An: Here's chapter two. I'm sorry it's kind of an awkward break in the scene, but that felt like where I should stop. So ya whatever, read this. I also stuck a teensy tiny Doctor Who reference in there :) I really couldn't resist :3 And I might switch between Celsius and Fahrenheit because honestly I can't remember what Canada uses XD

After Sherlock had administered the water and applied the damp cloth to John's forehead he left his friend to get some sleep. John listened to Sherlock playing his violin drowsily. He never really like to call it practice because that would imply mistakes and John never really heard any. Sherlock was playing something by Debussy. John wasn't quite sure what, but it was quiet and melodic and absolutely beautiful. He was asleep within moments.

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There's the proper end to that chapter sorry XD

John woke up coughing. It was a dry hacking cough that wracked his entire body.

"Sherl-" He wheezed. "Sherlock!" The detective did not appear. John tried to stay calm. He breathed slowly and shallowly, trying to avoid exerting himself.

"Sherlock!" He shouted, instantly regretting it when more coughs burst from his chest. There were no answering footsteps. John rolled over, tried to get up and fell off the bed. The world spun and John was violently sick. He crawled to the bathroom. He even made it to the toilet before he was sick again. John lay down on the cool tiles. The world swam in and out of focus and soon enough John was asleep again, but it wasn't long before John had woken, coughing again. He gasped for air, trembling badly. When he could breathe again he curled into a ball, his face still pressed to the chilled floor. He desperately wished that Sherlock would come home. His breath felt wrong and bubbly and as much as he hated to admit it, he needed help. As if in answer to his prayers John heard the door swing open. Familiar footsteps echoed through the flat and he could hear Sherlock calling him. He didn't want to answer in case it brought on another fit of coughing. His chest was achy and sore and his breathe crackled in his chest. Sherlock appeared in the bathroom doorway.

"Goodness you don't look well at all. Did you know you're covered with sick John?" John didn't have the breath to reply. He simply glared up at Sherlock. "Let's get you cleaned up then." Sherlock turned on the bathtub tap. "Have a bath, get fixed up and then I'll get you back to bed. Sound good?" John nodded mutely. Sherlock glided out of the room, shutting the door behind him. He listened for sounds of John getting into the tub, then removed his coat and gloves. He was tempted to put his jimjams back on, but decided there were more pressing matters at hand. He removed various items from his pockets and set them down on the table. He went to the kitchen and made soup, without burning it or setting anything on fire even. Feeling rather pleased with himself he entered his room and turned on the lights. He had originally planned to set the soup on his bedside table and let John eat in his bed, but it appeared that his bedroom needed a bit of attention before John could return there. He quickly left the room as the smell threatened to overwhelm him. He cleared some of his papers off the coffee table and set the soup there. He returned to the bathroom to find that John had discovered fresh pyjamas somewhere and was leaning against the sink, waiting for Sherlock.

"I made you soup." Announced Sherlock.

"No you didn't." Rasped John. "You heated up the soup."

"Oh relax, it's the same thing."

"And you reheated the tomato soup right? Not the pint of blood in the fridge?"

"I had a pint of blood in the fridge?" Sherlock seemed surprised. He ran to the offending appliance and yanked open the door.

"The blood's still there right?" John managed to call hoarsely. Sherlock sighed in relief.

"Yes the blood is still there." He returned to the bathroom and helped John to the couch. "Do you have a stethoscope lying around anywhere, John?" Watson nodded.

"In the bag over there." Sherlock returned with the instrument and held it against John's chest.

"Take a deep breath." Watson shook his head.

"Please don't make me." He whispered.

"Deep breath John. I need to make sure you have what I think you have before I fix it." The doctor took a deep, ragged breath and immediately started hacking. Sherlock thumped him on the back once and again, more gently on the chest. John gasped in air and Sherlock held up the trash can, which he spat into gratefully.

"Thanks," He croaked, once he had caught his breath. Sherlock nodded.

