It's Something So Simple...

Sherlock reached for the doorframe of the room, trying to ignore the sudden wave of vertigo that had spun the world into a bizarre whirlwind.

"Sherlock?"

The consulting detective looked back at John, who was watching him warily.

Sherlock removed his hand from the doorframe, striding into the room.

"You okay?" John asked, following close behind.

Sherlock ignored his blogger, making his way to the crime scene. He wouldn't admit it to John, nor would he to anyone else, but he was progressively feeling more ill as the week carried on.

The fever had started last night. It was a low-grade, just in the thirty-eight region. The fact that he had a fever at all irked Sherlock more than any elusive fact, and he was desperate to get rid of it before it became obvious.

Fortunately, there had been a string of murders that had kept both he and John on the move, running hither and thither. It was bad for the fever, it was terrible for Sherlock's exhaustion, but it was a good distraction and John was too busy too notice Sherlock's illness.

Unfortunately, with the addition of the fever, Sherlock was finding it much more difficult to keep up his facade.

"Twenty-two. Her name's Allison."

"Allison?" Sherlock repeated, crouching next to the rocking chair where the body was situated.

"We don't know her last name. I.D. hasn't been found. We're still searching," Lestrade replied.

"Obviously," Sherlock retorted, leaning over to look at the note near the chair. It was in perfect line with the other murders that had occurred. "Any progress on fingerprinting the other crime scenes?"

"We're still working on it."

"Of course you are," Sherlock muttered, standing again. He paused after he stood, feeling a shiver threatening to break his calm. "Victim's a baby sitter. She watched three children, varying from the age of two to ten. Single, although has a pet cat. Strangulation marks around her neck are present, in line with the rest of the cases. Scratching is also visible; she struggled. There's dried blood under his fingernails, take that to the lab and you should be able to get a positive I.D. on the suspect."

He turned away, walking to the door.

"Wait, that's it?" Lestrade asked.

"That's all you need to know," Sherlock replied.

"Sh- See you, Greg- Sherlock!" John said. "Wait up!"

Sherlock did not 'wait up'. He strode ahead of John, making way for the exit. There were too many people milling about the crime scene, and with Sherlock's upset stomach, the last thing he wanted was a bunch of people milling about.

"Hey, that's all? You're not going to fascinate us all with your genius deductions?" John asked, falling in step beside him. "We get that she's a babysitter and has a cat? That's not up to par, Sherlock, so what's going on?"

"What's going on where?" Sherlock replied, pulling his coat closer. "It's just another display of New Scotland Yard's stupidity. They didn't need me to come to the scene when the answer was staring them in the face. Now, they'll I.D. the suspect and have him in custody and the case will be over; how dull."

A flash of pain accompanied the statement and he swallowed, feeling his fingers twitch towards the point of pain. He clenched his hands into fists and placed them in his pockets, picking up his pace.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock ignored him, keeping his eyes fixated on the point that was the road in front of him.

"Sherlock- Sherlock, no," John interrupted, suddenly stepping in front of him. Sherlock looked down at him, frowning. "Tell me what's wrong," John said, gripping Sherlock's arm.

This was the problem with a fever. As his illness intensified, so did John's observational skills. And John was finally noticing, unfortunately, that something was wrong with Sherlock.

Sherlock swallowed back a groan, walking away from John. "I'm fine, John. Please."

"You're pale, Sherlock. And you look like you're about to puke all over the place," John continued.

Sherlock, not appreciating John's lack of tact, swallowed reflexively and continued walking.

"I'll figure it out, you know.

"I'd be impressed if you did," Sherlock replied, albeit with less contempt that he usually spoke with.

"I am a doctor, after all," John said, following Sherlock again. "And I'll figure it out. Or you'll complain to me when it, whatever it is, starts to get to you."

"I don't complain."

"Please, you always complain. Anyway... Shall we get dinner? I'm in the mood for-"

"No," Sherlock interrupted sharply. John looked at him. "I'm not hungry," Sherlock muttered.

"You're never hungry, but I want dinner."

"Have dinner, then," Sherlock retorted in annoyance. The pounding in his temples was starting to get to him. "I'm going home."

John was watching him too closely. Nothing made Sherlock Holmes awkward, but this was the closest thing that he got to it. John wasn't intelligent, not by any means, but he was staring at him... analyzing him. Sherlock was used to being the one who analyzed people, not the one who was being analyzed.

"Okay..." John said slowly. "Okay, but if you need anything, call me, yeah?"

"Why would I need anything?" Sherlock retorted.

But, when John turned the corner, walking to the Italian restaurant, Sherlock slumped against the street lamp and closed his eyes.

Well, since I finished two stories, I had an idea for another story... I realize I have other stories, as well, so don't worry; I haven't forgotten about them. My muse simply works with whatever idea it wants to.

So, yes! The real illness hasn't been stated yet... Sherlock may have a fever, but that's due to something else.

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