Sherlock rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth, shivering as he sank back against the wall.

The vomiting had started about an hour ago, on and off and after Sherlock had gulped down a bit of water with more paracetamol. Needless to say, paracetamol and water went down a lot more simply, and painlessly, than when it came back up.

"Water," John said from his perch of sitting on the side of the bathtub.

Sherlock groaned in exasperation, fumbling for the water bottle.

It wasn't continuous vomiting, so John had no reason to sit in the bathroom and watch Sherlock every time he scrabbled for the toilet. But, as a doctor, John had been sitting in the bathroom and watching Sherlock every time he vomited, and tried to make sure he stayed hydrated.

Sherlock had just been nodding off when the contents of his stomach started rising again. Shivering, he leaned forward and gripped the toilet seat as the water forced its way back up.

"Sherlock..." John started, a moment after Sherlock had fallen back to his previous position of leaning against the wall.

"Don't," Sherlock muttered, closing his eyes.

John was going to say something about going to St. Barts, or visiting surgery, or something stupid like that.

"If you can't start keeping down water, you're going to need to go to the hospital."

"I'm not going to spend the day in hospital," Sherlock grumbled. "Besides," he muttered, sitting up slightly, "I'm highly contagious."

"That's true, but you can also die from dehydration, so, if a hospital visit is what it takes..."

Sherlock swallowed, reopening his eyes. "I'll be fine."

He would be fine, because he wasn't going to vomit anymore... As long as he could help it.

"Vomiting isn't a typical symptom, is it?" Sherlock asked, leaning back against the wall again. He didn't recall reading much, if anything, about vomiting. He rather wished it wasn't a symptom at all, but maybe he'd done something to upset his stomach. Eating, or lack thereof, for that matter.

"Not really, but the older you are when you get chicken pox, the worse it can affect you."

"Of course..." Sherlock mumbled.

"You need to go back to bed."

Sherlock shivered, clutching the edge of the counter. "Don't need to go back to bed..." He struggled to his feet, wincing at the pain that travelled through his body.

"If you're not going to bed, what exactly do you plan on doing?" John asked, as he stood as well.

Sherlock didn't respond. He didn't exactly know, but he would think of something. He was so tired of sleeping, and resting, and feeling generally useless...

"Go back to bed," John said quietly, his hand automatically going to Sherlock's shoulder when the detective stumbled.

Sherlock sighed. "Fine..."

Sherlock could sense John's hesitance without even looking at him. Even so, Sherlock didn't look back. He just stumbled the short distance to his bedroom and crawled into bed. Only then did he look at John.

"... What?" he mumbled, pulling the duvet closer.

"Nothing. You just usually don't agree with me," John stated, picking up the glass from the nightstand. "I'll get you some more apple juice. You need to keep hydrated."

Sherlock mumbled something unintelligible, snuggling further into the blankets. John returned a few moments later, with the thermometer and the glass of juice. He sat the latter on the stand, handing the thermometer to him. Sherlock took it, powered it on, and placed it under his tongue.

His fever had gone up. He was sure. He wasn't sure what it had gone up to, but it had gone up and Sherlock wasn't thrilled.

"Thirty-nine five," John read aloud when he took it back. "It keeps rising."

"I can tell," Sherlock grumbled, closing his eyes.

"Go back to sleep," John said. "I'll get a cold compress for your forehead..."

"But I'm already cold," Sherlock groaned, pulling the duvet over his head. "I don't want a cold compress."

"You need one," John said. "And stop covering up your face. You know how a fever works; you don't need me to explain that your body is hot, even if-"

"Even if my mind is telling me otherwise," Sherlock said sullenly. "I know, John. Why do you think I hate being sick so much...?" He removed the blankets from his head, looking tiredly at John.

"Yeah, I know. Your mind betrays you," John replied, looking worried. "But you should be worried about your body, too, not just your mind."

"My mind's the most important..." Sherlock murmured, closing his eyes. He was cold and shivering and, oddly enough, he just wanted to sleep. He couldn't be miserable if he was asleep... even if he was tired of sleeping and he was annoyed by his body and itchy and nauseous and just so sick...

"Yes, well, your mind needs the transport to work. No body, no brain."

Sherlock sighed heavily. He didn't respond, although the pressure of John's hand quietly descended on his forehead. He wasn't sure why John was testing his temperature again- he'd just gotten the thermometer reading- but he didn't complain. John's hand was warm. Sherlock was freezing. He enjoyed John's hand on his forehead more than he would care to admit.

This story literally floated further and further away... but I think I might have reeled it back in. Maybe. xD

I do not own Sherlock. Thanks!