Secret Santa for MaiMai, BBC Sherlock, "4 Stages"

[Sophie<3]

MaiMai...!! Merry Christmas, dear!

I hope you're having a wonderful time with your family and that you got lots of lovely presents!

Now, I don't think I have to tell you how excited I was when I found out I got you for Secret Santa!

At the same time, though, I was a little nervous, because I respect you so much as a writer and as a person and I just wanted you to get something really good, you know? So first of all, I need to apologize, because I didn't write for any of the fandoms on your list... It's just that we had talked about Sherlock before and I had this idea for a fic that I thought you might really enjoy and... gosh, I really hope you're not disappointed. Anyway, I wrote this fic for you yesterday and today, might've slightly overdone it with more than 6,000 words, but yeah, I just really hope you enjoy it and it's good enough, even though it wasn't one of the fandoms you listed. Let me just say now, though, that if you are disappointed, then please don't hesitate to let me know and I'll try to write a good HP fic for you, okay?

Gosh, I'm so nervous about this and just really hope it's good enough and makes you happy, because you deserve that! But now, I'm sure you want to finally read your fic, so here it is.

Again, Merry Christmas to you! Much love, Sophie

Fandom: Sherlock

Warnings: Language

4 Stages

I.

John was no detective, but he was certainly perceptive when Sherlock was concerned and as a doctor he was generally more aware of signs of illness. Therefore, he noticed the very first sniffle and grew even more suspicious from there on. It happened on the way to a crime scene.

Christmas was only two days away, and still a single snowflake had yet to touch the streets of London. Instead of soft, white flurries, the kind that John liked so much, especially around Christmas, they got rain. Tons of it. Over the last few days, Sherlock and John had got completely soaked on multiple occasions and the same thing happened on the short way from the car to the inside of the mansion, where the murder had occured. As John closed the door behind them, he heard Sherlock make a tiny, congested sniffling noise and took note of it right away, because Sherlock was ususally such a quiet person. Sure, he liked to listen to himself when he talked, but that was about it. No loud yawning, no sighs, no more than a soft chuckle when it came to laughter. He wasn't a fan of unnecessary noises.

When John turned around, he was confronted with an even more unsettling sight. Sherlock had the back of his hand pressed against his nose, kept it in that position for two or three seconds, then moved it to the right quickly before dropping it. To John it looked as if he was wiping his nose.

Maybe, he told himself, Sherlock's nose was running from the cold air outside of the car, but then... it seemed so unlike Sherlock to notice small things, like a runny nose, about himself and act on them, too.

“She's in the living room”, Lestrade announced, as he ushered Sherlock towards the door. “Like I said, the case is incredibly obvious, right now my men are searching for the husband, who fled like a hunted deer, and if it was up to me...”

“You wouldn't even have called me, yes”, Sherlock interrupted. “I know.”

A short-lived grin appeared on Lestrade's face. “Well, we thought it couldn't hurt to let you have a quick look, especially since, as I heard, you were acting like a real headcase at home after two weeks without a case.”

He shot John a quick look, who shrugged. It was true. Sherlock's behavior had gone from a little strange, even for his standards, to insufferable, so he'd given Lestrade a call and asked if there was anything, by any chance, that they'd let Sherlock have a look at. Lestrade had been hesitant at first, but now here they were, on the doorstep of one of the most beautiful houses John had ever seen, in Kensington.

“He strangled her with his bare hands, as the bruises on her neck tell us. There

are signs of a struggle in the living room. Also, he has a history of domestic violence and neighbors testified that their demeanor towards each other often seemed somewhat... hostile.”

“Many people hate their spouses”, Sherlock replied. “That doesn't necessarily mean that he is the murderer.”

And there it was again. A short, small noise, but noticeable nonetheless. This time, John saw it, too. A quick wrinkling of the nose. Clearly a sniffle.

Sherlock, who had apparently noticed that he was being stared at, frowned slightly at John, then pushed his wet, dark curls back with one hand and, ducking under the police's blue and white tape, entered the crime scene.

After a second of hesitation, John followed.

“There she is”, Lestrade said as they entered the living room and pointed towards the body of a 40-something woman who was lying on an expensive-looking carpet. “Cynthia Stone. She inheritated a great deal of money from her parents after their death fifteen years ago, then married Peter Stone thirteen years ago. Some of the neighbors say they were never really affectionate with each other and Mrs. Whirley from across the street even said that she always thought he was in it for the money.”

“Mrs. Whirley is obsessed with gossip and crime stories. Don't believe a word she says”, Sherlock replied.

Lestrade glared at him. “How would you know?”

“I know she's obsessed with the police and this case, because I saw her peeking at us through the curtain and I know she's interested in crime stories because I spotted a big envelope on her doorstep as we drove by: Real Crimes of Today. A magazine. Ridiculous articles, heretical and mostly made up. In those stories, it's usually the husband.”

Lestrade huffed irritably and shook his head. “Alright, fine. Anyway, she wasn't the only neighbor who claimed that...”

“Please”, Sherlock interrupted again. “Stop talking.”

Lestrade turned away, obviously offended, but he obeyed and didn't say another word. John tried not to chuckle, then remembered his concern and turned his attention back to Sherlock, who turned his attention to the corpse.

He stared at her for a few intense seconds, then touched her sweater and her hair. John noticed that he didn't put down his head to smell her, even though he usually insisted on using all of his senses to solve a crime. John couldn't decide whether he was acting ridiculously paranoid or whether this was another sign that something was wrong with Sherlock.

“Interesting”, Sherlock mumbled, while lifting the victim's shoulder up slightly and running his finger over the fabric of the sweatshirt.

