Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of the characters related to the BBC TV show.

…

Sick: Amelia

Featuring: Sherlock and Amelia, with a brief appearance of John.

Sherlock was bored, painfully so, and a bored Sherlock Holmes without any cigarettes or drugs to occupy his time was a very dangerous thing indeed. He hadn't had a case in a week, not since Baskerville; in fact, they hadn't even had a single client in all that time, not even an email. Well, aside from the usual annoying ones, he could have killed Amelia and John for thinking that it would be amusing to start spamming his email with pictures of cats and dogs dressed up, Amelia had even sent him an email of an otter with the tagline 'This reminded me of you, Holmes'. Needless to say, he had made sure to be extra annoying towards both of them after that and had made sure to play his violin to all hours of the early morning, just because he knew that if Amelia hated anything more than him meddling with her beauty products for one of his experiments, it was being kept up all night with his playing. Seeing both John and Amelia the next morning with dark circles under their bloodshot eyes and barely able to even form sentences due to being so tired was sweet vengeance in his mind.

He sighed heavily and glared up at the ceiling above his head, stretched out across his sofa, almost able to literally feel his brain slowly starting to commit suicide just from the sheer boredom of not having any case to investigate. He was almost desperate enough to call Lestrade and demanded that he give them a case, but he held himself back. He rather not give Lestrade the pleasure of thinking that he held any power over him, which he didn't, of course. He narrowed his eyes up at the slightly darkened patch of ceiling that was directly above his head, before letting out a loud groan and sitting upright, pulling himself off the couch, tossing the back of his blue dressing gown back rather dramatically as he rose and, not even bothering to move around the coffee table, stepped up onto it and hopped down onto the other side, strolling across to the furthest window to pull the lace curtain back, glaring down at the street below.

How easy it was for them all, he thought bitterly as he watched a divorced banker in his late forties walk passed the front of Baker Street's door, favouring his right leg, due to having suffered an injury to his knee as a result of a bad car accident in his early twenties. They couldn't possibly even begin to imagine all the things that they are missing, so busy thinking about themselves or their next romantic entanglement to even pause for a moment to look up and see, to use their brains properly. They were all idiots and for that reason alone, perhaps, it was better that they didn't, though it certainly would make his life better if he didn't have to live a world that was constantly filled with useless noise.

He roughly shut the lace curtain once more, tugging it a little too hard in his foul mood before he turned around to face the living room of his flat, searching for something, anything, to do. John wasn't here for him to be able to pester, he had left the day before to go and visit his sister, who had suffered yet another relapse, though why John felt the need to go rushing off to see her Sherlock didn't know. She would end up doing it again, after all, if any one should know an addict, it was him, though, he personally wouldn't consider himself to be an addict. That would rather imply that he didn't have control over his addiction, which was completely untrue.

His eyes landed on a small clock that was sitting on one of the shelves by the fireplace and he frowned, reading the time. It was after eleven and Amelia hadn't been seen, which was very strange for her. She always had breakfast in his flat, regardless of what day or whether or not John was away, in fact, since she had first moved next door to them, the one and only time that she hadn't popped by before ten in the morning was when she had an early morning appointment with her hairdresser that she hadn't been able to get any later. She was always up by eight in the morning, even if she had slept poorly, it was her routine. Awake by seven thirty in the morning, shower, dressed, and hair and makeup done by eight, and sitting at their breakfast table by no later than nine with a cup of tea and a plate of runny eggs and two pieces of bacon. Every single morning, that was how it was, but not today, it would seem.

He felt himself grow annoyed with himself again, forcefully dragging his eyes off the small clock. Why was he even wasting his time thinking about Amelia's morning habits? He could practically hear John's amused little voice in the back of his head, saying that it was all because they were friends and being concerned about a friend was perfectly normal, but not for Sherlock, it wasn't. At least, not when it came to Amelia, anyway. They had only really become friends in the last few months and besides, Amelia was a grown woman, more than capable of taking care of herself, it was perfectly logical to just simply say that Amelia had decided to have breakfast in her own flat and had gotten stuck watching one of her absurd TV shows. Except…this was Amelia and Amelia very rarely ever changed anything from her usual routine.

