Tales of an Irritable Detective.
Hopefully, this will become a multi-chaptered work; if I can find the time to update and providing any of you lovely readers take a shine to it. Mostly hurt/comfort/humour. Featuring Sherlock and John, with appearances from everyone else – when they poke their noses in where they're not wanted and make Sherlock even more miserable. I'll do my best to stay in character, let me know if you spot anything out of place. Enjoy.
Chapter 1: The Sickly Detective.
…
…
It started when John was rudely awakened at roughly half past three in the morning by the sound of his flatmate.
This wouldn't be an unusual occurrence if the sound was some type of chemical explosion, or the haunting melodic pull of a bow on strings, or even some rogue gunshots. All of these things were fairly common, and John had actually taught himself to sleep through the worst of them because otherwise he wouldn't be able to get any sleep at all. Mrs Hudson had a pair of good quality ear plugs for when Sherlock got a little too boisterous during his bored phases. But this sound was different, it was unexpected, and it snapped John's medical instincts into gear immediately. He pushed back his covers and ran down the stairs as fast as his cold bare feet allowed.
This sound was of Sherlock trying to cough up his internal organs into the toilet. John was almost out of breath by the time he got to the bathroom, but it was more to do with the frigid temperature, overbearing worry, and his half-awake state, than overexertion. It was freezing in the flat, and he wished he'd thought to go to bed in more than his t-shirt and boxers, or perhaps thrown on one of his jumpers or pyjama bottoms before legging it down the stairs in his underwear.
But well, it was Sherlock. And he cared so much about the bloody man that he would have legged it down the stairs naked. Wait, forget that last thought, you can blame the aforementioned half-awake state for that.
Not gay. Not a nudist. Just worried.
John realised, with a gnawing guilt, that he really should have noticed that Sherlock was sick earlier, because he was a doctor and a damn good one at that. But the detective was ludicrously secretive when it came to the matter of his own health, and John had thought that the avoidance of any contact with the outside world, the subsequent locking himself in his room, and general grumpiness of the past few days was just down to Sherlock being… well, Sherlock.
John had assumed he was sulking about not having a case. The mess in the bathroom, the dark lump of limbs slumped by the toilet, and the sound of haggard breathing echoing around the tiled walls however, told him immediately otherwise.
Bugger.
John waited anxiously at the bathroom door, bare feet growing cold and goose bumps threatening to pop out on the skin of his bare arms. He rubbed at them anxiously. Knowing his presence wasn't going to be received well, but not wanting to leave in case Sherlock did, begrudgingly, need him. Such was the nature of their peculiar friendship.
There were times, however uncommon these times may be, that Sherlock allowed John to glimpse other facets of his personality beyond the astonishing brilliant and often callously accurate detective that everyone else saw. Sherlock was human, after all, despite his willingness to let everyone believe the contrary.
"It gives me an air of mystery, John." He had sneered. "You can't kill an idea. Sherlock Holmes is invincible."
But John had seen Sherlock's eyebrows furrow in real pain and his teeth clench in viscous anger, had witnessed his lips quirk into a true smile that softened his features and warmed his pale eyes, had noticed his hands tremble in loss, his eyes close in shame. And he treasured those tiny fragments of Sherlock that were usually hidden behind his cold unaffected expression, smirking lips and calculating eyes.
Other times however, and these were more frequent, Sherlock shut everyone out, including John. Often shoving his concerned flatmate out of the door and locking it steadfastly between them without uttering a single word to explain himself.
John hoped this would be one of the former times, where he was allowed to see Sherlock in a new light, and where he might better understand what made the Great Detective who he was. The latter times - where Sherlock might as well have been a statue, or a rebellious teenager slamming doors, or a bloody wispy spectral entity that was most definitely not human, and on some higher plane than him and everyone else in the known universe - always left him feeling somewhat hurt and confused. Until, of course, he realised that he was dealing with Sherlock and not a normal friend, and that the detective probably didn't really mean to swear his tits off at John in five different languages, or give him the cold shoulder for an entire week, or set John's favourite jumper on fire and stick it in the fridge under a jar full of pickled cat livers, and he really, probably, just wanted to be left alone for bit.
Everyone needed their space, John could appreciate that.
John would leave a cup of calming tea outside the bedroom door on these occasions, and calmly retaliate upon finding his clothes ruined by surreptitiously placing one of Sherlock's forgotten mouldy experiments into the detective's coat pocket.
After a while Sherlock would venture out of his room. And while he wouldn't outwardly apologise, he would eventually make it up to John by purchasing the milk, or flashing him a genuine half-smile, or not playing his violin too screechingly in the early hours.