Both John and Lestrade knew better than to ask right away. Sherlock looked up anyway, eager to share his observation, when suddenly his facial expression changed. John tought he saw something like confusion flare up in the detective's eyes, as if Sherlock wasn't quite sure what was happening to him. Then, his eyelids fluttered, his lips parted, he took a quick, shallow breath and a second later his head snapped forward violenty. “Heh'Ik'choo!”

“Bless you”, Lestrade muttered, apparently both confused and uncomfortable.

Sherlock ignored him and quickly, before John had a chance to respond in any way, continued as if nothing had happened. “There is dust on her back, but there is no dust on this carpet. She is a very neat person, cleans the house at least once a day. Thus, the dust is not from in here.”

“Well”, Lestrade said with a frown. “But it is, because... she died in here, so...”

“Wrong!” Sherlock looked up with sparkling eyes. John could tell he was getting excited about this allegedly boring and easy-to-solve case and was probably waiting to have a laugh about Lestrade's incompetence later, as usually.

“This is not where she died. This isn't even a crime scene.”

The wrinkles on Lestrade's forehead deepened. “But there are signs of a struggle...”, he argued feebly.

“Wrong again!” Sherlock was practically beaming now. However, as he got up, John noticed how he wiped his nose again, quickly, with his right hand, in the same motion as earlier.

“That armchair over there”, he started, getting more excited by the minute.

“It fell during the fight”, Lestrade offered. “She probably stumbled backwards and pushed against it, which caused it to tip over.”

“Nice theory”, Sherlock said with an air of superiority. “However, I have to disagree. Allow me to demonstrate.”

He bent down and picked up the armchair.

“What are you doing?”, John couldn't help but ask.

“This is a crime scene, you're not allowed to...”, Lestrade began to protest, but Sherlock said: “As I'm currently proving to you, in fact, it's not.”

He pushed against the armchair, which was now standing upright. It started sliding back, but it wouldn't tip over.

“She probably pushed even harder”, Lestrade argued.

Immediately, Sherlock almost thrust his body against the piece of furniture. It slid back about half a meter, but still it wouldn't fall.

“See, the only way it would fall is if somebody picked it up like this”, Sherlock lifted up the chair, “and intentionally put it down like this.”

“What are you... saying?”

“I'm saying”, Sherlock began, when, unexpectedly, he paused and froze. It was the same look as before, somewhat startled. He looked so much younger suddenly, too, John thought. He blinked a few times, wrinkled his nose, took one labored breath and then his head jerked forward again. This time, it happened twice in a row with no time to breathe in between. “Huh'ee'shew! Heh'ITchh'oo!”

John and Lestrade exchanged a look and before either of them could make any sort of comment, Sherlock quickly picked up his monologue again. “There is no way that this armchair tipped over as a result of a physical struggle. Neither was Mrs. Stone strangled in here. In fact, this whole crime scene was staged. Need more proof?”

He didn't wait for an answer.

“See that picture hanging on the wall?” He stepped on the ground hard and the picture fell off the wall. Sherlock was rushing his words now, filled with excitement. “If her body had hit the ground in here, there is no way that picture would've stayed on the wall.”

“Alright, that's quite enough”, said Lestrade, who looked extremely unhappy with the entire situation.

“Wait, there's more!”

“No, that's quite alright. I'll call you if we need any more help.”

“You need plently more help, Lestrade!”

“I really need to ask you to leave now”, Lestrade said sternly.

Sherlock looked as if he was going to protest, but then, suddenly, he lost control again. This time, John recognized the look on his face right away.

“Huh'Ekg'cheh! Heh'Tch'ew!”

“Bless you”, John mumbled and grabbed Sherlock's arm tightly.

“Hey, I'm not at all finished here!”, Sherlock exclaimed, but John refused to let go and guided him towards the exit with gentle force.

“Yes”, he said softly, but with certainty. “Yes, you are.”

“What are you doing”, Sherlock hissed, as the door closed behind them.

“Let Lestrade and his men have another close look at the crime scene. He said they'll give you a call if they need more help.”

“Right”, Sherlock snorted. “Like his pride won't get in the way and he'll sit here for another two days sulking before he finally calls me.”

“Either way, he'll give you a call. And you're done here for today. Time to go home.”

Sherlock paused to stare inquisitively at his flatmate. “What's the matter with you, John?”

“No, Sherlock, what's the matter with you?”

“What do you mean?” Sherlock seemed genuinely confused. Or maybe he was just a really good liar.

“Are you feeling alright?”, John asked, unable to keep the concerned tone out of his voice.

Sherlock frowned. “I feel fine, John.”

“Are you sure?”, John inquired insistently.

“Of course, I'm sure. Don't be ridiculous.”

John let out a sigh, then muttered: “If you say so.”

He knew Sherlock was getting sick and lying about feeling fine, and, to be perfectly honest, he was insulted that his friend didn't trust him enough to simply tell the truth.

Next, Sherlock made a noise. It wasn't a sniffle and it wasn't a sneeze, but it attracted John's attention just the same way, because it was... a cough.

Again, it was only a small sound, more a rough throat-clearing than an actual cough, but it was there and it hinted towards congestion in Sherlock's throat and John took note of it.

“John”, Sherlock said suddenly and John looked up with raised eyebrows. “Can I be perfectly honest with you?”

“Sure”, John replied, trying to hide his smile. Maybe, Sherlock did trust him enough to tell the truth, after all. He looked up at Sherlock, who averted his eyes sheepishly.

“I wasn't entirely sure about the chair thing. I mean, it was a valid theory, but I had to test it before I could be 100 percent sure.”

