Archive of Our Own

When he wakes up with his head feeling like it is splitting in two, Sherlock just shrugs. He has had only a couple of hours sleep for the past week since Lestrade brought him the current case and he can’t remember the last time he ate. He thinks he must have, or John would have been shouting at him more, but it will only have been enough to keep the other man off his back. So he surreptitiously takes a couple of paracetamol and shouts at John to follow him as he races out of the door.

*****

As they climb into the taxi Sherlock is aware that his coat and scarf don’t seem to be as warm as normal. Despite their protection he is shivering and trying to avoid curling into himself on the backseat for warmth. He mustn’t let John see him affected. He needs to concentrate, needs to think and he won’t be able to do that with a doctor fussing over him. Besides, it is January and it is windy, surely he’s allowed to feel cold?

*****

By the time they arrive at the cordoned off car park he is struggling to talk and walk. Fortunately he can hide his lack of speech with his usual brusqueness and just hopes that the heaving of his chest isn’t too obvious under his layers of clothes. If he waits longer than normal to berate Anderson about his lack of observation then he doesn’t think it is noticed. If it is, it could be put down to distraction rather than the constriction in his chest. After all, the half mile from where the taxi dropped them had been uphill, he was allowed to feel tired.

*****

As he stalks away from the crime scene having delivered his deductions in what he hopes was his normal, waspish manner he is conscious of John hurrying behind him. As he turns the corner, suddenly realising he can’t keep up this pace, he is glad the other man is close. Turning, he sees blackness clouding the edges of his vision.
“John, I don’t feel w...” and as the blackness grips him he is just aware of strong arms guiding him to the ground.

*****

There were snatches where he almost knew where he was. He was aware of being bundled into a car. A taxi he assumed, he thought he could hear the click of a camera and assumed it must be Lestrade. Why did that man keep taking photos of him when he was vulnerable? Maybe he should speak to someone about it, the man was obviously repressed.
The only constant he knew was the arm around his shoulders, holding him close, supporting him. Keeping him safe as he let the blackness take him.

*****

As he came to Sherlock was aware of a feeling of warmth surrounding him. Without opening his eyes he took in his surroundings. Hard, slightly lumpy leather surface below him – the sofa in their living room. The softness over him was familiar too. He opened his mouth and was surprised to hear a slight tremor in his voice.

“If this blanket is orange, I swear I am going to burn it.”

Pushing it aside he sat up onto the edge of the sofa.

And swayed as an alarming dizziness overtook him and the room seemed to spin. He shook his head, closing his eyes but when he risked opening them again the room was irritatingly failing to keep still.

Trying to ignore the sensation that his legs were made of rubber and the floor was jerking beneath him, he stood, threw the blanket down behind him and set off for his room.

At least that was the plan. Instead, he stood, staggered and heard John shout “Sherlock” just before appearing in his vision. His friend seemed torn between supporting him and pushing him back onto the seat. Frustration won and a sight accompanied the movement as John swung his legs up onto the sofa and began tucking the blanket around him. Sherlock could almost hear him clucking his tongue, but had to put this down to his imagination.

“John.” Sherlock attempted to push him away and was frustrated to see how ineffectual his strength was.

“Sherlock, you collapsed”

“I know, I..”

“In the street, and you hadn’t been well all day. Why you had to go all the way across London to advise on that ridiculous case in the state you were in is beyond me.”

“I was fine.” Sherlock crossed his arms glared at John.

“Well, the situation you are in now shows how blatantly untrue that is. And don’t think for a minute that you fooled me earlier. I saw you shaking in the taxi, and sweating too. I wasn’t sure you were going to make it to the car park.”

“But...”

“But nothing. Would you ask for help? Would you admit that maybe just this once I could do something for you? No. Because you’re bloody Sherlock Holmes and you don’t need anyone!”

Sherlock leant back against the cushions, shutting his eyes. His headache, eased by the painkillers earlier had returned with a vengeance and every word from John seemed to ricochet around his brain.

He could almost sense when John noticed this discomfort and concern overcame anger. The doctor dropped to his knees and a blissfully cool hand was against Sherlock’s forehead, soothing him while John’s voice, now much softer continued to berate him gently.

“If you would only look after yourself, or let me look after you, you wouldn’t end up in this state.”

*****

Sherlock leant back against the pillows. Despite himself he felt soothed by the presence of John by his side. He knew he should be up. It was ridiculous letting some inconsequential virus get the better of him when he should be out there preventing crimes. But just at this moment his brain warred with his body and for once his body, usually the victim, won.

To show willing he tried to sit up. But a ridiculously small amount of pressure from John on his chest kept him flat on the sofa. He sighed, his body was failing him, he would have to rely on reason to get himself out of the situation.

His voice was more feeble than he would have liked but he had faith that he could still persuade John in to whatever he wanted. “John...”

“Sherlock, if you say one word to try and convince me to let you up and out of here, I swear I’m going to lock all the doors and windows and remove the keys.

“And before you say that you could overcome those difficulties, and I’m sure you could, I’ve let Mycroft and Lestrade know that you are sick and unavailable for the next week. They are both in agreement with me and are more than willing to ensure that you stay here.” John’s arms were crossed but a smile softened his words. “Now lie back and I’ll get you a drink.”

Sherlock lay back, quietly fuming but aware that in his current state there was little he could do. Almost before he knew it John was next to him again, a steaming cup in his hands. Sherlock looked at him questioningly.

“Lemsip. Come on, it’ll help.”

Sherlock sat up and reached out for the mug. He wanted to say no, wanted to refuse but the smell of lemon was enticing and he was still cold despite the blanket. As he reached over a paroxysm of coughing shook him and John put the mug down to support his friend.

As the shaking subsided Sherlock leant back again, John was sitting next to him now, supporting him and pressing the mug towards him again. He knew it shouldn’t but Sherlock sipped from the mug and carried on drinking.

“You do realise of course, Doctor, that this will make little difference to the virus in my system, and in fact is unlikely to alter the duration of my illness in any significant way.” It wasn’t his best he knew, but it was as good as he could manage at present.

John’s smile told him that the other man realised this too.

“Oddly enough Sherlock, I do know that. However, it contains decongestant and paracetamol. It will bring your temperature down and make your symptoms more bearable. Now drink.”

Sherlock sighed, he’d finished the mug already, his stab at defiance outweighed by the comfort the drink had brought him. Now he found himself leaning more heavily against John. His eyes were closing and he couldn’t keep them open.

“Just sleep, I’ll be here when you wake.” Were the last words he heard.