My very first BBC'S 'Sherlock' fanfiction…Gosh, it took SUCH courage for me to post this. I honestly think it's very, VERY bad, and I did absolutely no justice towards the characters, but goodess, I tried my best. Just sadly, my best isn't very good. In fact, I commend you stop reading this right now, and go enjoy some much better 'Sherlock' fanfiction.. But if you still feel so inclined too, please let me know what you think. ..*Goes to hide in her hidy hole*..(updated 8/011, fixed for minor typeos and better grammatical flow. Thanks again for reading! :D)

It all began, as it all usually did, one dreary, rainy morning in London. Only this time, at the hospital. Sherlock Holmes had been standing in the waiting room for over an hour, his gray eyes scanning and scanning once more his rather boring and bland surroundings. According to him, the deep blue and obnoxiously green ceiling tiles counted to over 497; the chairs to be over 70, and the pens in the cup at receptionist's desk to be 43- 19 with missing caps, 20 of them dead out of ink, and four belonging to the mousy looking nurse who wouldn't stop staring at him. It was very rude. Is she so brain dead by the sheer drudgery of this infirmary that she forgot it was impolite?He thought to himself.

Sherlock gave a dramatic sigh. And as if the furniture wasn't bad enough in the room, at least those objects were remotely interesting compared to the actual people occupying it with him. With one swift glance, Sherlock had already concluded that almost all of them were in here lying about their medical insurance to get free STD's treatments. And that the few that were in here for actual emergencies were only in here by their own stupid, stupid, idiocy. For intelligent conversation, Sherlock was beginning to regret not asking Mrs. Hudson back for his skull.

Thankfully, the horrors didn't last long, for Sherlock's roomate, Doctor John Watson, shortly came walking up the sterilized hall. Sherlock greeted him quickly.

"John, I don't know how you can possibly stand it here. I'd get more stimulating conversation and visuals by talking to a corpse."

John sighed, shrugging off his medical coat and folding it over one arm, before turning back to his exasperated flatmate. "Sherlock, chances are you probably do get more stimulation by talking to corpses."

"Then you should have left me in the morgue." John rolled his eyes.

"I'll consider that for next time, but my shift is off and I'm off call for tonight. So may we leave?"

"I thought you'd never ask." Sherlock replied, moving down the hallway towards the doctor's wing exit- the waiting room being too much of a bother to maneuver through. Suddenly, Sherlock dug his gloved hands deep into his pockets. John suddenly stopped for a moment at his locker to return his coat and other medical items. When he was finished, he turned and asked:

"Hey, is it still raining outside?" Sherlock was stopped in his tracks as well, his eyes focused intently on his mobile, before he suddenly replied back to John in an annoyed tone of voice:

"How fantastic. Lestrade has already gave me yet another lovely text consisting of the most generalized rubbish and mediocre report of a crime scene I've ever-"

"And to think, all I wanted to know was the weather." John added under this breath. Sherlock's keen ears caught on fast.

"Oh? Yes, I do believe it's still raining out. You'll want to change shoes."

John sighed again, and re-opened his locker, pulling out his old trainers to replace his shiny work shoes. Sherlock glanced around once more, and his eyes suddenly spotted the most peculiar scene in front of him. Staring easily through a large, clear paned window, he took turns watching the people in the room stand around in a half-circled pattern. Someone in the center seemed to be making all sorts of rapid, wild, and simply ridiculously gestures, as if they had gone mad. The others seemed to only encourage this sort of behavior, for they all bickered and yelled and cheered in a crazed frenzy. There was so much movement and contortion going on, Sherlock was nearly at a lost on where to look first.

"John," Sherlock said passively, a small frown of frustration on his face, only turning slightly to face the doctor beside him, "What are those people doing in there?"

"What?" John asked, glancing up. A slow smile then spread across his face as he watched the madness ensue within the closed off room. "Oh, them?"

Sherlock nodded slowly, not taking his eyes off the now whooping man.

"They're playing Charades, from the look of it." Sherlock rapidly looked at his friend's face in rare confusion, and then back into the window panel.

"They're…playing?" Sherlock scoffed, plucking the new word out of John's vocabulary. " I knew games were degrading- but I never imagined…that." Sherlock commented quickly.

"Yes well," John laughed, bending down to tie up his trainers. "I suppose it does look rather silly to someone who doesn't know how to play."

