It took several cold flannels, a couple more paracetamols and the gentle caring of John, before Sherlock's fever was reduced considerably.

38.2, read the thermometer. Sighing in relief, John switched it off and placed it on the bedside table. Directing his glance towards the sleeping detective, he placed a palm on his forehead, smoothing aside the sweat soaked curls.

"You stupid git. You scared me half to death. Never do that to me again, Sherlock Holmes. Never", he whispered, smiling slightly. There was no response, except a slight twitch, from Sherlock.

Feeling suddenly a hundred times tired, John laid his head on the bed and resting a hand on Sherlock's chest, drifted off to sleep in under a minute.

Sticky.

That was the first sensation that hit him.

Ugh, he needed a shower. Why was he so sweaty?

There was a sound like a steamroller or maybe a train rumbling, close by.

Opening his eyes was far easier than it had been for the past few hours ... or had it been days?

Oh. So it wasn't a steamroller or a train.

Sherlock smirked at the sight of John sleeping half on his bed and half in his chair. And snoring quite loudly too.

His smirk slowly died off as he took in the sight of his friend. Slight stubble. So he had been ill for at least for a day, give or take a few hours. Dark bags under his eyes. Probably hadn't slept for 24 hours. Even in his sleep, a slight furrow was present on the doctor's brow.

Frowning in confusion, Sherlock wondered why John hadn't slept and why he took care of him at all. Sentiment, a John like voice echoed in his head.

Yes, Sentiment. Smiling he spread his blanket so that it covered both him and the doctor.

When he drifted off to sleep again, his hand lay entwined with John's.

It was nearing 6 'o' clock in the evening, so nearly a day and a half since Sherlock became ill, when John woke up.

Sherlock was still dead to the world and the flat was too quiet. He was longing for Sherlock to become well soon. He would never admit it but he missed the detective's mindless ramblings and occasional explosions and crashes that adorned the flat.

He got up yawning and stretching, wincing when his neck gave a violent protest due to his abusive sleeping position.

A smile crept onto his face when half of a blanket fell off his shoulder. For a detective who gave off the very aura of dickishness, Sherlock could be caring indeed, he thought to himself.

Wrapping the blanket more snugly around the detective, he was about to leave, when a slurred voice from the bed stopped him.

"J'hn", followed by a huge yawn.

"Hey. How are you feeling?", John asked a half awake Sherlock, going back to sit on the bed.

"A whole lot better. But I think I will have a shower. I am sticky", he replied, wrinkling his nose.

John nodded and after asking Sherlock if he wanted some tea ("Yes. Yes. Yes."), left the room.

Fifteen minutes later, a much cleaner detective and a much refreshed doctor sat side by side on the couch, steaming cups of tea in their grasps.

"... a martini. Shaken, not stirred."

And yes, watching Bond. Which also remained one of the few movies that both of them could bear to watch, without either of them complaining.

"John?"

"Mmmm?"

"I ... well, as you ... um, took care... of the fever and helped me ... gain my strength, I am glad ... that you ...um..."

"You're welcome, Sherlock."

Sherlock looked in surprise towards a smiling John, then blushing slightly turned away with a slight nod.

"Right."

"Right."

"... Married unhappily, judging by the imprint where she used to wear a ring. Affairs with a strangers. Husband found out and hit her in a fit of anger. She hit her head on the edge of that glass table. So he shot her on the same wound and placed the gun with her fingerprints on it to give the impression of a suicide. He left in a hurry. You'll find him on the way to Miami. Flight details on his tickets which he also forgot on the table. He panicked. Now, we will be on our way. And please do find me an interesting case and not dull ones next time, Lestrade. Good morning."

With a swish of his coat, Sherlock turned on his heel and made his way out of the house. John followed after a hurried goodbye to the Detective Inspector.

This was the first day John had let Sherlock out of the flat after his impromptu meet up with the flu, four days prior. And Sherlock was making the most of it.

"So, you holding up alright?"

"I am perfectly fine John."

"Yeah, right. Of course. You are Sherlock Holmes after all."

Sherlock smirked at John who just rolled his eyes. With a wave of his hand he hailed a cab and got in, quickly followed by his blogger.

"So. Dinner?"

"Starving."

Some things never changed. After all, they still had each other.

The End.

Last chapter guys. The end. Hope you enjoyed reading as much as I enjoyed writing it. Prompts, ideas, opinions are always welcome. Thankyou to all those who read, reviewed, faved and followed. You made my day.

If you have any prompts, please PM me.

Hope to write again soon.

Ta,

Laila.