Prompt: Sick
John trudged out of his bedroom, ruffling his hair with one of the fluffy, white towels Sherlock uncharacteristically seemed to own. He let out a contented sigh, dropping the wet towel in a laundry bin and shaking out his damp, blond hair.
He grinned. He'd had a hard week, having to deal with patient after patient and stay up two nights in a row to help Sherlock with a case - or, more accurately, stay up two nights in a row to pass his ignorant flatmate random objects he'd suddenly claim to need that were usually within five feet of him anyway. After the torment he'd endured, he'd made a pact with himself to spend his Saturday being a complete useless, lazy slacker.
Needless to say, it would definitely be the highlight of his week.
He made his way downstairs, humming show tunes as he flopped down in his armchair. He let out a loud, happy sigh, stretching his legs out as long as they could go - which, admittedly, wasn't far. He reached over to grab his newspaper when he noticed something. Something that definitely wasn't right.
Sherlock was nestled into the couch, so tightly curled up that his curly, black hair was touching his knees. His blue robe hung loosely off his immobile body, his clothes baggy and worn. John paled. With his body so bundled, John couldn't even see his eyes.
John bit his lip, his face suddenly an expression of concern. How long had he been there? He wasn't moving. Was he even breathing? Sure, Sherlock could go days without even leaving the couch, but he'd usually be sitting stiffly, his hands pressed together by his mouth as his mind came up with endless deductions and theories. What was wrong with him?
"Sherlock?" John asked weakly, trying to keep the panic out of his voice. "Sherlock, are you all right?"
Ten painful seconds passed before Sherlock responded. He let out a loud groan, his legs suddenly shooting out across the couch as he flopped onto his back, his arm thrown dramatically over his forehead. His eyes were squeezed shut, a frown crinkling his brow. "Hot," he choked out, his voice a pathetic moan.
"Sherlock, what's wrong?" John asked, leaning on the edge of his armchair and looking at his flatmate in worry. What had happened to him?
"Oh, leave me alone, John! Can't you see I'm dying?" he snapped before flipping over again and burying himself into the cushions with a loud, "Hmph."
John cocked an eyebrow. "You're dying?"
Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh and even though John knew it was impossible, he could have sworn he heard his eyes roll. "Of course I'm dying! Funny, I thought you'd be more upset, with your sentiment and all that. No matter. Funeral arrangements are to be made - a task which you should have already started, I might add."
John's eyes narrowed as they bore into his flatmate's back. Was he being serious? He could never tell with Sherlock. The man was either extremely serious, extremely sarcastic, or an extremely dramatic five-year-old. And although he'd gotten practice learning how to identify each one, at times, it was impossible. "Are you being serious?" John asked carefully.
At that, Sherlock whipped around, flinging himself into a sitting position, his glassy eyes furious. "Of course I'm being serious! Look at me, for God's sake, I'm getting weaker by the moment!" John examined him, noting that his normally pale skin was flushed, the place just underneath his nose red and raw. His voice sounded a bit nasally as well. It was then John noticed the trash can filled with balled up tissues and the two, heavy blankets that were tossed lazily on the floor.
Oh. It was all so obvious now.
"Sherlock, why didn't you tell me you were sick?" John asked, his voice soft. The poor man was a wreck.
His nostrils flared as he crossed his arms, his eyes burning into John's. "I'm not sick, John, I'm dying. It's the only explanation that makes sense."
John blinked. He could tell today was not going to be easy. "How so?"
Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh, his body going limp against the couch. "I haven't been ill since I was eight, John. It's more likely that Moriarty sent someone to poison me than my ailment simply being the common cold."
John crossed his arms. "I think I'll decide that for myself." He pushed himself off the chair and dashed into the bathroom. He threw open the medicine cabinet, rooting around before his hand closed around the object he was looking for. He marched over to Sherlock before sticking the thermometer in his mouth and collapsing back onto his chair. "Keep that under your tongue and tell me your symptoms."
