Chapter Text
It was Wednesday afternoon when Sherlock first suspected that something was wrong.
He didn’t have any cases on at the moment. To stave off boredom he was hacking a government website to ascertain a theory about a suspect in a cold case he had read about in the newspaper - not in Lestrade’s district, and thus unreachable, but still interesting. His throat started to tickle a bit. He cleared it. Still tickling. Cleared again, but to no avail. A bit not good. He stopped what he was doing, steepling his hands in front of his mouth, thinking. This was almost certainly the start of something he wouldn’t like - probably a cold. Short of zinc there was nothing he could do to get rid of it, and that had been shown to have negative impacts on sense of smell, and he needed all of his sense to properly deduce. Oh, well. It would have to be mind over matter.
John arrived home at 7:00pm, annoyingly chipper after a productive day. With a glance Sherlock noted that had chatted up some mid-30s brunette and had her number tucked in his coat pocket. By that time Sherlock was certain there was a virus lodged in the back of his throat, reproducing steadily. Both the probable virus and the chatting up of the brunette annoyed him - the latter for reasons he couldn’t quite put his finger on. John made tea, which Sherlock drank at a scalding temperature to block out the ticklish feeling. He needed to prepare for ways to occupy his mind while whatever was going on his body played out.
“Any new cases?” he asked John. John clicked through his mobile but shook his head.
“No new emails since earlier in the week. Have you heard anything from Lestrade?” Sherlock ignored him, strode into his bedroom, and shut the door. He hacked back into the website and continued reading up on his suspect, wondering if he should send the results of his research to the police or a journalist. He knew what John would say.
He was up until 1am writing a convincing report which he dispatched to Lestrade. Let him decide what to do with it, Sherlock was just happy to have his answers. He asked for additional cold cases if there were any. By the time he was shucking off his clothes and laying in bed it felt like his entire respiratory tract was on fire. Better to think about something else.
______________________
The next morning John noticed that Sherlock was acting a bit off, even for Sherlock. John was up, showered, and reading the newspaper when the man wandered out into the sitting room in his dressing gown.
“Cases?” he asked, voice a bit rough.
“None to speak of,” John said. “Things must be quiet, coming up on the holidays.”
Sherlock hummed in response as he made himself a cup of tea. He poured hot water out of the kettle and then heated it up an additional 30 seconds, dunking the tea bag in and adding sugar after. John quirked his eyebrow at the extra heating on the tea. It had to be near boiling. After a moment of consideration he decided it was better not to ask.
“Since I don’t have to go in to the surgery today,” John continued, “I thought I’d go out and do a bit of Christmas shopping. D’you want to come?” Lately John had noticed he had been able to get Sherlock to do sociable things sometimes. While it wasn’t always easy, John suspected that it was good for Sherlock and John found himself enjoying spending time with him. It was hard to admit, but he found himself increasingly fond of the man.
This time Sherlock’s hum was negative. “I’ve got to stop by Bart’s and check on some experiments,” he said. His voice was hoarse and John narrowed his eyes. Sherlock thought he was generally unobservant - a thought he had about 99.99% of the human race, so it wasn’t overly insulting. But John was a doctor and by now quite familiar with his flatmate. Sherlock looked paler than usual and his eyes were watery.
Had Sherlock started using again somehow? John folded down his newspaper. “Everything all right?” he asked.
Sherlock scoffed. “Fine,” he said. “If you give me 20 minutes to get ready we can share a cab.”
“Sure,” John agreed. Something wasn’t right about Sherlock and it would bear watching.
_________
Sherlock knew without looking that John was watching him carefully on the cab ride. His throat and chest burned distractingly and he could feel malaise building up in his muscles. John was slightly more observant than the general population - which was not saying much - but on top of it was a doctor. Sherlock strongly suspected that if John realized he was sick he would suggest limiting activities, just as he suggested mundane things like eating and sleeping. Perhaps even insist upon. More and more John had suggestions on personal care and ideas on what Sherlock should be doing differently. More and more Sherlock found himself wanting to incrementally adjust what he was doing to accommodate John’s suggestions and ideas. It was a disturbing development. No, it would be better if he could keep his symptoms a private matter. Thus, Sherlock endeavored not to snivel in front of John and was relieved when the cab reached Bart’s.
He swept into the laboratory, removing his coat and scarf, and found that Molly was already there. “Do you have the sample I’ve been waiting on?” he asked without preamble.
“Hello, Sherlock,” she said, smiling. “The last one’s in the refrigerator on its own marked SH1233.”
