"Where do you think you are going?" John did not need to turn around to know that Sherlock would attempt to make a break for it the moment his back was turned.

"Just getting a book," Sherlock lied, looking wistfully at his coat and scarf. Maybe if he just ran he could get away, he was faster than John and could soon out run him. But then where would he go? The only lab that still accepted him uninvited was Bart's and that would be the first place John would look. He refused to go within a mile of Mycroft, and Lestrade would be on John's side no doubt. No, he would have to stick it out and hopefully just annoy John to death. He kicked his legs up and dramatically fell onto the sofa as an expression of his exasperation. "How long do I have to be imprisoned?"

"A week, and you are not imprisoned you are sick." John placed a freshly washed cup upside down on the sink to drain.

"If I am being held against my will then I am imprisoned." It was like talking to a child.

"I am very tempted to tie your hands down to STOP YOU SCRATCHING!" John raised his voice slightly as he slapped Sherlock's hand for the umpteenth time.

"Stupid chicken pox," Sherlock grumbled under his breath.

"Well that's what you get for investigating a crime in a primary school full of sick children. You were bound to catch something. Be thankful it's not head lice." John pointed the sponge he was using to wash up the cutlery at Sherlock as he said this.

"Why I can't I go outside anyway? I've already caught the chicken pox, what difference will it make now?"

"Chicken pox are very contagious, we are stopping it spreading."

"But it makes no difference to me?"

John sighed; he knew where this was going. "No."

Sherlock jumped up. "Well I don't care about anyone else so that doesn't matter!"

"Well I do care. Chicken pox can be very nasty for adults."

"You're alright."

"That's because I've had them before, it's only dangerous to those who didn't have them when they were little. That is why I am keeping an eye on you. If you leave this flat, the only place you will be going is the hospital, which is where you should be right now." Sherlock puffed out his cheeks and crossed his arms as he hunched himself up on the armchair.

John had given in to Sherlock's protesting and agreed to nurse Sherlock through his illness so long as Sherlock behaved himself. It had only been one day and already he felt his brain cells pleading for an adventure. Again he began to scratch the itchy spots, particularly the nasty ones on his legs and shoulder.

"Sherlock if you do not stop scratching I am going to go all Phoebe on you and tape oven gloves to your hands so you physically cannot scratch any more."

"Who's Phoeb-"

"It doesn't matter!" John rolled his eyes. He could buy the Friends box set for Sherlock for Christmas and educate him on another 90's culture. James Bond had been difficult enough to explain.

"Where's the story line? It's all just explosions and – oh come on like a highly trained assassin would miss like that – why is he explaining his plan? That's like revealing the secret ingredient to a special source – oh for the love of-"

"You must have something for the itch," Sherlock wined as the temptation got unbearable. "What did you do when you had them?"

"My mum would read to me," John shrugged. Sherlock was not impressed with this solution. "I was seven years old," John said in his defence, "it distracted me from the itches, and I often dropped off to sleep."

"Well it doesn't take much for your brain to get distracted does it?" Sherlock retorted. John gave him the look that told him he was close to crossing the line, and Sherlock scrunched up his nose in response, but he did shut up.

"What do you want for dinner?" John asked as he felt his stomach rumble.

"Oh so you're not going to cook me mummy's special chicken soup?" Sherlock asked sarcastically.

"Chicken soup was for upset tummies, I didn't feel ill when I had chicken pox."

"Who says I don't have an upset stomach?" John would have laughed at the fact Sherlock refused to sound like a child and say 'tummy' if it wasn't for the fact that he had inadvertently hinted that he did not feel well. John went all doctor mode and frowned at Sherlock as he rummaged through his bag.

"I told you," he said as he forced a thermometer into Sherlock's mouth and held it there so Sherlock could not spit it out, "to tell me if you felt ill. Chicken pox can be really serious for adults!"

"You also told me you would take me to the hospital if I did," Sherlock managed to say with some difficulty as his tongue worked around the glass rod.

"You don't have a temperature," John mumbled to himself, "how do you feel, really?" Sherlock pursed his lips, hesitating before answering.

"I just have a headache and my stomach is unsettled." He waved away his pains like they were nothing to worry about, but John was not convinced.

"When was the last time you ate?" Knowing Sherlock would try and dodge the question by telling him the last time he nicked a crisp from John's crisp packet or something he added, "properly?"

Sherlock considered for a moment or two before replying, "Tuesday."

"That was three days ago Sherlock!" exclaimed John, rubbing his eyes in disbelief. "Right," he said decisively, "get into bed. Doctor's orders." Although Sherlock liked to argue and banter with any one who tried to tell him what to do, when John went into commanding mode even the great Sherlock Holmes would do as he was told.

Sitting up in bed with the duvet to his waist, Sherlock was reading through a case file Lestrade had left with him a while back. He had insisted the case was of no interest to him, but now with nothing to do he would have taken anything.

A little while later there was a knock on his bedroom door and John entered, pushing the door open with his back as he balanced a bowl and glass of water on a tray.

"What's this?" asked Sherlock, the salty smell of stock filling his nostrils.

"Chicken soup," announced John proudly as he placed the meal on Sherlock's lap and took the file he was reading. "I guessed that you didn't really get the mothering treatment when you were ill as a kid. I am no mother but I thought I'd do my best." Sherlock half smiled at John. It was the little things that John did that reminded Sherlock he had something to live for, a reason for everything. That despite all the evil and hatred in the world, there were a minority that deserved everything. And John was one of those people.

Sherlock sipped at the hot delicious liquid as John perched himself next to him on the bed. He presented a book, holding it up so Sherlock could see.

"What's that?" Sherlock asked with a mouthful of chicken.

"Since you hadn't heard of Friends' Phoebe I gathered you hadn't read Harry Potter either. I thought I might as well read it to you as we have nothing better to do." Sherlock sneered at the object, but when he finished his soup he still snuggled himself underneath the duvet and looked patiently up at John, waiting for him to begin.

"Is this what your mother would read to you?"

"No, but I thought you might be a bit old for 'Knight Tony and the Fearsome Dragon'." The two men exchanged content amused looks before John opened up the book to the first page and began to read. "Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much…"

By chapter three Sherlock had fallen asleep in John's lap.