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John awoke feeling very hung over, which was terribly unfair as he’d only had a couple of pints the night before and had dutifully left the pub shortly after the bell rang for last orders. His head ached and he felt queasy, and slightly shivery. He made it to the kitchen on autopilot for tea, placing a mug in front of Sherlock who was lying on the sofa, and decided that breakfast would be pushing it for both of them.
“Morning,” he offered to his prone flatmate. Sherlock did not respond. Still thinking, then. It had been about 14 hours since he spoke; John assumed his thoughts must be terribly interesting. Shaking his head and then regretting it as the headache registered a protest, he headed for the shower.
The full extent of illness came on very suddenly. It was like he had been hit in the head with an invisible lumphammer. One minute he was towelling off his hair, the next he was reeling under the onslaught of dizziness and dark, spotty vision. He grabbed the basin for support and yelled for his flatmate, easing himself to the floor and tugging the towel into place for modesty. He yelled again. Nothing. His vision cleared and he wondered about getting himself back to bed, but when he moved the thudding in his head doubled. He drew a deep breath, noting that his lungs seemed somehow smaller than before.
“Sherlock! Get in here!”
Finally the door swung open and there was Sherlock, giving him a frustrated glare.
"I'm very busy," he snapped.
"Yeah, well, I'm sick," replied John testily. "And I don't want to lie here on the bathroom floor all day, so get me back to bed and you can go back to your very important thinking."
“If you’re well enough to snap at me...”
“Just help me!”
Sherlock gave a sigh that would have befitted the last martyr in heaven, and reached down to grip John's arm and tug him to his feet. John squeezed his eyes shut preemptively against the renewed pain in his head, but then his arm was released and he felt a cool hand on his face, knuckles pressing into his cheek. He opened his eyes to see a concerned expression looking down at him.
"John, you're burning up," said Sherlock. John shook his head.
"It'll be a 24 hour bug," he said. "It's fine, I just need to sleep it off. Can you help me back to bed?"
Sherlock took John's arm over his shoulder this time, but as they stood John swayed and the world seemed to swim. Sherlock was giving him a considering look, and before John could say "Now hold on a minute" had literally swept him off his feet, that disguised strength making cradling his compact but stocky flatmate seem effortless. Distractedly he realised that he’d left the towel behind but Sherlock swept out without a word and through into his own bedroom. He laid John carefully on the bed, muttering that he would find it easier to get to the bathroom without navigating the stairs, and John sank into the blissfully cool sheets without complaint as Sherlock tugged the cover over him. He could feel himself beginning to drift.
“What do you need?” Sherlock was asking.
“Just a bug,” replied John blearily. “Ask Mrs Hudson if she has lemsip, that would be nice.”
“Lemsip, right.”
“And water?”
“Of course.”
John drifted away into a gentle darkness as the thudding in his head became overwhelming. Just as he as on the edge of oblivion he felt solid pressure under his shoulders, and cool water on his lips, and then there was nothing.
John awoke to a damp cloth being pressed to his head. He ached all over, his skin was clammy and his mind seemed to be mired in fog. He had to have been sleeping for hours, possibly days. The cloth swept over his face and he blinked his eyes open, his eyelashes tight and gammy, doing their best to stick together. It was late: the room was dark, the only light coming from the streetlights shining through the window. He rolled his head to one side, unable to summon the strength to sit up, expecting to see Mrs Hudson there.
Instead, Sherlock smiled gently at him through the shadows. “Welcome back.”
John frowned, and Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I am capable of taking care of one sick friend, you know.”
“Mrs Hudson’s away?” John guessed, although his words came out as a harsh rasp. Sherlock shifted closer and pressed a glass of water to his lips, and he sipped obediently.
“The fact that Mrs Hudson is visiting her sister is entirely beside the point,” Sherlock said. “Anyway, she can’t diagnose. John, you have flu. I have Mike running tests to isolate the strain, I would have done it myself, but I was needed here.” He looked absurdly pleased with himself at besting John’s own diagnosis of “minor bug”.
“The case...”
“Solved.” Sherlock beamed. “You have the grand gift of silence, John, but never more so than when you are unconscious, which you have been for hours at a time, aside from coughing and various bodily needs, and the four sets of sheets you’ve been through.”
“Four...”
“You sweat rather profusely while feverish, and your temperature only dropped this afternoon. I didn’t want you to be uncomfortable, so I changed the sheets and your pyjamas. You’ve run out, by the way, it’s going to have to be proper t-shirts if you need more.”
“Thank...” John realised the implications of Sherlock changing his clothes, and blushed. Sherlock actually tutted.
“For goodness’ sake, there’s nothing to be ashamed of. Anatomy is just...”
“Transport, yeah.” John coughed. “Thanks.”
“Anyway, with you being indisposed, I have been able to draw my conclusions and solve the case remotely. Rather more fun to be running around, but we’ll just have to make up for that next time.”
“Oh.” John dropped his head back and closed his eyes. He felt the mattress dip as Sherlock leant forward, putting a hand to his forehead and then brushing through his hair lightly.
“Is there anything you need?” Sherlock asked. “You’re due for some more painkillers soon, I think it’s close enough. Would you like a lemsip?”
“Er...” John followed his gaze to the bedside cabinet, which was laden with flu medicine. Hot drink powders in three flavours, cold drink powders, day tablets and night tablets, capsules, liquid sachets, two varieties of decongestant medicine, nasal spray, medicated lozenges, Hall’s soothers, a bag of Fisherman’s Friends, and three boxes of balm tissues. He looked back at Sherlock.
“I didn’t know which was best,” Sherlock admitted, “so I bought everything they had. Did you know you can only by two paracetamol products at once? I had to go through the checkout five times. I’ve been sending Mrs Turner for top-ups. Since you’ve been semi-conscious at best for the last three days, I’ve been giving you the cold powder suspensions and the liquid medicine, but now you can report on them we can run some experiments and determine which are most effective for which symptoms.”
“Oh, good.” John began to cough more vigorously and Sherlock thrust a box of tissues at him.
“Maybe some more medicine?” he suggested.
“Lemsip would be nice,” replied John. “The berry one. Lots of honey. Do we have honey?”
“Of course we do,” replied Sherlock. “My mother used to make exquisite hot toddies, although I think you should be conscious a little longer before you try whisky. I’ve prepared some charts, you go ahead and start recording your symptoms. We’ll take them every hour. There’s a thermometer on the cabinet.”
“Glad you’re getting something out of it,” muttered John. Sherlock paused in the doorway and turned back, clutching a wild berry sachet.
“This is entirely for your own good,” he said. “The quicker we identify the optimum treatment, the better I can look after you.” He vanished into the living room, leaving John to doze. Sherlock woke him gently again a few minutes later with a sickly sweet paracetamol concoction in a mug and an arm under his shoulder to help him sit up. John obediently sipped at the warm drink, and then glanced up at Sherlock.
“You don’t have to look after me,” he said. Sherlock rolled his eyes.
“Don’t be daft,” he replied. “I’m doing this because I care, you know.”
John wasn’t sure what to do with that unusually blunt statement, so he sipped at his drink again. Then, because Sherlock showed no sign of moving, he let his head drop to rest heavily on Sherlock’s shoulder. The arm around his back tightened slightly in response.