For Goodness Sake

1

"Holmes, what is that repugnant smell?" Watson called, hooking his fingers around the brim of his hat to pull it off.

"I believe it is the awkward combination of cough syrup, tobacco vapours, and the lingering after-effects of vomit consisting of last night's late night dinner of an apple, meat loaf, and onion soup."

Holmes's voice was quite steady, but it was quiet, hoarse. He sounded strained to get the words out, even though he seemed determined to undermine the effects of whatever it was that was ailing him this time.

"And why, pray tell," Watson said, slipping his jacket off, "does the flat smell of cough syrup, tobacco, and vomit?" He looked towards the fireplace, where Holmes was fretting away over something on the mantlepiece.

"I've just solved a year old case, my dear mother hen. The copious amounts of tobacco that I've consumed in the process is no mean feat, but it is entirely worth it."

"That doesn't explain the rather unpleasant odour of cough syrup and vomit." Watson paused, looking closer into the sitting room. "Holmes?"

"Mm?"

"Are you feeling rather well?"

"I've just solved a case, old boy. There is certain elation and unpleasantry in every solving of a case."

"No, Holmes. I'm inquiring on your physical health, not your mental state." Watson threw his coat and hat down on the sofa, walking up to Holmes. "I've known your mental health has been deteriorating for years," he muttered in an off-hand tone, clearly a joke but also masking the slight concern starting to prickle underneath his skin. His doctor's intuition had started to kick in.

"I am fit as a fiddle, my dear Watson. Whyever would you say differently?"

"Because, Holmes," Watson said, gripping Holmes's arm and turning him to face him. "You are pale, your eyes are watery and red, your nose is running. The flat quite apparently smells of vomit and there can only be one source." He raised a hand as Holmes opened his mouth to interject. "Don't tell me that you got into a spot of bad something; with the things you ingest on a normal basis, there is officially nothing quote-unquote bad for you to get into. You also claim that the other addition to the stench in this flat is cough syrup and, unless you were once again producing some heinous experiment, I am going to assume that you were using it for its intended, medical purpose. Therefore, you have a cough."

"Well done, Doctor-"

"The fact that you would have resorted to cough syrup at all indicates that you probably are really rather unwell, unless, of course, as mentioned before, you are producing another disturbing experiment on yourself. Tell me, Holmes, is the cough syrup an experiment?"

"You've caught me." Holmes held his hands up. "I have a cough."

"And you've been vomiting."

"Let's not focus on my weaker points, shall we?" Holmes clapped his hands on Watson's shoulders and squeezed briefly, smiling. It was a weak smile. Holmes released Watson before slinking away.

"Holmes, as your doctor, I insist that you sit down."

"Whatever for?"

"So I can find out what's wrong with you!"

"There's absolutely nothing wrong with me. Like I said, fit as a fiddle."

"A fiddle with a cold?" Watson replied dryly, looking across the room as Holmes sank into his chair.

"Don't be absurd, Watson. I have no cold. What dastardly things."

"Actually," Watson said, crossing the room to follow Holmes, "if you're vomiting, it very well may be the flu."

"Honestly, Watson, this is beneath you. You can't honestly believe that I-" Watson pressed his hand against Holmes's forehead, efficiently cutting off the detective's speech.

"To be frank, Holmes, I can and I do. You have a fever."

"Just been by the fire."

"Has your forehead been in the grate?"

"Now that you mention it-"

"I'll not stand here and let you try to talk me out of it. I am a doctor, Holmes, and not only that, but I am your doctor. Only fools argue with their doctors."

"Perhaps it is you with the brain haze, Watson. I believe you've just insinuated that I, Sherlock Holmes, am a fool."

"If I were to list all of the foolish things that you've done, I would never have time to step outside of Baker Street again. Now, take some medicine and go to bed, Holmes."

"The sun's only just setting, it's hardly a suitable time for a lounge-about."

"Says the one who lounges about on the floor for up to three weeks. Bed, Holmes."

Holmes stood. "Oh, I will go to bed, Watson. But take note: it is simply for a lack of case and nothing else! Not because of your... medical riff-raff."

"Medical riff-raff... Yes, Holmes. My concern for your fever-raging self is simply riff-raff. Off you go, to bed."

"Yes, thank you, I shall." Holmes started towards the door. He paused halfway before melting away from his path, quickly making a grab for the trash bin before he was violently sick.

Watson watched him warily for a moment, concern and perhaps just the smallest bit of satisfaction, for he was correct, Holmes was sick, on his face. Holmes straightened up after a moment, placing the bin back in the proper place.

"Don't say it, Watson. It's merely food poisoning."

"We've had the same meals."

"Totally irrelevant."

"Is it?"

"I declare so."

"Bed, Holmes," Watson reminded sternly, a fleeting smile gracing his lips.

Sherlock Holmes multi!chapter sick!fic! I should have done this ages ago. It's so difficult to get into Holmes and Watson's mindset when I'm always stuck in Sherlock and John (Sherlock).

Not much of a point of view in this chapter, really, but it will be told in Watson's POV. Hopefully updates will be quick; I'm writing ideas as I imagine them, so I have a ton of stories that I should be working on, and it just depends on my mood as to which one I work on.

Reviews are appreciated! Thank you!