Sick Day

John loved being a doctor-truly, he did. He loved to help people, and that was why he pursued the profession in the first place. But it was days like the past few days that made him curse the very moment he had made the decision to become a doctor at all.

The week had started out alright, normal appointments with simple problems. Unfortunately, it was that time of year again when nasty bugs were going around, and soon enough, very ill, very miserable people were coming into the surgery. It all became quite stressful, the place absolutely crowded and keeping all of the doctors in for overtime every day. John, who usually left by 5:00, was always the last one to leave at around 8:00, absolutely exhausted and wanting nothing more than to rest, his head pounding and his body heavy with fatigue. He was sure that by now he had some version of the virus, but he didn't have time to properly check.

When John staggered into 221B, he didn't even try to extend a greeting to Sherlock, who was still wearing the same dressing gown he had been wearing that morning when John had left. He was playing a slow song that had an unusual amount of harsh, scratchy notes. The detective barely seemed to notice the doctor's presence, so John headed straight for the couch and flopped onto it, releasing a sigh of relief. Sherlock made a noise that was somewhere between a cough and clearing of his throat. "You're home late." He commented, his voice sounding unusually rough. "Mmm," John responded, his eyes closing. He winced at the sound of the music-as good as Sherlock's playing usually was, it was doing little good for his headache. He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed a hand to his head in an attempt to dull the ache.

"John." Sherlock's voice cut through the doctor's haze.

"Go 'way." John mumbled, and then suddenly, he felt something come down hard on his legs. His eyes snapped open. Sherlock had forced his way onto the couch, his legs overlapping John's. "What are you doing?" John demanded. "Sitting on the couch." Sherlock answered, rolling his eyes. He was pressed up against the other end of the couch, moving his ridiculously long legs around, trying to find room. He had abandoned his violin and now had a book in hand. "I was here first." John complained. "Why don't you go sit in your own chair?"

"I want to sit on the couch." Sherlock replied stubbornly.

"Your legs are too bloody long, Sherlock," John shot back, rubbing his temples. "There's not room for the both of us!" In response, Sherlock frowned at John, and began shifting around in an attempt to get comfortable, which jostled the doctor far more than he would have liked. "Stop it," he snapped.

"Stop what?" Sherlock replied. "I'm not doing this with you right now," John said exasperatedly. "You know perfectly well I have spent the past week at the surgery-" Sherlock looked genuinely baffled at this statement, but John pushed on. "-and I am sick, I am exhausted, I want to rest, and I can't do that because you are in my space!"

Sherlock looked a bit taken aback at this. After a moment, however, in an almost sheepish and strangely obedient manner, he drew up his legs to his chest.

"Thank you," John huffed, and was about to close his eyes and go back to trying to sleep when he noticed something. The detective was shivering a bit, his arms coiled tightly around his legs. It reminded John of the little children who had come through the surgery that day, and suddenly, it all clicked in his muddled mind. He had been so busy and sick the past week he had barely noticed, and now as he was looking at the detective, it was all coming together. The shivering, the flushed, pale face, the hoarse voice, the wrinkled dressing gown Sherlock had been wearing, by the looks of it for at least a few days, the thick socks that Sherlock must have stolen from the doctor's drawer…

Painfully, John sat up and leaned forward, pressing a hand to the detective's forehead, unfortunately confirming what he suspected. "You're sick." John said at last. Sherlock shivered, and seemed to retract further into a ball. "Knew you would get there eventually," he said, his voice trailing off into a sigh, and John couldn't help but feel a bit guilty for not noticing earlier. He withdrew his hand and leaned back. "You cold?" Sherlock rolled his eyes again, but didn't bother to make a comment. This, to John, revealed just how exhausted the detective was. As he had once said to Irene Adler, Sherlock Holmes will outlive God trying to have the last word.