Sherlock looked back at John, applauded. "And what makes you think I don't know how to..play?" He nearly tripped over the last word. It was extremely new to his lips.

"Because you've never even heard of the game before!" John chuckled again, now picturing Sherlock trying to enthrall himself in a party game. "I'm not a consulting detective, but even I could figure that out."

Sherlock quickly tossed his head away, suddenly disinterested in the view before him. "Why would I ever want to play such a game like that, anyway?" He made way for the exit. John walked after him, but then had to forcibly stop himself just before the exit, as Sherlock suddenly stopped in front of him, his mobile lighting up in his hands.

"Come on, John. Lestrade didn't request us at the crime scene, but I refuse to let him think that his 'reports' make up for my not being there." John sighed defeatedly. He was so looking forward to going home to a warm cup.

Making their way out into the crowed, sloshing streets, John watched as Sherlock remarked on and on about Lestrade's faulty information gathering, but he noticed something a-missed- something that only a doctor would really have the nerve to pick up on. Sherlock was renowned for never needing to take much of a breath when he ranted- but this was just odd. Sherlock was taking awkward breaths. John wiped his face with his jacket cuff, only to realize that he just upset his eye-sight further with cold, wet rain drops pressed across his face. He paused to clear his view.

"John?" Sherlock asked, looking back for his friend. John squinted his eyes in the rain once more. He could just be hearing things. Sherlock seemed perfectly fine from here. Perhaps it's just difficult even for someone as agile as Sherlock to get around in this kind of weather. John continued forward again, but still hung back a little, his train eyed suddenly curious to Sherlock's physical demeanor. He was definitely breathing abit heavier that was for certain.

At the crime scene, John did his best to not let his nurturing instinct get the best of him. And why should he, even if it did? Even if something was wrong with Sherlock, John knew there was a snowball chance in hell that the eccentric man would even allow any type of assistance.

The ruined room didn't seem to hold much evidence- a dusty window, some chipped wooden blocks. Apparently something extremely valuable had been stolen. But why someone was keeping such a valued item in here, John hadn't a clue. He simply watched as Sherlock made his away around the scattered and ransacked room. Suddenly, John noticed something and discreetly walked over to the detective.

"Are you shaking?" John observed, in a low voice so only Sherlock could hear him. He noticed Sherlock stiffen, although his hands still shook ever so slightly. John knew Sherlock was now trying to full control such movement. Quickly, Sherlock gripped at his shirt's sleeve and pulled it down to his knuckles.

"No." Sherlock whispered back, threateningly, though John found it odd that the rebuttal seemed more like Sherlock was taking to himself, than back to him. John quickly stepped away, and gave his temperous friend more space.

The minutes stalled by, and then finally, Lestrade called for everyone to leave. Sherlock wasn't listening of course, his concentration completely set on the destroyed room in front of him. John quickly reached out and shook Sherlock's arm. Suddenly the detective's head snapped up, as if he had just been awoken.

"What?"

"We have to leave, Sherlock. The weather's becoming too dangerous."

It took a few moments, but Sherlock finally obliged, and the two continued back home in the heavy rain.

"Hey," John finally managed out, his hand reaching out to touch Sherlock's profusely wet shirt, but then it recoiled back to his side. Sherlock quickly turned to look at him. "I'm sorry, about that. Back in there. Just...I can't help it, you know? Doctor and all."

Sherlock kept a steady stare, and John swallowed nervously, wishing he would blink. "I just noticed…are you…alright?"

"I'm fine, John. It's pouring out. It's only natural for one to be cold."

John nodded quickly in agreement. "Well, yeah, of course. But there's a difference between being cold, and catching one."

John watched Sherlock's nostrils' flare in contempt. "Are you implying that I am ill?"

"No- Well-," John broke Sherlock's gaze, twisting down at the small drops of rain falling from his laces. "It's just, you did some strange things in there. Things you wouldn't normally do."

"Oh?" A strange catch entered Sherlock's tone, his mood swinging from anger to surprise. "Perhaps you are developing a deducing scale of your own, John."

"Well, if I am, you're not going to like what I'm guessing."

"Try me."

