A/N As the title might suggest, I'm not always a big fan of sick fics, and yet I ended up writing one. Who knows, maybe we all have to write at least one sick fic, to get it off of our metaphorical chests.
No warnings aside from too much fluff and Sherlock being a bit of a dick.
Sucrose is mentioned in this story. Sucrose is the scientific name for table sugar, and naturally, Sherlock insisted that I use this word at least once instead of the word sugar. Sherlock wants to inform you that sucrose is a disaccharide made up of the monosaccharides fructose and glucose. The chemical formula of sucrose is C12H22O11, but these details add nothing to the reading of this story and I think it's time to move on (John agrees with me).
I would like to thank Old Ping Hai for editing my story and putting up with my outrageous overuse of phonetic spellings. All remaining errors are Sherlock's fault (and John agrees with me on this too).
Oh No, Not Another Sic Fic
The World's Only Consulting Detective patiently adjusted the cover slip on top of the slide. He carefully slid the preparation under the microscope. He studied the newly stained hepatocytes, and then scribbled his findings in the notebook. He was focused, his mind like a machine.
He glanced casually at the clock, noting that his doctor was now one hour and thirty-seven minutes late, not that it mattered much. Sherlock enjoyed having John around but would never admit this; besides, it wasn't as though Sherlock couldn't fend for himself.
Sherlock had only noticed that John was one hour and thirty-eight minutes late, because his transport was thirsty. John always made Sherlock's tea, and tea had been delayed by one hour and thirty-eight minutes. John followed a routine, and naturally, Sherlock's transport had grown used to this routine. Generally, it took John fifty-three minutes to navigate from the surgery to Baker Street. Sherlock could usually complete the exact same route in thirty-one minutes but John would dither at the newsstand or insist on purchasing a cup of weak, tepid tea, which invariably spilled.
Upon his arrival home, it only took the good doctor twelve minutes to provide Sherlock with a perfect cup of tea. Say what you will about John Watson, at least the man made wonderful tea—just the way Sherlock liked it.
The resident genius smiled faintly, neglecting the slide made from liver sample #3, as he mentally reviewed his doctor's evening schedule. After work, John would enter the front door, wipe his feet—twice for each foot, then hang up his coat and messenger bag. Then he'd come up the stairs and immediately find Sherlock to give him a kiss. Next, John would make a detour into the lavatory. At this point, the little blond would be ready to get to work. He'd prepare the kettle while providing one to two minutes of pointless, one-sided commentary on either the weather, the crowded tube or a particularly dull incident at the clinic. (Sherlock naturally pretended that he wasn't listening, even though John's monologue gave Sherlock important clues about his blogger's welfare). After switching the kettle on, John would discover that the biscuits had already been opened and pretend to be surprised that some (most) of the biscuits were missing (This is when Sherlock would finally deign to speak, claiming that the jammy dodgers had been used in an experiment, when in fact he'd eaten them instead of the nutritious sandwich, which his doctor had left for him in the plastic box labeled Sherlock's Lunch). John always shook his head and attempted to look stern (but instead he tended to smile affectionately, crinkling the corners of his eyes) as he assembled mugs, tea, milk and sugar (the sugar was for Sherlock).
At this point, the water would be hot. Then the tea would be steeping, milk and sugar added and voilà, Sherlock's tea would be served at 18:07 plus or minus five minutes.
It was now 20:03.
John was one hour and fifty-six minutes late, and Sherlock fingers drummed on the table almost as if they were nervous.
One hour and fifty-seven minutes: Sherlock was still thirsty. The flat was cold because John hadn't lit the fire yet. The sitting room was depressingly dark, because John should have been home one hour and fifty-seven minutes ago to turn on the lights.
It was unlike John to be so inconsiderate. Sherlock furled his brow briefly, had he forgotten that John had to run to the shops today? No, of course not. Sherlock would never make that kind of mistake. He always gave John a list of Required Items when the doctor had to go shopping.
It was not that Sherlock was actually concerned. It wasn't as though they had a case on, so there was no reason for John to have been kidnapped by unknown assailants. And Mycroft was out of town. Besides, John had promised not to get into anymore mysterious, black sedans, no matter how much he craved excitement.
Ah! The front door finally opened. There was a brief delay (to hang up his coat). And there was the tread of the doctor's feet coming up the stories—bit slower than usual. John was probably cold and tired. Today's small talk would be about the foul weather and some tedious incident in the clinic.
