Does Mrs Hudson still have my lab equipment?

SH

No, I offered to donate it to the hospital for her. It's all at my place.

Even better. Expect me soon.

SH

You're coming back? Why? How long?

Soon. SH

"Don't worry, I wasn't followed."

"You look…"

The man Molly Hooper once knew glanced down at himself questioningly. "What?"

"Nothing," she blushed, standing aside to let him across the threshold.

"I know it's not the best I've looked, but it certainly isn't the worst."

Molly couldn't help but agree. She had seen him covered in blood on her mortuary slab after all. But it was still a shock to see such a distinguished man look so dishevelled. His jeans were faded and the knees were torn right out of the left leg. His signature coat had been swapped for a threadbare hoodie that must have done little against the winter chill, for he shivered even as he stood by her small living-room heater. His eyes looked even paler than usual when contrasted with the deep shadows beneath them, and his flushed complexion.

"Where have you been?" she asked him, closing the door and locking it. "It's been weeks since you first left."

"Everywhere," he replied distractedly, glancing around the room, "All over. Came back to London last Thursday, been down in the East End with a couple of Sumatran couriers since then. Where did you say my equipment was?"

"I keep it in boxes at the bottom of my wardrobe, but why do you n-" he had already slipped into her bedroom, ignoring Molly's half-hearted protests.

Within seconds he had returned with a cardboard box labelled "slides etc." and sat it down on her cluttered desk.

"Do you mind if I set up my microscope here?" he asked even as he unpacked it.

Molly shook her head. "Of course not, but can I ask what you're doing with it?"

"Checking to see what the damage is."

"Damage?"

"I've contracted a very rare, very deadly disease, and I want to see what stage of incubation it's in." He removed a blank slide from its packaging. "I'll need a needle."

"Wait, you think you've gotten a disease somewhere?"

"Yes, obviously," he had adopted that haughty, impatient tone Molly associated with his obligation to explain things to 'lesser' minds.

"Can I help?"

"Did you not just hear me ask for a needle? I need it to prick my finger with, if that wasn't clear."

"Right, but what makes you think you've got a deadly disease?" she asked, "What symptoms have you got? Maybe it's something I've seen before?"

Sherlock scoffed, sitting back in his chair to face her. "Molly, it's a very rare Sumatran disease called Tapanuli Fever. Symptoms include swollen glands, muscle ache, chills and a persistent dry cough; all of which I have. Later stages involve partial blindness, renal failure and death; all of which I have to look forward to."

His condescending expression grew alarmed as Molly leaned in and placed the back of her hand on his forehead. "What are you doing?" he asked her, shifting uncomfortably under her touch.

"Checking your temperature," she explained, "obviously. Now are you sure this is Whatever Fever? I've never heard of it before."

"Tapanuli Fever, and you're lucky it's not very contagious via touch. There have been only a handful of recorded cases in the United Kingdom, so it's hardly something you'd see on your exam table at work, now is it?" He raised his eyebrows, challenging her to disagree.

"You're right," she acceded, "I've never examined a body with the disease you've got. Mainly," she added with a softly teasing smile, "because people generally don't die of the flu."

"It's not the flu!"

"Yes it is, Sherlock. I've got three nephews; I've seen it enough times to know."

"I've had the flu before, and it felt nothing like this," Sherlock argued, "this is something far worse."

Molly shrugged, fetching her first aid kit from the kitchen. "Okay then, it's a rare tropical disease. But until you start going partially blind, I recommend bed rest and plenty of fluids." It was strangely endearing to see Sherlock like this; petulant and vulnerable, like any child with a winter flu.

"Molly," Sherlock began in a no-nonsense tone of voice, "I don't get common illnesses. I haven't since I was a child. If something's making me this sick now, then it's something serious."

"Uh-huh," she replied absentmindedly, rummaging for a thermometer. Ever since his 'fall' from the roof of St Bart's, she had seen many different sides to Sherlock Holmes; and not all of them were as intimidating as his cool façade. Hence, where the old Molly might have stuttered and submitted to the man's various commands, the new Molly had fewer reservations. And if today he had decided to act like a child, then that was exactly how he would be treated.

"Stick this under your arm," she instructed, handing him the electric thermometer. He stared at her like she had just handed him a loaded gun.

"Molly," he began, before submitting to a sneezing fit that sent the thermometer flying and Molly scrambling for tissues. He waved the box away, eyes streaming and nose red.

"I haben't gob de fwu!" he argued through a hopelessly blocked sinus.

"Sherlock, I know being sick isn't any fun, but at least the flu isn't as serious as your Tapanuli Fever. It's perfectly manageable, if you just rest a little and keep your fluids up," she silently thanked her limitless patience; it was the only thing that could outlast the man's stubbornness.

"You aren't my doctor!"

The words hung in the air long after Sherlock uttered them. They were tainted with a sadness that neither one could ignore. After all, Molly Hooper didn't need to be the world's only consulting detective to read the subtext there. Slowly, like he was a wild animal she didn't want to scare, she knelt down beside him.

"Do you want me to get your doctor?"

She knew his pride would rebel against her pity, but perhaps this once he would let himself be weak. Perhaps this would be the time he said yes.

"Perhaps it is just the flu after all."

And the moment was gone. Molly nodded, getting up to make some lemon tea while Sherlock packed away his microscope. The diagnosis had been accepted; and while that didn't make the symptoms go away, it would help speed up his recovery. The pathologist put new sheets on her own bed and instructed Sherlock to get some rest. For once he didn't argue, and Molly was glad. She knew his attitude was bound to worsen as his illness did, and that she had some very trying weeks ahead of her. But for now there was silence from the makeshift sickroom, only occasionally broken by a soft noise that may have been either a cough or a sob.