Hello, Sherlockians. May I present you with my newest story! This is your standard, old-fashioned sick!fic, featuring dear John Watson as the victim. The POV will be mainly John's or Sherlock's. It's also more than likely that there will be an unbearable amount of medical inaccuracies, some deliberate and some not, but I did my best to make it at least partly realistic. Mary isn't here, but not because I don't like her. I just wanted to write a bromance-only filled sick!fic, don't judge me. It can be considered a sort of an AU, though there's no set timeline.
This piece is a very simple and rather light one, made for entertainment purposes only :) There will be some OOC fluff, some feels, some stupid humour, and the most basic of plots. Still, I hope you will enjoy reading it.
It was nearing midday when John finally dragged himself off his bed, but the moment he stood up, he wished nothing more than to jump right back beneath the covers and into their blissfully warm embrace. He reluctantly peeked through the curtains, but what he saw didn't make him feel any more enthusiastic about the prospect of leaving the house. Even though he's lived in London almost all his life, the bouts of overwhelming greyness and humidity have never been something he particularly cherished.
John sighed and wrapped his thick, fluffy dressing gown tighter around himself. There wasn't a choice, really. He had already missed his shifts twice in the last two weeks because of cases, and he didn't want to push his luck again. He wasn't ill, after all – just plain miserable, like most people during this time of year.
He slowly made his way downstairs, yawning widely.
"Ah, finally," his flatmate's bored voice came from the kitchen. "I was starting to think you might have fallen into a coma."
John smiled wryly.
"Hello to you too. And don't exaggerate. Have you forgotten we came back at four in the morning?" Yawning again, he started preparing tea.
"No, I haven't. I was there too," Sherlock replied without looking up from his microscope. "But I fail to see how that has anything to do with you sleeping like a log for half a day."
"Of course you do. There was no one to bring you tea in the morning, was there?" John teased as he leant against the counter, much more awake than moments earlier; there was nothing like a little bit of a morning (well, not really morning) routine to put him back on his feet.
A distracted 'mhhm' was the only answer he got.
A few minutes later he placed one mug of fresh tea in front of the seemingly oblivious detective, and quietly seated himself opposite with another mug in hand. Less than half an hour later, he was already gone. Sherlock didn't even notice his departure; only after he almost knocked his mug over did he realise he was alone. He didn't mind, naturally – without John talking nonsense above him, he could fully focus on his samples instead of pretending to be listening. Admittedly, another tea would be nice.
As Sherlock tested his samples, John was slowly travelling through the city. He tried to entertain himself by practising deductions on the passengers of the tube, but their expressionless faces were just as gray and dull as the world above, and he lost interest soon. Once he arrived at his destination, he had to quickly forget about his misery when more and more waves of patients began flooding the small clinic.
Three days later, his own symptoms began to spike.
As he shuffled upstairs to the flat, he could almost hear his muscles scream at him in protest with each move. His blocked nose was forcing him to breathe through his mouth, and he really didn't like the sounds his lungs were making. He didn't even know he was in the flat already, until Sherlock's voice hit him like a sonic boom.
"You're back early. That's good, Lestrade called us. We're going to Crimson Street right away," the detective commanded in greeting, and began putting his coat on.
John groaned. Going anywhere but to his own bed was not appealing at all.
"Uh, can't you go alone?" he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I'd really rather stay and get a bit of sleep, if you wouldn't mind."
Sherlock paused for a moment and regarded his blogger closely. When he spoke, his voice held no hint of concern that he might be rejected.
"Well, actually I do. While I see that the state of your health is far from perfect, it also isn't bad enough to influence the rightness of your medical judgement which, given the being incompetence of the members of Scotland Yard, I will most definitely need. So, shall we go now?" With that, he motioned towards the door, and gave his friend a look that left no doubt about the purpose of the rant.
It wasn't a compliment, but a threat. 'Don't go, and I'll make sure you'll be too embarrassed to show around me for weeks,' it said. John had once made the mistake of ignoring that very specific, sugar-coated challenge, and he still regretted it. Sherlock Holmes avenging the lack of attention was a terrifying force, and one that the doctor had no strength to fight at the moment.
Without a word, John moved towards the staircase with resignation. He could mentally see the stupid smirk forming on Sherlock's face as the man followed him downstairs.
Soon after they entered the cab and took off, Sherlock's phone began ringing. The shrill sound made John wince and involuntarily move his head away.
"What is it, Lestrade? I told you we're coming," the detective spoke somewhat quietly.
"Yeah, I know, but listen...," the DI started but then paused, and for a moment Sherlock could only hear muffled voices in the background. "Yeah, sorry. We've just been informed that there might be something important about our victim in a house on Everett's Street, perhaps some documents or files. It's close to where you two live, so I thought that you might drop by and check it. Before the team gets there, that is."
Sherlock frowned. Lestrade asking him to check a trail on his own, without a tail of stupid cops peering over his shoulder? Something had to be up.
'Oh... of course. It's that stupid woman again,' he thought, smiling meanly. Lately, a new face appeared in Lestrade's unit, and she was a true pain in the arse. Their first conversation almost got Sherlock banned from crime scenes, but he simply couldn't wait to see her again. Her pettiness amused him to no end, and apparently she was with Lestrade today.
"I see," he addressed the DI, his voice not betraying anything. "But I think I'll just leave that to John, surely he'll do." John glanced at him with a raised eyebrow.
"Oh. Alright. If you say so," Lestrade sighed. Moments later the call was disconnected, and Sherlock turned to the doctor to inform him of the change of plan. John wasn't overly keen, but we wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible.
Twenty minutes later, he decided that listening to Sherlock might have been not such a bad idea after all. The sights were definitely worth a bit of discomfort; the woman who owned the house was stunning and so tastefully shapely that John had a hard time focusing on her words.