Still, only eleven minutes until tea!
Sherlock raised his face up for his kiss...but...but...where was John? In the loo? Already?
Wait...had something happened this morning? Perhaps Sherlock had accidentally deleted an argument, but that was unlikely. Sherlock had been at pains not to delete any interactions with John, since that only resulted in more arguments. Sherlock was pretty sure that there hadn't been any disagreements. Perhaps Sherlock, through no fault of his own, had offended his partner?
John shuffled into the kitchen, mumbling "H'llo, She'wock."
Still no kiss.
Sherlock must have done something wrong? But what?
Without further commentary, John filled the kettle with water and switched it on. He silently washed out two mugs because the sink was filled with dirty dishes. Why hadn't John done the washing up this morning? It would have saved him time later.
The room was quiet aside from the sleet hitting the window and the shuffling of the doctor's feet as he slowly collected the tea...and then the milk.
"Where's the shuga, She'wock?" asked the doctor.
John was slurring his speech. Was he intoxicated? It wasn't Friday, so not a pub night. A disaster at the clinic then, a patient misdiagnosed or critically ill...perhaps someone had died? John took patient losses so personally.
"She'wock? The shuga?" said John, his face suddenly only inches from Sherlock's.
"Good God! Have you been fighting," demanded the consulting detective.
John stepped back, putting his hand up to his swollen jaw.
That explains it, thought the detective, John got intoxicated (reason yet to be determined) and got into a brawl. Sherlock automatically looked down to examine John's other hand for bruised or bleeding knuckles. But both hands were fine. That was odd. John always gave as good as he got, unless he was jumped from behind and received a head injury or...
"...not e'en listening to me," sighed John, still rubbing his jaw lightly, clearly in pain.
"What?" asked Sherlock.
John's frown lines deepened, warning of rough seas ahead. Sherlock decided to try a new tack.
To begin with, he'd use simple words and short sentences suitable to someone with traumatic brain injury. "Did you go to the pub? Did you get into a fight? Do you have a concussion?" (Wait that's not a short word) "Do you have a head injury?" (Mm, still too long.) "Show me your head!"
Sherlock stood to examine his doctor's head for signs of trauma.
"No! You git!" exclaimed John. "Ah toad you this mo'ning! Ah hab an abscess. Bad tooth! Second mower on the left."
The doctor turned to pour the water, while Sherlock deciphered this gibberish.
"You have an abscessed tooth? Second molar on the left?" Sherlock rarely indulged in repetition, but in this case he felt it was needed for clarity.
John held up his index finger saying, "Got it in one."
Sherlock wisely refrained from pointing out that he'd uttered two sentences and therefore had 'gotten it' in two.
Instead, the detective asked, "Mandibular or maxillary molar?"
"Manddibuwar." As expected from his slurred speech, John mangled the word mandibular, which was fairly amusing. It was the reason why Sherlock had asked the question in the first place. Naturally, he had already observed that the swelling overlaid the left mandible.
"Are you on drugs or does it just hurt to talk?" asked the detective.
"It huwts, She'wock," grumbled John, who never admitted to feeling pain.
No, if the stoic ex-soldier admitted that his jaw hurt, then he must be in a great deal of pain.
"You need to see a dentist," offered Sherlock, experiencing that sinking feeling that he always got when John was sick.
John was the doctor. John was supposed to take care of Sherlock; he wasn't supposed to get sick himself. Frankly, the consulting detective found it difficult to deal with an under-the-weather John.
"...and Ah just saw the dentist. I'm on a auntibiotic now," said John.
"Which is why you were one hour and fifty-eight minutes late," said Sherlock.
John's mouth twisted in a strange facsimile of a smile, and then held his finger up again. Sherlock assumed that the finger meant 'got it in one' again.
Sherlock sipped his tea and made a face. "You forgot the sugar."
John's blue eyes seemed to grow cold, which was physically impossible, and yet the younger man felt distinctly chilled.
"I suppose...you couldn't find any sugar?" suggested Sherlock.
John responded with his index finger again. The 'got it in one' finger was becoming annoyingly tedious already, and Sherlock sighed (both because of John's repetitious and amateurish sign language, and because his tea had no sugar).
"We're out of sugar," said the resident genius, suddenly recalling the experiment which he'd started that morning. Then he added, "You should have stopped for sugar on the way home from the dentist."