He huffed and stormed around to sit down his armchair, his dressing gown whirling around him as he sat heavily and folded his arms across his chest, his eyes moving to rest on the closed landing door. No, he was not in the slightest bit worried about Amelia and why she might not have made an appearance in his flat, not in the slightest bit. This was exactly what he had been wanting, wasn't it? For Amelia to stop turning up in his flat, lounging around on his furniture, reading her fashion magazines and annoying him with her little remarks that he found to be beyond infuriating. The idea that he could have actually have grown to be in any way fond of having her constantly hanging around his flat was absurd to him, regardless of what the traitors little voice in his head that sounded like Mycroft whispered. He was in no way fond of Amelia, not at all.

Still…as the minutes slipped by and the longer he sat, his eyes fixed on the back of the landing door, the more his concern began to increase and a slight tightness began to grow in his chest. He blamed it on the fact that he hated it when people defied their usual habits, that Amelia, who he was so used to acting and being a certain way, was not following by his previous deductions about her behaviour. But then again, shouldn't that also be a good thing? This way he could try and relieve the boredom by figuring out what she was doing, except, he wasn't bored, not since he had realised that Amelia hadn't made an appearance. No, he thought with a scoff, he was just concerned.

He threw the clock another quick look to see that it was very nearly twelve and found himself unable to remain in his living room any longer. He needed to know exactly what could be keeping Amelia, trying to excuse his need as just simply being frustrated by his own inability to figure out just what or where she might have disappeared off to. He rose from his chair and paused to pull his dressing gown off, dropping it back down into his vacated chair as he reached up to button his blazer around his middle, giving it a little tug to straighten it. He walked across to the landing door and pulled it open, stepping out onto the small landing and across to the door leading between his flat and Amelia's. He lightly knocked and waited, but when no reply came, he simply reached out and grasped the handle, opening the door.

His eyes landed on Amelia almost at once. She was curled up on her leather sofa, her head propped up on a pillow that had obviously come from off her bed, while a thin, pale blue throw rug was half hanging off her, mostly on the ground. She was still dressed in her pyjamas, a thin pair of cotton trousers that looked better suited for summer then the chill of the last few days of early spring, while her top was just a thin T-shirt that didn't even match with the trousers. She was fast asleep, from what little that he could make out from her pale face, her hair looking worse than he had ever seen it before. Some of it was even stuck to her forehead by what looked like sweat.

It wasn't difficult to conclude that the reason for why Amelia hadn't make an appearance today was because she was sick, judging by the sheen of sweat on her pale face and the lack of her usual careful care in her own appearance. He considered leaving her be and returning to his own flat, but something held him back. Perhaps it was John's doing, but it didn't sit entirely comfortably on him to imagine leaving Amelia behind while she was clearly quite ill, though he couldn't imagine what he could possibly do for her, nor did he find the idea of staying to be any more appealing than the idea of leaving her be. Sickness and caring after others was not something that came naturally for him, after all, John was the doctor in the group and he was off, visiting his sister. He was certainly going to have something to say to him about leaving him behind to try and care for a sick Amelia. This was not what he signed up for when he asked her to work with him, far from it.

Sherlock sighed and carefully stepped further into the room, leaning down to pick up a TV remote from where it had fallen onto the floor by the sofa, switching the still softly playing television off. She must have gotten up in the middle of the night and fallen asleep in front of the TV while it played, or perhaps, and this was even more likely, she had simply fallen asleep in front of the TV after leaving from his flat the night before, after having eaten dinner with him. He didn't recall her being unwell, though she had complained around having a slight tickle in her throat and not quite feeling herself. He grimaced as he sat the remote back down on the coffee table, making a mental note to be sure to sanitise his hands when he got the chance, before he moved to stand over Amelia.

"Amelia," he tried calling, watching her carefully. She stirred for a moment, before nestling herself even more comfortably into her pillow. He huffed in annoyance and reached out to give her arm a light shake, frowning slightly as his fingers brushed against her overly warm skin, "Amelia, wake up!" he said louder.