Sherlock grabbed that sample and the other 7 he would need. He started to set up the specimens so he could see the long-term impact of mild acid on human skin. It had taken him weeks to collect samples from bodies of about the same age and gender. He set them up systematically, prepared to examine each one under the microscope. It was at this point that his nose started leaking. He sniffled surreptitiously but it quickly became clear that wasn’t going to cut it. He spun on his stool and reached his long arm behind him to find some paper towels, blew his nose loudly, and tried to get back to work. The nasal dripping continued and he slammed his fist down on the counter.
Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Molly startling across the lab. “Everything ok?” she asked.
“Fine,” he said for the second time that day.
“You sound like you might be coming down with something.”
“It’s nothing,” Sherlock insisted, cringing internally when the “n” came out sound like a “d.” He picked up a stack of slides, preparing to transfer the newest sample onto one of them. It was unfortunate that at that moment he sneezed twice, sending slides flying onto the counter and floor. The ones that hit the counter survived but the others shattered into dozens of pieces. He pinched the bridge of his nose.
“I’ll just get something to sweep that up,” said Molly. “Are you sure you should be experimenting with acid right now?”
“I’m sure I should be doing something useful that’s going to contribute to scientific knowledge and help me solve cases,” he snipped at her. Sherlock sneezed again and honked his nose loudly into a paper towel. He watched Molly sweep and wondered if she knew the man she’d spent the night with was dating other women. Experience told him it was best not to ask at this juncture. Now that the sneezing seemed to be under control he moved on to mixing the acid solution to apply to the samples. He got into a rhythm of checking each sample under the microscope, making notations, and applying the acid, pausing now and then to sneeze and blow his nose. With his mind engaged and humming away it was far easier to ignore the annoying symptoms. When Molly paused what she was doing to look at him and started to open her mouth, he uncorked a glare at her that made her shut it and head back to the other side of the lab.
When he finished all applications and notes he set an alarm on his mobile to signal when he needed to be back by the lab that afternoon to check the progression of the samples. Then he put together a file of information on bodies that had recently come in as well as borrowing a research journal that he was sure Molly wouldn’t miss until later. That should do well to entertain him at home. In addition to the rapidly stuffing nose, he was loathe to notice that body aches had kicked in full force since he’d been at the lab. If he had the flat to himself it might do to sit down for a bit.
_________
The Christmas shopping was a total success. Being a weekday, most people were at work and he was able to make his way quickly through his list. It was snowing, which probably also kept the crowds away and added nicely to the holiday atmosphere. He got a nice scarf for Mrs. Hudson and even found a suitable novel that he thought Harry would enjoy. The only person he hadn’t found anything for was Sherlock, who would probably laugh at him for wanting to give a Christmas gift in any case.
John made his way up the stairs weighed down with parcels. It was past lunchtime and his stomach was rumbling. When he let himself into the flat he was shocked to find Sherlock lying on the couch, asleep. He was curled on his side, with some papers he had clearly been reviewing sliding from his hand and onto the floor. What’s more he was snoring at an absurd volume. John had seen him fall asleep while doing work before, mostly during cases when he didn’t sleep for several days, followed by an inevitable collapse. But he had never, not once in their time as flatmates, heard the man snore. John put down his bags and drew closer to Sherlock to cast a doctor’s eye on him. He looked pale still, but for smudges of pink high on his cheekbones. Even in sleep his eyes looked puffy, and John could swear even from a distance that he noticed a swelling on his neck where his lymph nodes were.
There was an almost audible click in John’s brain as his observations formed an actual deduction. He thought Sherlock was coming down with a first-rate case of what the doctors at the clinic were jokingly calling “clu.”
John had coined the ridiculous name. He had noticed an odd pattern 3 weeks ago when he sent 4 suspected cases of influenza in for testing and 3 of them came back negative. John prided himself on being a decent diagnostician and was surprised at his imprecise ability to identify a common ailment. He brought it up with Ryan Boroughs and Lisa Glenn, physicians who were often on clinic duty with him.
“I just don’t get it. It presents like a case of flu. Headache, bad sore throat, congestion. Sometimes coughing. Fever, but not high. And almost all of them came back negative for flu.”
“I think I just saw one with this, actually,” said Lisa. “I sent it to the lab but it seems a milder flu than I would expect. Bet you it comes back negative, based on this. l tell you though this guy’s glands were swollen all to hell. His throat looked terrible but strep came back negative, too.”
“Really?” said Ryan. “You know, now that you mention it I’ve had a lot of patients with that. Several negative strep tests with bad cold symptoms as well. But, yeah, the swollen lymph nodes.”
