Contrary to popular belief, Sherlock Holmes wasn't the worst patient in the world.

He was smart. He knew when he was sick. He also knew that he lived with a doctor. So, while he did complain a little more than usual, he wasn't a bad patient.

He'd come out from his bedroom, tousled hair and red eyes, take one look at John across the room and just give him these eyes - please, John, fix it - and John'd gesture him over and begin the run down.

Because everybody got sick; big brains didn't necessarily mean big immune systems.

"Runny nose?"

"Yes."

"Stuffy?"

"Last night."

"Sore throat?"

"Obviously," Sherlock would croak, voice deep from sleep but rough from the cold or fever or flu that he'd managed to come down sick with.

John would proceed to feel his lymph nodes, checking for anything unnatural, and sweep Sherlock's curls out of the way to feel for the fever.

Sherlock would just sit on the edge of the coffee table in front of John, slightly slouched over from exhaustion and sickness, and stare between John and the wall and the sofa, and turn away every so often to cough or sneeze.

"You've a fever," John would say, and Sherlock'd just nod lethargically, because there was a whole new round of questions to come.

"Have you been around anybody who's sick?"

"Not that I know of."

"Vomiting or diarrhoea?"

"No."

"What time did you go to bed last night?"

"Ten," and that would be the kicker, because Sherlock was a late night person if John had ever met one.

John would sigh and smile reassuringly, tipping the scales to full-scale doctor mode. "You've probably got the flu."

"Lovely," Sherlock would intone, and hunch over into himself further.

"Could be worse," John'd remind. "Could be gastro."

After which Sherlock would just stare at him blankly, the sprinkling of that please, John, just help me flickering for a half second across his face.

"Okay." John would stand at this point, cupping his hand under Sherlock's elbow to guide him back to his feet. "You wanna go back to bed or are you good with the sofa?"

"My body aches," Sherlock would say dryly. "What do you think?"

And John would tuck him away in bed without another complaint from a sick, half dozing detective, and then he would go gather the tea, and medication, and thermometer. If his fever were high enough, a cold cloth or some ice chips, and he would spend the next time Sherlock woke up trying to persuade him to eat. It usually worked if Sherlock wasn't feeling too poorly; John could always get him to eat some ice cream or a smoothie when he was down sick with a fever.

And unless there was a case - a really good one, mind; John had seen Sherlock turn down cases while he was sick, had watched Sherlock mentally work through if it was a good idea to go out in his state and eventually decide that it wasn't - bed was generally where Sherlock stayed. He'd be up to use the loo or try to associate - also a tip-off that he was feeling poorly; he returned to John's side if he started feeling worse, inevitably, which John was still grateful for - but otherwise, he mostly stayed curled miserably in bed and tried to get better.

He let John try to get him better.

John was ever so glad, because if Sherlock wanted to be a child, he would be a child. Thankfully, he seemed to know better, when it actually happened that he did get ill. He didn't try to push himself, not like he usually did.

So, no, Sherlock Holmes wasn't the worst patient in the world.

He wasn't the best flatmate in the world, either, John thought, as he opened the freezer and what looked like a literal bag of skin fell out to land at his feet. But at least he wasn't the worst patient in the world, or John thought that he might actually go insane.

I was suffering a cold a few days ago; thought up this idea and only now just got around to writing it. Granted, I think I prefer the childish!sicklock, this generally helpless, submissive!sicklock is very nice, too. I'm open to different realms of sicklock, as long as there's some fluff there. xP

I do not own Sherlock. Thank you!