Sickness.

Chapter 1.

"Tea?"

Sherlock jumped fractionally, John's question having woken him from deep concentration. He tried to answer but his body was still booting up and his vocal chords still heating, so all that John received was a sort of moan that was almost words but couldn't make the whole way to being pronounced.

John obviously understood his flatmates response, because Sherlock heard the seconds and only cup taken from the cupboard. They really had about five, but the washing up wasn't done yet so they only had that one cup left.

Sherlock decided he'd given his body long enough and opened his eyes, kicking his mind into gear from its almost overheated rest-mode.

They were currently in the midst of a particularly interesting case concerning several people all from Cambridge University in different classes who had been found mutilated beyond previously thought possible. Dental records had been the only way to identify them, and even that had taken its time. Due to the damage done, there were no fingerprints or traces of the murderer, and they were found on the other side of London, instead of at the lectures they were each attending at their own times. Sherlock had gleaned all he could from the crime scene and relayed all 'obvious' answers – 'just look at the way they were cut, obviously someone from out of town, male, left handed' – to John but until something new came up, there were no leads and so John had dragged Sherlock home and attempted to make him rest.

So Sherlock spent the night pretending to sleep on the couch and thinking through all he could work out, in case he'd missed something.

As soon as Sherlock's eyes were fully open, the detective became quietly aware of an ache appearing around his eye sockets, and his muscles sort of hurt, but it wasn't terrible. He frowned – another act which sort of twanged at his muscles – and realised his mind was being too sluggish and he felt…tired. This was definitely a problem. Sherlock was never tired on a case.

Dismissing all of these new observations about himself as 'dull', Sherlock swung his legs round to rest his feet on the wooden floor, and let his head drop as he tore his hands through is hair, ruffling it.

As soon as his head moved out of the vertical position known as 'straight', Sherlock felt like a bowling ball had decided to make its presence known to him by smashing it's way into the space between his eyes.

It didn't take a genius like Sherlock – because of course he knew he was a genius – to understand that he was ill.

But that didn't mean anyone else had to know about it and try to slow him down.

John placed a cup of tea in front of Sherlock and sat down opposite him on his armchair.

"You okay?" He asked carefully, noticing the sort of pained expression on his friend's face.

Sherlock's features cleared to blank instantly and Sherlock glanced at John. "I'm fine." He answered, taking a sip of tea.

"Are you sure? You look really pale." John frowned.

"I've always been pale John." Sherlock stated, looking away and closing his eyes against the dull ache.

John made a noise in the back of his throat that clearly showed he didn't believe Sherlock at all – being a Medical man himself – but knew he'd deny anything.

"So, if nothing comes up, what will you do?" John sat back in his armchair, and Sherlock let himself relax, leaning back into the couch.

"Something will. It has to." Sherlock murmured, trying to delete the throbbing pain in his head, but annoyingly finding it kept refreshing.

"You sound a little distracted, are you sure you're not feeling a little bit ill?" John tried again.

"I'm sure I'm fine John. Stop worrying." Sherlock sighed. He rubbed a hand across his face, waking himself up a little more, just as his mobile bleeped on coffee table in front of him, signalling a phone call. "Yes!" He murmured, grabbing it and putting it to his ear.