A/N: Do I look like The Arthur Conan Doyle Estate, The BBC or Stephen Moffat and Mark Gatiss? I guess you wouldn't know. But take my word for it. I'm not.

John jerked out of his sleep to find that his uneasy stomach of the evening before had bloomed into full on nausea, and that he'd better book it if he didn't want to have to clean up the bedclothes. A scramble later, and he was leaning into porcelain, and emptying his stomach of the meagre pickings he'd eaten last night.

Ugh...

He groaned into the bowl, and realized he'd have to call in to Sarah, since from the feel of it he'd be there for a while.

After he'd finished, John glanced up at the small clock on the countertop. 2:47 AM. He'd have to wait for the sun to rise at least.

Another round of vomiting later, and he was aware he had an audience.

"G'way Sherlock. It's not the first time you've seen someone throwing up."

Sherlock didn't answer, and John looked up to the see the man abnormally pale and clenching his jaw together. He didn't need his flat mate's muttered "Move," to scramble backwards, holding his own nausea in check for the moment, while Sherlock made quick work of the toilet.

Sherlock was done retching a few minutes later, and he then looked over at John miserably, still hugging the bowl. He looked so very young, pajama-clad and ill.

Despite the fact that the situation in no way called for humour, John felt his mouth twitch up into a smile at Sherlock's affronted face-how dare his own body betray him!

"Guess we both must have caught what was going around the Yard." John said, settling back against the edge of the bath tub. His stomach seemed to be calming now. Sort of.

"Your deductions are astounding."

"How long have you been nauseas?" John asked, looking Sherlock over and seeing how his hair clung to the sweat on his forehead, and how he shook with faint tremours. John knew he could look little better.

"You must be feeling better if you've already reverted to your overbearing caring."

"Long then?"

"With all this mothering, you're giving Mrs. Hudson a run for her money."

"Mine started last night. And, I'm sure the Thai didn't help."

"Perhaps I should start calling you 'nanny' now, since you're doing such an admirable job of it?"

John jolted forwards, and made it to the toilet on time, ignoring Sherlock's squawk of disgust and outrage as he was nearly shoved aside.

Oh, I really shouldn't have had the peanut sauce...

John finally slumped back against the bath, breathing hard. He saw Sherlock, leaning against the cupboard, legs curled up and eyes closed.

"You really...must be feeling terrible...if that's the best you can come up with." John panted.

Sherlock's eyes flickered to him, and he gave a little snort. John huffed in tired amusement.

They were both quite miserable for the next hour or two. John was shivering harder the next time he pulled back from being sick.

'Wish we had some blankets in here..." He murmured. Sherlock pulled his own arms closer to himself, as if mentioning it reminded him that he was, in fact, chilled.

"So go get some."

"You."

Sherlock glared at him.

"Are you really going to do this now? You're cold, so go get some blankets."

John shook his head.

"You're cold too."

"Don't then!"

"You'll steal whatever blankets I bring back."

Sherlock's silence meant that John was correct. John felt a ridiculous flash of pleasure at winning the argument...followed by a shiver. Sherlock's sharp eyes saw it.

"We could yell for Mrs. Hudson."

John turned to his flat mate. "She's not our mother! We can't expect her to wake up and take care of us, we're grown men!" There was a long silence. "Besides, she'd never hear us from up here...I thought of it earlier."

Sherlock sighed. Then swallowed. And then John was pulling his legs back quickly as Sherlock shot forwards, nearly kneeling on him. His retching gave John uneasy twitches in his own stomach, but he clamped down on them. He'd have to throw up in the bath while the toilet was otherwise occupied, and he did not want to do that.

He did manage to refrain himself. They went back to their respective miserable silences, until...

"John, I'm bored."

John didn't open his eyes.

"You're ill. You can't be bored."

He could feel Sherlock's scathing look.

"Unlike most of the world, the extent of my brain power is not taken up with feeling terrible."

"So you do admit to feeling terrible?" John was purposely missing the point. An argument was as good as anything at keeping Sherlock occupied.

Sherlock groaned. He knew exactly what John was doing, of course, and wanted no part in it.

"Of course I feel terrible. I'm stuck in this bathroom with you."

...Didn't stop him from throwing a rejoinder.

John laughed, eyes still closed. "Ouch."

It was quiet for a little while more, until John roused and looked at the clock.

'Damn." He said. "I've gotta call Sarah, tell her I won't be in."

"She'll realize in an hour or two anyway." Sherlock said, supremely unhelpful.

"There is such a thing as courtesy. I can't leave her in the lurch without letting her know."

"She'll be 'in the lurch' regardless..."

John ignored him, and slowly, with much groaning, rose to his feet. Keeping a hand on his still churning belly, he picked his way over Sherlock's gangly legs, and made his way into his bedroom. He sat on the end of his bed to make the call.

"Hey Sarah, how are you? Good, yeah, well I was calling to say I won't be in today. Yeah, that stomach thing. Sherlock and I were both on the floor of the bathroom all night. Yeah, we're fine. No, yeah. Thanks. Sorry. Bye."

John groaned again, and stood. He was a bit lightheaded, but it was probably from dehydration more than the illness. John grabbed the glass from the bedside table, and then the entire bedclothes as a last thought.

Reentering the bathroom, he flung the mess of blankets and sheets over Sherlock's head, and filled up the glass at the sink. Sherlock meanwhile pulled the bedclothes down off his face, looking five years old with his mussed curls, and pouty glare.