Sherlock's frown deepened and he plucked the thermometer from his mouth, looking at it curiously. "Why don't we own any modern thermometers? You are a doctor, after all."
"Hey!" John snapped, taking the thermometer from Sherlock's hand and shoving it back into his mouth. "The reading won't be right if you fiddle with it. Don't take it out until I say so." Sherlock raised an eyebrow, obviously wanting him to answer his question. John glared. "We don't own any modern thermometers because you took them all apart for your last experiment. Thank God I stopped you before you broke this one and killed us all with Mercury poisoning." He shook his head at the memory before turning back to his irritated flatmate. "Now tell me your symptoms."
Sherlock let out another sigh before speaking, his voice muffled by the thermometer. "A wunny nose, thore throat, nausea, headache, extweme changes in tempwature." John nodded, trying not to laugh. Not only did Sherlock sound like a five-year-old with a lisp, but he thought he was dying from what had to be a twenty-four hour flu bug. He clasped his hands in his lap, holding back his laughter as he waited for the results.
Sherlock looked down at the thermometer, scrunching his nose up in disgust. "Can I take tis fing out now?"
John chuckled before nodding and plucking the thermometer out of his mouth. Ah. Just as he expected. "Well, Mister Holmes, it appears you have a temperature of 103. You're not dying - you have the flu."
"That's not possible," Sherlock growled, curling his hands into fists. "You're obviously reading it wrong."
"Well, we can take your temperature again and see if it changes. Is that what you'd like?" John asked, his voice mockingly innocent.
Sherlock glared before snatching the thermometer out of John's hand and examining it quickly. "Defective then," he muttered before carelessly tossing the device back to his flatmate.
"It's not defective, Sherlock. You. Are. Sick."
"Preposterous," he spit, moodily crossing his arms. "I never get sick. And who are you to tell me when I'm diseased and when I'm not? I am the expert, after all."
John glared, his voice dripping with agitation. "Sherlock, I have a medical degree."
Sherlock let out a loud groan before flopping onto his back and angrily crossing his arms over his chest. "Fine, have it your way. If what you say is true, what is it that you expect from me?"
"I expect you to be a good patient and do what I tell you," John said as if he was dealing with a little boy who refused to go to time-out. "Understood?"
Sherlock let out another loud groan before rolling onto his stomach and burying his face into the cushions. John would take that as a yes.
(*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#* #*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*)
John slammed the mug of hot tea onto the tray, swearing as the liquid splashed up onto his jumper and growled as he poured out the thick syrup from the bottle beside him into a tiny measuring cup. He let out countless grunts, grumbles, and groans as he rifled through the cupboards, searching for the biscuits Sherlock had requested - and, for the record, wouldn't stop requesting - a few minutes ago.
Two hours. Two bloody hours. Two hours he'd been looking after Sherlock and he could honestly say they were some of the worst, most stressful hours of all his life. Sure, he'd had to deal with bandaging countless wounded soldiers on the verge of death, but at least they let him do his job and thanked him afterwards.
With Sherlock, however, it was a little different.
He'd demanded petty little thing after thing every five minutes, complaining about being too hot or too cold or too sleepy or too awake or too bored or too whatever the hell he was too of. And when John begrudgingly got whatever it was he'd asked for, he'd make a fuss about if it was the right kind, the right shape, the right texture, the right colour for God's sake. Twice now, he'd had to go out to the store, deal with the infuriating chip and pin machine, and come back to the apartment only to have Sherlock almost weep that he'd been gone for too long and now he was too hot again. Because, of course, the man couldn't take the blanket off him himself.
John stormed back into the living room, slamming the tray onto the table and smiling tightly at his flatmate. "There you are, tea and biscuits, like you wanted."
Sherlock examined them in silence for a moment, cocooned in his blanket he'd no doubt whine for John to take off of him in a few minutes. He tentatively reached out to prod the biscuit with his index finger before slowly bringing it to his mouth and nibbling at the corner. He looked up at John and nodded, dismissing him as if he was a God damned maid.
