AN: So I wrote this based on a prompt from the Sherlcok Kink Meme (kink below) and wasn't too happy with how it turned out, but I felt like contributing something to the Sherlock fanfiction world. I have a dozen or so more prompts saved on my iPad right now that I will be working on soon, so expect more from me haha :)
Please ignore some minor spelling mistakes; I know they're there but I can't seem to find them in my quick read-through. Thanks!
Prompt: Sherlock notices he likes John using his stethoscope on him. So he finds excuses for John to examine him, like a cough that isn't real or chest pains he doesn't really have.
In September, everyone got sick. A virus had taken its toll on the people of London and for days the clinic was overflowing with patients complaining of raucous coughs and dizzying fevers. John had come home to 221B each night with bags under his eyes and dreadful five o'clock shadow, just to doze off on the couch in front of the telly, not even having enough energy to make it to his bedroom.
Unfortunately for him, even the magnificent Sherlock Holmes wasn't impervious to the common cold, and within days it had struck him. Sherlock, being his usually stubborn self, still managed to turn up at each crime scene he was called to with tissues tucked in his jacket and lozenges in his pocket.
"Sherlock?" Lestrade had asked after Sherlock's fever had caused him to completely overlook the gun shot residue on a victim's sleeve and wrongfully declare a suicide as a serial murder. "Sherlock, are you feeling all right?" And at that point, Sherlock begrudgingly agreed to visit the clinic, if only to get stronger cough medicine, because although he certainly wasn't sick (because a Holmes never got sick), his chest congestion was a tad uncomfortable, and he couldn't have his head all hot and foggy whilst deducing.
"John, I'd like you give me 10 ounces of dextromethorphan and some acetylsalicylic acid." John looked up from his desk where he was puzzling his way though a tall stack of paperwork at Sherlock standing in his doorway.
"Is this for a case?" John asked, scrawling some notes at the bottom of a document in front of him before putting it on the short pile to his right. "Because I told you that if you needed drug samples for a case then you'll have to have a written order from Lestrade-"
"No, John," Sherlock interrupted gruffly, shifting a little in the doorway. "It's for personal uses." John stared at him blankly for a moment before letting out a breath.
"Alright, well I can't just hand over drugs, I'll need to at least check you for symptoms and write a prescription before I can fuel your addiction." John motioned to the plastic covered patient's bed and Sherlock dutifully removed his shirt and sat down while the doctor inserted the ear tips of the stethoscope around his neck into his ears. He pressed the cold head of the diafragm onto the pale plane of Sherlock's chest and he drew in a sharp breath at the touch.
"Sorry," John mumbled quickly, removing it and pressing the cold metal to his palm to warm it up. Sherlock settled uncomfortably back down and glanced at John. Contrary to the doctor's thoughts, Sherlock's sudden intake of breath had been a rather positive one. The cool, flat metal against his skin had felt refreshing, nice, actually, and now that John had reapplied the freshly warm diaphragm to his chest, he missed the rather sharp and almost arousing feeling it had given him.
"Alright," John said, placing his left hand on Sherlock's back. He cleared his throught and Sherlock noticed a faint blush on John's cheeks from the contact."I'll need you to cough a few times." Sherlock obeyed, fulfilling his urge to cough each time John repositioned the diaphragm against his chest.
"Right, well it seems you have the same virus as the rest of them," he said, and Sherlock's eyes followed the movement of John's hands as he slowly took off his stehoscope and set it on the table. " Just the common cold, nothing to worry about," John reassured him and Sherlock nodded.
"Yes, well I figured as such." The doctor took out a small pad of medical paper and wrote out a few words before tearing it off and handing it to his flatmate.
"Nonetheless, I can write you a perscription for extra strength cough medicine and some asprin, to calm your fever." Sherlock nodded, distractedly buttoning his shirt, his eyes still on the stethescope. John, recognizing the consulting detective's look of complete focus, his mind apparently filled with loud and busy thoughts, sat back down at his desk to continue his paperwork while Sherlock remained on the bed, 'thinking'.
"Oh and Sherlock?" John said finally, glancing up fron his paperwork. Sherlock looked up sligthtly dazed, as if finally realizing where he had been for the last five minutes. "Would you mind picking up some jam on your way home? I'm afraid it's going to be a late night and I won't have time to stop at the store."
