couch with a warm blanket."

The man who had been carefully contemplating what chemical combination would best eliminate the nasty bacteria which caused food poisoning brightened and nodded determinedly, like he had just been told he was to embark on some dangerous overseas mission. Immediately jumping up to retrieve the wooly afghan cover from his bedroom, Sherlock disappeared from the bathroom.

When the detective came into the living room he found John sitting on the long couch with his knees perched in front of him. It was a strange look, to see someone other than himself all scrunched up and contorted. Combined with his sickly complexion and unkept hair, the position made the ex-soldier look almost childlike. Something funny stirred in the pits of Sherlock's stomach and he wondered for a briefly terrified second if food poisoning was contagious.

"Sherlock?"

The tall man, who still stood under the threshold of the living room, raised his eyebrows expectantly, not trusting himself to speak.

"Are you going to just stand there with the blanket or are you going to come over here and sit with me?"

John's scratchy voice was almost teacherly, like an adult asking a child some rhetorical question. Not an order, but certainly not something one could say no to. Sherlock's black oxfords carried him to the couch, where he proceeded to throw the blanket over John and sit himself beside the sick man.

As though he were on autopilot, the curly-haired genius simply sat there, looking down. He saw his trouser-clad knees - the lines in the fabric complimented his shape when he walked, he knew that – he saw John's dark blue socks peeking out from below the fabric – those socks were soft, he knew because he had 'borrowed' a similar pair from his flat-mate just last week – he could see…

Sherlock's thoughts and deductions trailed off as he felt the blanket land over him. It was soft but felt scratchy on his neck. Following the fall of the blanket, he felt John's arm circle his shoulders and was pulled down slowly only to land his forehead on that warm shoulder.

Feeling the words tickle the crown of his head, he heard John whisper, "much better. This is exactly what I needed, love."

With a small smile and a twinge of pride, the great consulting detective of Bakers Street sought out and captured that tanned hand and held it in his own, feeling the smooth skin under his thumb, feeling that lovely pulse beneath his fingers.

He decided that, if only in this special case, he made a superb doctor.