Ruminating on his other life looking for clues with Sherlock, John blurted out “yeah, it’s like a weird cold-flu hybrid. Clu you might call it.”
“Yeah as in we haven’t got a clue what to do about it,” laughed Lisa. “You can’t give antibiotics or Tamiflu for that.”
John had seen at least a dozen more cases since then. He had put together a mental profile of whatever virus it was: all the normal sneezing, coughing, stuffy nose, sore throat and headache of a cold, as well as swollen lymph nodes, body aches, and mild fever, even in adults. Still, it was nothing to laugh about. Two cases had actually progressed to bronchitis, one to pneumonia. John would bet anything that Sherlock was showing early symptoms of a miserable virus that he wouldn’t be able to do anything about.
John felt a surge of tenderness for his flatmate. Sherlock could be difficult to live with, but he was fascinating in a way John never could have imagined prior to knowing him. Once you got past the experiments in the kitchen, the body parts in the refrigerator, having his research strewn over the entire flat, and you looked deeper at his intelligence, his passion, it was easy to start to like him - well, easy for John anyway. And certainly John had been enjoying solving crimes with him. There was nothing in the world like watching him deduce. John had a feeling there would probably be nothing like trying to help him when he was sick, either.
Well, Sherlock would wake up eventually, and John thought he should be around when he did. In the meantime, he made himself a sandwich, and sat down with a good book.
_______
An urgent beeping sound jolted Sherlock from a dead sleep. He reached over to grab his mobile without opening his eyes, and ended up in an undignified heap on the floor. He snaked his arm up to get the phone off the coffee table and quickly disabled the alarm. He needed to head to Bart’s to check on the experiments.
He sat up and his eyes met John’s, as his flatmate was examining him from across the room in his usual chair. “I see your shopping was a success,” Sherlock croaked. He hoisted himself to his feet with as much dignity as he could manage, straightening his suit once he was in a standing position. His head was spinning and his nose was starting to run again in a distinctly irritating fashion, both down the back of his throat and out of his nasal cavity. Disgusting. He headed toward the coat rack, calling over his shoulder “I’m off to Bart’s!”
John was standing up now, making his way across the room. “Nope,” he said.
“What do you mean, ‘nope’?” I didn’t ask you anything.” Sherlock shrugged into his coat as John stepped in front of the door.
“You’re not going anywhere. You look bad and you sound even worse. You’re sick. Get back on the sofa.”
“I don’t get sick,” Sherlock clipped.
“Everyone gets sick sometimes.”
“Not me. Other people give in to it. I just don’t give in to it. There’s significant evidence that how you think about what is happening to your body determines what is happening to your body.”
“Oh. Great. Point me to the research article showing determined genuises can’t get sick. I must have missed that one. What does it say? ‘Mad scientist reports mad scientists not vulnerable to common germs?’”
“Don’t be ridiculous, John. Look, I’ve been collecting the appropriate skin samples for weeks. I’m going to go and check on them.”
John pressed his lips together. “That’s a bad idea. It’s freezing cold and snowing out. No matter what you say, you can’t feel well sounding the way you do. Why don’t you sit down for a minute and let me look you over?”
John’s concern, warmly and plainly expressed, weakened both Sherlock’s knees and his resolve. “It’s actually warming up outside,” Sherlock protested. “The snow will be melted by tomorrow. If I let you look me over, can I go?”
“It depends on what I find out. Why don’t you text Molly and ask her to look after the experiment for you?” John glanced at his watch. “I bet she’s still there.”
Sherlock knew what John was going to find out. In the beat of a few moments he took took a full-body inventory: headache; blocked sinuses; post-nasal drip; sore, inflamed tonsils with accompanying swollen lymph nodes; developing chest congestion; full body aches; and a probable temperature of at least 38 degrees. The odds of John letting him leave the flat following an examination were less than 15%.
“After I go to the lab I’ll let you check me over,” Sherlock bargained. John gave an exasperated sigh. “Come on, John, I’ve got to go! If I don’t get there by 5:00 it will invalidate the experiment.”
“I’m coming with you, then.”
“Fine,” Sherlock said, wrapping his scarf around his neck. “Hurry and get your coat on.”
Instead, John made a beeline for the stairs to his room first. Sherlock didn’t have to ask why and he certainly wasn’t surprised when John returned with his doctor’s bag. The last thing Sherlock wanted was for another person to know how badly his body was betraying him, but if letting John bring the absurd bag with him would get Sherlock to the lab faster, so be it.