Unfinished, but here's some fluffy johnlock for you with a sick Sherlock.

Oh, and don't mind the frequent updates- I'm compiling all my random into one book.

Enjoy :)

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Sherlock and John have been married for a little over a year. They had a quiet wedding so only close friends and family know, like Lestrade and Donavon, but no one else at Scotland Yard.

Yes, I have fallen in love with this ship- fite me.

So basically Sherlock gets sick, John is very protective. That's literally the entire plot. Oh, and some fluffies for my kittens :3

~

John, in the five years he had known Sherlock Holmes, had never seen him get sick. Never, nada, zilch. It had never happened.

He also knew that Sherlock tended to neglect his health and general well-being, whether it be not sleeping, not eating, or living off of tea and little nibbles their landlady brought up. Knowing this, John often wondered with increasing exasperation how in the bloody heck did Sherlock not get sick? Unfortunately, he never had time to ponder it, and had ultimately come to the conclusion that Sherlock possibly got sick more times than him but was able to hide it incredibly well. Sherlock did pride himself on being quite the actor.

Knowing this, when John was the first one to wake up -unusual for him- to see Sherlock's face just a bit paler then normal and his cheeks flushed, he thought nothing of it.

John got up and went about his day, showering, getting dressed, and making breakfast for him and Sherlock. John only began to worry when Sherlock didn't come to breakfast, even when John tried calling him down.

However, John once again, brushed it off- Sherlock did slip into bed with him early in the morning (three am, most likely) so it was only natural for Sherlock to sleep in later than normal. The only unusual thing was that Sherlock hardly ever slept unless John was sleeping right besides him.

Finally, at around 11:50 am, Sherlock stumbled out of their shared room, wearing his normal blue pajama pants and silk robe with a baggy white shirt. "John?" Sherlock asked.

John looked up at his name and spotted Sherlock, leaning against the wall for support. "Good morning, Sherly. You slept in quite awhile, you feeling alright?"

Sherlock let out an exhausted sigh. "'m fine, John." He mumbled.

John frowned. Sherlock was clearly not fine- his eyes were half-closed and glazed over. Sweat shone on his forehead, gluing his dark curls to his forehead. His face was pale- paler than usual- but his cheeks were flushed. On top of all that, he looked utterly exhausted. Not the kind of 'im tired from work' exhaustion, the kind that makes you want to crawl into a hole and sleep for years, John could only describe it as the kind of tired you get during finals week at university.

"You don't look fine." John commented, keeping his voice gentle as he set down his newspaper.

"Stop worrying, John. 'm alright." Sherlock muttered, stumbling into the kitchen. "Cuppa?"

John sighed. "Sure. Breakfast's on the table if you're interested."

"Not hungry." Came Sherlock's soft reply, his low voice raspy.

John knew he should be more concerned about Sherlock, but he pushed his worry down. Sherlock was fine, he was just worn out from all his cases and late nights of research and experiments.

John stood up and walked over to Sherlock. He was about to wrap his arms around the taller man's waist, but before he could, Sherlock's phone rang.

Eyes lighting up, Sherlock abandoned his station at the stove and picked up his phone. John let out a silent sigh and took the tea kettle off the heat when it began to screech angrily at him.

Sherlock came bounding back into the room soon after, although his movements were slower than usual and his voice was raspy. "John! We got ourselves a dead man in his late thirties with no apparent cause of death! Let's go, let's go!"

John laughed at Sherlock's puppy-like excitement but complied, telling the detective to get some clothes on while he finished the tea as to not waste it. They could drink it on the way there.

Two hours later, he and Sherlock were on the crime scene, Sherlock holding up the yellow crime tape for him like always, smiling broadly down at him.

John smiled back and stood still while Sherlock let the tape down and together they walked towards the body laying face down in the dirt. They reached the body and John bent down to examine it, frowning ever so slightly when he felt Sherlock's warmth disappear. He looked up to see Sherlock standing a little ways away with his face buried in the crook of his elbow. John could hear a fit of rasping coughs from the taller detective and suddenly it hit him. Sherlock was sick.

John felt his face grow warm with embarrassment at how he didn't realize it sooner while the doctor inside him begged him to stand up and scream to get Sherlock inside, pump him full of medications, and force him to get some rest, but John elected to ignore the little voice. Sure, he hated seeing Sherlock hurt in anyway or, in this case, sick, but he also knew that Sherlock would prefer to talk about it when they got home: not at a crime scene. So, he returned to examining the body. Sherlock did the same, joining the doctor and inspecting the corpse with his little magnifying glass.

John winced when he heard Sherlock sneeze- it was loud and Sherlock's muffled whimpers afterwards suggested he had a sore throat. It must've hurt to talk and eat, let alone sneeze.

Without looking up, John leaned towards his husband. "Bug, are you sure you're okay?" He asked, knowing his husband loved the nickname.

Sure enough, John saw the corner's of Sherlock's mouth turn up into a weak smile. "Yeah-" he coughed again, wincing slightly. John noticed this as well- Sherlock definitely had a sore throat. "'m fine. I told you already."

John sighed in defeat and nodded, standing up. "The victim doesn't even have any type of blemish or marks on his body aside from his the inside of his elbow where he has clear needle marks. I'd say overdose, but we can't tell for sure until the professionals have a look."

Lestrade nodded from where he was standing near Anderson and a cop John didn't know. "That's what we found, too. We figured you blokes could help out a bit with your hu-"

John shot him a sharp, 'shut up' glare and Lestrade's eyes widened. Realizing his mistake, he quickly corrected himself. "Flatmate, I mean, helping us with a lot of our cases."

John nodded and was about to respond when he heard Sherlock hacking and wheezing from behind him. John turned to see his husband doubled over in a coughing fit, tears welling up in his eyes.

Eyes widening, John ignored Anderson's questioning glare, Lestrade's concerned look, and rushed to his husband. Putting his hand on the small of Sherlock's back, he rubbed it until the detective had stopped his imitation of a dying cat.

Once he had called down, John wrapped him into a small side hug, taking his temperature with his hand. "Bug, you're not okay: you're burning up!"

Sherlock shook his head, straightening up. "'m fine!"

John sighed in exasperation as Sherlock stumbled off towards Lestrade. "Sherlock- he warned. The taller just waves him off and continued to talk. "Sherlock Holmes! You are going home this instant! As your doctor-"

"That's not my name..." Sherlock grumbled, turning to Lestrade as he babbled on about the victims death.
Great: Sherlock was delusional. Of course, John knew that Sherlock's last name was now Watson-Holmes, but the ladder was the one who begged to keep it a secret from his collueges and was now telling John that 'Sherlock Holmes' was not Sherlock Holmes' name (which had an element of truth, however John refused to reveal this tidbit of information with his husband's best interest in mind.

Sighing, John followed his husband and pulled the man away from the detective inspector. "Sherlock, please, you're sick- you need to go home!"

Sherlock gave John a hard look. "'m not sick. I don't wanna go home- it's a fun case!"