DISCLAIMER: I do not own these characters. I merely enjoy taking them out of the sandbox to play with every once and awhile.
A/N: I wrote this ages ago. It's going to be part of a series. I'm not too sure about this one seeing as I think I was sick at the time I wrote it. That's usually when I inflict illness on characters. But hey ho. Here's some sick Sherlock for you all.
Sherlock detested feelings; whether they were emotional or physical. Feelings were the only things that reminded him that he was human. He hated being reminded of that fact. It always bothered him when emotions, and the like crept up on him. It wasn't the fact that he couldn't cope with them. It was probably more to do with how they effected his mind. All his life he'd been the freak, the geek, the boffin, the weird boy who talked to himself and had no friends. His mind was all that he had.
His mind was usually buzzing with a thousand ideas, brimming with knowledge, both useful and un-useful. He couldn't ever switch off. Even in his sleep his mind was working. Which was why as he woke one morning to find his brain stuttering about like a newborn lamb learning to walk, he knew that something was wrong, and he immediately started to panic. Panicking caused him to feel even more out of joint. Sherlock Holmes never panicked. He was always calm and composed, even in the face of death. Shakily, and with much uncertainty he shifted himself out of bed. His whole world swerved dangerously and it took him several moments to bring himself to stand.
He glanced down at his legs and swallowed thickly as he noticed their visible shaking. This wasn't good. This was most definitely not good. He can hear John tottering about in the kitchen. He revels in the fact that apart from feeling odd life is moving swiftly on as always. Perhaps all he was craving was a cigarette and some lovely strong tea. Yes, that could be it, couldn't it? He let himself smile a little as the sound of the kettle whistled gently from outside his bedroom door. However he soon found his smile washing away when he heard a startled yell: John's startled yell.
He ran, lunged at the door, grasped the handle and hurtled himself out into the kitchen. He realized a millisecond later that probably was the most ridiculous and stupid thing to do. Any danger could be lurking in his kitchen and he'd just jumped straight into it, without analyzing the situation first. There was definitely something wrong with him. He'd never usually do that. Why had he started acting so irrationally? His head by now was throbbing anxiously, and his legs were screaming for him to sit down, but who could think of sitting down when one's flatmate might be in immediate danger? Except as Sherlock's ever seeing eyes scanned the surrounding area he found no apparent danger, unless a very unhappy army doctor counted. In this case it just might.
John immediately fixed him with a glare. He was holding the pot that was usually home to the sugar. " You know Sherlock, for once it'd be nice to actually have a nice normal morning. Should I even ask why you have a finger in the sugar pot? Because normal people usually put sugar in there. You know, that white, grainy, sweet substance. But obviously not you." John's voice wasn't loud, but it wasn't quiet either. It was soft, dripping in disappointment, annoyance and anger, and that spoke volume in itself.
Sherlock frowned try to concentrate his thoughts. Why did he have a finger in the sugar pot again? It was an experiment, but what had he been trying to find out? Every time he tried to delve into his mind to find the answer he just hit a brick wall, " I -" His voice wobbled so it sounded almost like he was chocking. He coughed, trying to clear his throat, but by now John was quite obviously at his boiling point.
" Save it. I don't want to know. I'm going out no, in case you care." Ouch, that hurt, that really hurt. Of course he cared. Sherlock didn't like to feel emotions but for John it was different. Caring about his flat mate came with considerable ease, and even though emotions usually made him feel human, the emotions he felt for John were so complex that he's not really sure any other human being could ever truly understand.
" But you don't even take sugar in your tea." Sherlock stated matter of factly. It was supposed to calm things down, but instead it only sparked off more anger in John.
" I wasn't making it for myself!" John yelled, slamming the door behind him.
" Oh." Sherlock muttered sadly. He began to feel unbearably cold though that had nothing to do with the argument he'd just had with John. In fact the temperature of the flat was only seeming to drop with each passing moment. A shiver ravelled its way down his spine, plucking at each nerve it hit.
He dragged himself over to the sugar pot and glanced inside. Sure enough there was a finger within it. He took a long whiff and almost gagged. What usually was a most intriguing smell to him, the smell of death and decay, was now a repulsing scent that made his stomach twist and knot itself into a horrible mess. He quickly tipped the finger into the bin but was surprised to see a note covered in blood fall out of the pot too. It had three letters scrawled across it.
Sherlock shook his head.
What could that possibly mean? Before he could even deduce the meaning behind the note he felt the familiar buzzing of his mobile phone going off. Reaching inside his dressing gown pocket he fished out his phone. It was a text from Lestrade.
New case, 10 downing street.
Urgent. Come ASAP. - GL
Sherlock felt a little higher spirited. A new case. 10 downing street. This was going to be exciting, and just what his mind needed to get itself back to its usual state. However that bout of enthusiasm that usually sped through him at this point was absent, and although he knew that he should be thrilled by having such an unusual case. he wasn't. He wanted nothing more than to crawl back into his bed and fall back asleep.