"Your breathing. It's really unnatural, like you're having trouble. You're shaking, though, granted, you could just be cold. But then," John's blue eyes flicked back to Sherlock's. "When do you ever get cold?- And even thing, the strangest thing is that you're sweating. And you're swallowing, a lot. Does your throat hurt, by any chance?"

Sherlock studied John for a moment. A strange look of fascination, excitement, and complete surprise written across his face. Then they all disappeared into a serious expression of on acknowledgment.

"No."

"You're lying." John said simply, his pupil contracting a little. He could tell. As a doctor, he had a lot of practice of people lying. Many patients had a hard time confess to certain ailments, or their medical history. Sherlock, was no exception.

Sherlock titled his head to the side. "What did you say?"

"That you're lying."

There was a strong, weighted silence. John sighed, unable to bare it.

"Sherlock, I'm a doctor, I may not know when people lie in general-" Sherlock's stony expression caused John to crack further- "Okay, fine, I'm probably extremely gullible, most of the time. But the point is, try to give me credit when credit is due! You're sick, and..that's my diagnosis."

Sherlock simply turned on his heel. "When I want your diagnosis on me John, I'll askfor it. But I assure you, I'm fine."

John quickly moved after him, quite unsure how to recover the conversation now. Finally he decided to just drop the subject completely. It was like he was trying to convince himself of before. If Sherlock even is sick, he'll never accept help.

"You didn't play board games when you were little," John asked incredulously, as they moved through the crowded wet streets. "You and your- your older brother?" He always felt a bit weird mentioning Sherlock's brother to him. It was as if Sherlock didn't want to remember he had one.

"Mycroft and I?" Sherlock said in a bewildered tone. Then the detective was unusually quiet for a moment. John immediately backed off, wondering if that was going too far. He hated how easily Sherlock learned of his personal life- but as curious as John was himself, he couldn't bring himself to press Sherlock much.

"Right, sorry." John muttered. He hailed a cab as the rain pelted their backs harder, and the ride home remained just as still. Finally, whilst walking up the steps to reach their flat, Sherlock finally spoke again, causing John to narrowly slip on a puddle in front of him, in surprise.

"I believe Mycroft and I played one of those kinds of games once..." John slowly looked back at Sherlock as he pulled out the door's key. Sherlock then smiled a wicked smile. "It was…with little tiny ships, the object was to sink one another's ships, but you couldn't see your opposite's playing field-"

"Battle Ship?" John offered, twisting the key into place.

"Yes!" Sherlock laughed a strange laugh. "That's what it was called. It was dreadfully boring at first. But then Mycroft and I decided to make it finally interesting…"

The flat's door finally opened, and John welcomed the rush of warm air as the two men stepped inside. Sherlock, not even bothering to change his wet clothes, immediately sat down on the sofa, his long pale fingers pulling together in front of him.

"Sadly, Mummy took it away after our first round. I think that was the only game I ever…played." Sherlock screwed up his face once more over that very weird word. John shrugged off his drenched jacket and hung it on the staff.

"Took it away? Battle Ship? What did you two possibly do to it?"

"Oh nothing much. We just decided to ensure what the box said it did." John raised an eyebrow.
"We required the minute ships to quite literally blow up."

John couldn't hide the surprised look upon his face. "I see.."

"How does one play, Charades though?" Sherlock asked quietly from his spot on the sofa.

"Er?" John swiveled back around to face his flatmate. He quickly went over the generalized rules that he knew. "I could be wrong, though." He added nervously. "I haven't played in a while. But I'll have to admit, I am pretty good at it."

"Are you now?" A mysterious look lit up the eccentric man's face. "Well, why don't we play a round?"

John froze. "I thought you'd never want to play such a degrading game."

"I'm simply curious to how good you think you are."

"Fine, I'll try to guess any phrase you want."

"Alright." Sherlock agreed with a small smile. Slowly he raised up three fingers.

"Three words."

And then John was bombarded with such furious movement hat he was completely and utterly lost with whatever the hell Sherlock was trying to produce. Finally, after five minutes, John gave up.

"It was the psycho sympathetic cycle, John. And I thought you said you were good at Charades." John sighed, and just went into the kitchen. After a few hours, there was a knock at the door- and a very wet and angry looking Lestrade entered in.

"Holmes! We ran all the evidence, and you know what we found?"

"Yes, yes?" Sherlock shuddered impatiently from the sofa, trying to muffle a cough.