He spun on his heel, about to collapse into his armchair, when he heard Sherlock's voice echo throughout the room. "What's this?"
John whipped around, looking down at his flatmate to see him pointing at the plastic measuring cup in disgust. "It's your medicine."
Sherlock snorted, shaking his head as he looked at John in disbelief. "I don't need medicine, John, I can heal on my own just fine."
John's hands clenched into fists at his side and he worked back the urge to take the tray into his hands and smash it against the wall. "Yes, but it will make you feel better a lot faster." And then maybe you'll finally shut the hell up.
"What is it?" he asked simply, quirking an eyebrow in curiosity.
"Sherlock, I told you - "
"What kind of medicine?" he snapped, looking at his flatmate as if he was an incompetent child. John's nails dug into his palm as his hands began to shake by his side. That bastard, the nerve of him sometimes...
"Nyquil."
"What in God's name is Nyquil?"
"It's not from around here, I ordered it online a while ago - it's very helpful. It will give you some relief from your symptoms." And give me some relief from your constant complaining.
He frowned, his nose scrunching up as he pushed the tray away from him, curling up even tighter in his blanket. "Poison," he spat, shaking his head in disgust. "As if my immune system can't sweat out a simple fever. I don't need some magic herbs to cure me, John, who knows what it will do to my body."
"It. Will. Help. You," he growled out through clenched teeth.
"Then I refuse the help. I'd rather suffer through the pain than drink whatever toxins are lurking in that rubbish."
"Sherlock, take your medicine," John said, his nostrils flaring as his voice lost all it's kindness. He had had enough.
"I've already told you, John, I refuse the treatment."
"I mean it, Sherlock. Take the damn Nyquil."
His eyes narrowed and he pulled the blanket tighter around himself. "You can't make me," he sneered before he poked his tongue out from behind his lips, his eyebrows furrowed as he glared at the blond.
Had he just...? John felt like ripping every strand of his hair out one by one. Had he just stuck his tongue out at him!? That conniving little prat... "Yes, I can," he snarled, his voice getting dangerously violent.
"What are you going to do, shove it down my throat?" he chided, looking slightly pleased with himself. Oh, he was going to slaughter the jackass. "You know I'm stronger than you, John, don't even try."
John couldn't restrain himself as he slammed his hands down on the table and leaned forward, his eyes filling with anger and voice dripping with rage. "SHERLOCK HOLMES, TAKE YOUR MEDICINE RIGHT NOW!"
At that, he grinned - the cheeky bastard actually grinned - before he unravelled himself from his blanket and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His taunting eyes met John's furious gaze and he smirked, his voice delighted and smug. "No," he said, his lips curving and pursing with skill, pronouncing the word as if it was the most delicate, beautiful thing that had ever graced his ears.
And John couldn't fucking stand it.
He wasn't entirely aware of what he was doing as he reached out and curled his fingers in Sherlock's thick, black hair, his eyes wild. Without warning, he brought his face up to his and smashed their lips together, forceful and commanding.
He felt Sherlock go ridged as his mouth devoured his, nipping and sucking at his lower lip. Sherlock let out a slight moan, his lips parting slightly to grant John access. He slipped his tongue inside, hot breath mingling with his as his tongue explored every inch of his mouth, taking in how good it felt to finally be able to do what he'd been craving since Sherlock had told him to come to the apartment, convenient or not.
Finally, he pushed him away, chest heaving as he took in the consulting detective's reaction. His normally pale skin was flushed, his hair messier than it had been this morning, his eyes wide and stunned. Huh. For once in his life he'd actually managed to surprise the notorious Sherlock Holmes.
His eyes still furious, he snatched the measuring cup and shoved it into Sherlock's hand. Sherlock took it numbly, putting it to his lips and drowning it in one gulp. John gave a curt, angry nod before collapsing in his chair and burrowing his face in the paper, once again trying to convince himself that he wasn't gay and that the want to shove his flatmate against the wall and do countless unspeakable things with him was purely out of anger.
