I suppose this could be argued to be another sick fic. I wanted to experiment with Sherlock's lack of sustenance consumption.
Sorry for any mistakes. Also, sorry its so short.
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John leapt from his seat, the murder mystery novel he had been attempting to read falling from his lap as he witnessed as his best friend stumbled forwards, a hand shooting out in an attempt to grasp at the wooden coffee table positioned near the sofa. The mug of tea he had been holding slipped from his weakened grip, the bone china cushioned from damage by the carpet as the warm liquid began to permeate, leaving behind a soggy stain. Sherlock wasn't quite so lucky, his legs were weak and his vision blurred as he fought to regain his equilibrium, failing as the underside of his chin collided with the edge of the coffee table, his body flopping limply as he hit the floor. His eyes clouded, their lids sliding closed, and his ears popped.
Sherlock could recall very little of what had happened as he forced his eyes to open, suddenly aware of the concerned face of his companion as the doctor hovered over him, his blue eyes filled with a concern Sherlock didn't believe he had ever witnessed before. There was an unusual weight resting against Sherlock's forehead, the man noted, just below his hairline and something being held against the bottom of his, throbbing, chin. Forcing up a trembling hand, the tips of the detective's pale fingers came into contact with what he figured was a soggy, cold flannel.
"Leave it there, Sherlock," John ordered in a voice that was oddly muffled, the sensation making Sherlock feel like he was submerged underwater. The ex-army medic was on his knees beside him, an open first aid kit sitting on his left as he examined him, checking his reflexes and responses. When he was completely certain that his friend was more alert, he spoke again and Sherlock had to admit that he was thankful to find that the earlier distortion appeared to have ceased. "You've split your chin open. I was waiting for you to reawaken before I stitched it." He explained as he reached up and moved Sherlock's hand away from the flannel. "You gave me quite a scare."
"John," Sherlock groaned, speaking for the first time since he had awoken that morning as he allowed the hand that John had let go of to drop heavily atop of his chest, narrowly missing knocking John's own hand out of the way.
"I know, Sherlock. Just try and relax for me." John soothed, using his free hand to remove the flannel from Sherlock's head as he noted how his friend had scrunched up his nose and took the grimace to be a signal that the washcloth was bothering him, trying, discreetly, to gauge his temperature as he did so. "Just let me tend to your chin and then we'll get you up onto the sofa where you'll be much more comfortable, yes?" John questioned as he gently peeled the cotton wool pad away from Sherlock's still bleeding chin.
With the detective's chin wound successfully sutured, John rose from the sitting room floor, helping the lanky man from the carpet of 221B and to a lying position on his back on the couch.
"You'll need to sit up in a minute, okay? Let me go and get you a fresh cup of tea," John suggested after ensuring that Sherlock was settled and comfortable, "and something to eat because heaven knows when the last time you actually ate was." He noted with a shake of his head.
With the, admittedly remotely subdued, consulting detective now contentedly munching away on a slice of toast and jam, that was unarguably more jam than toast, and sipping at a fresh mug of tea, John set about scrubbing at the stain that Sherlock's previous mug had caused and ensuring that there was no blood on the coffee table where Sherlock had fallen.
"Are you feeling better now?" John questioned as Sherlock reached his long arm over his head to place the crumb covered plate and empty mug onto the coffee table. At Sherlock's affirmative nod, John let out a soft smile which faded slightly as he regarded the detective once more. "Then you might want to go and change your shirt."
At his vague words, Sherlock looked down at himself, letting out a justifiably frustrated grumble as he noted the blood that had soaked into the collar of his shirt and began to question his decision to wear white button down shirts as something always seemed to happen when he did so.
John watched as Sherlock rose from the couch and set off in the direction of his bedroom. He didn't miss the quiet, but audible, 'thank you' that emitted from where the detective disappeared into his room.
Thank you for reading. Please leave a review.
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