"Your sweat. You were sweating all over the bloody evidence!"

Sherlock's dark eyes narrowed to dangerously annoyed slits. "And you came all the way here to tell me this, because? Do you realize that in the time that you've just wasted now, this case might have been solved?"

"Mr. Holmes, I didn't stomp here in the pouring down rain without a purpose. I came to inform you that I'm not allowing you to re-enter this case, or any case that you'd prefer to investigate under my command." Sherlock Holmes gave a look of pure disgust from the couch.

"Besides, I'd say we've gotten pretty lucky about this. In the years I've known you, you haven't come down with anything to stop you from helping us out. And well, I think it's best you…" Lestrade stumbled over his words, meeting Sherlock scathing gaze and wording his response carefully. "…take a break. Just until you're well enough to not muck up the crime scene."

"I'm sorry, Sherlock." And with that, Lestrade closed the door softly, and his boots were heard wetly squeaking down the flat's steps.

John sighed, running a hand through his now damped hair. All the tension in the room was making him quite nervous. He'd never seen Sherlock told to not work a case before, and was quite unsure how the detective's reaction would pan out.

"Well, I know you're bored, but, think of it this way- you've gone over five years- years Sherlock, of not having anything even close to a case of the sniffles! That's extraordinary for someone's immune system to not be breached in such a long period of time." John paused, glancing quickly out of the corner of his eye to see his flatmate sitting up defensively on the couch, his arms crossed across his chest, like a sulking child. He wetly sniffled, as if to add to this charm.

John then continued. "Especially with how ruthless you are to your body to begin with. It's really extraordinary." John began to mutter to himself now, as he tidied up the room. "Everything about you, really."

Sherlock said nothing in return. John only regarded it as him being too angry to speak. It would make sense with the black moods he sometimes fell into. John sighed, his thoughts already consumed on how to take care of Sherlock- a man who would rather be held to gun point, then enter the hospital as a patient- which, in no time, thought John, would be exactly where Sherlock would end up. Probably as his death bed, as well.

John returned into the kitchen, and sat down to read the newspaper, desperate to get his thoughts off of Sherlock's demise. Finally, as the hours ticked by, John reentered the sitting room.

"Sherlock, I'm sorry alright? I know you're upset about this, but I'm serious, you need to stay here, in-doors, and get better. You'll be back out to the crime scene in no time. Just, you're looking more and more terrible by the minute, so, please stay." Sherlock only stared out the window in stubborn loathing. John rubbed the bridge of his nose, and went back to reading the paper.

The night came and went, and John returned to his job at the hospital once more. He had set his worries of Sherlock aside as best he could for now- besides, he was at home- what possible trouble could he get into? John ginned cheekily to himself imagined Sherlock's inevitable boredom.

Midway through the day, John's mobile flashed, and flashed. John felt it vibrate in his pocket- and the second it did, a horrible sinking feeling occurred about him. But he continued as best as he could, making his rounds and helping sick people that weren't stubborn enough to sacrifice their life for their pride.

Finally, towards the evening, John pulled out his mobile, feeling it more like a prophet's message of doom in his palm.

Inbox: Messages (1)

Title: Urgent, It's Sherlock

John, I know you're busy at work, but Sherlock's been to the crime scene, and would not leave. It's expected, but something went wrong. It was fine until suddenly, most particular thing happen. He lost his voice. Seriously, he can't speak! Most of us were relived, honestly, but well…I don't know how to tell you this John. In all, he started coughing up blood We would have known earlier, but he kept hiding it into his hand, and we had to literally pry that off damned mouth to get a look. We cleaned him up, but he still (silently) refuses to be taken to the hospital. He's back at your place, and I've marked a guard to make sure he stays there. He's apparently tried to get back here twice. Anyway, you might want to pick something up for him. His symptoms are weakness of the body, fever, coughing,-laryngitis, the lost of voice? I think it's called. Sorry mate. –Lestrade

A hot fire of anger lit in John's chest. He TOLD Sherlock! Bloody TOLD him to stay put! Slowly he returned to the front to acquire the proper medicine. It took an hour of pacing in the rain, (being led out of the hospital for being off the clock), and when he finally pocketed it, he texted Sherlock in a furious rage.

