Making the Rounds

Sherlock coughed and curled his hands into fists on his knees, spitting into the toilet. "I thought flu season had gone!" he exploded, and then winced, and then leaned forward until his head thunked against the toilet seat.

"Technically speaking, it about has," John said from his perch in the doorway, arms crossed as he leaned against the jamb. "But there's been a wide-spread outbreak of it having a second go." He uncrossed his arms and crossed the room, stooping to put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "Come on. Up and back to bed. Sleep is your best friend right now."

Sherlock groaned, turning his face so instead his cheek was pressed to the toilet seat. He squinted up at John. "Isn't there anything you can do?"

John smiled sympathetically, gently wiggling his fingers under Sherlock's arm to help pull the lanky detective to his feet. "Not really, Sherlock. Just take your paracetamol and make sure you're staying hydrated, but resting is the key. And besides," he added, as Sherlock peeled himself away and to the sink to rinse out his mouth, "you can't feel miserable while you're sleeping."

Sherlock huffed a breath and spit, thumbing the tap off and flicking water from his fingers. "I'm not too sure about that," he mumbled.

John was just about to turn back for the bedroom to get the detective tucked back into bed again when he caught sight of Sherlock's eyes rolling back before fluttering shut, followed quickly by his entire body going limp.

John lunged forward the half step to catch him before he could fall. It was an easy task; Sherlock weighed so little that, if John didn't physically see him eat, he would wonder if he did at all. It wasn't as though John hadn't had to deal with fainters within his recruits in the war, either.

"Sherlock?" He gently lowered him to the floor, putting him in the recovery position in case things went south when he woke up. "Sherlock, come back." He palmed Sherlock's forehead. It was warm enough to ascertain that Sherlock's stubborn fever was still hanging on, notwithstanding of what the thermometer reading would say later. John stood and grabbed a cloth, wetting it down with cold water before crouching next to Sherlock again. "Come around, Sherlock. You're too tall for me to carry you into bed." He gently sponged Sherlock's face, trying to nudge him back to consciousness.

Dark eyelashes fluttered uselessly against pale skin for a moment before Sherlock seemed to gain re-control of his body. He opened his eyes slowly, staring straight into the distance from where his head was angled, most likely staring at only the wall.

"Sherlock? You fainted on me," John said, pressing the cloth against Sherlock's neck. "Can we try to get you back to bed?" He pressed his fingers against the pounding pulse in the detective's neck. "We need to get you resting quietly."

Sherlock sighed softly before clumsily trying to put his hands out to push himself into a sitting position. "... Got a little dizzy," he mumbled, accepting John's hand to get back to his feet.

"Still now?"

Sherlock shrugged. "A little... Just hang on to me," he mumbled, and despite his words, hung onto John's arm weakly.

"Alright," John replied easily. "We'll get you back in bed and I'll bring you something to drink. Ginger ale."

Sherlock sighed shakily. "Hate ginger ale."

"I know. You keep telling me. But drinking soda isn't going to be good for you because it's too sweet and tea as well, but that's partially because you have a fever. I can get you plain water."

Sherlock nodded slightly. "Water."

John nodded also. "Okay. Not a problem. Alright, here, hang onto this." He let Sherlock go when he was certain he was steady enough, pulling the blankets back. "There you go."

Sherlock crawled into bed, immediately curling into the smallest ball possible and huddling down as John pulled the blankets around him.

"I'll get you some water and be right back," John said, finishing tucking the blankets and turning to leave the room.

"... John?"

He glanced over his shoulder. "Hm?"

Sherlock stared back at him with weary eyes. "... Thank you," he mumbled, his eyes fluttering closed momentarily afterwards.

John smiled faintly. "Not a problem. Be right back," he said, hurrying out of the room.

I wasn't going to post this because it's similar to what I've posted before, but... yeah, I decided to anyway.

I do not own Sherlock. Thank you!