The ailing doctor frowned, and the temperature in the room seemed to drop further as ice formed on John's eyelashes (not really of course, but Sherlock wouldn't have been surprised if it had).
"That's all right, you can run down now, and ask Mrs. Hudson for some sugar," said Sherlock, graciously making an allowance since John was not feeling well. The detective sat back down to examine the liver samples, which he'd bathed in solutions of water with varying amounts of sucrose in order to examine the effects of increasing osmotic pressure on hepatocytes. It was an old experiment, but a classic one. It was a way to pass the time when John was out gallivanting around, and it sharpened the genius's already finely honed mind.
The brilliant scientist had examined seven slides, but as he adjusted the eyepiece on his microscope, he realized that his throat was dry. He really was very thirsty, and he hoped John would return quickly with the sugar for his currently unpalatable tea. Since speech was evidently painful, the doctor certainly wouldn't want to chat with Mrs. Hudson for very long, which should speed things along nicely.
Sherlock coughed, a dry little cough. He was extremely thirsty. He reached for his mug and took a sip, nearly spitting it out again. Gah! Cold and bitter.
John still hadn't brought up the sugar, let alone refreshed Sherlock's now cold tea. And where was dinner? It was nearly half nine.
This was ridiculous, how long did the irritating man intend to chat with their landlady—and John with a painful jaw too? Was this payback for something? True, Sherlock's experiment had overflowed the table, spreading onto the counters. (One sample had sloshed onto the floor as well, but that was not unusual, and John could clean that up in the morning—there was no rush.) This was intolerable! Regardless of the inciting event, petty revenge was beneath a man who called himself a physician, and Sherlock was going to tell him so.
Sherlock stalked downstairs, and rapped firmly but politely on the door to 221A. As usual, it took the older landlady four and a half minutes to answer his repeated summonses.
She finally opened the door, wearing her purple, lilac and red floral print dressing gown. It was hideous as always, but Sherlock didn't tell her so, because finding his fugative physician took precedence.
"My Goodness, Sherlock!" said Mrs. Hudson, drawing out the words to indicate her disappointment in his behavior. (And people still accused him of missing social cues.) "Why on earth are you pounding on my door at this hour? You'll wake the neighbors!"
"I'm looking for John. I sent him down for sugar..."
"Well, he isn't here! I'm in my dressing gown, Sherlock," she said, stating the obvious and raising her voice at the end of his name, which also indicated displeasure in his behavior.
Sherlock frowned at his failed mission and stormed up the stairs, yelling "John! John! Where are you! I need you, now!"
He stopped in the sitting room and shouted, "John! John! John!"
"What! What the hell!" said John, stumbling out of their bedroom with his gun drawn, no less. At least John was still of a mind to provide protection. That was reassuring.
John leaned forward just a tiny bit, as he lowered the gun and put on the safety. "What awe you fussing about now?" The good doctor's brows were raised aggressively and his usually loving blue eyes had become downright glacial. He then leaned forward just that little bit more. Since he was clearly not about to kiss Sherlock, this was a bad sign. The genius backed up out of punching range.
"I was looking for you. I need fresh tea; my cup is cold, and we're still out of sugar." Sherlock couldn't ask about dinner because of his well-known negative stance on food.
"You could..." John leaned forward even more and nodded his head for emphasis., "...have wooked..." John's head nodded again, and his brows began climbing up his forehead, "...for me in the bedwoom. I toad you. I'm sick." Head nod. He reminded Sherlock of an angry little chicken or possibly a cockatiel.
Technically, John hadn't said anything about being sick. Nor had he indicated that he was going to bed without feeding Sherlock.
"No, you never said you were sick. You claimed that you had an abscessed mandibular molar requiring antibiotic therapy..."
"It's infected! It huwts. I hab a feber! And…and…Oh, God! Now Ah'm gonna be sick."
John rushed from the room with a hand covering his mouth.
Sherlock slapped his hands over his ears as soon as he heard the sound of retching emanating from the loo. He hated that sound. Why did John have to be sick tonight? If he'd become ill last Monday, Sherlock would have been on that case at Harrods. It was only a six, but at least the thieves had made an effort to be interesting. If it had been Monday, then Sherlock would have been out of the flat, and wouldn't have been forced to listen to those wretched, sick, choking sounds.
