No I haven't stopped with And The Stars Shone Brightly, just filling some prompts. Based on this one:
John is injured or ill. Sherlock makes it his mission to care for him.
Can contain any of these ideas:
- John has terrible fashback-y fever dreams, Sherlock talks to him to sooth him
- John's the worst patient, because he's a doctor and knows everything better
- John didn't expect him to care and is a bit freaked out. He tries to figure out if Sherlock has ulterior motives.
- Sherlock gets all single minded and intense about caring for John
- Sherlock does weird but adorable things that mummy or Mycroft used to do when he was ill as a kid (like singing a special get-well-song to him or brewing some obscure family remedy, IDK)
Definitely humour, but no crack please. Sherlock is weird and a bit overbearing about caring for John, but not actually bad at it. I want angst and heaps of understated fluff. Gen, pre-slash or slash are all good.
Can be found on the filling fest page on Sherlock BBC Fic on Live-journal.
ENJOY! And sorry for shortness but thats how my kink fills roll. Also I don't own Sherlock in anyway.
It was all Sherlock's fault really. If he hadn't dragged John out to a crime-scene, in the coldest weather imaginable, AND in the pouring rain, this might never have happened. But it had. John Watson, M.D had the flu. He had woken up that very morning with the symptoms and by the afternoon he felt, well, like shit. He supposed he should be grateful that Sherlock was nowhere in sight. The soldier part of John disliked being seen in such a vulnerable state.
John dragged himself up and wobbled down the short staircase and into the kitchen. He felt light-headed and could tell a fever was starting it's burn. He filled a glass and stumbled back to his room, spilling drops of water that pooled onto the carpet like little blobs of liquid crystal. John paused at his bedroom door before closing it and placing the glass on his bedside table, collapsing onto his bed.
John started to shiver and pulled the bed covers over his body and curled into a ball. He could feel beads of sweat begin to form on his brow and knew it wouldn't be long before he started to get warm and then hot. He could get up again and fetch his medical supplies, but his body strongly disagreed with that suggestion.
He almost wished his annoying flatmate was here after all.
Sherlock returned home late that afternoon after a long and tedious case. Since John had felt the need to constantly complain the night before, Sherlock hadn't bothered to ask him. Better to let him calm down and then drag him to another crime scene. As the detective ventured into the living room of 221b Baker Street, his flatmate was oddly absent. Usually John was in his armchair, sipping a cup of tea or on his laptop typing up a slowly, but well written storm.
But he was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he's on a date? No, here was his jacket. And he wasn't in the kitchen either. Sherlock considered calling out but would rather his flatmate not hear the slight concern in his voice. Sherlock had many enemies and he was sure John would let him know if he was going out.
Having no real sense of privacy and personal space, unless it had to do with himself, Sherlock wasted no time in tip-toing up the short staircase leading up to John's bedroom and gently pushing the door open. John lay on his bed, the sheets tangled around his shivering body. He seemed to be also sweating a great deal. That along with his pale skin and flushed cheeks pointed to only one thing.
John was sick. And it was probably Sherlock's fault.