Amelia gave a pathetic little moan and slowly open her heavy eyes, squinting weakly up at him, "Sherlock?" she asked in a congested murmur, before breaking off with an awful, bark like cough that even made Sherlock wince very slightly. She looked back up at him again, her eyes watering, "Sorry, I took my contacts out, having a bit of trouble seeing clearly…"

"I imagine," he said dryly, eyeing her. She truly did look quite pathetic, though he couldn't help feeling the tiniest bit sorry for her. Not that he would ever admit to that, not ever.

She gave another cough and sniffed, or rather tried to through her nose, finding that she was rather unable to do so, in her congested state, "I'm sick," she told him.

"That is very obvious," he shifted slightly awkwardly, not knowing what to do. John would know, he realised with a small jolt, "I'll call John," he said a little overly eagerly, reaching into his pocket for his phone and turning his back on her.

"Oh, don't bother him. Leave him be, it's just a little cold".

A little cold that he would likely end up having to help take care of due to her being to unwell to properly care for herself, given the state she was in right now. He supposed that he could have tried to get Mrs Hudson to care for her, even possibly Molly, but neither of them were here right now, sadly. He ignored her as he pulled his phone from his inner blazer pocket and scrolled through his contact list, easily finding John's number. There was a few benefits to not having many friends, his contacts list was barely six names long.

He dialled the number and pressed the phone to his ear, turning back around to see Amelia struggling to pull herself into a sitting position, her back propped up by her pillow as she grabbed the rug, wrapping it tightly around her middle and arms. Her hair looked even worse now that she was sitting up, knotted and tangled around her head as it hung limply from sweat and not having been washed. He had never payed much attention to attractiveness or physical beauty when it came to women, but he did recognise the concept of beauty when he saw it, such as with Amelia. She was always very well dressed and always ensured that she was fashionable and groomed, her facial features, height, and build the type that was considered to be beautiful by society that they lived in, but right now she was a far cry from being considered 'beautiful'. He felt certain that if she wasn't so horribly sick right now, she probably would have been beyond mortified to think that anyone would be seeing her in such a state.

"Sherlock," John's voice came over the phone, pulling him from his thoughts. He sounded mildly exasperated, likely due to the stress of trying to talk his sister into getting help, or so Sherlock imagined, "What is it? If you've called to get me to come home just to hand you another bloody pen…"

Ah, yes, he'd forgotten about that text message from the day before, though why John felt the need to send him a message telling him what he could do with that pen, was quite unneeded in his mind, "It's not about a pen," he told him, his voice level as he rolled his eyes, "Amelia's ill. I need you…"

"I can't come all the way back now, Sherlock, just to take care of Amelia. I'm on the late train tonight, so you'll just have to do the friendly thing and manage with her on your own".

Sherlock released a long breath and turned away from Amelia, glaring at a painting on the wall that looked more like smudges to him, but he estimated would probably have cost a small fortune to purchase, "And how, exactly, am I supposed to…" he pulled a face, "…care for Amelia".

John sighed loudly on the other end, sounding exasperated, but when he spoke, Sherlock could easily detect a hint of amusement in his voice, "It's probably just a virus, but if you're so concerned about her…"

"I'm not concerned," he said at once, frowning deeply, "Why would I be concerned?"

"Well, you did just call me to try and get me to come all the way back to London, just because Amelia's sick, which does suggest concern to me…"

"Don't be absurd, I was just…" he trailed off, still frowning as it hit him that, yes, actually, he had felt concern and not just because he knew that he would end up having to take care of Amelia, since she didn't seem to be completely capable of even getting herself a drink right now. He had felt concern when she hadn't dropped in to his flat this morning, which he supposed had been what had prompted him to come and see her in the first place, but regardless, the idea that he might actually be feeling concern for Amelia really didn't sit well with him.

