Sherlock paced the flat, hands waving enthusiastically as he rattled off deduction after deduction under his breath, almost forgetting the other two in the room. "I've got it Lestrade!" he turned triumphantly to face the DI and John. Anderson was hovering behind them with a look of disgust on his features. Sherlock's face was alight with the usual glee but he was in fact rather subdued, not explaining, nor saying how fantastic he was. His alabaster skin was pale, paler than normal. "The bodies clearly indicate that…" he swallowed thickly, blinking his vision clear, "that the son was obviously not involved but that his…" he trailed off towards the end. His face screwed up momentarily and he uttered something entirely incoherent softly before dropping like a lead weight to the floor.

John was a doctor; he knew the look of somebody who was about to collapse. Sweat at the brow, colour draining from his already so very pale face, the dullness to his usually so sharp grey eyes. He rushed forward in an attempt to catch the detective but he wasn't quite quick enough. "Sherlock!" Immediately he was down by his side, kneeling and reaching over to pull him onto his back. He ran his eyes over him for any sigh of visible injury. Upon seeing none, he gently tipped back his head and pressed to fingers to the side of his neck. He undid a few of his buttons to help him breathe and looked over his shoulder, "Will one of you get me a wet cloth? And bring over the orange bag under the sofa." He turned his attention back to his unconscious roommate, concern etched across his face. Sherlock's pulse thudded weakly beneath his fingertips, almost sluggishly so. "Sherlock?" he tapped his face softly, pulling back one of his eyelids. His eyes were rolled back and he dropped the lid, shaking him a little roughly, "Sherlock? Can you hear me?" he asked gruffly. After getting only the softest of noises for an answer, he continued his examination. He placed the back of his hand against his forehead. He was coming down with a pretty intense fever.

He looked up as a wet cloth was handed to him by Lestrade, the bag placed beside him. John opened his mouth to say, "Would you two mind…" Just as Lestrade spoke, "We'll just go a…" they both stopped and nodded. Lestrade and Anderson shut the door softly behind them. He placed the cloth over Sherlock's forehead. The cold made the detective rouse, his eyelids fluttering and slowly his eyes opened to reveal dulled grey irises. "John?" he asked gruffly, attempting to sit up straight away. "Yes it's me. Don't get up." He chided gently, placing a hand on his shoulder and pushing him back down. "I want you to sit still for a little while and tell me what's going on." He said softly, turning and rooting in his medical bag. He pulled out a blood pressure cuff, a stethoscope and a thermometer. The thermometer was an electric one and he pushed it into one of his ears. He just had to wait until it beeped. "When did you start feeling ill? This doesn't just happen straight away. So you weren't telling me." He said dryly.

Sherlock looked up, "I can normally push away illness. It is a stupid human defect, utterly useless and not worth my time. I assumed this would be the same as before." He muttered, almost petulantly. Trust Sherlock to be so upset, not because he felt ill or sick but because he couldn't stop himself becoming ill in the first place. "But…" John supplied, "You haven't ate all week and so this happened." He shook his head, "You eat so poorly that your entire immune system is shot." He rolled his eyes and the ear thermometer beeped. He pulled it out and read the little numbers; 39.9 degrees. Yes, Sherlock was ill. Very ill in fact. He looked at it worryingly. "Normally I would take you to the hospital but I think I can treat it here. I know you would prefer that." He pulled out a bag of saline, tubing and a needle. "Let me check your breathing. Sit up a sec." He wrapped an arm around his back and hauled him into a sitting position. "Stupid." Sherlock grumbled and John bit his lip angrily. "No, Sherlock .What's stupid is you letting yourself get in this state." He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, softening at the wounded animal look on the detective's face.

He placed the small disk of metal under the back of his shirt and slid it up, putting the rubber parts in his ears. "Breathe in for me." He said softly and Sherlock inhaled, "Is there any pain in your chest? Stomach? Quite a headache I imagine." He moved the disk down a bit, "Breathe out for me." Sherlock exhaled and shook his head, "No pain. Except my head." He muttered bitterly and John rolled his eyes. "That'll teach you." He placed the stethoscope bag in his bag as Sherlock pouted childishly. He grabbed Sherlock's arm and began to push up his sleeve for the blood pressure cuff. Sherlock stiffened and tried to pull out of his grip, "John, I am fine!" he muttered quickly. John looked down, confused as to why the detective was struggling so much. He frowned deeply. Were they…? Scars. Hundreds of them. And he had only rolled his sleeve up to his elbow. Some were bright white, some pink and a few were in the earliest stage of healing. John was at a loss for words, he just looked up at Sherlock's deeply ashamed features and bit his lip. "Sherlock." He whispered softly and pulled the man into his arms out of instinct. "It's okay. You don't have to hide from me."