It took John a moment before he realized what Sherlock was even talking about, and then, he had a hard time hiding his disappointment over the fact that this was not the kind of confession he had expected. When he finally recovered, he said: “Are you saying you got lucky?”

It was supposed to sound teasing in a playful way, instead it came out a bit sourly.

“Oh, no”, Sherlock objected. “I do not get lucky, John. Even though I couldn't be sure at first, I was right. Well, I usually am.”

II.

Sherlock was pacing up and down the room frantically, while John was watching from his spot on the couch.

When Sherlock interrupted his quick steps suddenly and froze in his movement, one arm awkwardly extended and with his head titled back, John knew what was happening. Because by now it had become a familiar sight.

“Heh'IKK'shhoo! Heh'Chh'ioO! Heh...heh...”, Sherlock's breath hitched a few times and he sniffled quickly, in an effort to coax out the third and hopefully final sneeze. “Hehh.... heh... EeeK'tchew!”

“Bless you”, John said with sympathy.

A night and half a day had passed, which had been plently of time for the illness to take over Sherlock's body completely. The sneezing had become much more frequent, a cough was beginning to develop, congestion had settled in Sherlock's sinuses and throat and, John suspected, he was also starting a fever. Nevertheless, or maybe because he was feeling so unwell, Sherlock had refused to talk about anything but the case. He had stopped all of John's inquiries about how he was feeling with a wave of his hand and had come up with multiple theories about the case. Yet, he still wasn't done talking about it.

“If it wasn't the husband or her brother, then who was it?”

“I don't know”, John said for about the millionth time. “Haven't the slightest.”

“I know you don't”, Sherlock replied irritably and wiped his runny nose with the back of his hand. This, too, had become a familiar sight by now. “But I'm supposed to know! If they'd let me go to the crime scene, I'm sure I could find out, but... Huh'EeeKK'tchoO! Ugh.”

“Bless you, Sherlock.”

“Stop that!” He turned on his heels dramatically to glare at John.

“Stop what?”

“Interrupting my thought process!”, Sherlock hissed.

John tried hard not to chuckle. Even though he was concerned, the whole situation was at least slightly... amusing. “Are you sure you didn't interrupt yourself there, Sherlock?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Um... maybe your... sneezing?”

Sherlock's eyes narrowed and for a second John seriously thought he was going to take a leap and attack him. “That's not at all relevant, John! What's relevant is the case!”

“And your health”, John contradicted gently. “That's also important.”

“Oh, you're such a pain!”, Sherlock exclaimed. “How am I expected to think with you in the room, doing your insufferable mother-hen-doctor-thing?”

John answered with a smirk: “Nobody expects you to think, Sherlock. Not at the moment. You're ill.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes with an annoyed groan. “You're a doctor! You see illness everywhere! I can assure you, there's nothing wrong with me and thus no reason for you to hover over me, like...”

Yet again, Sherlock was interrupted. By himself. John had practically counted on this and couldn't help but grin when it actually happened.

The strong double took Sherlock by surprise and forced him to bend over. “Huh'AKK'tchioo! Huhhh'KChiUuu!”

“Bless you”, John said sweetly. “You were saying?”

“Oh, piss off!”

John, not at all offended by the nasty wording, got off the couch and walked towards his friend. “Why don't you take a seat and let me have a look at you?”, he suggested cheerfully. “As you so precisely pointed out earlier, I am a doctor.”

“I'd rather die”, Sherlock muttered under his breath.

“Maybe you get lucky”, John replied sarcastically. “At the moment, I have reason to assume this is just a cold, but who knows. Maybe I'm wrong, you develop pneumonia, and then, if you still refuse to let me have a look at you, you'll kick off before you know it.”

“You're being overly dramatic, John.”

“Well, then why won't you let me have a quick look at you, prove me wrong like you usually do?”

He took another experimental step towards his friend. At this point, he was almost close enough to touch his hand to Sherlock's forehead.

“Stop!” The other man put up his hands defensively. “Back off, John! Can't you see you're annoying the hell out of me?”

John had hardly ever seen Sherlock this aggressive. To him, it was yet another sign that something was wrong with him. It was this weakness that made him so irritable and defensive, John suspected, like a cornered animal.

“Just let me take your temperature, okay?”, he asked, keeping his voice soft, as if he was talking to a small child.

“Don't you have anything better to do?”, Sherlock snapped. “Besides, what makes you think I even have a fever? That's ridiculous.”

“I can see the beads of sweat on your temples, Sherlock”, John explained calmly. “And it's not at all hot in here. Besides, I saw you shiver and wrap your arms around yourself about fifteen minutes ago.”

“What are you, a detective?”, Sherlock mumbled grumpily.

To John, it sounded like defeat, so he took the final step and reached out, but Sherlock dodged his hand. “Get your fingers off me! I'm telling you, I do not have a fever!”

“I hate to say this, Sherlock, but for once I'm right and you're wrong. I know you're not used to this, I know it scares you, but you have to accept that just this one time I'm the one who...”

“Fine!”, Sherlock spit, before John had even finished his sentence. He raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“What?”

“Take my temperature. Allow me to prove you wrong.”

John considered this for a moment, then nodded slowly.

“What made you change your mind?”, he asked, slightly suspicious.

“I may not be sick, but your nagging was going to kill me any minute now. Just go get your damn themomether, alright?”

“Okay”, John said, honestly surprised. He took another look at Sherlock, who was sniffling and gesturing for him to 'go on already', so he went to get his themomether from the top drawer in the bathroom.

