Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.

Hey, everyone! As always, thank you so much for all the reads/reviews/faves you were all so kind to bestow! I'm glad you enjoyed they story so much =) I have for you the concluding chapter … curious to see what you think, as I'm not particularly thrilled with it. However, I'll let you be the judge. So, without further adieu …

Sherlock woke up with the sudden urge to vomit and barely sat up in time to avoid throwing up down his front. Knowing he was not going to make it to the toilet, he simply leaned over and allowed the contents of his stomach to splatter all over the floor. He was still coughing when John appeared at the door, which he had left ajar.

"You couldn't have used the bucket?"

"Your bedside manner is touching, Doctor." Sherlock said, straightening and trying to catch his breath. Feeling slightly guilty, John disappeared from the doorway and returned a moment later with a roll of paper towels and a spray cleaner. Sherlock felt horrible watching his friend wiping up the puddle of his sick before spraying down the floor with cleaner. However, when John had discarded the soiled paper towel, he showed no resentment towards Sherlock.

"How are you feeling?" John asked, sitting on the edge of the bed. "And no lies."

Sherlock arched his eyebrow at the last bit but answered truthfully.

"Like I was sent to hell and back."

"That good, huh?" John said, picking up Sherlock's wrist in his right hand. He monitored the pulse before letting Sherlock's hand fall back to the bed.

"Your heart rate's still fast. Breathing easier?"

"Somewhat." Sherlock answered. "Lying down helped."

"Why don't you lie down again?" John said, standing. He watched Sherlock shimmy down before pulling the covers up around him. John picked up the thermometer and held it out to Sherlock.

"Still no fever, that's good." John said, studying the device after it had signalled its end.

"Uh-huh." Sherlock murmured. John's forehead wrinkled slightly upon seeing faint pain lines emanate from around Sherlock's closed eyes. It was obvious his friend was not comfortable. John found the compress on the nightstand and left to remoisten it.

Sherlock flinched when the cool cloth made contact with his face but he relaxed under John's touch as he blotted away the sweat beads. By the time he finished, Sherlock was sleeping again and John let his shoulders fall, losing his calm demeanor.

In all honesty, he couldn't believe that Sherlock had been so stupid as to use four nicotine patches. He was supposed to be brilliant – he was brilliant – so why would he not realize that nicotine patches would do such harm to his body? John couldn't be positive, but he was pretty sure that Sherlock didn't even think about the ramifications of his actions, which frustrated him as a doctor.

John checked his watch – two forty-seven a.m. – and rubbed his eyes. He didn't dare go to sleep in case Sherlock had a seizure or choked on his own vomit. Still, he had been sacked out on the sofa in a state of semi-sleep, lost in that world between awake and rest. Switching the light off, John moved the bin to where Sherlock had aimed last time and left, leaving the door completely open.

Fortunately for John and perhaps more fortunately for Sherlock, the detective slept soundly till morning. John went in at a quarter after seven to check on his patient.

"Morning." Sherlock said as John entered. John looked startled.

"I didn't think you were awake."

"I've been awake since six." Sherlock said with a sigh.

"How're you doing?"

"I'm fine." Sherlock said with a wave off his hand. It was John's turn to raise an eyebrow.

"You can't seriously tell me you feel perfectly fine right now, not after the night you had."

"I can and I am. I'm fine." Sherlock repeated and offered his wrist. "Take my pulse, if you like. I think you'll find it at a very health seventy three beats per minute."

John pressed his fingers to the raised hand and counted. It annoyed him slightly that Sherlock was spot on.

"Do you want some breakfast, then?"

"Just tea, thanks. It's a good idea to go easy on the stomach after such a rough night."

"At least you've got some common sense." John muttered under his breath before continuing. "I'll be right back with tea."

John went to the kitchen and put the kettle on. He was just pouring it into tea cups when Sherlock padded through the kitchen and into the living room.

"I said I'd bring it in."

"Why bother? I'm fine, no reason to stay in bed." Sherlock had sat in his chair and accepted the tea cup from John without uttering a thank you, although John had gotten quite used to the idea that Sherlock did not often use manners.

John sat across him and sipped at his own tea.

"Mhmm, that's good." John breathed, enjoying the warmth, although it made him feel sleepier than ever.

"There's something bothering me." Sherlock said suddenly and John's eyes flickered from his tea to his friend.

"What?"

"I don't understand why I got so ill. I've used four patches before."

"Recently?"

"No."

"That's why, then. You've been doing so well that when you introduced such a strong dose into your body, it wasn't able to respond like it used to."

"Fascinating." Sherlock said with a twinkle in his eye.

"Don't get any ideas, Sherlock." John said, taking a sip of tea. "What you did was dangerous. You could've died."

"But I didn't." Sherlock paused and he put his tea cup on a coaster.

"Listen, John, about last night." Sherlock began and the room immediately filled with the tension that occurred when Sherlock had to apologize.

"It's alright, Sherlock." John said, trying to avoid the situation. He didn't want to be thanked; it was his job to look after people. It was natural for him.

"You would've done the same for me."

"How do you know that?" Sherlock asked, somewhat taken aback. "You can hardly judge my actions based on yours."

"Not everything has to be a deduction, Sherlock." John answered. "I just know that you'd do the same for me."

"I think you're wrong."

"I'm not. Despite what I've seen, you do have a bit of a heart."

"Not a heart big enough to clean vomit from the floor."

John took another sip of tea.

"You would have, I have no doubt. Luckily for you, though, I don't overdose on nicotine so unless we have some bad chicken, I don't think you'll have to worry."

"For your sake, and for mine, I hope you're right."

So what did you think? I think it's an okay chapter … nothing super special, which may stem from the fact that nicotine poisoning doesn't have much of a treatment except vomiting until there's nothing left and sleep. Anyways, reviews are always appreciated!

PS – FYI, that last bit about bad chicken might just come up again … cheers!