"This is utterly ridiculous" Sherlock croaked, making John's fingers still on the crease of his wrist. John leant back, raising his eyebrow as he took in the detective who was tucked under the white duvet of his bed. His face was flushed, cheeks a little pinker than what could be deemed usual, and his light eyes just a little bit brighter than what John could deem as healthy. A fine layer of sweat gleamed in the sunlight, and his curls were stuck to his forehead, an unusual combination between the unnatural paleness then rest of his head was. He sneezed suddenly, groaning as he weakly opening his eyes and continued to glare blearily at John.

The short of it.

Sherlock Holmes was ill.

"You were the one who insisted on dredging the river yourself" John remarked, reaching beside him to pick up an electronic thermometer. Sherlock eyed it warily, his eyes flicking back to John as he tried in vain to raise himself higher in his bed.

"Those idiots weren't going to find anything with their embarrassing techniques. A child could've done a better job" Sherlock insisted, his voice cracking in an effort to get the words out in the same sense of defiance as usual.

"And how many children have you been around?" John retorted, taking advantage of Sherlock's opening mouth to jam the thermometer in. The detective sat back, moving the thermometer to the other edge of his mouth to get his now garbled words out.

"I don't see how that's a relative question. This may shock you, but I was a child once, and I know from first-hand experience that I could've solved that case when I was still suckling from my mother" Sherlock ended this remark with a slight smile, knowing once again that he'd won the argument.

"You're ill Sherlock. You need a few days rest" John said, determination ringing through his voice, not allowing him to get put-off with the detective's sharp tongue. Sherlock looked scandalised. A holiday for him? Hardly professional and not scheduled! Doesn't he know me at all?

"I think not! I've got three cases on the go, as well as Mrs Hudson's birthday tomorrow, which I took the liberty of buying her a present from you" he pointed to the wardrobe. "I suspected you would have forgotten due to the sloppiness of your dress yesterday, proving my theory that you had slept in. The most likely cause being over-exertion from the night before. I hope that girl was worth it, especially if you became so careless to forget our dear Mrs Hudson" Sherlock reeled this off, apparently not pausing for breath as John walked to the wardrobe and pulled out a gift case of Chanel perfumes.

"How much did this cost?" John never knew Sherlock could've put so much thought behind a present.

"£100. You might care to remember her birthday next time. You can give me the money by the end of the week. Otherwise I may charge interest".

John walked back over to the bed pulled the thermometer out of the detective's mouth with a bit more force than necessary. Being a doctor had its advantages. He pulled out a checklist from his medical kit. Flicking through a few pages, he found one labelled 'Fever' and began to scan down the list.

"Temperature: 37.5°C. Low appetite?-" he watched as Sherlock picked at the tray that Mrs Watson had left by the side of his bed.

"Check. Increased sensitivity?-" he leant over and pinched the detective lightly on the cheek. Sherlock jumped, wincing and snarled under his breath.

"That hurt!"

"Check! Depression?-" he looked over to where the detective had burrowed himself under the blankets.

A hurt voice floated out from underneath the soft cotton.

"I can't believe you're being this way to me John. You're never usually so cruel". John rolled his eyes and prodded the quiet bundle under the blanket.

"Sleepiness?" A quiet snore came from the lump.

John smiled gently; patting the sleeping detective's form as he quietly packed up his medical kit. He grabbed the perfume kit, smuggling it in his jumper as he quietly walked out of the door.

"You've gained yourself two days in bed Mr Holmes. Doctor's orders" he whispered to the still-snoring lump.

He shut the door, plunging the room into darkness.

As he footsteps died away, Sherlock sat up in the gloom, peering around at the shadows. When he considered it safe, he flicked on the small beside lamp beside him, removing the small portable iPod dock from under his pillow. The snoring continued from it.

"Imbecile" Sherlock whispered and picked his laptop up from the floor.

As one must realize when training to become an apprentice of Mr Holmes, the detective never takes a day off.

Never has any illness that permits him to rest in bed.

And to never get outsmarted.

Disclaimer.

I own nothing. Especially not the fluff.