AN: So I really, really, really wanted fluff. And to foist my current predicament upon Sherlock.
"Sherlock, you have to eat," John said exasperatedly. In one hand he held a ham sandwich, in the other a mug of tea, both of which he was trying to press in Sherlock's hands. Unfortunately for him, Sherlock was comfortably ensconced on the sofa with a ratty blanket over his knees, a pencil and his notebook, and was furiously scribbling away.
"You do know that I forego solid forms of nourishment when working on a case, John," Sherlock said, distracted by the not-so-odd sight of a petri dish with green and orange fuzz happily mutating its way across the circular agar jelly expanse.
"This is the fifth day you've gone without food," John pleaded, still squatting on his haunches and holding up his proffered food items.
"Nngh." And with that, Sherlock Holmes stood up abruptly, put on his coat and swept out of the door.
Frustrated, John managed to barely restrain himself from smashing the teacup against the wall. He set it down in the sink and sank down onto the sofa, sighing and rueing the day that he decided to fall in love with Sherlock Holmes.
Falling in love was all fine and dandy, but the downside that came with the terrific sex was that there was a lot more to falling in love than terrific sex. There was the sleeping in the same bed, the showering in the same shower, and the early morning shared cups of tea that didn't involve sex. There was also the very inconvenient caring for the other party.
If only he hadn't fallen in love with Sherlock, John would not have been quite so preoccupied with trying to make sure Sherlock Holmes had meals at proper times and regular intervals.
When John returned from the clinic four hours later, he opened the door of 221B Baker Street to find Sherlock Holmes sitting on the sofa, curled into a tight ball with his forehead on his knees. Mouth quirking into a smile at the sight of the plate with covered with crumbs on the side table, he spread the ratty blanket over Sherlock and turned towards their bedroom when he was stopped by a whimper.
A whimper?
"Sherlock?" Gently, John knelt and shook Sherlock's shoulder. The detective raised his head and looked blearily at Watson, a fine sheen of perspiration evident on his face. Then he winced.
"What's the matter? Sherlock, tell me what's wrong." John took out his handkerchief to wipe away Sherlock's sweat, gently caressing his face.
"Hurts," Sherlock breathed. He gritted his teeth and hunched over even further. Slowly, John coaxed the information out of Sherlock.
Holmes had eaten six slices of bread, four slices of ham, two eggs, one and a quarter cups of tea, and a thick slice of the chocolate cake Mrs Hudson had brought up that morning.
"Christ, Sherlock, why did you eat that much?"
"You told me I had to eat."
"Yes, but not this much – tell you what, Sherlock. I'll make you a cup of chamomile tea, you drink as much of it as you can without vomiting, and I'll get you to bed." John stood up and puttered around with the stove and teapot and the tea, finally bringing a cup over to the detective crouched miserably on the sofa. Holmes sipped at it slowly, grimacing at the pain in his cramping stomach, finally putting the nearly-empty cup down.
"I don't want to move. My stomach hurts," Sherlock whined softly.
Sometimes, the great detective really could be like a child.
Watson scooped his lover up and brought him over to the bed, undressing him and changing him into sleep pants and a clean undershirt before changing his own clothes and climbing in on the other side of the bed. Slowly, he coaxed Sherlock to uncurl by pushing slowly at his knees and his shoulders, then lifted up his shirt partially and began to rub his painfully distended abdomen.
"Ow! That was painful," Sherlock hissed as John touched upon a particularly tender spot. John pressed a kiss where his fingers had just been and continued, letting his warm hands soothe and lull Sherlock into a sleepy, pacified state.
"Don't eat that much again, silly," he leant down and breathed into Sherlock's ear, eliciting a small groan and murmured assent.
"Never."
"And eat when I tell you to, Sherlock!" John whispered back.
"Promise – nngh." The great detective's eyelids fluttered once, then he was asleep. John left his warm hand remain on Sherlock's navel and pulled his lover's shirt down over his hand and the duvet over both of them. Smiling, ever so slightly, he too drifted off into sleep.