Now that it was out in the open, Sherlock didn't seem to want to try to hide it anymore. "That's why you got on the couch, yeah?" John asked. Sherlock nodded slowly, burying his face in his knees. "Headache?" A shaky nod. "Fatigue?" The detective's curly mop shuddered up and down in another nod. "Sore throat? Nausea?" A nod, then a shake of a head. "Any other pain?" John asked tiredly. Sherlock looked up at John, his expression one of long-suffering. He gestured to his entire body. "All over." John sighed silently. Great. Not only had he himself contracted the virus, he had passed it on to the detective, who was looking rather miserable. He had never seen Sherlock be sick before, even though they had been living together for quite a good amount of time now. It had been so long John had almost started believing that there was no way the detective could ever become ill. The doctor himself had been sick a few times, and every time had been so sure Sherlock would catch detective never did, haughtily boasting about how he never got sick because he used "mind over matter" and of course John was ill because he let his average little mind cause him to be so. The doctor, even with seeing the detective so sick and miserable, was ashamedly itching to tell him "I told you so", but he repressed the urge. It was mostly because Sherlock looked so sad and pitiful, curled up at the end of the couch in a feverish, cold ball of gangly limbs.

"Alright, go on then," John said weakly. A corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched upward into a relieved smile, and he unwrapped his arms and stretched out his legs. John adjusted his position in order to make some kind of room, and after a minute of fidgeting and shifting they were more or less comfortable. Any other day, both men would have been loathe to share the couch, (especially with how their legs were tangled together, the lack of room on the couch left them in an awkward position) but both were feeling too poorly to care now. Across from him, Sherlock's eyes were slipping closed, reminding John of a sleepy child who was putting up a valiant fight to stay awake. "Better?" John asked. Sherlock's eyes fluttered, then closed. "…Yes."

They both lay there quietly for a few minutes, then John spoke up, a smirk coming onto his face. "Hmm," he said in a mock thoughtful voice, "after all this time, who knew Sherlock Holmes liked to spoon?"

"Shut up." Sherlock snapped, his eyes still closed. "I'm cold, that's all."

"Right, sure..."

###

Ernie Jones had been a delivery boy for a long time now, but this had to be his strangest delivery yet. He stood at the door of 221B, his fist raised to knock on the door, when he heard shouting from inside the flat.

"You get back in bed right now!"

"No! I don't want you getting that anywhere near me! I don't want it!"

"I don't care if you want it, it has to be done! Now get back in bed!"

Ernie swallowed hard, and knocked, hoping that he wouldn't regret doing so. Moments later, after a few words of quiet, hurried conversation from the other side, the door opened to two very flushed, tired looking men, both wearing dressing gowns. The shorter, blonde one sighed, slipping something into his pocket. "How much do we owe you?" He asked as Ernie handed him the food. Ernie told him, glancing at his, er…friend, a taller and darker haired man who was staring back at him unusually intensely. Uncomfortable, Ernie took the money from the blonde man and was about to pocket it when the dark haired one pointed an accusing finger at him.

"You didn't give John change," he said darkly, and Ernie gulped. "Sorry," he said, pulling the money back out and counting out the change. "It's alright," the man who was called John said. He glanced over at the dark haired man, and hissed, "Behave, Sherlock." By now, Ernie was feeling very uneasy and wanting nothing more than to leave. Unfortunately, his uneasiness was making him flustered, which made him keep losing count and having to start over. The dark haired one, Sherlock was his name, he supposed, was tapping his foot impatiently. John, the blonde man, looked just about as impatient by the time Ernie had properly counted out the proper change.

"Here you go," Ernie said sheepishly. "Thank you," John said shortly, pocketing the change. "Now, Sherlock, we have something to do. Bedroom, now."

Ernie blinked in horrified surprise, hoping he had not heard correctly. He began to back his way out of the room, feeling a hundred times more uncomfortable than he had that one time he had tried to ask out Chelsea Rivers.

Sherlock was staring at John, and he almost seemed to be smirking. "Really, John, so forceful."

"Oh, my-" John began, slapping a hand to his forehead. He removed his hand and stepped towards Ernie, abashed. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean-I just need to take his-"

"Don't worry about it," said Ernie nervously, feeling for the doorknob and not much caring what he really meant or what he really needed to take. "Get this kind of stuff all the time." "Really, it's not what it sounds like-we're not-" John tried again, but Sherlock hushed him. "He's right, loads to do. Goodbye, Ernie."

The next thing Ernie knew, he was out on the landing, the door slamming in his face. Not needing to be told twice, he stumbled down the stairs and hurried away from the shouting of the two strange men in 221B.

An update at last! I hope you enjoyed this! Thank you for your ideas, they're helping me brainstorm more chapter ideas. If you have any more ideas, please continue to share! Let me know what you thought of this chapter! :)