John woke late, his alarm somehow shut off. He didn't recall hitting it, but must have; nonethless, he didn't mind the extra sleep. He had the day off. Well, Sherlock didn't have a case, so that meant a day of relaxation for John.

The flat was quiet. It wasn't unnatural, but it wasn't totally comforting, either. John, admittingly, had gotten used to living with Sherlock. To have him padding about the house, barefoot, the slap of his feet against the hardwood, muttering to himself was normal. To hear the soft clink of petri dishes against one another as Sherlock worked on another experiment that John probably didn't approve of gave him a sense of normalcy.

The flat was quiet. It was unsettling, yes, but John wasn't about to complain. He still lived up to his words: mundane was good, once in awhile.

He relished in a hot shower before nipping downstairs, expecting to find Sherlock active by this time. To his great surprise, Sherlock was curled up on the couch, covered with a dirty old blanket, his dressing gown, and his coat. John thought for a moment that he was just pouting over the boredom of no work until he edged closer, noticing the detective to be asleep.

Sherlock was smothered under the fabrics, only his hair and a bit of his face peeping out from under the mass. In that small display of skin, John, who had become embarrassingly fine-tuned to Sherlock, noticed that the already pale man looked even more pale than usual.

Odd. Sherlock being cold, which was what John assumed was the reason for the many blankets, anyway, and Sherlock looking white as a sheet. If John didn't know any better, he would have said Sherlock looked almost... sick.

Frowning slightly, John, who was now feeling every ounce of his doctor training rush to the surface, pushed away the blankets from Sherlock's face and pressed his hand to his forehead.

Sherlock, the one who noticed every sight, taste, smell, sound, and touch, didn't stir. If the warmth John was feeling beneath his fingertips didn't persuade him, Sherlock's lack of action did.

"This is not going to go over well..." John muttered. A normal Sherlock was hard to deal with. A sick Sherlock was going to be a nightmare.

Unwilling to think of that fact, John carefully peeled the mismatched assortment of warming fabric away from Sherlock, ignoring the small stab of guilt when Sherlock curled up tighter.

"Just hang on. I'm getting proper blankets."

He ignored the fact that he was talking to a sleeping Sherlock as he gathered some extra blankets from his room. (Sherlock had no extra blankets in his own room.) He drew them over Sherlock when he had returned to the living room, sighing softly.

John figured that Sherlock had gotten this bug from him. John had been sick for almost a week, which had ended almost four days ago now, but obviously germs were fickle things. As a doctor, he had known that his own illness had been mildly severe; with some shame, he admitted that he had let it get that bad by refusing to acknowledge the symptoms. He had been determined to avoid a cold because he had much more pressing things to deal with, and it had caught up with him in the end.

John knew how likely it was for him to get sick, working with sick patients everyday and running on less and less sleep. John was slightly surprised, however, that Sherlock was sick. It had the same mechanics, really: Sherlock stayed up far too late for his own good, he ate little and drank only coffee or tea, and he had been exposed to illness. It was odd that such a man should succumb to such a silly situation, still...

It was fact: Sherlock Holmes was sick.

John pondered it for a few more seconds, standing, watching sleeping, sick Sherlock like a sap. He realized he was smiling and he realized that wasn't appropriate (it was comical that Sherlock had finally succumbed to something humanish! his mind was protesting) and so, he wandered to the kitchen to make himself a nice hot cup of tea and maybe find something to eat.

Sherlock awoke not an hour later, a quiet what seemed to be a sigh muffled into the blankets. It was that slight noise that brought John's attention away from the Daily Mail and back to Sherlock.

"Morning."

Sherlock sniffed, muttered something in response, and went still again. John raised an eyebrow. Sherlock didn't move again. John thought it was as good a time as any to force medical practice onto Sherlock.

"Sherlock." No response. "Sherlock." John crossed the room, shaking the detective's shoulder.

"Mmm, 'm awake," came the groggy reply.

"Sherlock, I need you to cooperate with me for a second, okay?"

"Hmm?" Sherlock's eyes finally opened, blinking hard a few times, against the light. After a second, he sat up abruptly, fingers making to dislodge the blankets. "Noon."