You better damn be at the flat when I return. God damn it all, Sherlock!
JW

Once at 221 B, John ripped open the door, tarring through the flat and right up to Sherlock, who, by now, had covered the floor in red-speckled tissues. The sweating, and heavily breathing detective coughed roughly. John could barely contain his anger. Did he even understand how dangerous coughing up blood could be? Did he even know how worriedhe was? Sherlock slowly opened his mouth, and began in a hoarse voice:

"John-"

"Wait! Don't tell me!" John laughably began, a mocking spring in his step. "Your look says it all!"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes from the sofa, his white knuckles clenching his mobile with growing annoyance. Swiftly he pulled open his mobile's keyboard, and began madly typing away, but suddenly John pulled it out of his hand.

"No, no- you see Sherlock, since I was so terrible at our last game of Charades, I decided to brush up once more on my skills. Care to give it another go?" John smiled widely, his eyes sparkling at the malice filled look his flatmate was giving him.

"Right! So, let's see. It's…what, twenty-six words?" Sherlock huffed at him. "A certain something a certain person wouldn't usually say…" Sherlock crossed his arms like a sulking child, a harsh wet noise descending from his lips. "An..apology, maybe?"

Sherlock craned his head in the opposite direction. John only got more and more excited as he went on. He had been working on this since he stepped foot out of the hospital earlier that evening.

"Ah! I know now! It's so clear, how did I miss it before? It's you saying; 'I'm sorry John, for being a stubborn, self-righteous fool, and I promise to listen to you from now on when my health is in danger.'" John quickly threw back Sherlock's phone into the glowering detective's lap. "Right, well, consider it apology not accepted. Not that'd you'd ever apologize!" John added, between gritted teeth.

Sherlock slowly picked up the phone, a disgruntled look across his face. John stormed into the kitchen, and tore open the bag he had stood for an hour in the rain for. He pulled out the small bottle of medicine, he had requested just for Sherlock's illness. He smiled spitefully to himself as he read the directions. It only took one proper dose for it to start taking effect. And that effect, would be sleep.

"This is going to put you to sleep." John called out, twisting to look at Sherlock from the kitchen's doorway. "You do understand what I'm saying, right? You are going to go to sleep?"

From the couch, Sherlock made a noise that mixed with a wet grunt, or a bark. John took it as a 'yes'.

"You're human, Sherlock, as much as you like to hide that fact." John sighed. It was like taking care of an over-grown child. He poured the purple looking liquid into a measuring cup, and glanced around the kitchen. After a moment, John thought himself stupid. There's no way I can hide this from Sherlock. He glanced back towards the sitting room. Great…looks like I'll just have to take the plunge..

John walked back out of the kitchen. Each step John was already regretting. This is never going to work.He took a deep breath.

"Sherlock. Drink this. Now." John slammed the plastic cup on the sitting room's table, in front of Sherlock. At first, John was simply angry, and now he was cursing himself even more. Being forceful isn't going to-

Suddenly Sherlock swept up the cup in his shaking, pale hand, and titled his head back, drinking it down. John was speechless. When it emptied entirely, Sherlock handed John the cup back, a unique look of knowing across his face.

"T-thank you." Jon muttered, returning to the kitchen to rinse out the cup.

After 20 minutes, John paced about the flat, trying to escape the pitlike feeling settling in his stomach. Something was wrong. He opened the newspaper, and began going through it, without comprehending the words. As unnatural as he was for Sherlock to be sick, it was even more a puzzle for Sherlock to actually comply and take the medicine. And then that look he gave John afterwards. It was like he was just messingwith him! His brows furrowed together, and before he knew it, he was rapping his knuckles again on the kitchen's table.

That decided it. John suddenly got up, and moved back into the sitting room, nervously glancing over Sherlock. The detective only looked more miserable about himself, a bored, dire look across his face. But other than that, there was other effect at all. It was as if the medicine had absolutely no…

John stopped mid-inspection, forcing himself not to slap himself across the face. No effect. No wonder! He quickly reached for his mobile, and flipped through the recent contact, looking for the number he needed. It was time to use force to make Sherlock not stubbornly weaken his body to his death!

Ring….

Ring….

Ring-

"Ah," Purred a silky voice. "John Watson, a pleasure."

"Y-yes," John fumbled awkwardly into the receiver. "Sorry to bother you, Mycroft."