"Sherlock," Amelia called over to him, making him turn around to see her looking blurry eyed at him, still squinting slightly without her contacts, "It's fine, honestly. I don't need you to be my nursemaid, even if it's kind of sweet…" Sherlock threw her a dark look, which she seemed to ignore or quite likely didn't even see properly, "Just go back to your flat and do whatever it was you were doing before, I can look after myself".

"She does sound pretty congested," John's voice said in Sherlock's ear, "Check her temperature, make sure she keeps the fluids and painkillers up, other than that there's really not much that even I could do".

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Thank you for your helpfulness," he said sarcastically, ending the call without waiting to hear John's response, which he expected would be annoyed and offended.

"Rude," Amelia accused him, sniffing.

He gave her a cool, level look, "It's amazing how even when sick, you still manage to be annoying".

She gave him a very weak smile, "You're on a roll today, Holmes," she remarked hoarsely, "Just how many of your friends can you try and make mad in minutes?"

He didn't bother responding to that, instead he asked, "When was the last time you had medication?"

Amelia cast the clock on the wall behind her a fleeting look, though judging by the frown on her face, Sherlock doubted if she was even able to read it right now without her contacts on, "Um…I got up at about…two, three, maybe, this morning," she said slowly, struggling to remember, "I took a cold and flu tablet then, which made me sleepy…"

"Which means that you're well and truly overdue for medication," he surmised, and walked off into her kitchen before she could respond, finding a packet of cold and flu tablets already left lying messily on the counter, along with a box of cough lozenges and an empty glass. He grabbed the glass and filled it with cold water from out of a jug in the fridge, before he popped out two daytime cold and flu tablets, pausing to also grab the thermometer that he found up in Amelia's medicine cupboard and slipping it into his pocket, before returning to the living room.

"Should I ask how you've come to know the layout of my kitchen cupboards?" Amelia asked as she took the glass of water and the two tablets.

"Just have your pills".

She coughed into her arm, almost spilling the water onto herself as she did so, "Thank you," she muttered as she popped both pills into her mouth and took a large gulp of water, swallowing it down with a grimace as she took another couple of sips of water, apparently finding it difficult to swallow at the moment.

"John instructed me to take you temperature," Sherlock told her, taking the thermometer from his pocket. She sat the glass down the coffee table and pushed her messy hair back from the left side of her face, allowing him to take her temperature via her ear. The device beeped after less than twenty seconds and he removed it, checking the small digital screen, "Thirty eight degrees".

"Bit high," Amelia sighed, "No wonder I feel so bloody awful. The cold and flu tablets ought to kick in fifteen minutes from now, though," she pushed the thin blanket off herself and swung her legs over the side of the sofa, bracing her arm on the side of the couch as she rose. She wobbled slightly, closing her eyes tightly, and Sherlock reacted automatically by reaching out to grab her arm and help steady her, "Thanks," she opened her eyes to look at him, "Bit dizzy".

"Where do you think you're going?"

"My room. My chiropractor will probably lecture me as it is about sleeping on my couch and I'd rather not end up getting a migraine from a sore neck".

She started to unsteadily walk towards the hallway leading down to the rest of her flat, while Sherlock walked just behind her, watching her carefully in case she got dizzy again because she didn't seem very coordinated right now, though he did still wonder why he was still here when he had already made sure that she had her medication and there wasn't anything else that he could do. Still, he continued to follow her, even into her bedroom where her bedcovers were tossed all over the place and there was a few pillows littering the floor. He paused slightly uncomfortably at the end of her bed as she climbed beneath her thin pale grey sheet and propped herself up slightly on the pillow.

"Sherlock…" she hesitated slightly, toying with the edge of her blanket, "Are you busy?"

Sherlock gave her a look, "Do you think I'm busy?"

She smiled faintly, "Right, well…" she paused again, biting her dry bottom lip, "I don't suppose you'd mind staying with me for a while, then? I'll probably fall asleep soon," she added hastily, "And I don't really want to talk much, given my throat at the moment, but if we could maybe just watch something together I'd be really grateful for the company".

