Lost and Found - SEQUEL TO SHERLOCK'S SECRET

Sherlock turned over in bed, rolling onto his arm. His week day old wounds screamed out in pain. That wasn't what woke him though. Straight away he knew something wasn't right.

He had woken up in a puddle of his own sweat, his drenched body stiff. His heart raced and he could hardly swallow. One look at his wounds - red, swollen and weeping - confirmed his suspicions: the rusty blade had infected him. Cursing inwardly, he heaved his body upright with a noticeable absence of grace. Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to think, though the fog in his head rendered that difficult. If he remembered correctly - which he was fairly certain he did - he would be okay with a tetanus shot, rest and keeping hydrated. Sherlock decided he would get up, drink some water, tell John that Lestrade needed him on a case and head to the doctor's for the injection. If he could keep it together in front of John, everything would be fine. Sherlock's heart clenched as he pictured the look on John's face if he found out why Sherlock was ill. He could not find out.

With a firm resolve, he dragged himself out of bed and got dressed. Catching sight of his flat, greasy hair and bloodshot eyes, Sherlock sighed. This was going to be harder than he thought.
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Sherlock had hardly gone thirty seconds in John's presence when his flatmate's eyebrows creased in suspicion and worry.

"Sherl, you okay?" His voice was laced with concern. Did he really look that bad?

"Yeah, fine. Why wouldn't I be?" Sherlock replied, forcing himself to smile weakly.

Though no amount of smiles - even from the great Sherlock Holmes - could convince John. "Are you sure? You don't look so hot."

"I feel hot," Sherlock mumbled before he could stop himself. John started toward him at the same time Sherlock's legs nearly gave out.

"Woah, easy," John said, growing more worried with each second that ticked by. Grabbing Sherlock's arms and lowering him into his chair, he sighed. Pressing his hand against his flat-mate's forehead, John sucked in a breath through his teeth. "Sherl, you're burning up. Let me grab my kit."

"I'm fine," Sherlock slurred, swaying in his seat.

John just raised an eyebrow, asking a sarcastic, "really?"

He grabbed his kit.
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John completed his examination and shook his head. "You have a temperature of 39.8*C, your blood pressure is 140/90 and your heart rate is in the hundreds. You're sick, and don't argue with me," he added, before Sherlock could get a word in edge wise. "Did you eat something bad? Have you been in close proximity to anyone with a virus or flu?"

"No, and no," Sherlock breathed, exasperated.

John thought for a moment before something dawned on him. His eyes wide with fear, hand reaching for his phone, he stammered "Y-you've taken something, haven't you? What did you take? How much? Christ, have you overdosed again? Please tell me you - "

"John!" Sherlock half yelled, breaking the man out of his panic. "I haven't overdosed or taken any drugs, I promise." John relaxed visibly, bowing his head in relief.

"Okay, thank you for being honest. You do still need to go to hospital though, if only to make sure you stay hydrated. A temperature that high is dangerous."

"I'm not going," he replied resolutely.

"Sher-"

"No."

John was about to argue when he thought of something. "Fine," he sighed, pretending to be mad. "At least let me make you some tea."

Sherlock smiled his dazzling smile, happy to have gotten his way. "That would be lovely," he replied, closing his eyes and settling back in his chair.

John left the room and put the kettle on. With the noise of the water boiling creating the perfect sound cover, he crept to his bedroom down the hall and grabbed the bottle of sleeping pills he used on the occasional nights he had a nightmare of his time in Afghanistan. Or, more recently, the nights he spent worrying about Sherlock.

Walking back into the kitchen, he grabbed out two cups. He turned around to check on Sherlock, and, satisfied the Detective would continue resting his beautiful eyes, emptied the three capsules into Sherlock's tea. Stirring it until the white powder had dissolved, he finished up and took the cups into the lounge.

It was about time John used drugged Sherlock for once, and not the other way around.

John handed the cup to Sherlock, and felt the slightest bit guilty when he genuinely thanked him for making it. His concern trumped his guilt though, and had to bite back a smile when Sherlock commented on how nice it tasted.

Only fifteen minutes later, Sherlock was asleep, snoring softly. And adorably, John thought.

Picking up his phone, he dialed and held it to his ear. "Lestrade, I need your help."

John was getting Sherlock to the hospital, whether he liked it or not.