Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.

Hey, everyone! So after a super-crazy, busy week, I have managed to write a one-shot that's been bouncing around up there. It's not one that's been requested (don't worry, wetrustno1, it's still coming and I'm still excited to write it!) but it is a bit different from the others I've tried. I wanted to do one in which John is ill and Sherlock does his best to lend a helping hand. I hope you enjoy it =)

"Sherlock, is that you?" John called from his semi-conscious state on the couch. The front door had slammed, waking him from a fitful dream only to remind him he was living a hellish nightmare otherwise known as flu. The tall man came pounding up the steps, each vibration making John wince.

"How are you feeling?" Sherlock asked, bypassing a greeting, as he took off his coat and hung it on the back of the door.

"Like I belong in a graveyard." John mumbled, pulling the layers of blankets up around his neck. Sherlock's entrance had created a draft.

"Must be awful." Sherlock's voice carried from the kitchen, where he had wandered to being an experiment.

"You have no idea."

"Have you ever thought," Sherlock said as he pulled an unlabelled container from the refrigerator, "That you might go to the surgery? It's been three and a half days."

"I am a doctor." John said indignantly, with as much energy as he could spare. Unfortunately, the effect was lacking and he sounded merely pitiful.

"Right."

John, tired of Sherlock's condescending comments, decided to prove to Sherlock he didn't need a doctor. Taking a big breath, John gave everything he had into pushing himself off the sofa. Feeling proud of his accomplishments, he pulled the top blanket off his nest and wrapped it around his shoulders before slowly making his way to the archway between the kitchen and living room.

"See? I told you, I'm perfectly fine."

Sherlock, who was now wearing lab goggles, didn't look up from his Petri dish.

"I suggest you move five paces forward and three to your left." Sherlock said.

"Why?"

"Just do it, trust me."

John shuffled over three feet and forward five, a dazed look on his face. Sherlock still was giving his full attention to the Petri dish.

"Sherlock, what on earth is going on?" John exclaimed, overcome by frustration.

"Three … Two … One."

Sherlock turned around just in time to see Johns sway on his feet, falling into the kitchen chair that was now beneath him. John felt too overwhelmed by dizziness and nausea to see Sherlock's raised eyebrow. Sherlock, feeling slightly sorry for his friend, took off his goggles and set down his pipette.

"Come on, back to the sofa."

Sherlock pulled John up by the arm and led the stumbling man back to the couch. As soon as he lay down, John gained a bit more clarity.

"I'm still not going to the surgery." John said stubbornly as Sherlock fumbled with the small buttons on an electronic thermometer sitting on the coffee table.

"How do you turn this thing on?" he asked, turning it over and over in his hands looking for the correct button. John reached over and pressed a switch.

"Ah, good." Sherlock said as the screen flickered to life. "Under the tongue."

John didn't argue and let Sherlock slide the device into his mouth. The device beeped a moment later but Sherlock didn't move.

"That means it's done." John said, talking around the plastic probe and only then did Sherlock take the device back into his own hands.

"37.8 degrees." Sherlock said, setting the device back on the table.

"Normal is 37."

"I know that." Sherlock said, glaring at him unmercifully.

"Really? It's primary school stuff." John shot back.

"Do you want my help or not?"

"Your help? What are you going to do?"

"When was the last time you took some medicine?"

"What time is it now?"

"Seven o'clock in the evening."

"With lunch."

"You didn't eat lunch." Sherlock said, standing from his seat on the coffee table. "Chicken or vegetable?"

"Chicken." John said, shivering again.

Sherlock returned a few moments later with a steaming mug of soup and a box of flu medication. John, breathing in the steam of his supper, watched Sherlock open the box and take out the pills.

"This doesn't make any sense." Sherlock said, turning the packet of pills in his hands. "How should you know how many to take?"

"It says right on the box, Sherlock."

Sherlock picked up the box and read it, his confused expression diminishing, before handing John two tablets.

"Thanks."

Sherlock didn't respond and went back to his experiment. John sipped at his soup, a tired feeling enveloping his body. This was miserable; he hated being sick. After awhile, John got up unsteadily.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked from the kitchen.

"Going to the loo, if you don't mind." John said.

"If you must."

"I really must."

John used the wall to support himself as he walked to the toilet. After coming out again, he leaned on the doorframe of the kitchen.

"Will you help me upstairs?"

John hated, hated, having to ask for such a favour but he knew that if he went alone, he was likely to end up in hospital being treated for a broken limb rather than flu.

"Why are you going upstairs?" Sherlock turned around.

"I'm going to bed."

"But it's early still. If you go to sleep now, you'll be awake by three o'clock tomorrow morning."

"But, as you have so kindly pointed out, I'm ill. Will you help me or not?"

"Fine."

Sherlock followed John as he slowly climbed the steep stairs. He watched as John slid into his unmade bed.

"Thank you." John said, breathing a sigh of relief that can only be the result of lying in your own bed after a long and tiring (albeit, tiring because he had done nothing but lay on a sofa and sleep) day.

"You're welcome."

Sherlock turned to leave as John shifted uncomfortably.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"Can you get a damp washcloth, please?"

Sherlock didn't ask questions but returned momentarily holding the pale blue cloth.

"What's it for?" Sherlock asked. John took it and blotted his face with it.

"Helps the fever."

"Highly unlikely." Sherlock said. "There is no way a dab of cool water is going to have the effect of brining down you core body temperature."

"But it makes it feel better."

"Yes, but you said it helps."

"It does help. It helps it feel better."

"But it doesn't help it heal."

John sighed. This conversation was making his head spin.

"You're right, Sherlock. It doesn't help it go away. Thank you for seeing me up the stairs."