It was good to see that Sherlock was finally giving in, even if it had come unexpectedly. Now, he would have to let John take care of him, because if a number any bigger than 38° C showed up on the screen, and John was certain that this would be the case, then he could no longer deny that he was ill and would have to let John take care of him.

“I'm glad you've stopped being such a child and...”, John started on his way back into the living room, but broke off as soon as he looked up.

Sherlock was gone.

III.

Cursing, John hurried downstairs, taking two steps at a time. He'd searched the apartment in a rushed manner, before deciding that Sherlock had most likely left the building altogether. John knew that there were several places where he could be hiding right now, and if he really didn't want to be found, John didn't stand a chance, but there was only one place where he wanted to be right now, so John hoped that the mansion in Kensington was where his fever-impaired brain was taking him.

He ran out the door and turned left for the quickest way to Kensington, then paused and cursed under his breath again. This was the way Sherlock was expecting him to take, so maybe he had chosen a different route? John sighed in exasperation. How was he supposed to take care of a man, who, even in an ill and possibly delirious state, was still so much smarter than him? Sherlock was probably toying with him at this very moment, and still, John couldn't give up on searching for him, because it was his obligation as a friend to take care of him.

John put his hands behind his head and stood still for a moment, frantically considering all the different routes from their apartment to the mansion in Kensington that came to mind, interrupting his thoughts with the valid objection that he couldn't even be entirely sure that this was where Sherlock was headed and finally ready to admit defeat, when he suddenly heard a familiar sound.

It was the stifled version of this familiar sound, but John categorized it correctly nonetheless as one of Sherlock's sneezes. John sighed with relief, because now all he had to do was follow the sound, which was so much easier than taking part in one of Sherlock's mind games.

He listened closely and detected a small noise on his right side, no more than a helpless hitching of the breath. “Hhhh...heh...”

John stood and listened, waiting for the sneeze to have its way. He could tell Sherlock was fighting tooth and nail against it, though, so it took another ten seconds before it finally broke free. Futhermore, John could tell that Sherlock was attempting to stifle the sound, but the sneeze came out so forcefully that he failed... pathetically.

John took another five steps until he stood right in front of his friend, cowering behind a garbage can, one sleeve pressed against the lower half of his face, pale, with his eyes streaming: a pitiable sight.

“Come”, John said gently. “Let's go back inside.”

Sherlock shot him a glare with those red-rimmed eyes, but was unable to respond, because his body was thrown forward again with the impact of another sneeze.

“Huhh....huh.... eee'Ktchhh'ooOo!”!

“Bless you”, John said softly, which earned him another deathly glare, right before Sherlock's eyelids started fluttering again. He wasn't done yet.

John raised his eyebrows in surprise as Sherlock's body shook under the impact of the next sneeze, which was probably tearing at the consulting detective's throat painfully, by the looks of it.

“Bless you, Sherlock! Goodness!”

“Keep it to yourself”, Sherlock mumbled stuffily. He sniffled thickly, which didn't seem to have the desired effect, though, as instead of clearing his sinuses, it served only to irritate them further.

“Hehh...” Sherlock shook his head, causing his curls to fly, apparently trying to get rid of the tickle... but failing. “Hehhh... hehhh'IKk'Tchh'ieww!”

“Come”, John said again. “You must be freezing.”

Sherlock had grabbed his coat on the way out, but had had no time to button it up, plus he'd forgotten his scarf. Even though it wasn't raining at the moment, John could tell that this was only a short, lucky break and it would soon start pouring again. Better be inside by then.

Sherlock reluctantly allowed him to grab his arm and stood up, wavering slightly, then sighed once in defeat and let John guide him back to the interior of the building and up the stairs. This took longer than expected, though, because they had to pause several times. Sherlock would simply stop walking, forcing John to stop, too, hold up one hand in front of his face and stand there waiting for a few seconds, before his head snapped forward with yet another harsh sneeze. It was the first actual fit John had ever seen from him and it was causing him to grow even more concerned.

Sherlock, who was usually more in control (of himself, the situation, of everything, really...) than any other person he knew, was now so completely at the mercy of his body. It seemed ridiculous! Maybe, if John didn't feel so anxious, he would have been amused. This way, he had to keep reminding himself that this was, after all, just a cold, and Sherlock would be just fine after a few days of rest. That was, given he agreed to a few days of rest.

After about fifteen sneezes, they'd reached their apartment, and Sherlock slumped down on the couch. “This is becoming quite irritating”, he said, and John winced at the raspy, raw sound of his voice.

“You could try blowing your nose”, John suggested friendly. “It might help.”

Instead of a reply, Sherlock only sniffled wetly and stubbornly. Then, he wrapped his coat around himself more tightly, which caused John to raise an eyebrow at him. “Now will you let me take your temperature?”, he said. He had dropped the themomether on a small cupboard right by the couch, so there would be no need to go to a different room and leave Sherlock unattended again.

“Perhaps”, Sherlock replied, his voice husky and even deeper than normally from the cold, “we can come to some sort of an arrangement.”

“An arrangement?”, John repeated. “What are you talking about, Sherlock?”

“You see, John, your interests are conflicting my interests, as is so often the case”, Sherlock began to elaborate, his flood of words only interrupted by the occasional sniffle or soft cough. “However, it appears that in my... weakened state, I have more trouble than usually in accomplishing my goal, so I decided that maybe it was time we reconcile our collision of interests and agree to a reasonable compromise...”

“What are our interests?”, John asked, feeling slightly inadequate, as he did so often around Sherlock, especially when Sherlock looked at him as he did now, with his head slightly cocked to the side and his bright eyes narrowed, as if to say: 'Are you actually this dim-witted or are you just pretending, John?'

