I Do Have Instincts, You Know

It wasn't as though Sherlock hadn't dealt with sick people before. Well, he glared at them as they coughed their heinous germs into the air around them or accidentally transferred their nasal drainage onto whatever surface they happened to be near, at least. But it wasn't usually this bad, and it wasn't usually John.

"What am I supposed to do?"

John looked up at him tiredly as he stumbled out of the bathroom yet again, hand against the wall for support this time. "Stop asking me that, Sherlock."

Sherlock had already prepared a comeback for that statement: now you know how I feel when you're bothering me about my health. But he didn't say it aloud, and saying it in his head wasn't at all satisfying. It had stopped being funny, John being sick, after Sherlock had started to realise that it wasn't just a twenty-four thing.

"It's just flu," John muttered, doggedly pushing past him. "It'll hang on for a few days then die off."

If you don't die off first, Sherlock thought, and, again while he didn't say it out loud, it was honestly true. John was pale, there were dark smudges of exhaustion smudged under his eyes, goosebumps on his skin and sweat covering his face and neck in a thin layer that gleamed in the half light of the hallway.

The first day, Sherlock had thought John had contracted a strain of the twenty-four hour stomach flu virus that had been going around. It entailed severe vomiting, diarrhoea, and just about any other unpleasant thing that Sherlock could think of involving seasonal illness. It was almost humorous; Sherlock had bluntly told him that that was what he got for offering to work overtime at surgery during November. Besides, it had interrupted a case schedule and Sherlock had been alone for a good run. He had thought he was allowed to be a little bit put out, and a little bit - childishly - amused.

But then it hadn't gone away with twenty-four hours. John had started out saying that it was probably just going to take a little longer, not every twenty-four hour flu lasted twenty-four exact hours, but it had hung on for two days, and now three, and all Sherlock could see was that John was still suffering, and maybe getting progressively worse.

So, yes, he did have a strain of the stomach flu, but it was a lot more violent and a lot more stubborn than Sherlock or John had previously thought, and now it was starting to make Sherlock uneasy.

He didn't like uneasy. He hardly ever got uneasy. It wasn't a good feeling.

"Help me upstairs," John said.

Sherlock glanced up, looking at the back of John's shirt, damp with sweat. "What?"

"Don't make me say it again," John breathed, shaking his head slightly. "I'm tired, I want to go up to bed, and it's-"

"Alright," Sherlock interrupted smoothly, sidling up next to him and slipping his arm around his waist.

John looked surprised for approximately two seconds before he put his arm around Sherlock's neck and leaned against him. "Are you sure you got your flu shot this year?" he asked distractedly. Sherlock got the impression he was focussing on watching his own feet. "I wouldn't wish this on my worst enemy," John continued.

"Got many of those?" Sherlock questioned. He counted it as a victory when John smiled, only for a split second, afterwards.

"Probably," John replied, half jokingly.

"Well, not to worry. I get my shot as soon as they start offering them. Sometimes before, if Mycroft pulls some strings."

"Huh."

"What?"

"Doesn't seem like you."

"Oh, don't be stupid. I hate getting sick just as much as the average person, probably more. It takes everything out of you. I don't have time to be dealing with a cold or flu when the life of someone targeted hinges on my brain.

John laughed humorlessly. "Yeah, okay. I guess I get it." They had just rounded the last stair and John sighed heavily, closing his eyes briefly. "It really does take everything out of you."

"Sit down," Sherlock said, helping him into his room. "Get your breath back."

John sank down on the edge of his bed and then laid back, throwing his arms over his eyes. "This really sucks."

"You have a wonderful way with words," Sherlock commented, pulling the blankets up around John's shoulders. "Stay there," he said, with a hint of sternness in his voice.

John huffed. "Like I can go anywhere, anyway."

Sherlock nodded and swept from the room. He cleared the stairs and circled around to the bathroom to gather supplies. When he took the stairs back to John's room, two at a time, he had collected a wet washcloth, paracetamol, the thermometer, and a half mug of warm tea.

John glanced from under his arm as Sherlock walked back in. "... Please tell me that you aren't about to doctor me," he muttered.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, setting everything down on the nightstand. "Why not? You doctor me."

"Well," John muttered, "somebody has to do it."

"I'm doing it today," Sherlock replied, turning on the thermometer. "Open."

John sighed but reached up for the thermometer, taking it from him to slip under his tongue.

Sherlock smiled frankly before turning to the paracetamol, popping the cap off. He picked up the mug of tea and waited patiently until the thermometer beeped, then he pulled it from John's mouth and handed him the pills and tea instead. "Medicate and hydrate."

The thermometer read thirty-eight point four, which wasn't horrible but not perfect, either. Anyway, stomach flu attacked the stomach the worst, considering John's frequent trips to the bathroom, so a high fever wasn't what Sherlock had been expecting, anyway.

"Thanks," John muttered. He took another drink of the tea before making a face and handed the mug back. "It's cold."

Sherlock shrugged, setting it aside. "It's lukewarm."

John grumbled in response, moving to drape his arms around his face again.

Sherlock caught them before he could. "Don't do that."

"I have a headache," John muttered.

"The paracetamol will help." Sherlock placed his hand against John's forehead briefly, testing the warmth there never-mind the thermometer reading. Sherlock pulled his hand away just as John gave him a surprised look. "What?" he asked, placing the cool cloth over John's forehead.

John blinked wearily. "How do you know to do that?"

"Do what?" he asked absently.

"Test temperature with your hands. Which," John added, "isn't the best way to do it."

Sherlock shrugged. "I do have basic instincts, you know. My parents used to do it when I was a kid, too."

"Huh." John pressed the cloth more firmly into his head, sighing again. "Sherlock Holmes has a decent bedside manner. Who would have thought?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "Only 'decent'? I thought I was doing a pretty good job."

John smiled up at him tiredly. "Just kidding, Sherlock."

Sherlock flashed a brief smile. "I know that. Now," he said, pressing his fingertips together, "is there anything else you need? I think I've done what I'm supposed to..."

"You followed the textbook," John said, rolling over. "I just need to sleep..."

Sherlock watched John for a moment, trying to figure out anything else that he could do. With John sick, he wasn't of any use to him if a case suddenly arose. And, beyond that... it was just a lot more lonely without John chattering away into his ear. Granted, half the time he pretended he didn't hear him, but... yeah, of course he did. He just wanted John back to his usual self, end of story.

But now, after hydration, medication, relaxation, what was left? Nothing. A big, fat nothing. Maybe he'd start experimenting with home remedies... but he'd have to test on someone else first. Last thing he wanted to do was make John even more sick. He'd have to see...

Anyway. "Oh, well..." He shifted slightly. "Alright. I'll just... be downstairs if you need me. Or help. Need help."

John chuckled slightly. "Uh huh. Thanks, Sherlock."

Sherlock smiled to himself, lopsided and enthusiastic. Praise from John was like something special. He didn't exactly know why. Maybe it had something to do with that f-word. Still, it was... nice. It was definitely a nice feeling.

"You're welcome," he said out loud, toneless as usual. "Get some sleep."

"Mmm."

Sherlock fixed John's blanket and then headed out, closing the door behind him.

Good old fashioned competent Sherlock taking care of John. Old fashioned sick!fic. More Sherlock stories coming soon; my muse is crazy lazy right now, but I miss my detective duo, so I'm trying. [Also - over 300 fanfics! O_O Maybe that's why my muse has been dry. xD Sorry again for the lack of new stories non-Supernatural related.]

I do not own Sherlock. Thank you!