"Now before you drink that I want to take your temperature again." John was to exhausted to argue. He willingly opened his mouth and let Sherlock stick the thermometer in. When it beeped Sherlock examined it closely.

"Hmm, 102 degrees. That's worse than yesterday." John sighed and leaned back against the couch. "Alright you need to eat this."

"I don't feel like it." Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"I know you don't feel like it, but it's been what... Two days since you last ate?" He nodded grumpily. "Now do you think you can manage to feed yourself or do you need my help?" John stared at him for a moment.

"Need help." He mumbled crossly. Sherlock didn't manage to feed him very much. John was able to manage less than half the bowl. "Gunna be sick." He gasped. Sherlock looked around frantically for something John could be sick in. There was nothing. He turned back to John just as John was ill, all over his shoes. "Sorry," said John to the floor.

"Don't worry about it. I'll be back in a moment." Sherlock kicked off his shoes and gingerly carried them to the trash in the kitchen. He collected a glass of water for John and padded back to the living room. "Drink this." John took a few sips and made to put the glass down. "All of it, John." The doctor shook his head.

"I can't." Sherlock sighed

"You know what that means right?" John nodded miserably. Sherlock picked up the box he had set on the table and opened it. He deftly assembled the syringe and sucked the drug into it. He tapped the sides, examining the liquid for air bubbles. John held out his arm.

"No John, this goes in your neck. It's for your Pneumonia." John opened his mouth to disagree and promptly closed it. "Sudden onset of fever, aches, chills, loss of appetite, crackling sounds in the lungs, painful cough. Definitely Pneumonia." Announced Sherlock in a very annoying, lecture-y way. John paled. He wasn't sure why he was being so squeamish. He was used to injections, as an army doctor he had given them regularly. There was just something about the thought of a very large, pointy object being jabbed into his neck that he objected to. Sherlock gently took John's chin in his hand and tilted his head away.

"Don't look, it'll only make it worse." He swiped John's neck with an alcohol wipe. His friend was incredibly tense. "Just relax John, it'll be over in a second." He considered tacking on a witty comment, but decided against it. It was probably better to have this done with as quickly as possible and he didn't want to draw out John's torment. Sherlock wasn't entirely sure you could be gentle exactly when giving an injection, but he tried. He knew he hadn't been very successful because John was whimpering with his eyes closed. "Sorry," Sherlock muttered.

"S'alright, good for an amateur." A smile flicked across Sherlock's face.

"I'm going to take that as a compliment. Now you should probably rest on the couch for a bit while I tidy up my room a little."

"S'nothing wrong with your room." Said John without opening his eyes.

"Well no, if you ignore the fact that there is vomit everywhere." The eyes snapped open.

"Sorry, what?"

"I'm not surprised you don't remember. Probably a little delirious with fever. You were sick everywhere and then tracked it over the rest of the flat." Sherlock's tone was more than a little disapproving. Apparently his sympathy only extended so far. "At least you didn't get any on my bed." He sighed and left to clean up after John.

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Once John was resting peacefully in Sherlock's room, with an IV feeding into his arm Sherlock let himself relax. It had been a very long couple of days. He lay on the sofa and closed his eyes for just moment.

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Sherlock awoke to a hand shaking him and a cup of tea near his face. It was John.

"Morning Sherlock."

"Why are you not asleep? You should be asleep. You were asleep three minutes ago."

"Nope. That was yesterday."

"What do you mean yesterday? How long have I been sleeping?"

"Twelve hours round about. Have some tea."

"What do you mean tea? You're sick I'm supposed to be taking care of you. Not the other way around." He sat up and accepted the steaming mug.

"I didn't feel like being poisoned so I made my own lunch." He shoved some toast into Sherlock's hands.

"Thank you."

"No Sherlock, thank you. Really I mean it."

An: Thanks for taking the time to read. Also many, many thanks to those who reviewed I appreciate every single one. XD THE ENNNND Send me prompts and I'll see what I can do!