"It is not an issue. So what has my brother gotten himself into this time?"

"H-how did you- Never mind. Uh..he's…he's sick."

A voluminous laugh boomed through the receiver, ending in an evil sounding chuckle. "Is he now? Yes, I imagine Sherlock is being quite the terror then."

"Yes…in fact, I found the medication for him, and he took it, it's just-"

"It's not having any effect."

"Yeah," John admitted softly. "Is there anything I can do..?"

"Ah. Well with Sherlock, I've found it's best to let things take it's course. But considering your...nature." Mycroft added, "I think it's best you just give him a second dosage."

"Drug him again?" John asked, "How can I possibly pull the off a second time?"

Mycroft laughed. "Well, I suggest not to hide it. Sherlock's far too wise to accept food now. He barely eats when he is healthy. Is there anything you can perhaps talk him into doing? Something that you could beat him at?"

Now it was John's turn to laugh. "Mycroft, how could I possibly ever beat Sherlock at-"

Suddenly John stopped. Beat him at something, of course! Of course!

"Thank you, Mycroft!" John blurted quickly into the phone. "I know just what to do!"

"Wonderful," Mycroft purred. "You've found a way for Sherlock to behave relatively normally for an hour. This, I look forward to."

There was a faint click and the line went dead.

Quickly, grasping the medicine bottle, John picked up two small measure cups, and poured the gooey liquid into them, placing both between himself and Sherlock. Sherlock suddenly looked peakly amused, his hair line damp with sweat from his fever.

'What are you doing, John?' Sherlock slowly mouthed, coughing into his hand once more. Slowly, John raised a finger, and then collected his thoughts.

"Sherlock. We're going to play a game."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, the muscles twitching from the energy it took to do so.

"Don't worry. I'm going to play fair, since you really haven't played much. We're going to play Charades again."

Sherlock's mouth pressed into a thin line. 'John-' he mouthed.

"Let me continue!" John interrupted. "I know, I know. You've never played it before- at least, with you, as the guesser. But don't worry. I'm going to guess your actions again. And just think, I lost to easily to you before- you'll most likely win again."

A small, amused smile flickered across the detective's lips. He coughed again, roughly shaking his thin frame. 'And the cups?'

"Yes, I thought you'd be curious to that. Well, here's the deal. If you win, I'll drink the medicine. I'm not as resistant as you- I doubt I could stay awake through it. But just think, I'll be out of you hair, and I'll stop annoying you about your state." John slowly picked up a cup, and measured out the proper amount. Sherlock furrowed his brows softly. "But if I win, you have to take the second dosage."

'John, why are you going this? You detest-,' Sherlock stopped mouthing, and coughed again, and John watched nervously as the fleck of blood coating Sherlock's palm seemed darker. 'anything to do with taking drugs without their intended purpose.'

John smiled weakly. "I do hate misusing drugs, you're right. But, if this is the only way I can even possibly get you to take this junk and get better-," John chuckled, and watched Sherlock's expression mix between pain and confusion. "Then, it'll be worth it, win or lose."

Sherlock only blinked in return.

"Someone has to take care of you, you stubborn ass." John concluded.

Sherlock slowly reached across the table, and picked up the second cup, swishing the thick liquid around as it slowly moved, accepting the games rules.

"Alright!" John exclaimed, trying to pump himself up. "This stuff looks absolutely disgusting, so you better make this good."

Sherlock lip's formed into a snide smile, and he quickly drew his arms up to his sides. He held up two fingers to his mouth.

"It's a phrase."

Using all ten fingers, Sherlock presented them to John.

"Ten words." Sherlock nodded, and then slowly he stood, and thumbed at his eye.

John thought for a moment. "Yourself?"

Sherlock nodded. This continued on for quite some time, and often, John was waiting for the phrase to come together and not make any sense. Slowly, he realized that he was losing, and he could most likely be taking the dosage. Sometimes, Sherlock would nodded rapidly, and then shaped his fingers into a square time shape with both hands, and held it to his eyes. It looks very funny, with how serious a person Sherlock usually presently, but John took a jab.

"A window?"

Sherlock nodded, and then, John realized that was it. The phrase was spelled. He swallowed nervously.

"You..sloved … the crime scene..by looking through the window?" John placed his head in his hands. Does that even make any sense? "I guess you won Sherlock, I have noidea.."