“My interest is to go back to Kensington and solve the case”, Sherlock said, talking slowly, as if to a deaf person who was only just learning how to lip-read. “And your interest is to hover over me and tend to my cold until I feel better.”

“Hah!”, John exclaimed. “So you do have a cold!”

Sherlock frowned slightly. “Of course, I do, John. I thought it was obvious.”

“But... but... you denied it before...”, John stuttered, and Sherlock simply stopped him with a wave of his hand.

“Here's my suggestion”, he started, but was cut short, when a sudden, unexpected sneeze came over him. “Huh'yeetch'iuu!”

Before John even had a chance to bless him, he quickly continued, his voice sounding more congested than before: “You allow me to go to Kensington and solve the case, then afterwards I allow you to take care of me in whichever way you deem adequate.”

“Um...”, John stuttered in surprise. Sherlock had gone from denying his illness altogether and acting more aggressively than John had ever seen him before, to admitting everything and making an offer that was almost reasonable. Almost.

“Listen, Sherlock. I'm glad you're finally able to admit that something's wrong and I appreciate the proposal. However, I still believe that you're running a fever and therefore I cannot let you go to Kensington. Instead, I suggest you...”

“Sh”, Sherlock cut him off abruptly. “John, do you seriously think you can keep me in here if I don't want to be here? The way I see it, you have two options. Either you agree to our little arrangement or you don't and I'll get what I want anyway.”

John considered this for a moment, then nodded slowly. It was true. Sherlock had escaped him once already and there was a good chance that it would happen again. Then, he would be out there all by himself, which was something that John could not allow to happen.

“Fine”, he said finally. “I'll go to Kensington with you, let you have another look at the crime scene. Then, even if you don't solve the case, we'll go back to Bakerstreet and you'll allow me to take care of you.”

“Oh, but I will solve it.”

“Good. Then, you have nothing to worry about.”

“Eh... eh... exactly. Huhh'ATch'ioo!”

IV.

Needless to say, Lestrade wasn't too happy when John and Sherlock reappeared at the crime scene without an invitation. However, John argued with him long enough for Sherlock to wonder off and return triumphantly a few minutes later, proclaiming that it was the gardener, who had been romantically obsessed with Mrs. Stone and strangled her in a rage when she had refused to return his love. John was able to tell that he was about to embark on a lengthy monologue about the multiple, sublte clues that had led him to his final conclusion, therefore he quickly grabbed Sherlock's arm and escorted him out of the house with the words: “Arrest the gardener. Sherlock will get back to you later about the details.”

Sherlock started protesting, of course, but John reminded him of their arrangement in an urgent tone of voice, and a few moments later, surprisingly – alarmingly – soon, coming to think of it, Sherlock gave in.

On the way home, Sherlock kept mumbling about the case, something about 'dust in the garden shed' that was 'the same as the dust on her sweater' and 'trying to frame the husband, the poor old bastard', but John told him it was quite alright, he didn't need to explain it right now. They would call Lestrade in the morning.

He could tell Sherlock was fading fast. The sniffling and coughing got more frequent and he could feel the heat radiate off the other man's body. On top of that, Sherlock was also leaning against him for support, which was, to John, an alarming detail in itself.

Back in Bakerstreet, he took Sherlock's temperature and was shocked when Sherlock didn't even fight him, simply opened his mouth and waited for the beeping sound, gazing into the distance, like an obedient toddler. It was at 39.3, so John demanded Sherlock go to bed right away, and again, shockingly, Sherlock complied.

Next, John prepared some tea for him, but when he entered the bedroom, the dark-haired man was already fast asleep. With a feeling of inner peace, John went to bed a little later, glad that Sherlock was safe.

The trouble started later that night, at approximately 3am. John awoke to the sound of coughing far closer than it should be, and when he opened his eyes, Sherlock was sitting on the ground, right in front of his bed, with a blanket loosely draped around his shoulders.

“Sherlock!”, he exclaimed right away. “What are you doing in here?”

Sherlock sniffled like a small child. What he exclaimed next made him sound no less like a child. “I was lonely, John.”

“Lonely?” John sat up straight in bed, alarmed, as Sherlock wiped his nose with the back of his hand and nodded.

“Yes. Lo... loh... Heh'iiiiee'shhheh!”

“Bless you, Sherlock.”

“Thaggs.” He sniffled wetly, then looked up with those big, blue and now glassy-looking eyes. “Joooohn...”, he said in whiny voice. “I feel utterly miserable.”

“Um...”, John stuttered. “I know, Sherlock. I'm sorry. You're ill, that's why.”

“But Jooooohn...”, Sherlock whined again, pouting. “Tomorrow's Christmas! I can't be ill on Christmas! It's just not fair!”

Some sort of illness-related regression was the only possible explanation John could come up with. He had never seen Sherlock like this before and it didn't go away after a while, either. For some reason, it bothered him even more than the denial or aggressive behavior, perhaps because it caused him to worry even more.

Sherlock was acting like a child, and a really glum child at the same time. There was no way to get him to go back to sleep, so after almost an hour of trying to persuade him, John gave up and got out of bed. He made tea for Sherlock, who sat on the couch, cuddled up with his blanket, and stared out the window, complaining.

“There isn't even snow out”, was one of the things he said. “What's Christmas without snow, John? I hate London sometimes.”

“Everybody does”, John tried to console him, but Sherlock didn't even respond.

He had frequent sneezing fits, too, which caused him to complain about his cold even more.

“Try to distract yourself by thinking about something else”, John suggested at some point, trying not to show how annoyed he was.

