Yay, revamped and re-uploaded!

I should really just focus my energy on writing new stuff, but sometimes I read through old pieces, get disgusted by the flaws in them, and feel the need to rewrite them. Sorry! Probably not worth a reread if you remember the story, but the quality IS much better c:

John Watson lay back against his pillows with both hands behind his head, watching the ceiling and pondering his dilemma: To go downstairs, or to let it alone?

Over the last six weeks or so, Sherlock had suffered from what he called a "touch of nasal congestion", which progressed into a "certain amount of pressure in my sinuses, now drop it, John." A cough followed, somewhat shallow and dry at first, but quickly settling in his chest, rattling when he breathed.

"Still fighting that cold, are you?" asked John over breakfast one morning.

"Marginally." Sherlock punctuated this remark with a hacking cough that was not altogether reassuring. John was aware it could have been his imagination, but he fancied Sherlock looked a bit flushed.

"Do you think you might have a fever?"

"Hmm. No."

"Because I don't like that cough at all. It sounds—"

"Am I to understand that you no longer believe I am afflicted by a common cold, then?" asked Sherlock uninterestedly.

"It sounds," John continued, emboldened by Sherlock's indifference. "Like there is fluid in your lungs. And that's something to be concerned about."

"Please, tell me more." Sherlock rolled his eyes.

John bristled. "I'm not saying it to badger you, Sherlock. I think you might want to get checked out."

The next day, Sherlock ignored John's continued hints that he should see a doctor and acted somewhat more tired than usual. The day after that, he didn't get out of bed.

John was not troubled by leaving for work before the detective got up – that man had no circadian rhythm whatsoever, and in the absence of a case he was fond of sleeping in. No, the worry began when John got home and the bedroom door was still shut. Sherlock didn't emerge for supper, and in fact, John's only confirmation that his flatmate was alive was the throaty coughs that echoed down the hallway from time to time.

Now it was midnight, and John was listening to a sound vaguely reminiscent of a barking seal coming from the bedroom downstairs. The medical man in him wanted very much to investigate, as it sounded serious, but he also wanted to respect Sherlock's privacy.

After a coughing spell so violent Sherlock struggled to get a breath in edgewise, John decided enough was enough. He retrieved his medical kit, set it down in the hallway so as to have it nearby if needed, and tapped on Sherlock's door, calling, "Sherlock, can I come in?"

A muffled grumble replied. Hopefully it was meant as a 'yes', because John entered anyway.

Sherlock was a pitiful sight. He lay wretchedly on his back, staring at the ceiling with glassy eyes. Crumpled tissues decorated the blankets and floor, and an open bottle of cough syrup and a sticky spoon were tossed carelessly on the bedside table.

Sherlock groaned when he saw John and pulled the blankets tighter around him. "What are you doing here? It's—" he glanced at the clock "—Quarter after twelve!"

"I could hear you coughing. You sound awful."

"Really? Because I feel just peachy."

"No, listen. Whatever's causing this, it's not a common cold. I need you to do something about it." John took a deep breath. "Is it better if I offer to look you over, or would you prefer to make yourself an appointment with your GP?" Given Sherlock's opinion of doctors and doctor's offices, John wasn't sure how he would react to either proposal.

"Haven't got one." Sherlock mumbled. "I presume you won't accept 'neither' for an answer?"

"Um, no. Not with you hacking like this."

Sherlock weighed his options for a moment and then rolled over to face the wall. "Do what you want, I can't be arsed."

"That's the spirit," said John grimly, retrieving his kit from the hall. Lethargy was a bad sign where Sherlock and medical procedures were concerned.

Sherlock was still facing the wall, arms folded. John set his things on the bedside table, reaching first for the thermometer.

"Come on, Sherlock," John gently grabbed his shoulder and rolled him onto his back. "We need to take your temp," John explained, trying to hand him the thermometer. Sherlock made no move to take it. John sighed. "At least open your mouth, then."

Sherlock obliged. John slipped the thermometer under his tongue and waited. For three long minutes, the silence was broken only by mechanical beeps.

John removed and read the thermometer when it chimed. "Yeah, you're a bit warm." John had suspected as much. "Anything hurt?"

An irritated grumble was Sherlock's only reply.