Those times were when something was clearly wrong with Sherlock, but John had never found out quite what it was. Those times, the situation had been dealt with the same way Sherlock dealt with most things in his life. Alone. In perfect solitude, he would pick up the pieces of his mask, inspect it meticulously and mend it until there was no flaw left, then he would place it back on before stepping back into the world again. But that wasn't going to work this time. This time, John knew exactly what was ailing the detective, and it was his area of expertise.
Sherlock Holmes was sick.
The evidence was clear. The detective was sprawled on the bathroom floor with his head in the toilet. John didn't have to be a qualified medical professional to work this one out.
Sherlock flicked a pale eye at John, and growled something incoherent into the porcelain.
"Uhm," said John, cautiously, teetering on the threshold and practically oozing concern, "You okay? I was just, well, I was up and I heard you. Do you need anything?"
Sherlock stumbled to his feet, steadied himself with a slender hand on the wall, scowled in his flatmate's general direction, and wobbled back into his room. John took the initiative, having not been told to piss off yet and taking that as an acceptance of his presence, he slipped easily into Doctor mode and followed the younger man in case he collapsed.
"I can get you some paracetemol, if you like." He ventured.
Sherlock's scowl deepened, and he sat on the edge of his bed with his head in his hands, obviously deeply annoyed that he had been caught throwing up and now had no way of fooling John into making him think otherwise.
"You ran down here in your underwear." Sherlock observed raspily. "Your concern is overbearing and unwanted. I am fine."
John scoffed, folding his arms and trying to cover up the fact that he was now very aware that he was, as Sherlock pointed out, clad only in his boxer shorts and t-shirt and was now feeling a little exposed.
"You clearly have a fever, Sherlock." He countered. "That mixed with the vomiting and the coughing and I would have to say that you've come down with the seasonal flu. You'll have to stay in bed."
Sherlock lifted his head and regarded John with an icy look, as if it was John's fault that he was like this and he would be taking measures to exact revenge on him soon. His brain seemed to take a few moments to catch up with John's verdict of his illness and then he managed, somehow, to appear even more deranged than before. "Tedious." The sickly detective rasped, looking thoroughly put out at the idea that he might be ill, despite the fact that he must have deduced the fact for himself. "Dull! Can't you make another diagnosis, something more interesting?"
John screwed his face up, incredulously. Of course Sherlock would want to come down with something death-defying rather than mundane, it was just like him.
He gestured to the rain battering the pavements outside, almost threateningly. "I could open the windows if you like, and then stick your head out there and you can try to develop pneumonia?"
"That would be less dull," approved Sherlock, as if actually considering the idea, "but would put me out of commission for an indefinite amount of time. Also, you would be able to diagnose me in a matter of seconds, having suggested the idea, and of course there's no fun if I can't deduce the malady from the symptoms for myself." With that decided, he closed his eyes again, and John found himself shaking his head, perplexed at the reasoning, but glad he wouldn't have to drag Sherlock bodily away from the windows now that he had no desire to worsen his condition just to make it 'less dull'.
"You're an idiot." John concluded. And then when the detective failed to respond, he came forward. "Oi," he said, "get back into bed."
"Mff." Mumbled Sherlock, his hands muffling his mouth, he looked about ready to pass out sitting upright.
John retreated to the kitchen, fetching a sick bowl, a glass of water and some paracetemol which he quickly placed at Sherlock's bedside. Maybe if he had everything in reach the bloody man wouldn't feel the need to get up again, and John wouldn't have to have the pleasure of finding him nose down in the carpet later on.
Sherlock's head was hanging low, he looked to be almost asleep.
"Hey, I think you'd be more comfortable if you were lying down." He said softly.
No reply, John might have imagined that quiet snore.
He pushed the detective back into bed, holding him firmly by the shoulders and fully expecting a wild retaliation and incessant grousing at being manhandled in such a way, but it proved to be a surprisingly easy feat, considering how Sherlock would usually loathe any form of physical contact. He was rarely so compliant; the poor sod must really have exhausted himself this time. John found himself worried, a little shocked by this sleepy, vulnerable man who had somehow taken over his bristling, indignant, bloody annoying at times, flatmate.
"Get out." Sherlock managed, voice nothing but a low croak but somehow able to deliver his usual amount of cutting scorn. Ah, there was the ratty, insufferable man that he knew so well. "Go 'way. Get your mitts… off… people will talk…"
"They do little else." John murmured, comfortingly, relieved at the familiar complaint. He switched off the light, casting Sherlock's pale face in shadow. "Just sleep it off, Sherlock. I'll be in the kitchen if you need me. And take those pills."
And with a small annoyed rumble at the unwanted affection, and a harsh cough into his pillow, the detective complied.
…
…
Please review, I realise this was quite short, but do you think this is worth continuing? All feedback is appreciated and will be replied to :)