Sherlock sniffled resproachfully. “My nose is almost entirely blocked, John! How am I supposed to think about anything but this cold when I'm reminded of it every single time I try to take a breath?”

At nine in the morning, John had had enough. While he was glad that Sherlock was finally allowing him to take care of him, he still felt that he needed professional advice on how to deal with the situation, so he pocketed his pride and picked up the phone to call the only person who had most likely dealt with a sick Sherlock before.

“Mycroft Holmes.”

“Hi, um... It's John.”

“Hello, John!”

Pause.

“It's Sherlock, isn't it?” Sigh. “What has he done this time?”

“Um... nothing, really. I mean, it's not his fault, not really. He's just sick and I...”

John couldn't believe it, but Mycroft was laughing. “You're wondering how to deal with him? You're seriously contemplating suicide to escape the situation at this point?”

“Well... um...”

“How far ahead is he?”

“What do you mean?”

“Let me explain something to you”, Mycroft started, still sounding amused. John frowned at this, and for a moment, he thought about hanging up the phone.

“There are several stages which Sherlock goes through successively whenever he falls ill. It took me a while to figure this out, but once you know what the stages are, it becomes much less exasperating to deal with him.”

“Okay, what are the stages?”

In the background, he could hear Sherlock sneeze three times.

“Now, be patient, doctor! I was just about to tell you.”

“Right, sorry.”

“That's quite alright. I understand your eagerness to hear what I have to say. I know that my brother can be quite the challenge when he's feeling under the weather.”

“Oh, yes. Definitely.”

Sherlock's sneezing fit had turned into a coughing fit now.

“The first stage of Sherlock's illness is denial.”

Sherlock's voice echoed in John's head. 'I feel fine'.

“That makes sense”, he said, realizing how grumpy he sounded as he spoke. “Oh, but make no mistake”, Mycroft continued. “Sherlock doesn't simply deny his illness, because he doesn't want to admit weakness. When it first starts, he is usually so caught up in one of his cases that he is genuinely unaware of his symptoms.”

“So he wasn't simply pretending everything was fine, he really didn't realize that he was coming down with something?”

“At first, yes. Correct. My brother may be very perceptive, but this particular power usually fails him when it comes to his own health.”

“Interesting. What's the second stage?”

“Anger.”

“Oh, yes!”, John said grimly, and again Sherlock's words were echoing in his head. 'Piss off!'

“At this point”, Mycroft continued his lecture in a calm voice, “Sherlock has realized that something is wrong with him, but instead of accepting the care of those around him, he decides to deflect and responds aggressively to all signs of concern.”

“That sounds strangely familiar”, John remarked sarcastically. “We've definitely been there, too. What's next?”

“Bargaining. Sherlock realizes that aggression will lead nowhere. He begrudgingly accepts that his counterpart will not give up and allows them to take care of him... with a few conditions. He's not entirely ready to give up yet and seeks to defend his own interests.”

John nodded thoughtfully. “He said he'd let me take care of him if I go back to the crime scene with him and allow him to solve the case.”

“And naturally, you gave in.”

“Well, um... yes. I did.”

“So what's happening now?”

“He has solved the case. Now he's acting like a baby. He's upset that he isn't feeling well, he complains a lot. I'm tempted to call it 'whining'.”

Mycroft chuckled softly. “Ah, yes. Depression. That's the fourth stage.”

John groaned. “It's irritating, to say the least! I mean, I'm glad he's allowing me to take care of him, but it's just strange to see him so... needy.”

“It is, isn't it? I know exactly what you mean.”

“Wait.” Suddenly, something dawned on John. “Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression... Those are the stages of grief, aren't they?”

“Well spotted. And curiously, they are also the stages of Sherlock's illness!”

“But... that's good news, isn't it? I mean, that means the fifth stage is acceptance, right? When does that start?”

Mycroft, on the other end of the line, was quiet for a while, and sighed then.

“John. There is no fifth stage. I'm sorry.”

John only stood and stared for a moment, letting the words sink in. Just then, Sherlock came stumbling out of the living room, all pale, with flushed cheeks and a runny nose. Before he could say anything, he started sneezing again.

Mycroft chuckled again. “Merry Christmas, John.”

“Did you mean Merry Christ-mess?”, John groaned. Mycroft laughed softly and hung up.

“Joooohn...!”, Sherlock started whining after wiping his nose with the back of his hand. “I hate being ill! My head hurts and I can't stop sneezing and I don't feel well and it's almost Christmas! Jooooohhnn...! Do something!”

Mycroft's words echoed in John's head. 'There is no fifth stage'.

Depression was the stage they were stuck with until Sherlock started feeling better.

Lovely. Brilliant.

[MaiMai]

Sophiieeeee! I can't believe you got me!! I got so ridiculously excited when I saw the topic! (So much so that I kinda yelled it at my parents, who had no idea who or what I was talking about. ) And - how could I ever be disappointed by this?! It's fantastic and I honestly think I could write you an entire essay on everything I love about it! I re-watched every season of Sherlock at the beginning of the week, and I've generally been getting into it again recently, so this is absolutely perfect! I was smiling so much the whole time I was reading it!

1. - Your descriptions of London and references to the weather are so perfect! I particularly love these lines:

“There isn't even snow out”, was one of the things he said. “What's Christmas without snow, John? I hate London sometimes.”

“Everybody does”, John tried to console him

Christmas was only two days away, and still a single snowflake had yet to touch the streets of London. Instead of soft, white flurries, the kind that John liked so much, especially around Christmas, they got rain.

I'm originally a Londoner and spent a fair amount of my childhood there, so I completely know what John means by that! And rain instead of snow - that's practically a requirement for a British Christmas!