Sherlock returned to John's office the following Monday after the case of the common colds had died down and there were less sick and crying children filling the clinic. His return, as he convinced himself, was purely part of an experiment, and that was all. So one again, he walked into John's office, passing by Molly in the hallway with a quick hello that made her face flush and her nearly drop her coffee.
"Sherlock, back again? You know you can just text me if it's involving a case; you don't have to come halfway across town just to fill me in." Sherlock was shaking his head before John was even through.
"No John, once again I'm here because of personal reasons." Sherlock closed the door behind him and removed his jacket, hanging it on the hook.
"Oh?" John said, pulling his eyebrows together in concern.
"Yes," Sherlock said, beginning to recite the descriptions of his alleged ailments to the doctor. "I seem to be having a slight pain in my chest, accompanied by periods of moderate to severe coughing." He began unbuttoning his shirt and sat down on the examining bed once again.
"Erm, right," John said, his tone portraying a mix of confusion and curiosity. "I'll just...take a look then, shall I?" He inserted the buds into his ears and Sherlock nodded. Mentally, he had prepared himself for the sudden pressure of the icy metal cicle against the soft skin of his chest, however when John pressed the cold diaphragm to his heart, Sherlock inevitably drew his breath, hastily covering it with a cough as to not raise suspicions. Luckily John was too focused listening to Sherlock's heartbeat to notice.
He performed the same ritual as last time, coughing for the doctor as the stimulatingly cool tip of the diaphragm explored the different curves and planes of his chest and back. After Sherlock had 'gathered suffiecient data', as he mentally categorized his actions, he took his purple button up off the hook and began redressing.
"Alright," John said, making some notes on his clipboard. Sherlock watched the movement of his hands and was able to decipher no congestion or absesses as probable cause for discomfort- will perscribe a dose of cough suppressant. He chuckled at the doctor's obvious reluctance to distribute stronger medications to him after his last drugs bust had come out...not quite so clean. "I'll write you a low dose cough suppresent for now. If it doesn't get any better, then come back in next week and I'll reexamine..."
John trailed off upon looking up to see Sherlock already typing away madly on his phone, the look in his eye showing that he had recieved a text about a case from Lestrade or had made some further advancement on the one he had yet to solve. Knowing that Sherlock was now deaf to the world, he resigned to pick up Sherlock's meds and just bring them back to the flat later, as the consulting detective had already grabbed his coat and was out the door.
Sherlock returned to John's office frequently over the next two weeks. He had come in experiencing chest pains, exhaustion, a rather nasty cough, and once, oddly enough, heart palputations (which John had luckily found no evidence of, despite Sherlock's claim of knowing his own body and its functions, thank you very much, John). What John had found, however was pill bottles, tucked away in the bathroom cupboards that looked as though they had never been touched, which made John wonder why Sherlock kept seeking John's help on such medical issues that Sherlock seemed to be developing lately if he didn't plan on taking the medication he was perscribed. In fact, John had wondered why none of Sherlock's ailments had been showing signs of improvement. Dammit all! He had been so worried about Sherlock's deteriorating condition that he hadn't had a good nights sleep in days! That was it; the next time Sherlock tried to come in and see about chest pains or coughing fits or any of the other things that seemed to be working against him, he swore he would force Sherlock to take those damn pills, that self-destructive idiot, even if John had to force them down his throat every morning and evening.
"John?" came the deep ring of Sherlock's voice as he appeared in the doorway. "The medication does not seem to be working, and I am still experiencing discomfort in the left half of my chest. I'm afraid you'll have to examine me again." He stripped off his jacket and began unbuttoning his shirt. John shook his head incredulously, already sure of what he would say to Sherlock about not taking his perscribed medicine. (It was something along the lines of 'you insufferable prat, wasting my office hours' and then a few choice words here and there).
"Right," John said, taking out his stethoscope and moving over to where Sherlock was already sitting on the medical bed. "Listen, Sherlock..." he began. "I found the pill bottles you've been hiding. I can't have you coming in here-" But he was interrupted by a low gasp from Sherlock, and the doctor froze. Sherlock's eyes were closed and there was a strange smirk on his face. John paused, removing the stethoscope, and gave Sherlock a funny look. He opened his eyes.
"Problem?" he asked, raising his eyebrow.
