A/N: Hello everyone! This is my first fan-fiction ever, so please enjoy! I am American so if there are any weird Americanisms let me know.
Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, John, 221B Baker Street, or anything else.
"John?"
The ex-army doctor, who had previously been attempting to type up the latest case on his blog, sighed. "What is it, Sherlock?"
No response.
Grumbling a bit, he heaved himself off of the sofa. The flat was...unusually silent. Or, it was. A sudden loud BANG followed quickly by a string of expletives rang through the quiet. "Sherlock?" John frowned. "Are you OK?"
No answer.
"Oh for God's sake," he muttered. The sound had seemingly come from the bathroom. Slowly, he approached the room...
And nearly collided with six feet of consulting detective.
"Sherlock! What in bloody hell are you doing!?" John's heart was racing and he panted slightly. Before Sherlock could answer, John noticed that the other man's eyes were shut. He held his hands in front of him like a blind man.
"John," The baritone of his voice was as usual, but he sounded like he was trying very hard to keep it steady. "I can't seem to open my eyes."
John found himself staring at Sherlock with his mouth open. "Do shut your mouth," growled Sherlock. The doctor shut his jaw. "Right," he muttered. "Sorry, but did you say you can't open your eyes?"
Sherlock was silent.
John ran a hand down his face in exasperation. He clamped a hand firmly around Sherlock's wrist. The detective struggled a bit but John squeezed tighter. "Really, John, I'm not a child."
John didn't even dignify him with a response.
He plopped Sherlock onto the sofa. "Let me get a washcloth," he said. "Stay there." Sherlock had already gotten into his "thinking position". John went into the bathroom and took a washcloth from the shower rack. He sniffed it and inspected it. "You didn't use any for experiments, did you?" "Of course not." John rolled his eyes. He ran the cloth under warm water before returning to the living room.
Should he surprise the detective? Or warn him? "Oh, just do it already," John sighed. "Can you ever just stay quiet to let people think?" "Not if you're doing it stupidly." "Fine then," grumbled John. He sat on the coffee table and proceeded to scrub, firmly but gently, Sherlock's closed eyelids.
"Stop squeezing them shut!" Finally, John drew back. "Now let's see if you can open them," he prompted.
Sherlock opened his eyes slowly, groaning all the while. "They sting," he said tightly. John peered closely at the detective's face. "Well no wonder," he muttered. "You've got pinkeye.
"Pinkeye?" Sherlock sounded dubious.
"Yes, Sherlock, conjunctivitis. God knows how you got it, but got it you did." John shook his head in disbelief. "How do you feel?"
Sherlock glared at him. "Oh I feel fantastic," he spat. "My eyes feel like I'm rubbing sand into them whenever I blink, and they're watering like faucets." He sighed heavily and rolled himself away from John.
"Ohh no you don't." John firmly grabbed his wrist. "We've got to get you to the surgery." "What on earth for?" The doctor blinked. "You need prescription antibiotic eyedrops." "Why can't you get them?" Sherlock was starting to get whiny.
Again, John didn't respond, just hauled Sherlock to his feet. John put his coat on and handed Sherlock his Belstaff and scarf. Miraculously, Sherlock only glared daggers at John but put them on.
As the door shut behind them, John sent a silent prayer skywards. Just don't let me kill him. And don't make him want to let me.
Note: And there's chapter one! I love sick!fics and no one's done pinkeye before, so...yeah. If you liked it, please review. If you hated it, please review. I would love feed back so I know whether to stop this drivel.