Disclaimer: I don't own the rights to BBC's Sherlock or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes or anything like that.
The words "sick" and "ill" were never ones that Sherlock enjoyed having in his vocabulary. Unfortunately as a child they became a large part of his vocabulary, but as he grew up he grew out of the sickly state he was born in and as an adult he rarely took ill. When he did however John liked to joke about Sherlock being "sick as a dog"; in other words Sherlock would do little but lie on the couch and moan about how he was feeling. The up side to Sherlock being sick though in John's opinion was that he slept a lot.
Sherlock had just finished up a whopper of a case when he suddenly seemed to have lost all of the energy that had been pent up in his muscles just moments before. John noticed and dreaded dragging his friend back to the flat, but he pulled through anyway.
Sherlock was so sick by the time that they reached 221B that he could not walk on his own. With his head pounding his vision was impacted, and his stomach was twisted into knots that made him certain he would not be able to keep any food down long enough for him to digest it.
John had just gotten Sherlock to lie on the sofa and relax when his mobile rang. John answered only to discover that he was needed at the surgery for an extra shift; one of the other doctors had called in sick. This put John in a bit of a tight spot. He couldn't very well leave Sherlock alone in his current state, but he really did have to leave.
Just when he was about to give up hope and call back saying that he could not make it the young, somewhat mousy, pathologist made an appearance in John's thoughts. He dialed her number and she answered on the third ring.
"John, what a surprise! Is something wrong? Sherlock's not hurt it's he?" Worry was evident in her voice but John just rolled his eyes, because seemingly on queue Sherlock grounded loudly and fidgeted, nearly falling off of the sofa in the process.
"He probably thinks he it's during, but I'm sure he will be just fine." John answered. "Listen Molly, I hate to do this, but I can't leave him alone when he it's like this and I know you aren't working. Would you mind coming over to watch him for a few hours? I got called into the surgery for a while."
Molly understood what Join was asking, but did not understand why Sherlock of all people would need a babysitter. "I. . . um, alright. I can be there in ten minutes."
After John explained that Sherlock probably wasn't contagious, thanked her and hung up the phone Molly ran around her flat gathering a few things that might help her pass a few hours of, hopefully, quiet time spent in Sherlock's flat. Then she rushed down to the street and hailed a cab. This what not something that she did, normally she preferred the tub, but John needed her there quickly and head offered to pay the fare.
She arrived just as John was stepping out of the front door. "Ah Molly, good. Just go on up, he it's asleep for now. Thank you for this, really. I just don't dare leave him alone right now." His words were a nearly indistinguishable rush, but Molly understood.
"It's fine John really, now go on, don't keep them waiting." Molly offered with a smile. Then she let herself into the flat and walked into B.
She was surprised, although she supposed she shouldn't have been, to find Sherlock in his dressing gown and spread out on the sofa as much as it would allow. Since he was asleep she did her best not to bother him as she settled into the black letter chair that seemed to be calling her name.
Nearly an hour later she was startled out of the fantasy land that the book created for her by the sound of a deep, and somewhat groggy baritone voice. "That is my chair." He mused.
"Oh! I had no idea you were awake. How are you feeling?" Molly nearly fell out of the chair, but managed to compose herself.
"Don't ask stupid questions, and get out of my chair. John's chair is right there." Sherlock insisted as he tried to sit up on the couch. Molly could tell that Sherlock was more stock than she had expected, he probably wasn't even strong enough to walk too far on his own. So instead of arguing with him about how stupid it was to be particular about a chair Molly moved over to the opposite chair, the one she assumed was John's.
"So no more stupid questions. Do you want anything? Tea?" Molly offered.
Sherlock made a noise somewhere between a groan of pain and a whimper of pleasure. "Tea, yes."
Molly had to fight back a giggle as she walked to the kitchen to make Sherlock some tea. She couldn't quite keep it silent though and when Sherlock asked her what was so funny Molly simply replied with a light "Oh, nothing."
Once the tea was made Molly brought it out to Sherlock and insisted that he would have to drink the entire mug full. He fought her about it the entire time, but eventually won out and even managed to give him some child medicine for the stuffy head before he fell back to sleep. Once he was asleep Molly curled back into the black leather chair that Sherlock had claimed as his to go back to reading her book.
"Perhaps watching Sherlock will not be as bad as I feared." Molly mused to herself as the heroine of her book shot another arrow at the villain.