"Yes, actually. Sherlock, I know you haven't been taking your medication, and I don't see how you can expect to get any better-" But John had once again placed the small, icy diaphragm to the plane of Sherlock's chest, and his eyes had fallen closed. John paused once more, completely confused at his suddenly blank state. He slowly moved the diaphragm to the other side of Sherlock's chest and watched as a slight smile pulled at the consulting detective's lips. Well that's odd, he thought and slid the diaphragm back across his chest. In automatic response, Sherlock's mouth curved into a slight grin before once more becoming stoic.
So that was it. It was the stethoscope? Sherlock came to him...for the stethoscope... Were any of his illnesses real?, John thought. Suddenly his mind traced over the times they had spent at the flat or out on cases since this string of chest ailments began...and sure enough he couldn't remember more than a few times when Sherlock even exhibited the symptoms outside the office. He had before chalked it up to Sherlock's plain unwillingness to show any weakness at all, but now his mind was thinking differently. It had all been fake!
Angrily, John let out a harsh breath. A plan for revenge was already forming in his mind when John suddenly said, "Oh no..." Sherlock's eyes flew open and he looked worriedly at the doctor.
"What's the matter?" Sherlock said anxiously. John waved a hand to shush him and pressed the diaphragm to either side of Sherlock's chest. He scrunched his eyebrows together and pretended to focus really hard on the sound of his breathing. After a moment he took a step back and removed the stethoscope from around his neck.
"What is it? What's wrong, John?" Sherlock asked, his eyes slightly wider and more worrisome looking than usual at the expression on John's face. He shook his head.
"It seems that one of your lungs seems to be taking in more air than the other due to some sort of blockage or abscess, which is making the other lung work harder than necessary." Sherlock's face paled and dammit John was going to hell for this but Sherlock deserved a little scare. "It's nothing to worry about; we'll just have to take you in for a quick X-ray tomorrow morning, and if they find anything out of the ordinary blocking your left bronchi, then there is just a small surgery involved," He could see Sherlock swallowing uncomfortably at the mention of surgery and bit back a chuckle at how easily Sherlock was believing his medical descriptions. "But only a minor one, much similar to getting your tonsils out as a boy."
"Oh..." Sherlock said at last, composing himself. "Well, thank you, then, John." The doctor nodded as Sherlock put his shirt back on, and dazedly wrapped his scarf around his neck. "I trust you will fill me in on the time of my appointment tomorrow when you come home." He pulled his jacket on and reached for the door handle before John broke down.
"Sherlock I know." The detective paused and turned around.
"Know what?" he said absently. John sighed.
"I know that you haven't been sick at all these past few weeks, with the exception of that nasty virus, and that you've just been coming in here to get examined for...God knows why, but you've just been making this all up, probably as part of a ruddy experiment," John chuckled. "I know your not sick." Sherlock tightened his jaw, his hand still on the door handle.
"But John you just said I had a disruption in my lungs; what do you mean I'm not sick?" Sherlock asked sharply.
"I lied." John said simply. Sherlock narrowed his eyes and puzzled over this new information.
"You...lied...about me needing surgery?" Sherlock said quietly, drawing out the sentence. John suddenly felt a little uncomfortable. Trust Sherlock to take a simple prank and make it feel like he had made a threat to the mans life or something.
"Er- yeah. You had come in wasting my time with your little lies, so I figured I would just..." John trailed off.
"You would just what?" Sherlock exclaimed in exasperation. "Scare me half to death? Trick me into believing that I had a serious medical problem?" John cast his eyes downwards and shuffled a little.
"Well, basically," he mumbled. There was an uncomfortable silence that just served to make John feel more ashamed. He opened his mouth to apologize.
"Well played," Sherlock said, and with a smirk and a wink he had disappeared out of the doctor's office.
That night when Sherlock arrived at the flat after a rather boring and pointless crime scene investigation with Lestrade (gun shot to the head, gun was hidden under the mattress, killer was a coworker who got in through the basement window) he went straight to his bedroom, quietly as to not wake John.
He opened his door and stripped off his jacket, throwing it on the bed. It made a small thump as it hit the mattress. He flipped the light switch on and picked up his jacket to reveal a small present box. His name was written across in in black marker, obviously in John's handwriting. He opened the box, laying the top next to it, and looked inside. A small silver stethoscope lay amongst a pile of wrapping paper with a bow made of red ribbon. He smiled.
Hope you enjoyed it or at least chuckled at some parts! Reviews are much appreciated, as always :) Thank you!