John picked up the cup, and placed it to his lips, but suddenly Sherlock stopped him, and forced his hand back down. John looked up, confused. Sherlock took the cup out of John's hands, and slowly drank it down- a look of disgust on his face. Slowly, John picked up the cups, and walked back to he kitchen. He then watched the very odd scene of Sherlock getting up from the sofa, and walking into his room. John followed afterwards, and took a seat in the armchair beside the bed.

Lying across the bed, Sherlock opened one eye, and glared at John. 'Do you plan on watching me sleep?' he mouthed.

John chuckled. "Well, it's that, or I'm making sure you don't over-dose. However you prefer."

Sherlock considered this for a moment, and then he thumbed through his mobile. Suddenly John's phone lit up.

How did you know that I required two dosages?
SH

"Sherlock, I'm right next to you, do you seriously need the 'SH'?"

Sherlock grinned a rare grin.

Of course.
SH

"Funny." John commented, "I learned by calling your brother."

Damn Mycroft . He blew up my battleship, and now he's ruined by lovely game of Charades.
SH

.

John couldn't help but laugh.

And then John waited. And waited. And waited. Finally he heard it- that veryrare sigh that Sherlock breathed when his brain finally stopped whirling, and his body allowed himself to get some much needed rest- or more so the drug finally taking it's effect. And thanks to the use of the medicine, it was sure to last at least a decent amount of time. John got up from his armchair, and stretched, before walking over and turning off Sherlock's side-table lamp. Just as John did however, he noticed a particular sheen flashing during that split second flicker of the room suddenly disappearing into darkness. He blinked, thinking it was probably a trick of the light- but yet something kept his feet anchored to the floor, and he simply did what he was seemly good at- waiting.

Soon his blue eyes adjusted to the fading darkness, and he found that he was not being deceived. A light, shimmering coat of metal stuck out from amongst the thin blankets, and John slowly and carefully traced his hand across Sherlock's sleeping frame to touch something rather cold. Sherlock's mobile. Still debating about it, John nervously pulled it from the sick detective's long, thin fingers, and traced his thumb lightly against the middle button to activate it, somehow still nervous that Sherlock would awaken and catch him red-handed at divulging into his private life. But what the hell! He took John's laptop all the time!

John pressed down on the smooth button and suddenly the darkness was ablaze with bright, sleek light. Quickly he scrolled through the mobile's options, each small tap of his thumb making his heart beat faster and faster- feeling as if he was doing something very, very wrong.

Home
Photos
Maps
Weather
Messages Click. The screen shifted brightly and before John's eyes, Sherlock Holmes' inbox opened up to him. His eager eyes were ready to finally get a sneek-peek into the enigma that was his flatmate- but his pupils quickly shrank back to normal size in disappointment.

Messages: Inbox: Empty. Back-peddling, he tried the 'Sent' option.
Sent: Empty.

John quickly held the phone still in his hand until the mobile's light dimmed, and the room was once more shrouded in darkness. John listened to his heart beating in his chest, and suddenly he took another breath- this time pressing hard onto the middle button, alighting the phone and going once more through the phone's options, determined to find something. Suddenly something caught his eye- something he had simply skimmed over before.

Messages: Inbox

Sent
Drafts

Drafts. John brows' furrowed. A place where a person stores a message for later, or until completion. Dare I..? He thought. Slowly he pressed his thumb down, and the phone lit up again- this time, with a message.

Drafts: Message (1) Click.

Title: John

It looks like I was wrong. You are indeed, good at charades.
SH

Below it, was a digital picture of the crime scene. A zoomed in image of the dusty window. And in the dust, just barely written in, were the words, 'I'm Sorry.'

John smiled as Sherlock's mobile dimmed into the sweeping darkness, with Sherlock's soft, barely audible snores breaching the air.

Review, and please let me know what you think? I do adore Hurt and Comfort fics- and if I find I'm any good, I'll happily write more. Hopefully with better improvement than this one, hehe. I find that they are slightly lacking on this fandom. I'd be happy to change that. Please do let me know. In fact, I'm thinking of extending this completed story into a whole bunch of ridiculous Sherlock and John hurt and comfort fics- wouldn't that be fun? It's like Christmas for the sadist in me. Thanks so much again lovelies.