"I don't read minds, mate. This would be over much faster if you didn't have to be so damn difficult."

"You're not a very patient doctor, are you?"

"You're not being a very patient patient. Be honest with me, Sherlock, are you in pain?"

"Yes."

"Where does it hurt?"

Sherlock actually had to mull that over. He was so used to trying to shut off his transport's bloody pain receptors that it was hard to categorize what he felt. "...Head..." he decided at last. "And sinuses, and my chest when I breathe too deeply."

"Hmm. Have you experienced any nausea?"

"Nausea, yes. Vomiting, no."

"Alright. Now open up, please?"

Sherlock grudgingly allowed John to shine a tiny light into the back of his throat and then both his ears.

"Do you think you could sit up for me?" John put a hand on his shoulder to help him, but Sherlock swatted it off and pushed himself upright, the new position inspiring a fresh fit of barking coughs. When he had collected himself, Sherlock lunged for the tissue box and spit a mouthful of mucus into a tissue.

"Not coughing up any blood, are you?" asked John as he took Sherlock's blood pressure.

A dark glare.

"You better goddamn tell me if you are, Sherlock."

Sherlock had to fight the impulse to slap John's hand away as it slipped up his pyjama shirt with a stethoscope. Although John had warmed the end of it in his palm beforehand, the metal still felt unpleasantly cool on Sherlock's feverish skin. He resented the breach of personal space (it was not a coincidence that he hadn't seen a doctor without a dire reason since he was 16), but he breathed in and out as John asked. Not only did the poor man wince before each exhale, but he was interrupted twice by painful hacking fits.

The telltale rattling sound was quite obvious to John as he listened to Sherlock's lungs. It was most severe in the lower left lobe but he was able to hear a fair amount of mucus no matter where he placed the steth. Damn Sherlock's pride for letting himself get this bad. He pulled his arm out from Sherlock's pyjama shirt and sat on the corner of the bed.

"I'd call it pneumonia, barring some improbable or unusual condition that I can't detect right here. You'll need a chest x-ray to rule out anything like that. I'll beg Sarah and see if we can get you in first thing tomorrow."

"Absolutely not. That was not our deal." Sherlock spoke evenly, but there was panic on his face.

"Well, you haven't left yourself a lot of choice. You've got to tackle this infection before it gets any worse - or you will end up hospitalized. Just get the X-ray, and then if you're lucky, we'll get you a script and treat this at home as well."

In lieu of a snappy retort, Sherlock put his head between his knees to cough some more. John frowned in sympathy. He helped Sherlock lie back down and snatched the second pillow from the opposite side of the bed to prop his head up. He was brushing the tissues into a bin when he spotted bottle of cough syrup on the nightstand.

"No more of this, Sherlock," John sighed as he read the label.

"Why the hell not?"

"Coughing is clearing the mucus out of your lungs; the last thing you want is to suppress it."

"But I can't sleep." Sherlock's voice was dangerously close to that of a whining child.

"Oh, just stay put for a minute."

John returned after 15 minutes with both hands full. Sherlock had lied back down and pulled the covers up to his chin. John glanced to make sure he was awake before continuing.

"Water," he explained, indicating the glass as he set it down on the nightstand. "Fluids never go amiss when you're sick, and it'll help thin out the sputum in your throat." Next he offered Sherlock a small orange bottle and a spoon. "Medicine?"

Sherlock stared up at John with his red-rimmed eyes, but he didn't move.

"Sherlock, do you want some?"

More staring.

"Oh, you're ridiculous." John measured out the spoonful of berry-colored syrup. Sherlock opened his mouth.

"Ridiculous." John repeated as he fed his fully grown flatmate medicine like a goddamn toddler.

It tickled his throat as it went down and the coughing started up again. When he could finally breathe, he said, "Some berry-flavored Tesco brand, is it? Probably a dextromethorphan product?"

John smiled at the (correct) deduction.

"Tastes bloody awful, by the way."

"Don't be a child," John laughed, giving the detective a tiny pat on the shoulder. "Get some rest if you can."

John returned to his own bed, but did not close his eyes until the sounds of coughing had long subsided, and he was sure that Sherlock too was asleep.

p.s. There's a sequel chapter in the works - may or may not involve Grumpy!Sherlock vs. Sarah & the x-ray techs...