Quick oneshot based on the word Aspirin:
Note: I own nothing except this particular fictions idea, rights go to respective owners for all recognisable elements.
John:
A hangover was never good. John Watson knew this. That was why he was very glad he didn't have one. Of course not.
The tablets sat on next to the glass of water on the table where Sherlock had left them, alongside a note that read:
John,
You drank wine, beer, more beer and then something stronger which looked like an experiment I did the other day. You exceeded the amount of alcohol to water ratio that a person is able to drink without any side affects. Put simply: You drank too much.
I am at the yard with Lestrade (considerably less too drink than you). Here is water – drink it, you'll feel better – and Aspirin for the hangover.
SH
And this is why John does not have a hang over. No. Completely not hangover what so ever. And he remembers last night perfectly.
And in a partial an act of defiance to Sherlock for being smug (he had warned John about drinking too much last night several times – this John did remember) and partially because he really doesn't actually have a hangover and the throbbing headache is all in the mind John pointedly ignores the tablets.
For the next three hours John does really well at coping without the medicine. In the next half an hour Johns eyes keep flitting to the table, where the aspirin is untouched. 14 and a half minutes later John's conviction wavers completely. He walks over and with a final defeated sigh he surrenders to the hangover and too Sherlock's undoubted smugness because he was right and John was silly, and takes the damned tablets.
3 and a half minutes later Sherlock comes though the door.
Sherlock:
Sherlock was ill. Properly Ill. Sherlock didn't do ill. He was probably the only man never to have had man flu. But this was ill.
John had seen him shivering over his experiment in Barts, even though he was still wearing his coat and a portable fan had been brought in (it was so cold outside no-one bothered to think about heat and dead bodies).
Sherlock started coughing in the taxi ride home and by the time they were in the house he was full blown ill.
Really it had started with a sneeze. Just the one, a couple of days back. Sherlock had dismissed it. Then he sneezed again. And again. And soon Sherlock had a cold. But nothing serious. Nothing in terms of sickness was seriously important to Sherlock.
But now, as he laid, incapacitated on the sofa, blanket and hot water bottles piled around him, tissues at an arms reach and a wet flannel on his head he was willing to say that he was a bit under the weather.
At first John had had issues getting Sherlock to stay where he was and rest but, after a wave of dizziness had overcome him and Sherlock ended up knocking over several Petri dishes filled with a luminous goo, Sherlock had finally resigned himself to the sofa under John's watchful eye.
"John?" He croaked out "John – I-"
"Sherlock, your ill!" An exasperated John replied "Just please rest, some sleep wouldn't hurt ether."
"No, John I-" Sherlock was once again cut off but this time by a rather violent coughing fit "John I – Can I have –"More coughing" Can you get me some aspirin please?"
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