Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.
Hi everyone. I know this isn't Rebellion or Circle of Life (obviously) but it's what I can manage at the moment. This is pure fluff and inspired by my own study session last week … enjoy the fluff.
"John?"
Sherlock had come home after a day out in London – observing traffic patterns for an experiment – and had noticed immediately that John was not downstairs. Sherlock wasn't particularly alarmed by this, although he thought John would have texted him if he went out, asking if he wanted to meet for take away or something of the sort.
Sherlock glanced down the hallway to the bathroom but the door was open, the light off. Taking off his coat and scarf, Sherlock went upstairs. He very rarely ventured to this part of the flat as he had no reason to and each time he found something different or interesting about John he hadn't known before. He wondered what he'd learn this time.
"John?" Sherlock asked again, pushing open the door. The light was on and John appeared to have been going through files of some sort on his bed but he was sound asleep, paying no heed to the document splayed across the quilt. His feet were on the pillow and John had bunched up the duvet under his head and the thin throw blanket that was normally folded on the end neatly (military style) was draped around his shoulders.
Sherlock frowned at his sleeping flatmate – John rarely took naps, especially this late – but simply turned out the light and closed the door. The detective went downstairs and made a cuppa, wondering what there was in the fridge that was easy to make for supper. He was hungry for once and was looking forward to a warm meal after a day outside. It was technically spring in London but the weather had decided it wanted to remind the city that it was capable of producing chilly temperatures and wet, damp mist.
Finding a box of some sort of stroganoff, Sherlock quickly made it and sat down the steaming plate and mug. His mind worked as he ate, going over the patterns he had observed; taxi to bus ratios, the number of people getting off at one specific stop, the length of traffic lights, and frequency of pedestrian crossing signals. He needed to document his findings so, after finishing his stroganoff, Sherlock sat down with his laptop, typing the notes quickly into his computer. The notes weren't for him, per se, as he remembered everything. They were for people like John and Lestrade who didn't believe him when he told them a fact he had confirmed.
Sherlock finished typing up his observations and wondered what he should do. John still hadn't come down, which the detective found odd. Maybe he should check on him again.
John was on the outer limits of sleep. He hadn't intended to fall asleep but as he was looking through his files, he felt the sinus headache build and his eyes were so heavy. He had just lain down for a minute and the next thing he was vaguely aware of was Sherlock turning his light off. He could have said something or gotten up then but he felt like rubbish and wanted nothing more than to be sleeping.
Sherlock climbed the stairs and pushed the door open for a second time that evening. John was snoring softly, evidence of his exhaustion – John only snored when he was completely done in.
"John?" Sherlock asked, going over to his friend and nudging his shoulder. "John, wake up."
"What?" John mumbled, opening his eyes slowly before they closed again. "I don't wanna study."
Sherlock's eyebrows met as the man frowned.
"Study? For what?"
"Exam on Saturday." John mumbled. "Don't wanna study for it. Head hurts."
"John, you're dreaming. You don't have an exam Saturday."
"Yes," John insisted. "History class … Wilberforce, 1807 …"
"You're a doctor. Why are you taking a history class?"
John didn't answer and Sherlock shook his shoulder a bit harder. John startled a bit, glancing up at Sherlock.
"What? Is there a case?"
"Yes." Sherlock said, standing up straight again. "The case as to why you're sleeping on top of old tax returns. And why you're dreaming about William Wilberforce and a history exam."
"Oh." John said, pushing himself up. "I don't know. I just fell asleep."
"Obviously." Sherlock said, studying John. "Are you alright?"
"I'm fine." John said, or that's what Sherlock interpreted from the words jumbled up in a yawn.
"No, you're not." Sherlock said somewhat accusingly. "You're ill."
John sighed.
"I'm not sure I'd go with 'ill', but I don't feel great."
"What's the difference?"
"When you're ill, you … oh, never mind."
Sherlock arched an eyebrow.
"Are you hungry?"
"No."
"Symptoms."
John sighed, falling back on his bed. He rubbed his eyes.
"Sinus headache, congestion, sore throat, body ache, and a cough. And I'm freezing."
Sherlock made a mental note of the information.
"Would you like some tea?"
John nodded.
"Are you coming down?"
"In a minute."
Sherlock left and put the kettle on. While the water boiled, he went to the bathroom and pulled out the thermometer and paracetamol. When he returned to the kitchen, he found John sitting at the island wrapped up in a blanket. Sherlock deduced he had changed into his pajamas.
"Check your temperature," Sherlock said, handing him the thermometer before searching for a clean mug – he really had to do the washing up. John didn't protest and took the thermometer, watching with little interest as Sherlock made a pot of tea and brought a glass of water to John so he could swallow the pills.
The thermometer beeped and Sherlock took it from John's mouth, glancing at it before turning it off.
"The good news is that you won't die from the fever," Sherlock said. "Although I can't guarantee you won't die from the sinus infection."
"Your concern is touching," John said, swallowing the pills.
"Do you want anything besides tea?"
"No."
Sherlock sighed.
"You're a doctor. You know you need to eat."
"I'm not hungry, Sherlock, and I don't particularly fancy vomiting later on."
"Suit yourself." Sherlock paused. "Did you, by change, take a history class in school?"
John sipped his tea.
"Yeah, why?"
"You were dreaming about it."
"Was I?"
"Yes. William Wilberforce and all that."
"Oh." John sipped his tea again – it was good, nice and hot. "It was a class on the Trans-Atlantic slave trade."
"Why were you taking that?"
"Elective."
"Since when do you like the history of the slave trade?"
"I don't, really. It sounded like an easy class that fit into my timetable."
John coughed before sniffing, wincing as he did so. Sherlock watched him with concern.
"Your ears hurt."
John nodded.
"You should take a hot shower and go to bed."
John swallowed the rest of his tea, agreeing. He enjoyed the shower and went upstairs, crawling into his bed – he piled the tax returns haphazardly, deciding he'd deal with them later.
"Here," Sherlock said, following him up a few minutes later. "I thought you might need these."
John glanced over at the box of tissues and the cup of water.
"Thanks," he muttered, already half asleep.
"Don't mention it. Try not to dream about William Pitt or Thomas Clarkson."
It took John a minute to realize what Sherlock was talking about and had opened his eyes to ask Sherlock how he remembered those names – Pitt, after all, was even a Prime Minister – but the detective was already gone.
John just sighed and closed his eyes, hoping he felt better in the morning.
So .. yes. Very fluffy. And also based off my experience of studying last week. I basically fell asleep the wrong way around on my bed, drooling on my notes because my sinuses were so clogged. The class was also North American Slavery and I found myself studying good old Wilberforce, which, I have to admit, I rather loved. But on the whole, the exam was rather miserable. But I'm getting better (thankfully)! And yes, I promise to work on my other stories soon … waiting on the inspiration to come and my muses are (slowly) getting over their cold, too, it would seem ….
Reviews always appreciated!