John took a swallow of the water and then handed Sherlock the glass.

"Here, drink some. We're both dehydrated."

"You just drank out of it."

John looked at him incredulously.

"Are you worried about germs? We've been marinating in germs all night, I don't think sharing a glass is going to hurt us. I didn't want to go downstairs."

John then wriggled down into the nest of blankets, reclining on the cupboard next to Sherlock.

"Oh, I should have brought a pillow." John muttered, spine not exactly happy. "You warmer?"

Sherlock hummed a yes, and John was amused to see his eyelids drooping. He nudged him.

"Hey, drink some water. It should stay down by now." His stomach at least wasn't complaining too badly yet. Sherlock raised the cup and took a few sips, before setting it to the side.

John too felt exhaustion pulling at him, and now that he was warm and relatively comfortable (as comfortable as you could be next to your boney flat mate on a bathroom floor, anyway) he felt his eyes shutting of their own will.

He didn't open them again until the creaking of the door opening pulled him from his light sleep. John felt warm and relaxed against the cupboard, even if his tailbone was digging uncomfortably into the floor. Sherlock was sound asleep, and had drifted over as he slept until his head was slumped into John's shoulder. John smiled fondly, and then raised his eyes to the door.

And looked into the shocked and amused eyes of Detective Inspector Lestrade.

John grinned wider, and mouthed to him, trying not to wake his slumbering friend.

'Sick all night.'

Lestrade nodded, and whispered. "Case?"

John shook his head gently, and Sherlock murmured. John stilled immediately.

"I'll come back later." Lestrade whispered.

"Tomorrow." John whispered, and Lestrade nodded again.

"I can hear you." Sherlock said, without opening his eyes or moving an inch.

"We were trying not to wake you." John said, leaning his head back against the cupboard. Sherlock snorted, the movement jerking John's shoulder.

"A task you failed at completely." He said. John rolled his eyes. "Well?"

Lestrade and John exchanged a look, confused. Sherlock sighed noisily.

"The case! I assume you need me." He finally opened his eyes, and gave Lestrade a glare. Lestrade opened his mouth to respond, but John cut him off.

"No, Sherlock. We're both ill, and you are not going to go running around a crime scene."

Sherlock went to argue, but Lestrade spoke, raising a hand to stem the protests.

"John's right, Sherlock. The case will keep until tomorrow, and you're feeling better."

Sherlock growled, and pulled away from the pile of blankets, shakily rising to his feet.

"I feel fine, and I'm going to that crime scene. What is it? A body or...some..." He trailed off as his spinning head forced him to grab the door jamb to keep from toppling over. Lestrade gingerly gripped his elbow, his mouth twitching.

"I can see that." Still sitting on the floor, John rolled his eyes. Sherlock shook off Lestrade's hand violently.

"You and I are going to sit of the sofa for the rest of the day, watching crap telly, and drinking tea. Tomorrow you can call Lestrade for the case details."

Sherlock was glaring at him viciously, but John had had much experience in disgruntled flatmates, and was unperturbed.

"I can assure you I will not participate in anything so boring and pedestrian as-" He broke off, clamping his eyes and jaw shut, and John watching him warily for a moment, ready to back out of the way of the toilet, should Sherlock dive for it. However, after a moment of clenching his stomach, Sherlock relaxed again, breathing out sharply through his nose.

"...a convalescence with you." He finished, his glare rather less potent. John pushed himself upright using the wall, ignoring as best he could, the dizziness, and soreness of a night spent on linoleum. He stepped forward, using the counter, and then grabbing Sherlock's arm, and attempted to lead him into the hall to go downstairs. He was met, unsurprisingly with firm resistance.

"Come on, Sherlock. You can barely stand. Let's just take it easy today, and then tomorrow, you can run around all you want." John was aware that he was whinging and pleading, but he couldn't find it in himself to care. He was tired, and he wanted to curl up on the sofa, and watch mindless movies, not cater to his ridiculous flat mate.

"John, the case could be time sensitive, it could result in more lives being taken, would you really want preventable and pointless deaths on your conscience?"

Lestrade, during this whole exchange, had felt rather awkward, but now he piped up.

"Actually, it's a open and shut murder, got the text, perp confessed, on the way here. I only came up cause you weren't answering your phones." Lestrade tucked his hands in his pockets, and received a withering glare from Sherlock.

"You're lying."

Lestrade gave him an innocent look. John snickered tiredly. Sherlock looked a cross between profoundly annoyed, and nauseous. The nausea won out, and he dived from the doorway to the toilet, slamming the door behind him, and nearly causing John to lose a nose. John winced to hear more retching from the closed door, tamping down on his own stomach's unruliness.

"Thanks," He whispered to Lestrade, "He would've insisted." Lestrade nodded.

"I know. He's collapsed at crime scenes one too many times for me to keep letting him back when he's not well."

"He's collaps-" John sighed, and shook his head. "You and I are going to have a pint sometime, I have a feeling I need to hear some stories."

Lestrade laughed ruefully, and nodded. "Sounds good. We can compare."

John let Lestrade show himself out, and then put in a DVD before making himself comfortable on the couch. Sherlock joined him after a few minutes, dragging his bedding from the bathroom, and draping over them both. He made token protests about Lestrade's lie, John's taste in telly, and the dullness of being ill. Mrs. Hudson came up, and made them both toast and tea, which stayed down, and both John and even Sherlock napped on and off for the rest of the day.