A/N: I am utterly incapable of writing fluff... Also, this is the beginning of a series of drabbles and such. Each one will be based on a different doctor saying. c: If you have any ideas or requests for a specific saying, feel free to leave a comment or shoot me a message! Reviews are, most certainly, love!
Word Count: 1,157
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and Watson were created by the most fantastic Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. These two were dreamed up in modern day by the wondeful Steven Moffat. This little scenario was dreamed up by yours truly.
Doctor saying: "An apple a day keeps the doctor away," - Old Welsh proverb
"Sherlock!" I called out. My arms were full of groceries in paper bags, which didn't have handles. "Sherlock!" No answer. Dammit. I swung back my right leg and kicked the door to try to get his attention, but succeeded mainly in just hurting my toes. Another moment passed and there was no Sherlock. I kicked the door again. I pressed my ear against the wood of the door and heard some stirring. After a few more seconds, I decided to give the door another kick. Just as I was swinging my leg forward, the door opened. I had to throw myself off balance so I wouldn't kick him in the shin, as much as he deserved it.
Sherlock stood there, blocking the doorway, smiling. It was a little strange to see him in a pleasant mood. "Move, please." I requested. He side-stepped and swept his arm in a sarcastic gesture of welcome. On my way in to the flat, I glared at him. He could have opened the door a little faster. And been in a less cheery mood.
I started to make my way to the kitchen, but the way was blockaded with old magazines, yellow papers, and moldy test-tubes. I vaguely wondered why the test-tubes weren't in the kitchen. When I realized I'd thought that, I checked myself and thought that test-tubes, moldy or not, don't really belong in a flat at all. Looking around the kitchen, I spotted a section of counter that wasn't littered with human body parts and experiments that look they belonged in a Science fiction movie.
I heard Sherlock step in to the kitchen as I was unloading the groceries. I took out a large bag just as Sherlock put his chin on my shoulder. It felt oddly condescending that he had to slouch to do this.
"Apples?" He asked. I nodded as I pushed his head off of my shoulder. The gesture didn't seem to deter him, as he reached through the space between my arms and chest and opened the bag of fruit. I threw my hands in the air to try to make it less awkward. It didn't really help, though, as he soon placed his chin back on my shoulder.
He took one of the fruits in one hand and stepped away from me. "Apples are truly one of the most wonderful foods." He started. I was a little puzzled, as I remembered Lestrade had just been leaving when I woke up this morning.
"I thought you didn't eat when you were on a case?" I asked.
He ignored me completely by taking a bit of his apple.
"Apples are high in Vitamin C, and low in calories. They prevent heart disease, and tooth decay." He took another, rather large, bite of his apple. Then he began speaking through the chewing. Which was rather disgusting to watch. "They also protect your brain from various degenerative diseases," he pointed to the side of his head. "And a certain study suggests they may help with Asthma-related problems," he walked over to me and placed the almost-finished apple in front of my mouth. "Want a bite?"
"Er, no thanks." I pushed his apple away and wiped the juice on my jumper. "I can get my own." Sherlock shrugged his shoulders and walked in to the living room, plopping down on the sofa.
I sniffed my fingers, where I could feel them getting sticky despite my best efforts. They smelled great. How long had it been since I'd had an apple anyway? If I needed to ask myself, it was too long ago. I took and apple from the bag and took a big bite, wiping the juice off my chin with the back of my hand. It was like Heaven! I scratched my cheek with my free hand.
Half-way through my apple, my cheeks really started to itch. Then I felt my tongue begin to swell. "Oh, thit." I dropped the apple on the ground and felt around my face with my hands. Hives! I was having an allergic reaction!
I stumbled over the make-shift barricade and in to the living room, where Sherlock was. "Thurlawk!" He looked up from his magazine and was instantly alarmed. "Dew we haff enny antha-hithameenth?" I was sure I already knew the answer.
"We need to get you to a hospital," he concluded quickly, ushering me out the front door as fast as he could. I was running behind him, when my lips started itching. I knew I shouldn't be itching, but dammit! I itched so bad. Sherlock looked behind him when he realized I wasn't there and ran back to me, grabbing my hand and practically pulling me the rest of the way.
I remember wondering why we didn't hire a cab. Not that it mattered, I was tired and out of breath when we got to the hospital, but it was probably faster than if we had hired a cab. The doctor on duty did exactly what I would have done, he administered an anti-histamine by injection. My tongue was too swollen to be able to swallow a pill. After the drugs took effect, the doctor asked if anything like this had happened to me before, I told him about when I was in college and the Birch trees there had created a similar reaction.
Sherlock and I weren't there very long, as the drug took effect in a little over half an hour. It was a pleasant walk back to the flat. We were almost half-way there when Sherlock suddenly started laughing hysterically. I must have looked at him like he was insane, because when he looked over at me a fresh fit of laughter shook him.
"What's so funny?" I asked as his laughter began to subside. I was convinced he was going to start in with a fresh fit, but then he let out a happy sigh and answered my question.
"An apple a day, huh?" It took a second for me to understand what he meant. I started laughing as soon as I got it. He joined in and we must have looked half-mad, walking down the streets of London laughing like lunatics.
When we got to out flat we were shedding the last bits of laughter from ourselves. Sherlock went in to the kitchen and picked up my half-eaten apple before tossing it in the garbage. He grabbed a bottle of mouth-wash I'd gotten on a whim and took a quick swig. I chalked it up to an oddity of his, but he soon proved me wrong.
He sauntered- honestly, that's the only accurate way to describe it- over to me and kissed me full on the lips. I punched him in the jaw, and saw his lip had been split in the process. We took another trip to the Hospital, where Sherlock was fixed with seven stitches, and told to remain on a liquid diet.
