Totally Controlla-

John felt sick. Utterly, terribly, disgustingly... sick.

And the fact that he spent the morning in the bathroom, leaving him weaker than a newborn kitten, and mentally unable to summon the strength to call into the surgery to say he wouldn't be in, made him feel even... more sick.

He shivered. To be sure, he had been shivering all morning, from cold or from vomiting, he didn't know. But he had been shivering, and now it wasn't just his stomach that hurt.

The sick feeling punched him in the gut again and he locked his fingers around the toilet until they turned white as the porcelain, and he stayed there until he lost track of the seconds and the pain and the ick factor and the shivering.

He moaned, dropping his forehead with a dull thunk onto the toilet seat. He didn't care about the germs now. Hell, he had stopped caring about the germs long ago. If he could just stop puking long enough-

"John?"

John flinched, too hard, his head snapping up and sending the world into a dizzying motion. It was all such an overreaction; Sherlock's knock and voice on the other side of the bathroom door were exceedingly quiet.

"Sh..." John had been aiming to, well, he wasn't quite sure what he was going to say past 'Sherlock', but he imagined it would have been something with dignity. Probably like moaning his flatmate's name and flapping his hands in lieu of an actual response.

There was a length of silence outside the door, making John wonder if Sherlock had left. God, he didn't even know why he cared; Sherlock wasn't going to be able to do anything for him.

"... Pardon the lack of privacy," came a response not much later before Sherlock swung the bathroom door open. John tried to sit up, to, at least, attempt to make himself more presentable before Sherlock's analyzing gaze swept across the bathroom, but he couldn't really... pull it off.

Sherlock's clear eyes took in the scene briefly. John tried to ignore the feeling that he was being looked down upon, literally, in such a state. He also tried to ignore the feeling of his stomach rebelling again; unluckily, he wasn't quite successful with the second attempt.

"You're sick," Sherlock stated when John had resurfaced from his sense of sickness.

"Sherlock," John moaned, his forehead once again finding a home against the toilet seat. He was doing his best to control his breathing, but his shoulders were heaving from the effort of the vomiting and he was barely getting enough time to catch his breath otherwise. Not to exclude the fact that he was moaning his flatmate's name like he could help him. Because he still couldn't.

"What do you want me to do?"

There it was, that inability to actually help because Sherlock was not a creature of sentiment.

John groaned again, pushing himself away from the toilet. "Surgery... can't go in..."

"Yes, so?"

"Sher... call them..."

"You want me... to call your place of occupation. To tell them that you are profusively vomiting in such an amount that will prevent you from going into work."

"Go...!" John demanded weakly, reaching for the countertop. His hand missed purchase and, for one terribly sickening moment, he was sure that he was going to meet the floor in a very uncomfortable way. But steady hands clamped around his arm and pulled him to his feet. He slumped against Sherlock's body in a way that would have severely embarrassed him had he had his normal senses about him, but instead, he was too worried about doing something more embarrassing, like throwing up on the consulting detective. That was just a definite item on his not-to-do-list.

"You have a fever," Sherlock commented, although he didn't utter anything past that in the ways of rude or insulting. Cool fingers were pressed against John's forehead and, for a moment, he was transported back to being six and his parents taking care of him. But the somewhat perfect illusion vanished as pain seized up his stomach and he instinctively wrapped his arm that wasn't clutching at Sherlock around it. "Abdominal pain," Sherlock continued, his voice only having the inkling of interest. "Vomiting, severe, it seems. The best assumption here is food poisoning." He paused. "The last you ate was at the diner with me, correct?"

John groaned in response, clinging childishly to Sherlock's dressing gown. He realized, that with the clinging and grumbling, they were getting absolutely nowhere, and John had no inkling desire to spoon with Sherlock, or whatever the hell it was they were doing, in the bathroom all morni-

"We're not spooning."

John laughed at Sherlock's bland statement, at Sherlock guessing his thoughts. The pain sent spasms straight to his stomach and the sink was the closest thing asides from the floor or Sherlock. So, John went for the sink and it was only Sherlock that kept him standing.

Sherlock sighed heavily, a sound of disgust. John rubbed the back of his mouth weakly, shivering hard as he pulled away from Sherlock, deciding to use the countertop as a support.

"Go," John grumbled, waving Sherlock off. "So... inconveniencing..." He knew Sherlock's personality; he shouldn't have been distraught at Sherlock's reaction to his sickness. But. John was sick. John didn't feel like being rational.

"Well, at least you've managed to grasp that concept," Sherlock replied with the air of his usual snobbish self, turning and brushing out of the bathroom. It took John a good fifteen minutes to work up the strength to follow him out.

The detective was sprawled on the couch, a magazine, upside-down, in his hands. John took one mildly irritated glance at him before he sank into his chair, swallowing hard. He needed water. He knew all too well that he was spiraling dangerously towards the brinks of dehydration, but water wouldn't even stay down. Which meant paracetamol wouldn't stay down. Which meant, no relief.

He hadn't been slumped in the chair for five minutes when the feeling from all morning came back, and, by this time, he was fairly sure that he wasn't going to make it back to the bathroom again. He gagged and swallowed hard, pressing a hand over his mouth in a non-delicate way.

Sherlock seemed to swear, suddenly unfreezing from his position. He slammed the magazine onto the table and stepped over it, quickly making his way to the kitchen. John watched his every movement for a sense of a distraction, although he was terribly grateful when, after creating much noise and more mess from tearing items out from under the sink, Sherlock thunked a bucket down on his lap.

"Bucket. Water. Sleep."

"The last two would be nice," John replied, curling his fingers around the bucket that he was trying not to think about what may have been in it.

"I could make you," Sherlock replied. It wasn't so much of a joke, as a threat, John realized, but he smiled faintly anyway.

"Thanks for the support, Sherlock."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, sinking onto the couch again. "I don't see why you insist on letting this run your day."

"Maybe because I can't control it?" John guessed, trying to shrink upon himself as he shivered hard again.

"Stupid," Sherlock muttered. "Of course you can control it. It's totally controlla-" The voice came to a sudden stop and John opened his eyes (although he didn't recall closing them) to look at the detective. Sherlock had gone quiet, which wasn't wholly unheard of, but he had also gone just a touch paler.

"What was that?" John asked, frowning slightly.

Sherlock didn't look back at John, but he stood, gracefully, as he ever was, and walked calmly out through the kitchen and towards the back hall. John frowned, now, in confusion, only to have that confusion clear up seconds later when the sound of retching, that was not his own, met his ears.

Oh.

Sherlock had been right- the last thing John had eaten had been the Italian with Sherlock last night. And Sherlock also seemed to be right- it seemed to be a strain of food poisoning.

And, John wasn't a consulting detective but he could make a good, educated guess, it seemed that they both had it.

"Totally controllable," John muttered, sinking lower in his chair.

Welcome to another multi-chapter. I can't stay away from sick!fics. So, for those who loved Unforeseen Circumstances, congratulations, there's something else here for you! xD I don't know how long this will last- I wouldn't be surprised if it only make to a three-shot stage, but if I can make a good, solid multi-chapter, I definitely will.

And, yes, my title is correct. I did it that way on purpose, which I'm sure you understand after reading this chapter.

So. Thoughts? I'd love to hear them, as usual. :D