"No, no, it's only nearly eleven. Easy there, partner," John chided, pressing his hand to Sherlock's forehead again.

The detective instantly stiffened, reeling back from the touch. "What are you doing?"

"I'm checking your temperature...? You're sick, Sherlock, face it."

"'m fine," was the quick reply. John thought that maybe it was an instinct.

"Sherlock-"

"No."

"Look at you, you're shivering."

"I'm fine."

"At least let me take your temperature with a thermometer."

"No."

John sighed. It was beginning. Hell, it had already begun so many precious seconds ago.

"If you say you aren't sick, what's the harm?"

"No point." Sherlock was growing antsy, casting glances at the window, fingers trailing over his blankets. John was making sure Sherlock did not get up by keeping a hand on the detective's shoulder.

"Why are you so stubborn when the clear interpretation of all of the facts is right in front of you?"

"You wouldn't know about that."

"I'm a doctor. I know about this area." John released Sherlock and doubled back to the bathroom, grabbing the digital thermometer from the cabinet. Sherlock hadn't moved by the time he returned. His complexion, though, had gone from pale to a pasty colour and he was sitting utterly still. "Need the bin?" John questioned, catching the slight flash of irritation in Sherlock's eyes when he said it.

"Of course not."

"If you puke on the floor, I am not cleaning it up," was John's careful reply as he slipped the protective sleeve onto the thermometer. "Open your mouth."

"I said-" Sherlock started, but his statement went unfinished; John had taken advantage of Sherlock's open mouth and slipped the thermometer in. Sherlock's look was one of pure loathing.

When the beep signaled the final reading, Sherlock jerked the thermometer from his mouth, holding it out to John like it was the most hideous thing in the world. John chuckled- until he saw the reading. Thirty-nine point two celsius. Not exactly a low-grade.

"John."

He looked back at Sherlock, who had made a move that seemed to speak that he was going to cover his mouth, but stopped halfway, hand clenching in mid-air before it returned to his lap. Whatever Sherlock was trying to prove, John had no idea, fighting his body, but it wouldn't work out in the end.

"Right." He hastened to grab the trash bin, sliding it to Sherlock. "I could find a bucket."

Sherlock just waved a hand dismissively, looking into the contents of the bin, looking rather like he was going to dissect something within it rather than vomit on top of it. John vaguely wondered how long even Sherlock could fight it.

"That's not healthy, you know." He leaned against the doorframe, watching Sherlock. "You want some tea or toast?"

The mention of food pushed his flatmate over and John felt just the slightest bit guilty as Sherlock proceeded to get violently sick for a few tense moments.

That particular bout of illness didn't last for long, but it was apparent to John that Sherlock thought it had lasted too long. He had placed his head in his hands, but the stiff way he held himself, the way his jaw was clenched, the way that his breathing was carefully controlled was just the slightest slip-up in Sherlock's perfect composure.

"Go to bed," John advised, trying to inconspicuously open the windows. "You obviously feel bad and the sleep will do you well. You can warm up, too." The likelihood of that was slim, considering the fever would keep him feeling cold, but Sherlock didn't argue the point. He wasn't on top of things like he normally was. But, John reckoned if he were vomiting in the living room with a thirty-nine point two degree fever, he wouldn't be, either.

Sherlock didn't move for a bit, until his fingers swished the blankets away. He stood, less than gracefully.

"You okay to get to bed?"

"I'm fine," Sherlock repeated for the third time. He didn't move.

"Ah... right. Come on." John moved away from the wall, offering assistance to the detective. Sherlock looked affronted for a half second before his entire sense of pride shifted; he accepted John's help without saying a word as John helped him to his bedroom.

Nope, I'm not shipping Johnlock. Sorry, slash fans. Bromance here. Are there people out there that still enjoy that? I feel like I'm just one of a few...

It's a multi-chapter! Incentive to continue? Sherlock gets worse before he gets better, and there's a flashback to the week where John was sick... Sherlock wasn't his usual, uncaring self. (For a moment or two.)

Please review if you liked it, favourited it, or alerted it. It's nice to know what happens in your little brains. :)