Sickness.

Chapter 3.

John and Lestrade reached out in unison as Sherlock's body relaxed and unconsciousness took over. Acting purely on instinct, John moved Sherlock into the recovery position, vaguely registering Lestrade crouching beside them again, his expression a mix between concern and a hint of something that suggested he'd been in this situation before.

Moments later, Sherlock's eyes fluttered open again, frowning in confusion.

'I did ask if you were okay, several times.' John told him seriously. 'You're supposed to tell my these things, Sherlock.'

'I was fine…' If either man above him noted the past tense, they didn't mention it.

Sherlock struggled to sit up, leaning against the hand John put on his back for support silently, hearing Lestrade commanding Anderson and Sally.

'Sally, take him downstairs.' He gestured at the man in the handcuffs. 'Anderson, clean this up.' He gestured at Sherlock's creation.

'Wha- I.. Ugh. Fine.' Anderson sighed, glaring at Sherlock. 'You did that on purpose.' He muttered.

'Yes, I planned on being ill and disgracing myself in front of you.' Sherlock murmured. John smirked, glad to see his flatmate wasn't too ill to be himself around everyone.

'Come on, let's get you home, you're going to rest, stay rested, and let Mrs. Hudson fuss over you. And I'm going to take time off work.'

'John, that really isn't necessary…' Sherlock tried, but John helped him up and pushed him towards the ladder and kept a hand on his back all the way to the door.

As soon as they stepped out of the house, a wave of nausea ran through Sherlock, obscuring his vision and making him lean against a low wall.

John's hand rubbing circles on his back helped ground him, and he focused on his voice as John told him that he needed to get it all out of his system. As if in response, he felt his stomach churn again, and leant over the wall as he choked up stomach acid with John speaking calmly in the background.

It was soon over, and Sherlock stood slowly, looking around to see John on his mobile, calling a cab.

'Come on Sherlock. You shouldn't be outside. How the hell did you get this ill without noticing or telling me?'

Shrugging, the younger man started to walk hesitantly towards where the cab would pick them up. 'I thought I could handle it. I've been ill and looked after myself before.'

'Yes, and now I'm here. We've talked about this, Sherlock. As your doctor and your friend, I'm entitled to know when you're not feeling up to scratch.' A touch of exasperation slipped into his voice.

'Okay. My apologies, John. I'll try to tell you in future.' Sherlock smiled weakly as the cab pulled up and John held the door open for him.

Once inside, John gave the address and looked across at his friend, who had relaxed back against the upholstery, eyes closed and a faint sheen on his forehead. A quick check confirmed he had a fever.

'You'd better hope this isn't too serious, otherwise I'll have no choice but to send you to a hospital.' He scorned. Sherlock's eyes snapped open and he glanced worriedly at his John.

'No hospitals.' He stated as strongly as he could. John nodded.

'No, not yet at least. Get some rest; it's twenty minutes back to Baker Street.' He gently placed his hand over Sherlock's wrist, keeping track of his heart rate without disturbing him as the consulting detective instantly fell into a restless state of unconsciousness.

The cab pulled up on the curb directly outside the flat, and John handed a set of notes across, leaving the driver to sort out the change while he shook the sleeping form beside him gently.

'Sherlock…? Sherlock you need to wake up so we can get inside, okay?'

Sherlock mumbled incoherently but showed no signs of waking as the man driving them both handed across John's change.

'Sherlock? Wake up. Come on.' He shook him again, relieved when his eyes opened slowly.

'John?' He frowned. John smiled reassuringly.

'Hey. You need to get up and out of the cab so I can get you to bed, alright?' He asked carefully, not wanting to talk down to Sherlock but not wishing to confuse him as he was clearly not completely aware of things as he usually was.

Nodding, Sherlock climbed out of the door onto the curb, and walked over to the door, looking around as he waited for John, seeming almost like he wasn't ill at all.

'You know, you can drop the act, Sherlock. I already know you're not well.' John unlocked the door and held it open, gesturing he go first. 'So what's the point?'

'Habit.' Sherlock answered, already heading for the stairs, leaning against the wall at the top as he tried to get his breath back.

'Well you need to stop it so I can tell what's wrong and when, okay? Go and get changed, then come back to the kitchen. If you need me, call, okay?' John gently pushed Sherlock towards the door that lead straight to his room.

'Yes, John.' Sherlock did as he was told for once and went through, leaving John to gather the things needed to make soup quickly. He would rather have had time to make it by hand, but Sherlock needed warmth and something in his stomach as soon as possible, so it would just have to be by the can.

Five minutes later, Sherlock stepped back into the kitchen in his pyjamas, looking paler than usual as he slumped into the chair at the table, absently pushing the experiments away to clear a space in front of him. 'So what's on the menu, doctor?' He asked slightly teasingly.

'Tomato soup and tea.' John replied without missing a beat. 'You can't have solid food, but soup is the best option, and tea will calm you down, help you relax. Then you will take a few sleeping pills and bloody rest. Not like last night. I know you were faking it.'

Sherlock frowned. 'I underestimated you, John. I was sure you wouldn't notice.'

'You still looked exhausted, Sherlock. It doesn't take a genius.' John put the mug of tea in front of him, and went back to pull the soup from the microwave, stirring it a few times to check it was fully heated before placing it in front of Sherlock. 'Now, eat this, and don't complain.'

Nodding, Sherlock set about wondering if it counted as food or drink, and began to eat it how Mycroft had taught him a long time ago, guiding the spoon away from him, instead of towards himself, so as to avoid spilling it all over himself, an expression of strong concentration of his features.

John smiled, leaning back against the counter, sipping his own tea. It was rather like looking after a child, but the thought that no one else had ever looked after Sherlock when he was ill was a horrible one. He vowed silently to make sure Sherlock got well as soon as possible, to make up for all the times he'd have had to suffer alone.