Sherlock stared at her, quite surprised by her request. He had to admit that their friendship had come a long way since they had first started working together and while he did find her to be very annoying at times, there was also times when he actually found himself enjoying being around her, not that he would ever admit that to anyone. He found it hard enough admitting that to himself, let alone anyone else. Still, the fact that Amelia wanted him to spend time with her while she was sick was very unexpected to him, he would have imagined that she would have preferred to be left alone right now.

"I…" he trailed off, blank. His first response was to find a way to deny her request and leave as quickly as possible for the safety of his flat, away from her germs and illness, possibly phoning for Molly to come and see Amelia instead, but he just couldn't seem to get the words out to tell her no. He shifted slightly on the spot, "Are you sure you wouldn't rather have Molly come?"

"You make me sound like a clingy child," Amelia sniffed, reaching over to grab a tissue out of the tissue box on her bedside table, dabbing at her nose, "I only ask you, Sherlock, because you're here right now and, like you said, you don't have anything else to do".

"I never said I didn't have anything to do".

"Glaring at people walking passed and staring up at the ceiling doesn't count," Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her, annoyed that she was able to read him as well as she could, but before he could open his mouth to try and correct her, she continued, "I mean, if you don't want to stay I'll understand. I probably wouldn't want to stay near my germy riddled flat if I didn't have to, either. But…" she looked back up to him, looking brighter then she had since he had first found her sleeping on her sofa, the medication apparently kicking in at last, "I really would be grateful for the company".

He frowned slightly, weighing up his options. He could return to his own flat and, well, do what? Play the violin? That would disturb her if she managed to fall asleep again, though why he was even caring about that right now, he didn't know. He didn't have any cases to work on, the idea of watching day time television made him want to poke his own eyes out, and he didn't currently have any experiments in mind to work on. Then, of course, he could stay with Amelia and wait until she either fell asleep or needed more medicine in four hours times. As far as he was concerned, right now none of those ideas seemed appealing in the least bit, but he supposed that staying with Amelia would mean that he would have an active audience to be able to bounce ideas off, even if she didn't wish to talk back.

"If I agree to stay here," he eyed Amelia carefully, "I get to pick what we watch".

Amelia nodded quickly, smiling, "Deal," she grabbed the TV remote from off her bedside table and absently pattered the bed beside her as she switched on the small flat-screen TV that was mounted to the wall directly facing the bed, sitting perfectly raised to be watched when lying down, "Come and sit down, Holmes, get comfortable".

Sherlock wasn't entirely pleased with the idea of lying anywhere near Amelia right now, let alone in her bedroom and on her bed, but he still moved to slightly awkwardly perch himself on the edge of the bed beside her.

"Oh, yes, you look very comfortable," she remarked, watching him with an amused expression.

He shot her a quick look and undid his shoelaces, before kicking his shoes off and moving to try and sit up against the fabric covered headboard and pillows, feeling very stiff as he fixed his eyes straight onto the TV screen ahead of him, watching as she changed the channel several times, not one channel the slightest bit appealing in his mind. When she stopped on one channel that seemed to have some sort of crime drama on it, he narrowed his eyes and glanced at her to see her raising an eyebrow at him, smiling slightly.

"Problem, Holmes?"

"We're not watching this rubbish," he told her with a glare.

"Oh, but it's good," she insisted quickly, "They talk about unsolved cases and then recreate them".

"Just like every other so called crime show," he scoffed.

"We don't even have to watch it," she shook her head and turned the already low volume down until it was barely a whisper in the room. She sank further down on her pillows and yawned, her eyes slipping closed, "You know, Sherlock," she muttered after a long moment, making him look back to her, "You really can be quite sweet at times".

Sherlock looked away from her again, frowning at the screen, "You're sick and currently taking strong cold and flu medication," he said lightly, "I don't think you're truly in a fit state of mind, Amelia".

"If you didn't care, you wouldn't have come to check up on me and you wouldn't have stayed to help me, nor would you have tried to get John to come back".

"I wanted John back so that he could take care of you".

"Exactly. If you didn't care, you wouldn't have bothered, and I really do appreciate that you did stay to try and help me".

