Cold Season
1
Sherlock had gone to bed with a partially stuffy nose and he had known that the worst had happened: he'd caught one the many hundreds of illnesses going around London right now.
Probability stated that it was a cold or flu, given the type of weather outside and the fact that it was cold and flu season. Sherlock didn't have time for being sick, at all, let alone with flu. He would have to wait and see, of course, what was happening within his body, but he did known that he was sick. Getting sick.
When he woke up, his nose, the left nostril, was still stuffy. Not a case of something vanishing overnight. Sherlock hadn't thought it was, but a consulting detective could hope.
By the time that John stumbled down the stairs two hours later, the one-sided stuffiness had let out to deviating between being stuffy and running. Sherlock found this more annoying than the stuffy nose; his nose would run, but if he tried to blow it, it was instantly stopped up.
"Morning," John commented, rubbing his eyes.
"Hm." Sherlock didn't look up from the newspaper. "Bad night."
"Huh?"
"You didn't sleep well," he clarified.
"Oh. No," John mumbled. "You showered?"
"It's all yours," Sherlock said.
"Good," John mumbled, stumbling over his dressing gown as it trailed the floor.
Sherlock glanced up once the bathroom door had firmly closed, letting the newspaper fall into his lap so he could grab the travel pack of tissues from where he had shoved them down the back of the sofa. John would definitely notice a box of tissues and, being a man of health, he would definitely notice if Sherlock started snivelling in front of him.
He blew his nose, rubbed his nose, and pushed the used tissue into his dressing gown pocket. This was tedious, he thought, picking up the newspaper again.
His secrecy was shattered, however, by late afternoon. John had been intrigued with the television when Sherlock found another side-effect: congestion in the nose tended to wreak havoc with other things nearby, such as his eyes. So, when the bridge of his nose near his left eye started to pulse slightly, his eye filled with tears and spilled over. Scoffing under his breath with irritation, Sherlock brushed the 'tears' away and flicked the wetness from his fingers.
It didn't stop, of course, and he ended up pressing his dressing gown sleeve against his eye to soak up the wetness.
"That's... interesting," John muttered, talking about the television but looking at Sherlock as he said it. "Sherlock?"
Sherlock dropped his arm, looking at John. Half-squinting at him. His eye felt puffy at the moment, like he'd been crying. Lovely.
"What's wrong?" John asked, getting to his feet.
Sherlock sighed. He was so good at the miscalculation of the facts, John. "Nothing." He rubbed his eye briefly. "I've just got a bit of a cold."
John frowned. "A cold?"
"Yes. That's what I said." Sherlock pulled a tissue from his pocket to blow his nose. "It's rather unfortunate."
"You've got a cold," John repeated.
"Would I look like this if I didn't?" Sherlock retorted, tossing the tissue to the bin. He missed and he sighed heavily through his nose. Colds impaired not only easy thinking, but menial activities as well, apparently.
John binned the tissue without blinking at the fact that Sherlock had just used it. He joined him to press his hand against his forehead.
Sherlock sighed again. "I do not have a fever, John. It's only a cold. It's cold and flu season, after all."
John removed his hand, letting it fall back to his side. "How didn't I notice you were sick?"
Sherlock sniffled. "Because there was no reason to employ your medical prowess," he muttered, rubbing his nose.
John sighed. "You could have told me. I won't doctor you."
"Yet," Sherlock muttered.
"Let me know if you get a fever. It could be flu," he said, turning to the kitchen
"Don't say that," Sherlock muttered, returning his attention to his laptop. "I don't have time to be sick, much less being ravaged by flu."
"Take some cold medicine."
Sherlock nodded once. "Already did."
"Good," John replied, disappearing beyond the bathroom doorway. He returned momentarily, drying his hands on his jeans. "You want some tea?"
"Mm... sure," Sherlock said, hunkering down in his chair.
By nightfall, he was thoroughly miserable. His nose was intent on running, his eye watering, his ears felt a bit full, a vein under his eye throbbing. It was like half of his face was melting. He more or less managed to keep it from John, staying out of John's direct line of sight after the doctor had gotten back from the pub. Sherlock was in the bath - attempting to combat illness with steam rising from the water - when he got home and he had gone to bed by the time he'd come out.
Sherlock didn't care. He went to bed, too.
By five in the morning when his alarm blared at him - and after a few choice words, slamming his hand on the alarm - he not only hadn't slept worth a damn but the cold had moved to the right side of his face now. He couldn't breathe out of the right side of his nose and now both eyes were red and puffy.
If he felt bad, he thought that he had to look horrible now. John would most certainly try to doctor him now.
Sherlock just sighed, pressed his face into the pillow - which he had to remove shortly because he couldn't breathe well- and hoped in vain to be able to fall back asleep and, impossibly, wake up feeling back to his normal self.
Multi!chapter sick!fic. Because I haven't done this before. Oh, God, you guys. This is miserable. Because Sherlock's not actually the only one who has this, I do. And given that I've got 'experience' with it now, I'm trying to write it... albeit if I'm so miserable I just want to go back to bed. Too bad the cold keeps me awake. :p
[Not to mention I don't feel great about Sherlock being over. I was kind of disappointed with HLV. Just saying. But that's a whole different ballgame here, haha.]
I do not own Sherlock. Your reviews are always appreciated... You guys make me smile. :)