"You're welcome." Sherlock repeated and he left, closing the door behind him. John sighed again to the darkness and settled against the worn, but comforting, pillow. He rested a hand on the compress, relishing its cooling effect. The door opened, a beam of light breaking through the dark room, and John squinted.

"If you need my assistance at all tonight," Sherlock said, sounding quite uncomfortable and quite formal. "Just call. I'll leave my bedroom door open slightly."

Sherlock didn't give John a chance to respond before closing the door but John smiled nonetheless.

"Thanks, Sherlock." he mumbled to the darkness before drifting off to an uncomfortable sleep.

Unfortunately for John, he had a bit of a rough night. He could not fall asleep for several reasons – his stomach was queasy, his temperature made the bedclothes stick but when he threw them off he shivered, his head was pounding mercilessly, and his joints ached to the point where he couldn't lie on his back. Around three o'clock, John got out of his bed, hoping that maybe walking around a little would do the trick to ease his aching back. He began pacing the floor, stopping ever few minutes to catch his breath and ease away the dizziness. He had opened the window, while still wrapped tightly in his robe. At least standing up had helped his stomach. John was still pacing around four o'clock when there was a knock on the door. John jumped in spite of himself and fell back onto his mattress (he had wisely decided not to stray too far from his bed while pacing in case of a sudden turn of dizziness).

"John, may I come in?" Sherlock's voice carried through the door.

"Sherlock, it's four o'clock in the morning. What are you doing up?" John asked as the door swung open.

"I can hear you pacing downstairs. Are you alright?" Sherlock, too, was clad in dressing gown and slippers and his curls were pointing out in all possible directions.

"John?" Sherlock asked again when John didn't answer. "What is it?"

John sighed (he was making of habit of it – the small exhale of air always seemed to capture his mood so perfectly).

"I can't sleep." he finally said.

"Why not?"

"I ache." John said, looking up at Sherlock, who was studying him quizzically. "My head is spinning, my back is sore, my skin is so hot it hurts, I feel queasy."

John's voice trailed off.

"Did you take any more medication after coming up to bed?"

John shook his head.

"Have you been drinking fluids?" Despite the fact that Sherlock hated that question – what else does one drink? he always wondered aloud – Sherlock felt it was the proper thing to ask.

"I finished the glass around midnight but I didn't want to wake you by going downstairs." John answered, motioning to the empty cup on his night table.

Sherlock nodded and picked up the empty glass.

"Lie down, try and get comfortable. I'll be right back."

John raised an eyebrow at Sherlock's retreating silhouette.

"Do it, John." Sherlock called over his shoulder, without turning around. John smiled slightly and undid his robe before crawling under the sheets again. He waited patiently, watching the second hand on his clock with great intensity.

"Alright." Sherlock said to announce himself. John turned from the clock to see Sherlock fitted with a tray, loaded with supplies, which he set down on John's desk.

"First." Sherlock handed John the thermometer, allowing John to turn it on himself. As John put the device in his mouth, Sherlock turned back to the tray and picked up the cold and flu pills. He was in the process of getting two out of the package when the thermometer beeped.

"What does it say?" Sherlock demanded.

"38.9." John said with a little groan.

"You're still in the moderate range." Sherlock said. "No need to rush for medical attention at the moment."

John put the thermometer on the nightstand before Sherlock handed him two more pills and a fresh cup of water. John took them before placing the cup next to the thermometer.

"Are you comfortable?" Sherlock asked, moving to close the window.

"Sort of." John said, squirming in spite of himself.

"The paracetamol will help with the aches and pains." Sherlock said, retreating again to his tray. "But in the meantime, I brought you a new compress because you insist they help so much."

Sherlock handed John the folded, moist hand-towel, which John used to rub down his neck and face.

"And here."

Sherlock now handed John an extra quilt he had found in the closet.

"Fevers are best treated by using layers."

"I know."

Sherlock cocked his head.

"If you know, then why was your window open, I wonder?"

John rolled his eyes at his flatmate's cockiness but appreciated the gesture all the same.

"Anything else, Doctor?" John asked, making a bit of fun at Sherlock in retaliation.

"Heads up." Sherlock tossed John an apple, which landed beside him in the bed despite John's outstretched hand.

"Hand-eye coordination is lacking, obviously due to the temporary disruption of your sense of balance in the inner ear."

"It was just a bad throw." John said, picking the fruit up and moving it to the nightstand. "Thanks for the thought, but I'm not hungry."

"I know." Sherlock said. "But when you get hungry, apples are good on an upset stomach. And, just in case."

Sherlock moved John's trash bin next to the bed.

"We don't want Mrs. Hudson having to clean up a huge pile of sick because I certainly won't be doing it."

"I'm not going to throw up, Sherlock. It's not the stomach flu."

"I am just reacting to what you told me, John. Is there anything else you need?"

"No." John said.

"Then I am going back to bed. Goodnight."

Sherlock turned abruptly and headed for the door.

"Sherlock," John asked, prompting the man to stop. "How did you learn all this? At supper you couldn't even turn on a thermometer."

Sherlock turned around.

"It's not impossible to learn, John. The internet is an amazing tool these days."

John chuckled – it didn't surprise him that Sherlock had most likely googled how to treat each symptom.

"Thanks for your help, Sherlock."

"You'd do the same for me, I'm sure. Goodnight."

What did you think? I wanted to show Sherlock as a bit incompetent at nursing but at least he made the effort later on to learn. Anyways, reviews are always appreciated.

Also, keep an eye out for another story based on a request made by wetrustno1. It will be another sick-fic but this one will be my first post-Riechenbach … kinda excited to see how it turns out! Stay tuned and as always with Sherlock, believe!

Happy reading and writing,

StoryLover18