Sherlock remained silent, not knowing what to do or say, he wasn't even sure how he was supposed to feel right now about this. He'd never been called 'sweet' before, not even close. It was a very strange sensation. He glanced over to Amelia when she didn't say anything for a few minutes, only to find that she was fast asleep with the TV remote held limply in her hand in the mused sheets and with her mouth slightly open, since she was unable to breathe properly through her nose. He shook his head and looked back to the TV, ideally watching the images flash across the screen, not willing to pick up the germ riddled remote right now or to leave. Slowly, he felt his own eyes start to grow droopy and tired, and he allowed himself to be consumed by sleep.

…...

"Sherlock!" John called as he moved up the stairs of Baker Street, carrying a small travel case. He paused in the doorway of the living room as he reached the landing, sitting his bag down on the floor as he peered inside, the room completely empty and dark with none of the lights on or a single sign of Sherlock anywhere, "Sherlock?" he tried again as he moved to check the kitchen, then the bathroom and even Sherlock's bedroom, but there was no sign of the curly haired pain anywhere.

John moved back onto the landing and paused as he noticed the door between their flat and Amelia's was slightly open. Surely Sherlock wasn't still with Amelia? That had been hours ago now. Still, curiosity as to just where his flatmate might have gone made him lightly knock on the door and push it open, peering into Amelia's living room, which was just as empty as Baker Streets and more messy then he was used to seeing it. A glass of water had been left sitting on the coffee table, along with a mused blanket on the couch and a box of tissues that had several used ones rolled up into balls scattered around the box.

"Sherlock?" he said loudly, stepping further into the room, "Amelia?" he waited, but still no one answered back. He feared for a moment that perhaps Amelia had been sicker then he had thought and had been taken to hospital, but he doubted it. Amelia was very healthy and still quite young, she took good care of herself, he doubted that she would be in hospital. He felt a little awkward about moving around Amelia's flat without her permission, but he thought he had a grasp of the basic layout of the flat and so he quietly made his way down the hallway.

His eyes landed on where a door at the end of the hallway was left slightly ajar, "Amelia?" he whispered, feeling almost like a criminal, sneaking around in someone else's house, "Sherlock?" he approached the door and lightly tapped his knuckles against the smooth wooden surface, before edging it open and peering inside, finding the room to be completely black, save for the light coming off the TV screen that was playing over the bed, no sound coming from it. But it wasn't the TV that really caught his attention, it was the fact that Sherlock was lying on top of the blankets of Amelia's bed, while Amelia herself was curled up under the sheets on her side of the bed, both fast asleep.

John stared at the sight of them sleeping in the same bed, unable to quite believe what he was witnessing, nor could he even begin to try and figure out how Amelia had managed to convince Sherlock to stay with her in the first place. It was truly a sight that he never imagined he would come across, but what should he do? He considered taking a picture of them, but decided not to in the end, afraid he might wake them. So, instead, he carefully slipped out of the doorway and closed the door behind him, smiling to himself as he headed back to his own flat to get unpacked. He'd wait until Sherlock woke up to say something, until then, he'd savour the memory and figure out what to try and do with it to get back at Sherlock for his rudeness during the phone call.

So this is set just after Baskerville, but before the Fall and it was referenced to by John during chapter one of 'Until We Meet Again'. I mentioned that I really wanted to write a story of one-shots for Sherlock, just like with my Doctor Who series and here we are. This story will feature one-shots from throughout the stories and possibly even mini-stories with two or three chapters long that feature stories based on the case's on John's blog that I really, really want to turn into stories with Amelia in. Oh, and I should also tell my American readers that 38 degrees Celsius's translates into 100.4 degrees Fahrenheit, since I personal always find it annoying when I quite figure out what the temperature it supposed to mean when it's in Fahrenheit while I'm reading a story.

If you have any suggestions for one-shot ideas, I would love to hear them and see what I can do in regards to writing them. I hope you liked the first chapter, tell me what you thought. I really hope Sherlock was in character, it's the first time I've written a chapter that's told mostly from his point of view with his thoughts featuring quite heavily. Please review :)