"This way, doctor Watson. I'll show where all of professor Mayers' belongings are," she said politely, and he followed her right away. "I just can't believe it. I talked to him just a week ago. He was such an intelligent man, but an absolute crank for collecting stuff. The things I have here have been lying untouched for years." The creak the basement door made upon opening made John want to clutch his head. "I'm afraid that whatever they told you about any files was just a rumour."
"What makes you think so?" he asked through clenched teeth as they walked downstairs.
"Well, if there were any, I don't think he would have ever let this happen to them." She gestured widely to the contents of the basement.
John took a look around the poorly lit room, but the first thing that hit him was the atrocious smell of decay. He could feel it even through his blocked nose, and it almost made him sway.
"Sorry about that," the woman said as she approached one of the shelves. "We've had a small flood here some time ago, and I didn't have the time to clean up. Everything that belonged to professor Mayers is in here, but I think it really is just some random junk. Feel free to take a look, if you want to."
There were certainly things in the nasty basement that he wanted to look at more than at a pile of smelly papers, but his desire to leave the place as soon as possible was even greater. Not even knowing what he was supposed to search for, John walked up to a random shelf, lifted the first book that caught his eye and wiped a bit of dust off its cover. It was made of parchment or leather, he didn't know for sure. He was about to open it in a naive hope of finding anything, when suddenly his phone came to life, and he accidentally knocked multiple books off the shelf, causing a massive cloud of dust to form around him. Coughing and cursing his clumsiness, he picked up.
"Sherlock! Would you mind telling me what exactly am I doing here? There's nothing but junk in this place," he grumbled, and coughed again.
"I've told you, Lestrade claims there might be some files. And why are you coughing like that? It sounds different."
"Ah, it's dust. Better just tell me where I should look."
The stupidly small thing that was the books falling seemed to have pushed him dangerously close to the edge. His flatmate remained oblivious, and John's earlier decision of being grateful towards him turned into a wish of strangling the detective with his bare hands.
"Right. First check for any boxes. If something's important, it can rarely be found in plain sight. Particularly..."
Sherlock carried on, but John could hardly follow. The dense, damp air was starting to make him dizzy, and the dust irritated his eyes and throat. It wasn't long before both he and his companion had enough of all the dirt and left the basement, coughing and sputtering.
By that time, John was furious. He did find a few important documents thanks to the instructions, but he was utterly done with dust, basements and Sherlock for that day. When the team finally arrived, he quickly handed them his findings, said goodbye to the lovely owner, and decided it was time to go home.
'To hell with Sherlock! Let him insult whoever he wants, why do I even care? He clearly doesn't, that much is obvious,' he thought angrily as he wiped the dust off his jacket. His flatmate had a truly remarkable talent of annoying him even without being there.
It took John a few moments to flag down a cab. When he entered it, he turned his phone off and leant back into the soft seat, dreaming of the awaiting comfort of his bed. Not even two hours since his arrival at 221B, the door to the flat opened with a bang, startling the doctor awake. He grabbed his duvet and hid his face beneath it with a groan. That had to be Sherlock, ready and willing to make his day even worse.
What John didn't know was that the detective was actually mildly concerned. He had texted John multiple times, and the mere fact that his phone was apparently turned off was enough to spike his suspicion. When he arrived at Everett's Street he wasn't certain what to expect, but the owner of the house and the present policemen assured him that all was well. He wanted to go back to Lestrade and just leave John on his own as a form of revenge, but since he solved the case minutes after taking a look at the files collected by his blogger, he decided to go home anyway and just make sure.
Sherlock was not about to let his concern show, naturally. Soon, he walked up the stairs to the doctor's room and opened the door bluntly, not even bothering to knock. The relief of seeing his friend safe quickly turned into irritation.
"Why have you turned your phone off? You were supposed to come to Crimson Street once you were finished," he said accusingly. John really wasn't all that sick; he just had a cold, and it was hardly a reason to act childishly.
"Bugger off, Sherlock," came a muffled creak from beneath the covers. "Let me die in peace."
The detective rolled his eyes. To think that he was called a drama queen!
"Stop whining, you just have a cold. You're far more likely to die from a bullet than from a bit of germs." With that, he turned on his heel and exited the room, but just before closing the door he added: "Don't turn off your phone the next time you feel like scurrying away, so I won't have to waste time looking for you."
The moment he shut the door behind himself, Sherlock began wondering why he said that, and why it turned out so harsh. After all, it was him who bullied John into leaving Baker Street in the first place. Some time later, when John still hasn't left his room, he decided that it wouldn't hurt to play a good friend for once. With a mug of fresh, bitter tea in hand, he soon treaded upstairs again.
The doctor's dishevelled head peeked out from the bundle of covers and blankets, and through squinted eyes he looked at Sherlock with reluctance, but it dissipated when he saw the steaming mug.
"Oh," he muttered. "You made tea. Nice."
"Yeah. Thought you might want some." Sherlock stood there for second, suddenly feeling uncomfortable. Taking care of any sick individuals was certainly not his milieu; even the simple act of bringing John tea to his bed was somewhat awkward to him.
He quietly walked up to the nightstand and put the mug on it. There. Wasn't that hard, was it?
John reached for the tea, and leant over the mug with content. "Hmm. Thanks, Sherlock. But don't think I'm going to apologise."
"What? Oh, that."
The detective remained where he was standing, not sure of what to do next. John took a tentative sip and looked at him a bit pityingly.
"Okay, I see you're at loss. You can go, really. I think I'm going to sleep some more."
Sherlock nodded stiffly, and moments later John was alone again.
What do you think? Leave a few words, please.