A/N: This idea's been sitting in the back of my head for a long time. Now it's finally bursting out. (smirks sheepishly)

WARNINGS: spoilers throughout the series, language, possible violence and blood in future chapters, general weirdness… (grins) Ya know, the usual stuff from me.

DISCLAIMER: Hats off for those fantastic people who gave us this series! Sadly, I'm not one of them. (sighs miserably – and begins to sob…)

Awkay… I suppose that it's high time to get started, eh? (gulps) I REALLY hope that you'll enjoy the ride, folks.

The Scenes Left Out

'You look ill' – 'The Hounds of Baskerville'

TAKES PLACE: Right after 'The Hounds of Baskerville', once our boys have made it home.

Sherlock Holmes frowned upon taking a glance towards the clock, his mind straying momentarily from the experiment at hand. Half an hour past the time Dr. John Watson usually appeared to the kitchen, groaning over the lack anything eatable and preparing tea. Talking and thinking too much, too loudly.

The frown deepened.

Sherlock wasn't worried, obviously.

He just didn't like the fact that there was something… off from the usual rhythm of normalcy.

Routines were boring.

John… made an exception, he deduced.

Sherlock's right foot twitched with the desire to move, his head whirred with a million options. For a moment there was a gleam in his eyes. Just a moment.

Dismiss.

Delete.

Stay focused on the task at hand.

As often happened Sherlock lost track of time. The experiment drew him in, offered his frying brain a moment of excitement. By the time he finally emerged from the hue it was late afternoon. It took a moment before the genius managed to pinpoint what, exactly, had invaded his Mind Palace enough to distract him.

A stair creaked. The step was heavy, unsteady. Was John limping again? No, just swaying.

Odd.

Sherlock peered from underneath his eyelashes as John eventually stumbled into the room. The doctor's usual "'Morning" was a lot more gruff than usual. Fully drawn from the experiment the genius observed, his eyebrows furrowing with concentration.

Thinks that it's morning while it's four thirty in the afternoon. Wasn't out last night, though.

Cheeks flushed, otherwise pale. Fever, then, likely a high one at that.

Stumbling.

Eyes tired and foggy although has been sleeping for almost a day, still exhausted.

Stifling a cough.

Trembling although dressed far more warmly than should've been necessary.

Doesn't go for food, instead starts with tea.

Conclusion: a case of flue.

Turning towards him and swaying slightly upon doing so John frowned and unleashed a somewhat suffering groan. "You're 'oing it a again, aren't you?" That voice was the final proof. It was quiet and croaky, and it was obvious how much talking hurt.

Sherlock pursed his lips a little, leaning forward. He caught easily how unsteady his friend's hands were while handling the dishes. "You're sick", he stated out loud.

John stared at him somewhat dully for a second. "Hmph." The doctor brushed his temple gingerly. A headache was settling in, then. "Must've caught it from that 'loo'y 'ab."

Ah, of course.

Sherlock, much against himself, felt a pang of… guilt, could it possibly be? (It, at very least, felt quite similar to what he went through directly after snarling at John that he didn't have friends.) No, of course not. Sherlock Holmes didn't do guilt. Responsibility, perhaps?

He was maybe – possibly – partially responsible for John having been locked into that laboratory for so long. And maybe it was just a little bit his fault that the doctor was ill. The realization didn't feel… good, at all.

He'd assessed the problem, then. Excellent. Now what was the solution?

The answer came when John ended up dropping the tea mug, tired and feverish eyes watching with dismay how the precious, longed warm liquid spilled all over the floor.

"Go back to bed, John." Seeing his friend's look of confusion Sherlock bit back a growl of irritation. Now, he guessed, wasn't a very good time to get irritated over the doctor's lack of sufficient brain activity. "You'd only end up making more mess. That would have me annoyed and you frustrated. Which would additionally lead to bickering, which would do you no good. So go… to… bed."

John blinked twice. Stared at him for a second, two, three. "The tea…"

Sherlock felt his eyebrow twitch. There was a tight knot in the pit of his stomach, which intensified as he observed how his blogger seemed to grow more and more worn by each second. He didn't like it. "I'm perfectly capable of making tea. And I'll clean up your mess, too. I wish that you won't make a habit out of it, though. So go to bed. You're starting to annoy me."

John stared for a one more second. Then, very slowly, melted to a small, tired smile. For once it felt like the doctor saw and deciphered more than he did. It was unnerving. "Thank you." Muttering something rather incomprehensible ('git', 'poison me again') the doctor took his leave.

Sherlock's eyes hardened and filled with determination while he watched how his friend stumbled away. He brought one hand under his chin, thinking hard. And finally gave a barely traceable nod.

Soon enough John would be well once more. They'd be back to solving cases together. Everything would go back to the way that it was supposed to be.

He'd make sure of that.

It wasn't out of worry, of course. It was just that John being ill was… inconvenient. There was no one who'd go and buy milk.

John must've been even more exhausted than he'd thought. For almost as soon as he was back in the security of his bed sleep claimed him once more. By the time he woke up he felt just a little bit better than he did before. It was getting dark outside.

Shifting with a yawn and rubbing his eyes John turned, aiming for his alarm clock to see what time it was. He blinked twice upon spotting something else entirely on his nightstand. A mug of steaming hot tea. There was a small note left beside the mug, the ink hadn't dried yet. Sherlock had been in the room only moments earlier.

'Drink it. It's not poisoned. Trust me. S.H.'

John stared at the drink with a degree of well justified suspicion. He hesitated for a few moments before taking the mug and sipping carefully. A tiny smile appeared to his lips.

It tasted just the way that it was supposed to.

Sherlock was distracted from his brand new experiment by the sound of a new text message. He wasn't surprised to discover that it was from John.

'Thank you. Just so you know, if it WAS poisoned I'll NEVER tell you where I hid your cigarettes this time. J.W.'

In the covers of solitude and semi-dark Sherlock gave a mysterious smirk, slipping his cell phone to his pocket. The following morning found John feeling much better than before. Sherlock kept his secrets to himself.

Scene Completed.

A/N: Coming from me, that was… almost unnervingly lighthearted. (smirks and chuckles) But oh boy, I've got several more planned out…

So… Any good? A bit of not good? PLEASE, leave a review and let me know!
AND PLEASE, IF YOU HAVE IDEAS OF 'DELETED SCENES' YOU'D LIKE TO READ LET ME KNOW! I'd be more than happy to make requests.

Thank you so much for reading!
'Hope I'll see you guys later.

Take care!