After an hour of blissful silence, Sherlock cleared his throat insistently, a slight uncertainty in his tone. John lowered the book he'd been reading to be met by his flatmate's questioning gaze. "John?" he asked, his voice coming out in a squeak. He shook his head before continuing, trying to keep his voice leveled. "I can't seem to deduce why you would react in that way."
"You wouldn't shut up," John grumbled and, in all honesty, he wasn't quite sure he believed it himself.
"Ah...frustration displaying itself in sexual desire," he murmured, drumming his fingers against his chin. "Interesting."
John shook his head, trying to ignore the blush that crept into his cheeks as he buried his face back into his book. Oh well. At least it had got him to stop complaining.
(*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#* #*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*)
John woke with an ache in his chest, a pounding in his head, and a slight sheen of sweat covering his body. He groaned, flinging the blanket off himself as he bolted upright, his head swimming. His hands were clammy, he couldn't breathe through his nose, and his throat felt like it was on fire. He let out a groan, ignoring the ache it caused. Fantastic.
He trudged downstairs in exhaustion to find Sherlock fully dressed on the couch, a cup of tea in his hands as he stared off into the distance. Looks like someone had gotten over his cold. Gee, he wondered who he passed it onto.
Sherlock's head snapped up as he heard John's footsteps, his brow furrowing as he took in his haggard appearance. "Are you all right?"
"You gave me your cold," he grumbled, crossing his arms across his chest as he began to shiver. Peachy.
The corner of his mouth quirked, his eyes quickly sweeping over his flatmate. "Yes, that tends to happen when you swap salvia with someone who's contagious."
John felt a burning heat in his cheeks and he knew it wasn't from the fever. "It was to get you to shut up!" he exclaimed, desperation leaking into his voice.
"Of course," he responded calmly, setting his mug down onto the table. "Now sit."
John raised an eyebrow. "What?"
"You looked after my needs yesterday - it's only fair that I return the favor. I don't like it when I owe someone a deed."
"You don't have to make things even, Sherlock," John muttered, focusing on the floorboards. "I was doing it because I cared." He shook his head before he turned on his heel, shuffling his way to the kitchen.
Suddenly, Sherlock sprinted in front of him, a look in his eyes John couldn't quite place. "Perhaps I want to do it for the sake of our...friendship," he said, sounding slightly urgent. "I - I do care, John. Quite a great deal, actually. I mean...if something were ever to happen to you..." He sighed, looking guiltily down at the floor. "I don't like seeing you upset, especially when it's because of me. In reality, sometimes I think I might be in lo - " He cut himself off, his eyes suddenly expressionless as they shot up and met the stunned look of his flatmate. "I have a medical question."
John blinked before shaking his head, leaning against the doorway as he tried to dismiss his shock. "Yes?"
"Could I catch the cold from you again?"
John's eyes narrowed, running a hand through his hair in slight frustration. That was why he was saying that he cared, wasn't it? So John wouldn't take offense that he only thing he actually cared about was his health. "No, Sherlock - not yet anyway. Your immune system has learned to battle this virus off until it changes. So, yes, you're safe."
He smirked, turning around and clasping his hands behind his back as he strode into the kitchen. "In that case, we have an important matter to intend to."
John crossed his arm, looking at his flatmate in annoyance as he followed him into the kitchen. "And what would that be?"
Sherlock spun around so fast he was a blur, grabbing John's waist and pinning him against the right side of the doorway. "Shutting you up," he breathed, before eagerly pressing his lips against his.
John's eyes widened for a minute before they fluttered shut, his hands almost subconsciously tangling in Sherlock's hair. He grinned into his mouth, welcoming the blissful feeling of his flush lips ravishing his own.
Maybe having Sherlock as a patient wasn't so bad after all.
Fin! A little cheesy, but cute, I think :) Anyway, if you read the description, you know that I won't keep writing if you don't send in one-word prompts! So please review and send in your ideas, like the one that inspired this one: sick. Anyway, thanks a lot for reading, you're all awesome! :D
- Gallifrey101