Silent Night

The flat was quiet.

John sat up rather abruptly.

The flat was quiet.

The flat was never quiet, especially not at ten in the morning.

John pushed the duvet off, fighting with the blankets for a few seconds before his bare feet hit the floor. The hardwood floor was cold.

"Sherlock?" he called, peering towards the sitting room as he descended the stairs.

Sherlock wasn't in the sitting room. Sherlock wasn't in the kitchen. His bedroom door was shut tightly, which wasn't uncommon, but the absence of Sherlock in the rest of the house meant that Sherlock was probably in his room. Which was uncommon.

"Sherlock?" John let his knuckles fall lightly against Sherlock's bedroom door. "Are you awake...?"

Sherlock had been working on an experiment last night when John had gone to bed. It wasn't case-related, but, at the same time, Sherlock didn't usually sleep if he was working on an experiment, either.

John carefully pushed Sherlock's bedroom door open, looking automatically towards the bed.

Sherlock was sprawled out in bed, his arm drawn over his eyes. He didn't look comfortable, let alone asleep.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock removed his arm slightly, peering at John over his arm. He met John's gaze for that moment before replacing his arm.

"What's wrong?" John asked immediately, stepping across the room. "What's the matter?"

Sherlock didn't respond.

"Sherlock, tell me what's the matter," John said, staring down at the unmoving form of his best friend. Sherlock remained resolutely silent.

John sighed heavily. Sherlock had to do this, didn't he? There was something clearly wrong with him, but even now, he wouldn't say what was wrong with him. John didn't see why he just didn't admit it; they all got under the weather occasionally. Even Sherlock Holmes.

Just then, John heard his text alert chime from his phone down the hall.

He looked at Sherlock for another annoyed moment before striding from the room. When he found his mobile lodged in behind the Union Jack pillow, he found the text message was from Sherlock. John was about to be rightfully annoyed when he opened the message.

Throat hurts.
- S

John blinked before trudging back to Sherlock's bedroom.

"Your throat hurts?"

Sherlock removed his arm from his eyes to give John one of his spectacularly annoyed looks.

"Do you have a cold? Fever?" John moved forward, pressing his hand against Sherlock's forehead. It was warm. John was going to assume that his forehead was warm in general, not just from Sherlock having his sleeve over it. "Okay, you have a fever. What else?"

He waited painstakingly as Sherlock reached for his phone, tapping out a message.

Nothing. My throat hurt earlier, so I drank some tea, but it's gotten worse.

"You can't talk at all?" John asked, glancing up from his phone.

No. Obviously.

"Well, erm, let me take your temperature and then I'll make you some tea with honey. Hang on." He frowned slightly before shaking his head, stepping through to the bathroom. He managed to find the thermometer lodged between the bottle of hydrogen peroxide and a bottle of mouthwash that wasn't mouthwash any longer.

He grabbed the peroxide and sterilized the thermometer, rinsing it off thoroughly before heading back to the bedroom.

"Okay. Take your temperature. I'll make some tea." He handed the thermometer to Sherlock.

Sherlock took it, looking miserable. Once he had placed it in his mouth, he picked up his phone again, his fingers flying over the keyboard.

Tea won't help. I can't swallow.

John frowned. "Wait, you can't swallow?"

Well, I CAN swallow, but, seeing as how it feels like swallowing glass shards, I simply choose not to.

John's expression didn't change as he took the thermometer from Sherlock's mouth, checking the reading. Thirty-seven point nine. A low grade fever, but a fever nonetheless.

He looked back at Sherlock. "Do you have a cough?"

No.

"Sherlock..." John started. "You aren't going to like this, but..."

Text chime.

Just tell me.

"It sounds like strep throat."

Sherlock shot him a disgusted look.

I wouldn't have strep throat.

"It's not a matter of whether or not you would, because I think you do."

I most certainly do not.

"Sorry, could you speak up? I couldn't hear you," John replied humourlessly, staring at Sherlock. Rude, yes, but it would take all of John's will to even make Sherlock admit that he was sick to begin with.

Witty, John. Extremely so.

"You're going to need to go to the hospital." Sherlock rolled his eyes, looking away. "No, Sherlock, I'm serious! You need to have a throat culture because, if it is strep, you're going to need antibiotics. Now, I'm going to make you some tea with honey, which may help, if you decide you can drink it."

Before Sherlock could much as give him a depraving look, John turned and walked out of Sherlock's bedroom.

And, here I am, sitting, for the third day, with what a nurse phone-consultation-possible-diagnosed as maybe-strep or what a doctor phone-consultation-possible-diagnosed as a sort of throat virus. Either way, it's very, very annoying and there's, apparently, nothing to be done. Joy. Nonetheless, I was interested to find no results for strep when I searched it via Sherlock's category here on fanfiction, which doesn't mean it's not out there, but it's just not in a description... Had to experiment with it.

Follows and favs are like snow, but reviews are like Christmas. [Which I am, clearly, in a very Christmas-y mood.] Thanks!