2. The way the story starts off slow, going through the symptoms gradually - the sniffling, the sneezing, the coughing, the fever... I adore fics that really follow the development of a cold like that! That's one of my favourite things about your writing; you're really good at establishing the pace within a story. (Sorry, I'm going all Literature-student now. )

3. The way you described through John's voice how Sherlock just doesn't pay any attention to the trivial physical things. That fits him perfectly!

4. The stubbornness. Just...the stubbornness! So Sherlock and so adorable!!!

5.

“Hah!”, John exclaimed. “So you do have a cold!”

Sherlock frowned slightly. “Of course, I do, John. I thought it was obvious.”

“But... but... you denied it before...”, John stuttered, and Sherlock simply stopped him with a wave of his hand.

Ohh, Sherlock. He's so contrary.

6. The whole concept of the fic, of Sherlock having these four different stages of illness! Things like that are what I think make some sick-fics really special and unique - particular quirks that are so individual to a certain character, exactly like you've done here!

7.

“Perhaps”, Sherlock replied, his voice husky and even deeper than normally from the cold,

THIS LITTLE DETAIL THOUGH. Did you know I have a thing for hoarse/husky voices, or was it a coincidence?! Either way, GAH. THAT KILLED ME.

8.

“Wait.” Suddenly, something dawned on John. “Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression... Those are the stages of grief, aren't they?”

That broke my heart, in the best way possible. It made me giggle a bit, too, because even something as simple as a cold has to be psychologically complicated when it comes to Sherlock!

9. Sherlock went and sat next to John's bed because he was lonely. BECAUSE HE WAS LONELY. THAT IS THE MOST ADORABLE THING IN THE ENTIRE UNIVERSE. The whole thing with him gradually becoming more childish?! AAAAWWWWW!

10.

“Joooohn...!”, Sherlock started whining after wiping his nose with the back of his hand. “I hate being ill! My head hurts and I can't stop sneezing and I don't feel well and it's almost Christmas! Jooooohhnn...! Do something!”

Mycroft's words echoed in John's head. 'There is no fifth stage'.

Depression was the stage they were stuck with until Sherlock started feeling better.

Lovely. Brilliant.

Poor John!! He's got his work cut out! That sarcasm at the end totally got me, too.

11. OMG YOUR SPELLINGS. THE HITCHING. THE TRYING SO HARD NOT TO SNEEZE AND THE FACT THAT JOHN KNOWS JUST FROM HEARING IT THAT HE'S FIGHTING IT OFF.

I'm sure there are a million things I'm forgetting that I'll probably think of after I post this, but seriously, it's beautiful! It's so engaging and I can't stop smiling! Gah, I don't deserve such wonderful writing! Thank you so, so, so much, Sophie! This is the best Christmas present ever!!!

Edited December 25, 2014 by MaiMai

[SneezyHolmes]

No words can express the cuteness this story conveys! I absolutely LOVE the way you describe and write a very whiney Sherlock! Simply perfect!

[AngelEyes]

“Hey, I'm not at all finished here!”, Sherlock exclaimed, but John refused to let go and guided him towards the exit with gentle force.

“Yes”, he said softly, but with certainty. “Yes, you are.”

I can totally hear this!

John, not at all offended by the nasty wording, got off the couch and walked towards his friend. “Why don't you take a seat and let me have a look at you?”, he suggested cheerfully. “As you so precisely pointed out earlier, I am a doctor.”

Gods I love John!

And then of course Sherlock just skies off. And the bargaining. It's perfect.

“John. There is no fifth stage. I'm sorry.”

John only stood and stared for a moment, letting the words sink in. Just then, Sherlock came stumbling out of the living room, all pale, with flushed cheeks and a runny nose. Before he could say anything, he started sneezing again.

Mycroft chuckled again. “Merry Christmas, John.”

This is absolutely Mycroft!

I love it!

[Sophie<3]

Sophiieeeee! I can't believe you got me!! I got so ridiculously excited when I saw the topic!

Thank you! I was so excited, too, that I got you!

(So much so that I kinda yelled it at my parents, who had no idea who or what I was talking about. Posted Image )

Wait... what exactly did you yell?

It's fantastic and I honestly think I could write you an entire essay on everything I love about it!

You have no idea how relieved and happy I was when I read that you actually liked it! Honestly, I was really hoping that you'd enjoy it, so this makes me extremely happy! :') Thanks so much!

I re-watched every season of Sherlock at the beginning of the week, and I've generally been getting into it again recently, so this is absolutely perfect! I

Oh my gosh, that's brilliant!! We're on a Sherlock kick together, then, huh? Awesome! This makes me happy!

I'm originally a Londoner and spent a fair amount of my childhood there, so I completely know what John means by that! Posted Image

Haha... really? That's amazing! I had no idea! (I was actually slightly worried about offending people... )

I adore fics that really follow the development of a cold like that!

Yup, that's what I thought. That's why I tried to take that into consideration while writing. Also, I'm the same way! (:

(Sorry, I'm going all Literature-student now. Posted Image )

I don't mind, at all! In fact, I appreciate your comments very much, dear!

6. The whole concept of the fic, of Sherlock having these four different stages of illness! Things like that are what I think make some sick-fics really special and unique - particular quirks that are so individual to a certain character, exactly like you've done here!

Again, thanks so much! I had this idea for a Sherlock fic, the stages of illness, and I thought you might enjoy it, but then I was conflicted, because you didn't list Sherlock as one of your fandoms... Anyway, now I'm glad I decided to go for it!

Did you know I have a thing for hoarse/husky voices, or was it a coincidence?!

