SH - Kiss it Better

Damn.

Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn.

Damn, shit, bloody blast and sodding ruddy well bugger it.

John stood there with the phone in his hand, Sarah's plea that he come in still ringing in his ears.

Ordinarily he'd be there like a shot, the surgery was clearly too understaffed to deal with this flu epidemic.

Problem was he had his own victim of the flu to take care of.

"Please John, all the patients are starting to panic, it's turning ugly. We need to see as many people as possible, as quickly as possible."

I promised him I wouldn't leave.

"I . . . um . . ."

"Please John, the junior doctors are starting to get angsty too, we need someone to pull them together."

John close his eyes.

Damn, shit and bloody, bollocking bugger it.

"Alright, I'll be there as soon as I can."

"You're an absolute life saver, John." Sarah said, relieved.

Hang up.

Damn.

Sherlock was still too sick to be left alone.

John reached for his phone again.

To: Ophelia H;
I am so sorry to dump you on this but I need a huge favour. Sherlock's sick with this flu that's going round and he needs someone to look after him but I've been called into the surgery to do damage control. Could you watch him for a few hours? JW

A minute later.

To: John Watson;
Shit. I'm in the middle of a really important lecture, we're being assessed on what we're learning here. I can't leave for at least another hour and a half. I promise I'll be there as soon as I can though. OH

Once again. Damn.

Then a little, purple guardian angel appeared in the doorway. "Everything alright deary, you did just shout quite loudly?"

John's eyebrows quirked. "Sorry, I didn't realise I was speaking aloud."

"So, everything's fine."

"No, not really. Sherlock's got the flu really badly and I've been called into the surgery and Ophelia can't come and watch him for at least another hour and a half." John sighed, rubbing his weary eyes.

"Oh, poor dear, has he been taken really bad then?" Mrs Hudson said, sympathetically.

"The worst case I've seen in a long time." John admitted. "It's because the bloody fool doesn't take care of himself. He's so delirious he thought I was Admiral Lord Nelson earlier."

"Well don't you worry yourself love, you pop off to the surgery and do what you've got to do. I'll keep an eye on him for you."

"Oh, would you mind?" John said, relieved.

She shook her head.

"Oh, you're an angel." A quick kiss on her forehead and the doctor was racing down the stairs and out the door.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tea.

Dancing teabags to be precise.

Sherlock faded into consciousness from the rather surreal dream to find a familiar smell drifting gently on the air.

"J'n?" He whispered.

"No, it's me Sherlock."

The old lady watched in confusion as Sherlock's sweat-speckled forehead creased in confusion. "Mithuth Hubthon?" He mumbled. What with the fever and the copious amounts of mucus, he could barely breath.

"Yes love, turns out you're not the only one who's been taken poorly. There's a flu epidemic going round and John's had to go to the surgery. He promised he'd try and get you some stronger anti-flu meds on his way back."

Sherlock was in a brief patch of lucidity and was trying to tell himself not to be petulant. That it was fine, that John obviously had to leave.

Even though he had promised not to.

"Now, now love. Let's not have that face." Mrs Hudson said, calmly, sitting on the edge of Sherlock's bed and reaching for a partially cooled cup of tea. "You didn't hear him swearing when that Sarah lady rang. Sounded really torn he did, poor lamb."

Sherlock gazed at her through sleepy, gummy eyes.

"Here now, let's get some fluids in you." She said, gently rearranging the pillows so Sherlock was a bit more upright.

Sherlock got a sudden flashback. He was eight, with a bad chest infection and his mother was helping him sip upright so he could drink down some warm orange squash in a hopeless attempt to sooth his throat which had been scraped raw with coughing.

Still, just the feeling that someone cared, that someone was trying to make him feel better, was enough to take the edge off his misery.

"Thn'you." He said, hating himself for sounding so weak and snotty.

"No worries pet." She said, carefully manoeuvring his trembling fingers around the mug.

Sherlock took a sip and flinched at the pain in his throat. He looked at the mug balefully. "Eb'rythin' dasdes weir'."

"Yeah, it will do for a while. I remember when I was sick once . . ." Mrs Hudson and sat there, chattering quietly as Sherlock slowly carefully ingested as much tea as he was physically able to, her lyrical little voice soothing and distracting.

When Sherlock's mug was empty she took it from him. "There now, that's better." She fussed and primped his pillows and fluffed his quilt up so it was snug around his chin. "You try and get some sleep, Sherlock. I'll bring you another cup of tea later."

The skinny sociopath's eyes were already drifting closed, exhausted by the sheer effort of simply existing at this point.

Mrs Hudson waited until his breathing slowed and deepened before gently leaning forwards and touching her lips affectionately to his forehead. Then she quietly got and went down to her own flat.

Once there she passed a hand sadly over an old photograph on her mantelpiece.

A tall, gangling teenage boy with curly, faded blonde hair and a self-conscious smile. She remembered when he had had the flu when he was small too. She remembered him clinging to her sleeves and begging her to do something because Mummy was always meant to kiss it better and normally she did. But there was nothing she could do in this case.

She hadn't been able to do anything about the drunk driving the other car either.

Still, no sense in dredging up the past. That was a long time ago now. A lifetime ago.

She couldn't bring him back. She couldn't rewind the hands of time.

But she reflected, as she considered the pale exhausted figure sleeping fitfully above her, she could still kiss it better.