Hurt Comfort

Sick.

John had only been away for five days, five short days to visit his worried sister. He had made Sherlock meals, not that he would eat them anyway. And left them in the fridge, but not near that severed head. He had left instructions for Mrs Hudson, begging her to check on him everyday, at least. Just to ensure that he had stopped breathing, just because it was too boring, or felt like doing an experiment including his hair, and fire. He confiscated his gun, cigarettes and any explosives he could find.

Everything should have been fine. Lestrade had promised him not to let Sherlock onto a case, just in case. But would still check on him. Everything should have been fine.

And John thought it would have been, because when he came home. The flat was still standing, Mrs Hudson was not in shock and they were no texts saying for him to come home, NOW.

Even some of the food had gone, hopefully not for some experiment.

It had looked promising.

Except Sherlock had not greeted him. Nothing. No Sherlock sitting in his black coal leather chair shouting at him for taking off when he need him most, no conversation carrying on from their last meeting. Nothing. He had not even appear. But Mrs Hudson said he was in, even though, "He did look a little peaky". Which John hoped meant, exhaustion not illnes, or even. Drugs.

John wandered into Sherlock's bedroom. Softly knocking, getting no response. His room was a mess, not that it normally was not. But still, it was empty. John gave up and went to his bedroom.

There was Sherlock, sleeping in John's bed. Looking, as Mrs Hudson had said, "A bit peaky" and eyes glossy with fever.

"Sherlock."

He blinked.

"Ummm... what are you doing in my bed?"

Sherlock glanced around, like he had only just realised.

"I was..... um... doing something." He sounded confused. But his voice was raspy and unsure.

"You.. um, not feeling very well?"

Sherlock struggled to sit up, and when he did. He fell back down. But rolled his eyes.

'I'm fine, John."

"Right well, just stay here, I will be back in a second. Alright?"

John retrieved his medical bag from the kitchen, also grabbing a glass of water. Sherlock might need it, for pills. And mainly, needed to stay hydrated. He returned to find Sherlock in the same position, slouched over a pillow and scowling.

"Sit up," John demanded. He stuck a thermometer in his mouth with instructions not to talk and waited until it beeped. "Its 39," He frowned, "I'm going to listen to your hear and lungs. Scooch over."

Sherlock crawled over to the other side of the bed, having as he went. John sat down, rubbing his stethoscope in his hands until it was warm. It was only when John went to life up Sherlocks shirt, he noticed he was wearing one of Johns favourite jumpers. He had barely held back a snigger as he managed to ask why he was wearing it.

"I think...I was...cold." He seemed a little unsure.

As John motioned for him to take a large deep breath, so he could listen to his lungs, Sherlock began coughing, as what started to be a clearing of the throat, it gradually turned into a minute of long hacking which left him panting and gasping for breath.

"Sherlock! How long have you had that cough?!" John was alarmed.

'Well, how long have you been gone?"

"Five days."

"For... four days then."Said Sherlock panting, wiping sweat out of of his bright blue eyes.