Author's note: This is for the Let's Write Sherlock Challenge on tumblr. It's a trope Bingo – pick a line and see if you can fill all the tropes. I plan on being able to shout "Bingo!" so expect more from me in the next few days.

The first trope was "Sick!Fic". Enjoy.

Sherlock Holmes had never been careless concerning his health.

Many, his best friend included, would have shaken their heads upon hearing this fact stated, but it was nonetheless true.

He had known the dangers of taking drugs. He had accepted them because they allowed him an outlet. He had never overdosed. And after he had got clean, he had only touched them once or twice – when the boredom became overwhelming.

He had also never starved himself on purpose. He was thin – had always been thin. Even when he didn't eat for several days, he made sure to consume the appropriate amount of calories afterwards. He always drank enough that he wouldn't have problems.

He rarely had to take medicine. His immune system was excellent, and he had learned to see the signs early so that most illnesses never became a problem. He would take the necessary pills before the outbreak.

Sherlock Holmes was anything but careless when his health was concerned. He knew when to sit down, when to take nourishment, when to medicate himself.

It was no surprise, therefore, that he knew when his friends should do the same.

Lestrade had been running himself ragged for some time now. After Sherlock's return, he had become the best-known officer of Scotland Yard – in a positive sense this time – and he had been chasing after the Randalls for some time now.

A father and two sons who robbed people together, they were a force to be reckoned with. They were clever as well, and Sherlock's homeless network had yet to find a trace of them. It was frustrating, but he could wait.

Lestrade, on the other hand, was still following every possible clue even when it was clear it would do no good. He had lost weight in the last month, he had dark circles under his eyes, and he had started smoking again.

Sherlock hadn't talked to him about it. He considered his DI more than capable of taking care of himself. John might have tried to reason with him, but he was busy with his new job at a hospital and his wife.

It shouldn't have been a surprise that Lestrade finally broke down, but it was. Sherlock had grown used to think of the man as permanently available.

Sherlock was there when it happened; the DI had insisted on going through the evidence again, and he was bored.

He deduced that Lestrade had been awake for over thirty-six hours, which would impede his judgement. He quickly looked over the evidence so the DI wouldn't need to.

Ten minutes after he had turned his back on him, he heard a thump and turned around to see Lestrade on the floor.

He was by his side in an instant, checking his pulse. It was rather quick, but the DI was breathing without problems and hadn't hit his head when he had fallen down.

Sherlock took out his phone. He called Molly since, working at St. Bart's, she was closer to the Yard and John had a shift.

The pathologist stormed into the office fifteen minutes later. Sherlock had put Lestrade into recovery position and was monitoring his pulse and breathing.

She did the same and explained that he should wake up soon, obviously relieved. Sherlock felt the same way, even if he chose not to show it. Interested, he watched as Molly checked the DI'S vitals over and over again. He had had a certain suspicions for quite some time now, even if he wasn't the best at reading emotions, and it seemed he had been right.

Lestrade's eyes flattered open twenty minutes after he had fainted.

"Molly?" he groaned when he saw the pathologist leaning over him. Then, he continued, "Sh – Sherlock?"

"I'm here" he said immediately. "You fainted. Molly?"

"I think it was due to exhaustion – and he should definitely eat and drink something" she said. "We should get him to the hospital – "

"No!" Lestrade tried to sit up, but Molly pushed him back resolutely. He groaned again. "If I am taken to St. Bart's, they will pull me off the case".

It would be the best thing for everyone concerned. There could be no doubt about that. But Sherlock knew what this case meant to Lestrade.

He took out his phone and sent a text to Mycroft. He was sure to be forced to take cases as compensation, but Lestrade could drive home in a limousine and explain that he had been called into a Ministry – his brother would certainly create a good reason for the DI to leave.

The answer came quickly; he suspected it had more to do with the friendship, or at least mutual respect, that had grown between Mycroft and Lestrade and less with him requesting help, but he didn't mind.

"I'll take you home" he explained. "Mycroft's sending a limousine".

Lestrade started to protest, but Sherlock cut him off but pulling him to his feet and letting him go, demonstrating that he couldn't stand on his own. Molly moved towards him, but Sherlock caught him before he could faint again.

"I'll take you home" he repeated.

Lestrade had gained his footing, although he was still swaying from side to side. He grumbled something that might have been agreement. Either way, Sherlock didn't care.

With Molly's help, he got him out of the Yard without attracting too much attention; now and then, a head turned, but they kept him upright and he didn't look too bad.

The limousine was waiting for them. The driver greeted them and held the door open, not surprised. Mycroft's men never were.

Molly helped Greg into the limousine, then looked at Sherlock. She bit her lip. Her desire to come with them was obvious, but he knew she had another autopsy to do this afternoon.

"I'll take care of him" he promised, and it would have surprised anyone else, but not Molly Hooper. She smiled and told him she'd visit him tomorrow, after he'd had some rest.

He didn't miss the implied trust that Sherlock would look after him.

The DI fell asleep almost as soon as the car began to move. Sherlock looked out of the window, studying the city life, while making sure he was comfortable.

Once the car stopped, he shook his shoulder.

"We're here, Geoffrey".

"Greg" he muttered, blinking. He tried to protest when he saw that they had stopped in front of his apartment building – Sherlock wondered if he remembered their conversation in the Yard – but he would not be refused, and they made their way into the DI's apartment.

"Sit down on the sofa" Sherlock ordered. "I will make you something to eat."

The look of surprise he got in response annoyed him. He knew how to cook, how to keep himself nourished; he simply chose not to when the need didn't arise. He didn't desire food near as often as John had tried to push it on him. He knew his limits.

Lestrade, sadly, didn't, which was why he eventually decided to make pasta after looking through what the kitchen had to offer. He had almost despaired of finding something edible when he stumbled upon the package in a drawer. For someone who commented on the state of 221B quite regularly, the DI didn't keep a very clean place.

While the pasta was cooking, he brought Lestrade a water bottle. The DI had fallen asleep again; he shook him and insisted that he drank the whole bottle in slow sips.

He was more alert after he had done so.

"Thank you for not calling – "

Sherlock raised a hand.

"I didn't feel like working with anyone else. You are the most capable of the bunch."

He pretended not to see the DI's smile.

When the food was ready, Lestrade made him eat too, despite his comment that he hadn't been the one to collapse.

He felt an illogical pride when his DI complimented his cooking abilities.

Afterwards, Sherlock was adamant that he went to bed and did not go to work for a few days. He promised to keep up the search for the Randalls; he was more than capable of it. Lestrade accepted on the condition that he be informed of all developments.

His colour had come back, and he obviously able to get to the bedroom on his own, so Sherlock decided to go.

Lestrade grabbed his wrist.

"Sherlock, wait – " He paused for a moment, then continued, "Thank you".

"I told you; there is no reason to thank me. Without you, Scotland Yard would be even more lost than it is already".

The DI smirked.

"I was stupid" he admitted.

"Most of the population are".

Lestrade laughed. He might not show it, but Sherlock was relieved to see him merry. It had been a while.

They stared at each other for a moment after that, unspoken words hanging between them.

Sherlock cleared his throat.

"I will let you get some rest. Goodnight, Greg".

It was only after he had heard "Goodnight, Sherlock", filled with wonder, and the door had closed behind him, that he realized he had got his DI's name right.

Author's note: I hope you liked it, please review.