(In Dean's voice): Call it a hunch!

Let me just say now that even though I'm tempted to reply to every single one of your sentences separately, I'll try to keep it general now and just say thank you very much for your lovely comment!! I'm just so, so happy that you appreciate this story and that you enjoyed it! Thanks so much for quoting parts and commenting specifically! I find that very rewarding!

Gah, I don't deserve such wonderful writing!

And yes, yes you do. Very much so. Because you're the best. I mean it! You are. :hug:

No words can express the cuteness this story conveys! I absolutely LOVE the way you describe and write a very whiney Sherlock! Simply perfect!

Oh, wow, SH, thank you so much! I'm glad I'm not the only one who enjoys the idea of a whiny Sherlock!

“Hey, I'm not at all finished here!”, Sherlock exclaimed, but John refused to let go and guided him towards the exit with gentle force.

“Yes”, he said softly, but with certainty. “Yes, you are.”

I can totally hear this!

John, not at all offended by the nasty wording, got off the couch and walked towards his friend. “Why don't you take a seat and let me have a look at you?”, he suggested cheerfully. “As you so precisely pointed out earlier, I am a doctor.”

Gods I love John!

And then of course Sherlock just skies off. And the bargaining. It's perfect.

“John. There is no fifth stage. I'm sorry.”

John only stood and stared for a moment, letting the words sink in. Just then, Sherlock came stumbling out of the living room, all pale, with flushed cheeks and a runny nose. Before he could say anything, he started sneezing again.

Mycroft chuckled again. “Merry Christmas, John.”

This is absolutely Mycroft!

I love it!

Thank you so much for leaving a comment and even picking out specific parts! God, I love writing for this forum! And I love my fellow Sherlockians! Haha!

[MaiMai]

Wait... what exactly did you yell?

It went something along the lines of: "OMG NO WAY SOPHIE GOT ME FOR SECRET SANTA HOW COOL IS THAT OMG?!?!?! I CAN'T WAIT TO READ IT OH GOD THIS IS GONNA BE GREAT" "Who is Sophie and what Secret Santa?" "Oh, nothing. " "This is one of your fanfiction things, isn't it? Lovely, darling."

Oh my gosh, that's brilliant!! We're on a Sherlock kick together, then, huh? Awesome! This makes me happy!

Ahaha completely! My English class managed to convince our teacher to let us watch Sherlock instead of doing work on the last day of term (our teacher is really into it too!) and I sort of ended up watching all of the episodes again after that!

And yes, yes you do. Very much so. Because you're the best. I mean it! You are.

Actually, I think you'll find that you're the best! But thank you very much!

Now I want to reply individually to everything you've said, too! So I'll just say this, again: THANK YOU SO MUCH!! Seriously, I love love love this story. The first thing I did when I woke up yesterday and today was read it all over again! Thank you sooo much, Sophie!

[stargazer]

This was so cute. I love how Sherlock's cold progressed.

[Sophie<3]

It went something along the lines of: "OMG NO WAY SOPHIE GOT ME FOR SECRET SANTA HOW COOL IS THAT OMG?!?!?! I CAN'T WAIT TO READ IT OH GOD THIS IS GONNA BE GREAT" "Who is Sophie and what Secret Santa?" "Oh, nothing. " "This is one of your fanfiction things, isn't it? Lovely, darling."

That... is so funny! Omg, I can't stop laughing!!

My English class managed to convince our teacher to let us watch Sherlock instead of doing work on the last day of term

Um... why didn't I ever have awesome teachers like that? Seriously, that's awesome! Which episode did you watch?

THANK YOU SO MUCH!!

You're very welcome, MaiMai!

I'm so happy you even liked it enough to read it again! To be perfectly honest, your first reply made me so happy that I went and read that again! Aww, you're so awesome! <3

This was so cute. I love how Sherlock's cold progressed.

Thanks so much!

[MaiMai]

Um... why didn't I ever have awesome teachers like that? Seriously, that's awesome! Which episode did you watch?

It's only that one teacher that's awesome enough to let us do that, unfortunately! We watched The Last Vow, ep. 3 of series 3! (There were a few people that didn't want to watch it but the majority of the class are Sherlockians, so we overruled. )

Anyway, I saw that your Secret Santa is up, so I really hope you're enjoying that, since you deserve an amazing one! And I know that it's Secret Santa, and I don't owe you anything per se, but you know that if there ever is anything you'd really like to read, then I'm always happy to write for you, right? Thank you again!!

Edited December 29, 2014 by MaiMai

[Subtly Clashing Wishes]

Ok, so much detailed commentary has been posted I'm not going to add any more. I just want to add my compliments to the author on a fabulous story.

[Sophie<3]

We watched The Last Vow, ep. 3 of series 3!

Ahhh...! I LOVE that episode! (Okay, who am I kidding, I love them all...! )

There were a few people that didn't want to watch it

Booo...! Those people are boring! Don't bother with them!

Anyway, I saw that your Secret Santa is up, so I really hope you're enjoying that, since you deserve an amazing one!

Thanks so much! And yes, I enjoy it very much!

you know that if there ever is anything you'd really like to read, then I'm always happy to write for you, right?

Ohhh... That's so sweet of you! You know how much I adore your writing, so if I ever come up with a good idea, but don't feel capable of making it into a good story, I'll let you know, alright? I really, really appreciate the offer!

Thank you again!!

You're welcome again! Honestly, I'm so happy that I got to write for you! It was so much fun! <3

Ok, so much detailed commentary has been posted I'm not going to add any more. I just want to add my compliments to the author on a fabulous story.

Thank you! I appreciate that!