Chapter Text
"Sir. He's asleep. The freak fell asleep. At a crime scene."
"Good lord, really? Come on. I know it's not the most interesting case, but it can't be that boring. Don't even know the cause of death!"
"Look at him! He's drooling all over the floor!"
"Christ... come on, Donovan. I'll call him a cab; you see if you can get him up. Preferably without hitting him, please."
"Spoilsport..."
...
"...Inspector?"
"Yes?"
"I... think something's wrong."
It took, by Greg's estimation, a record-breaking eleven minutes, for John to make it over from the clinic. He suspected the invisible hand of Mycroft, and some highly illegal manipulation of traffic lights.
"I'm so sorry," he tried to apologise, leading the way under a stretch of crime scene tape. "I'm sorry, mate, I wouldn't have called, but-"
"-but it's Sherlock. I know."
Yep, Greg sighed inwardly, his shoulders sinking. That just about summed it up.
It's Sherlock.
Donovan had wasted no time in maneuvering Sherlock back to rest against the corner, as far away from any evidence as they could manage. Just what, exactly, it was that was wrong with him, Greg didn't know- but he was borderline incoherent, now, whimpering when jostled, and mumbling even when just left alone.
His skin radiated an aura of such heat that even Donovan looked disturbed.
John didn't look disturbed. John was outright worried the very instant he stepped in the room.
"Sherlock. Sherlock." He knelt down at the slumped form, tapping at his face with one firm hand. "Open your eyes for me?"
The detective made an attempt at mumbling. He didn't even get close to opening his eyes.
"Sherlock," John instructed again, this time in a voice that brokered no room for argument. "It's me. It's John. Come on. Give me a deduction."
"...ser... syringe. Syringe." Sherlock's free hand flapped, fingers wriggling across the room until John caught that one, too. "Under the loose... the..."
From the other side of the room, already collected, bagged, and tagged, was indeed the murder weapon: one lonely, dejected syringe. From underneath the loose floorboard, by Donovan, who still sat there in mid-sulk about it.
Somehow, Greg really wasn't surprised that Sherlock deduced in his sleep.
Er. Fever-induced delirium. Whichever.
John continued his rapid-fire examination, encouraging Sherlock to keep mumbling as he did so. Ever a good doctor, he moved quickly, a firm hand pressed from his throat to his eyes to his hair, forcing Sherlock's head up. He wrangled for the knot of his scarf, tugging it loose and free, then held up a finger before Sherlock's nose and chided, "No. No, Sherlock," when the detective tried to fumble for it back.
"Should I call an ambulance...?"
"No," John sighed, long-suffering and tired. "No, I think- home. I'll listen to his breath sounds there, maybe hospital then, but for now-" He pressed the back of his hand to Sherlock's hot forehead, quirk of a frown worrying deeper. "Yeah. Home." He cleared his throat, prodding the detective's face upwards again. "Sherlock?"
Sherlock's head rolled back, a loose tumble of damp curls spilled messily over the doctor's hand. He murmured something, something that sounded suspiciously close to Jawn...?
"Come on, you bloody wanker. Up. Up."
"...'s wife... Geoff, 'n... they need-"
"No, Sherlock, it's straight to bed, for you. They don't need you if all you can do is fall asleep at the scene." John tugged a few buttons loose against Sherlock's mumbled protests, all quick and business-like, then started to try and tug a limp arm up around him.
Sherlock continued to not cooperate in the slightest, his flushed, warm limb flopping about like a dead fish. His head dropped to John's other hand, nuzzling against it with one bright red cheek.
And just like that, John's firm professionalism gave way, and the stern expectancy on his face crumbled right into honest concern.
"What the hell, Sherlock? You had to realise you didn't feel well; why'd you do this? Why didn't you tell me?" He nudged at Sherlock's face again, loosening the heavy overcoat even at the uncoordinated flapping the effort got in what was probably meant to be a protest. "No, Sherlock, talk to me. You must've been running a fever before you left the flat!"
But these words garnered little more than a sloppy frown, those bright, exotic eyes still flickering. They were watery and bloodshot, half-lidded at best, and rolled sightlessly over from Greg to John without focusing on them at all. His brow furrowed, right in time with an even sleepier frown.
"John said not to," he mumbled at last, face crinkling with confusion. "He said... 'no time to babysit today, Sh'lock.'"
Greg winced. John winced even worse.
Even half-conscious, miserably ill, and all the way asleep, Sherlock had somehow managed to fight out a halfway passable, defiantly unmistakable, impersonation of John's accent.
"Jesus..." John buried his face in his hand for a breath, voice heavy and shoulders hunched with sudden, horrible guilt. "Sherlock-" Suddenly, John grabbed for the detective again, palming his face and tilting it back and forth until a flash of irritated eyes finally landed back on him.
"That meant I wasn't going to steal nitric acid from Bart's for you, you daft tosser! I didn't know you were sick!" John shook him again, now gripping his shoulders to haul Sherlock up off the wall in an awkward sort of hug, albeit one where the detective was closer to a loose-limbed mannequin than an active participant. "That never, ever applies when you're sick, Sherlock, do you understand me?"
Sherlock blinked fuzzily, glazed and bloodshot and absolutely not all there. He stared to John, slumped with lethargy, his eyes narrowing and his mouth in a constant state of sleepy, befuddled frown.
"John?" he murmured at last. Like a doll with its strings cut, he folded over in the middle, long, lanky limbs crumbling into John's lap and forehead meeting his shoulder.
"...yeah?"
"If you're babysitting again," Sherlock sighed, those soft, tired words just edging their way into a slur, "then I'd like a cup of tea."