The Downed Detective

1

It was just past three in the morning. The majority of Central London was sleeping. The city was quiet, illuminated by the soft glow of the artificial light coming from the street lamps. The moon was at its half state, bathing the sleeping city in its half-light. There was a gentle fluttering of snowfall beginning to dust the streets; it wouldn't stay for long, but it would sweep the city into a happy whirlwind of people when they awoke to a white morning. Snow was so rare in London, so it prompted everyone to take a breath and appreciate it.

Mostly everyone.

Sherlock Holmes scowled as he walked away from the window.

Snow, how distasteful. Majestic, yes, but terrible when he had to go out in it. And seeing as how Lestrade had been texting him the past three days about a case that was simply boring, Sherlock expected the Inspector Detective to show up within the next sixteen hours to demand that he come to New Scotland Yard.

He shivered hard, sighing heavily. It was cold. Not that he would ever admit that to John, who had gone on about the temperature for a whole ten minutes earlier during the night before. They had had a fire going for some time, but now, it had burned down to nothing. It was infinitely more colder in the sitting room.

Sherlock pulled his dressing gown closer, sliding back into the chair. He had been going through a long list of pointless emails that people had sent to him. Trivial cases, via email and the website and Scotland Yard.

He passed his finger across the touchpad of John's laptop, bringing it back to life. His fingers flew over the keyboard silently as he brought up John's blog, his eyes scanning over the latest entry. John was talking about Christmas in this one.

He was going to be thrilled to find that it had snowed.

He looked back up to the window, watching the flakes flutter aimlessly towards the ground.

He shivered again.

This weather was atrocious. Beautiful, but atrocious. He didn't usually feel the cold. He didn't want to bother with things like temperature, and so, he didn't. John always complained about the temperature and Sherlock barely knew what the temperature was to begin with on any given day. It was trivia, and therefore pointless. But, it was cold, now.

He pushed away from the desk again, rubbing his hands against his arms. He was covered in gooseflesh. Starting to shiver constantly.

Time for a shower, then, and maybe catching some sleep. He wasn't so motivated when he was cold, except to curl up under a few blankets. (Once in a good while, this happened, this being cold and wanting to subsequently find warmth. It annoyed him every time.)

He set John's laptop to sleep mode before he padded away from the study desk, the sash on his dressing gown trailing behind him.

There wasn't a case to work on, not besides the one that Lestrade was trying to force on him. It had been almost a week without a case. John had complimented the criminal class; he enjoyed the break. Sherlock, however, was getting more anxious as time went on. Maybe he would just go to the Yard first thing in the morning and get the case solved for Lestrade. At least it would be something to do.

He stepped into the bathroom, shivering harder as his body rejected the idea of his bare feet on the linoleum. He ignored the tremors, closing the door quietly. He was looking forward to getting the steam going in the bathroom, and maybe afterwards, he'd fix himself a cup of tea before heading to bed.

He turned on the water, turning to the mirror in the bathroom. It had been almost a whole week without a case, but he had been too anxious to sleep. He looked very much like he hadn't been sleeping; his eyes were slightly dull and there were almost unnoticeable dark shadows under his eyes. He seemed to look more pale than usual. John probably would have chastised him, but John probably hadn't even noticed yet. No matter; he'd get a few hours of sleep now and he'd be back to normal.

Resisting the urge to yawn, he let his dressing gown slip off his shoulders, lazily following it with his tee. Maybe it was a good thing that he didn't have a case; his mind had latched onto the idea of sleep and was demanding it now. Pushy mind. Always got what it wanted.

Smirking, he tested the water on his fingers, pleased with the temperature. He stepped out of his pyjama pants and into the water, sighing in pleasure. That was nice. Very nice.

He rubbed his arms again, determined to rub away the cold. The water was warm, hot even, washing away the shivering that he had been doing. It was relaxing. Mind-numbing... Peaceful... Relaxing...

He blinked his eyes open again, finding himself having to chase black dots away from his vision. Maybe the water was a little too hot. His heart was pounding quicker in his chest. He raised a hand, splaying his fingers across his chest, feeling the erratic pulse beating away under his skin. The water was probably too hot. But it felt good, and that's all he cared about.

Ten minutes later, he stepped out of the shower, being assailed by the temperature difference between the shower and the bathroom. He swayed slightly, reaching out blindly to grab the shower door. So the water had been too hot. He blinked a few times, steadying himself on the door before grabbing his towel.

He quickly dried off, ignoring the heaviness of his limbs as he wrapped the towel around his waist. Tea, and bed. The cold was already starting to soak back into his body. He grabbed his dressing gown and drew it close, trailing into the kitchen to put the water on to boil.

Three-thirty now. John would probably be awake around nine, nine thirty. He had the day off. Sherlock could probably get five or six hours of sleep, then. Sleeping was a waste of time, much less sleeping late.

He yawned, running his fingers through his hair. Still damp, would dry soon. Might make the pillow damp and cold, though. He'd take the chance.

He took the cup of tea back with him to his bedroom, hanging his dressing gown on the bedpost. He sipped at the tea and dislodged his towel, letting it fall haphazardly onto the floor before he slipped in between his cold sheets.

He made a disgruntled noise but settled back against the headboard with his tea, hoping that the cold would soon leave him alone, once and for all.

Of course, until he got under the duvet entirely, it wouldn't help.

Sherlock drank the rest of his tea in one large gulp, setting the cup onto his nightstand before he slipped down into a more comfortable position. He sighed heavily, again, drawing the blankets up to his chin. He was tired, honestly, tired and cold. Both of those issues would be remedied quick enough.

He pressed his face into the space between the pillow and the mattress, squeezing his eyes shut. This was very strange. He was usually never tired, not when he didn't have a case to make him tired, at least. Maybe John was right about the 'you need to slow down' thing that he was constantly going on about...

But probably not.

He didn't need to slow down. He just needed... some sleep. Just for a few hours...

Or does he?

Another sick!fic. Will be told in Sherlock's POV. Your reviews are encouraged, appreciated, and thank you for starting a new sick!fic adventure!