No! Get out now! A voice commanded him loudly within his mind.
Sighing he texted Lestrade back.
Coming promptly - SH
He quickly got dressed, shoving his thick overcoat on over one of his favorite silk shirts. Still, he was unbearably cold. He grabbed his scarf and wrapped it round his neck. He rubbed his fingers down his neck, his long and frighteningly trembling fingers. His throat felt soar and inflamed. It was probably nothing though. Yes it was most certainly nothing.
Sherlock sighed tiredly, which was strange because he'd got an acceptable amount of sleep last night and he often went on no sleep at all and was fine. He didn't question his body's sudden unhappy reaction to being outside, he didn't bother acknowledging the sharp pain in the right side of his temple spreading outwards to the left side ,he certainly didn't think about the way the movement of the taxi was making him feel nauseous even though it was travelling at frustratingly slow pace given the fact they were travelling in London's highest hour for traffic. He just tried to focus on the case.
Sherlock blinked. He was now standing over a body of a young, attractive woman. How had he gotten here? A minute ago he'd been sat in the taxi on his way to a crime scene, and then without even realizing it he was already there.
Sherlock snapped his head up, " So what?" Sherlock snapped automatically. Glancing round he realized the voice had come from Lestrade.
" What's the conclusion?" Lestrade asked, seeming a little puzzled.
" I - er- " the consulting detective coughed. It was an unhealthy sound, and caused Lestrade's puzzled expression to switch to one of deep concern. Sherlock was quick to move his gaze to the body. He leant over the body closer. " I'd say that she drowned but -" Sherlock was trying to think but nothing would come to him. The pounding in his head was louder and more painful than ever. He raked a hand through his thick set of dark brown curls and ignored the pain as he had been doing for the past couple of hours.
The girls clothing was wet, soaked through, but there was something odd about the picture that stood before him. How does a body of a young woman end up dead in 10 downing street? By now he should have at least ten ideas but the thoughts that his brain is trying to push across are lost somewhere along the way. He reached his hand down and inspected the girls eyes. They were dilated which suggested that a drug of some form had been administrated into her body only hours before death. His eagle eyes picked up on tiny red dots in the corner of her eye ( needle marks) He swallowed thickly as he realized what those dots spelled out. It was something that could only be meant for him.
What did those letters mean?
Just as his cluttered thoughts began piecing together the answer as to who had left him such an alarming and yet meaningless message, he felt his legs buckle under his weight. He managed to steady himself before he fell completely but he was in shock. What had just happened?
" What's wrong? Is the freak finally stumped?" He heard sergeant Donavan's snide remark. Usually he'd reply with something just as equally snide, if not more so. This time though he couldn't even get his lips to move.
" Sherlock? What's wrong?" A hand grabbed his shoulder and pulled him back from the body.
He grunted and tried to shove the offending hand off of him. It was an unsuccessful attempt though as the hands grip seemed to tighten. He swerved around to see Lestrade in from what he can deduce a quite panicked state. "Lestrade?" He croaked, coughing viciously after he finished the older mans last name with a punctuated question mark. Sherlock felt his entire body suddenly fall slack and his world faded into darkness. Ok, maybe there was something wrong with him after all.
" Shit -" Lestrade's voice still managed to break through to Sherlock's unconscious brain. " He's burning up."
Lots of commotion went on whilst Sherlock was trapped in the darkness. He could sense it but it was just chaotic noise to his Sherlock awoke it wasn't to Lestrade but to another familiar face. He grinned up at the face, but that soon turned into a grimace as a sharp stabbing pain roared in his stomach. He felt a shot of sadness hit him as the doctor's face left his sight, but that was soon outlived as bile escaped his mouth and what little food he'd been living on landed on the floor with a disgraceful splat. His throat felt as though it was on fire and it was becoming increasingly harder to breath.
A hand brushed against his back. "Shh, it's ok."
John was back now, and this time Lestrade was hovering over him too." Is it serious? Should we take him to hospital? Call an ambulances or something? " He asked.
" No." Sherlock protested, spluttering the word out with hatred.
John shook his head." No. He hates hospitals. We just need to break his fever and get him to rest."
Sherlock groaned a the prospect of resting." I'm fine." He said bitterly.
" No, Sherlock. You're really not." John's deep brown eyes drooped sorrowfully.
Sherlock , with little fight left in his body, found himself dragged by Lestrade and John into the back of a car. (Andersons car going by the stench of it.)
" I swear if he throws up -"
" Shut up, Anderson." Sherlock muttered under his breath before dropping into a deep sleep. He swears that he can hear chuckling from close by but reality is fast becoming a distant place. Even so he finds himself smiling in his sleep.
Days seem to pass by in a blur. Faces that he knows and faces that he doesn't flicker by. Each moment is like a sickening dream, or rather a nightmare, a hellish nightmare that is torturing his body and putting his mind through the extremes. The one constant however is 'him'. John Watson. He's there when everyone else is left. He's there when Sherlock wakes from his fitful sleep in terror. He's there when antibiotics are being forced down his throat.
" Come back to me, Sherlock. Please, just come back. I'll let you keep fingers in the sugar pot, and I can't believe I just said that -" His flatmate exhaled deeply." Just get better."
It feels like days since he can remember being even remotely immersed in the world going around him. He's aware of a presence close by. Though his temperature is unbearable the warmth from the body is not entirely unwelcome. It's a comforting feeling, knowing that he isn't quite as alone as he would have been if he'd fallen sick before he'd met John.
He sniffs, inhaling the familiar smell that belongs to his flat mate and wriggles desperately closer to where the presence is coming from. He knows that his actions are ridiculous and that he really shouldn't want this closeness with his only friend in the world but he does, and because his mind is still fogged he lets 's cold but hot at the same time. He's shaking and aching, and feels disgusting. Being ill was dull and stupid, and a plain nuisance.
A hand rustles through his hair, fingers slide over his cheekbones; cool and smooth fingers that send pleasant shivers down his back. It takes him a horrible second to realize that he is starting to let himself feel something that is slightly more human than he's used to. His eyes slowly open. He takes in the sight of John sleeping by his side. He's wearing clothes that are days old, his beard is thick, his hair is scruffy , and there are terrifyingly dark circles underneath his eyes.
"John? " He croaked.
The soldiers eyes open and a look of relief registers on his face. " Hi." He smiled.
"Hi." Sherlock greeted him back.
" How you feeling?" John questioned him.
Sherlock concentrated for a moment, and decides that he's felt better, but he's not feeling quite as strange and achy as before. " A little better."
" Good. For a scary moment I thought the fever would never die down." There is definite concern in Johns voice.
"John -" Sherlock trails off.
" Hmm,what's wrong?" John asked worriedly.
" Your hand." Sherlock swallowed the words like they were a sickly sweet poison.
" My hand?" John raised an inquiring eyebrow.
" It's in my hair." True to the statement Johns hand was coiled firmly around one on Sherlock's curls.
"Sorry." He quickly apologized. John immediately turned as bright red as a tomato and removed his hand so hurriedly that it tugged at Sherlock's hair painfully, so much so that it caused him to hiss. " Sorry. I didn't mean.I'm just - er." John stumbled over his words; something that both pleased and amused Sherlock.
He found himself laughing. Something that feels good given the fact he's been out of it for so long. " I didn't say you had to remove it." He bit his tongue. He's not sure what compelled him to say that. Maybe his fever wasn't gone after all.
"I'll make a cup of tea shall I?" John asks him, obviously trying to escape the brief awkward moment that had just gone on between them. This was ironic considering what had happened last time John had tried to make him a cup of tea.
" Good idea. I think I'll just take a shower. " Sherlock felt hot and sweaty, and he presumed that the horrible stench was coming from himself. He wished to rid himself of what was probably days worth of dirt. He tried to push himself into a sitting position, but his body rejected that action, and before he can really stop himself a moan ripped through his throat.
" Here, let me help." John looped his arms under Sherlock's armpits, and without giving Sherlock much choice about the matter slowly lifted him up into a sitting position. John stopped for a moment. Sherlock could see his brown eyes boring into his skin, like two hot rods scorching him, " How are we going to do this?" John asked softly. Sherlock weakly looped an arm around his friend, hissing with the effort it had taken him." Do you think that you can stand?"
" I - don't -" He looked at the floor, looked at his legs, and then raised his eyes slowly to meet John's.
John seemed to understand, " It's ok. You've not been moving for almost a week now. It's normal for you to feel weak. No chasing high flying criminals for awhile. Doctors orders, do ya hear me?"
Sherlock huffed in annoyance before he realized what the former thing that John said was. His eyes dilated in horror. " I'm sorry John.
" Sherlock Holmes sorry? Wow you really are sick, aren't you? Sorry for what though?"
" Well, you've looked after me for all of this time. You didn't have to. "He studied Johns appearance again, though he decided not to comment on it. It's likely he looks a lot worse than John anyway.
"John snorted. " Yes well someone had to, and it was either me or Mrs Hudson, and believe me she and I fought for a long while over who was going to take care of you."
Sherlock chuckled. " You fought? over me?"
"Yup." John grinned and ruffled Sherlock's hair playfully. "I won though. I believe I made quite a convincing argument."
"I bet you did. And John?"
"Sorry about the sugar."
Yeh. Really not liking this one. But it's part of the 'I.O.U' collection so here ye are. Please leave a review. They are always appreciated.