This thought made Sherlock nervous. What if John was choking? Oh, surely not. John wasn't incapacitated enough to choke on his own vomit. Unless...unless his fever had reached dangerous levels, but this was unlikely with a simple abscessed tooth. Was it unlikely? Maybe he should research dental abscessses on line.
The detective lowered his hands. All was quiet. See, John wasn't choking on his vomit.
Unless he'd passed out already. Unless he was already dying from asphyxiation...
"John!" shouted Sherlock, hurrying to the bathroom door, which swung open to reveal John's swollen, pale, sweaty face.
Now John looked gross and possibly contagious.
Sherlock backtracked quickly so as to avoid touching his sick partner or the small trash bin clutched in the doctor's arms. Thanks to his hasty retreat, the detective crashed into the wall, almost knocking down an ugly painting of flowers (a gift from Mrs. Hudson to brighten up the place). This earned him an evil, narrow-eyed glare from his normally kind doctor.
"I'm goin' back to bed," said the man who probably should be in hospital, not heading back to Sherlock's bedroom.
Normally, it was their bedroom. But John was sick, and should be in hospital or at least in his own bed upstairs. Sadly, it was too late to say anything about whose bedroom it was, because John was already in the room and no doubt spreading his germs all over.
And what about the tea? And the sugar?
"John, what about the tea? And the sugar?" asked Sherlock.
John poked his head back out of the door. Sherlock smiled brightly to reward John for tacitly agreeing to make tea before turning in. Then the good doctor held up not one, but two fingers. It was a surprisingly rude gesture for John. And then the bedroom door slammed shut.
"I take it that you are too sick to make tea?" Sherlock asked, just to be sure. "And fetch the sugar?" Well. Not only was John disgustingly sick, he was also rude and selfishly hogging the bed, because Sherlock did not sleep with sick people.
After convincing Mrs. Hudson to make him fresh tea with sugar and a couple of bacon and cheese sandwiches (and after he promised not to pound on her door any more for the rest of the night), Sherlock returned to 221B. He was bored. Normally, he'd be watching one of those tedious reality shows, which were still consistently better than whatever ridiculous shows John wanted to watch—especially football. Occasionally, Sherlock found the reality shows mildly distracting when he could share his observations with an appreciative audience, as long as the audience was John. Perhaps, Sherlock would go so far as to say it was pleasant to watch the crap telly with a pliant, warm body snuggled up against him, as long as the body belonged to John. The detective felt odd, almost sad and practically lonely, but of course he had no reason to be sad or lonely. In all honesty, television was the new opiate for the masses and Sherlock didn't miss cuddling in the slightest. He was relieved, because now didn't have to watch the telly at all. He could do what ever he wanted. He could...finish his experiment...or play the violin!
Actually, the experiment with the liver samples wasn't as interesting as he'd hoped. In fact, he decided to table the mess until later. Unless John got to it first and chose to clean it himself. It certanly wouldn't be Sherlock's fault if John chose to clean up the mess before Sherlock had a chance to do so.
But the violin: now that sounded almost not-dull. He'd been learning a new piece, and he'd been having a spot of trouble with the adagio. Now would be the perfect time to play, since it wouldn't have to compete with the telly.
He'd only been practicing the adagio for about thirty-nine minutes, when the bedroom door banged open. Sherlock hoped that John wasn't about to be violently ill again, because that was gross.
As it happened, John wasn't about to be violently ill; however, the short blond did look as if he might behave violently.
"She'wock. I was twying to sweep," croaked the miserable, angry, flushed specimen of humanity, who clenched his fists in a most telling manner. "Pwease, pwease just let me sweep."
"Let you sweep?" repeated Sherlock with a chuckle. "And She'wock? Your speech impediment is rather amus..."
John's chest began to heave under his ill-fitting vest, and not in a provocative way. The doctor was either going to break something (e.g. Sherlock) or he was going to cry. Sherlock hated seeing John cry even more than he hated seeing John sick. Crying was even worse than hearing John being sick.
"I...I...I mean, I assume you can't talk properly because your jaw hurts?" said Sherlock, hoping to forestall any violence or tears—especially the tears.
John held up one finger, 'got it in one' again.
"I assume the violin was too loud?"
One finger again.
"But you like when I play the violin."
Two fingers. Now that was rude. And confusing. Normally, John did enjoy Sherlock's performances, especially in the middle of the night. John said that the music helped him to sleep.
Perhaps...perhaps the violin was not conducive to sleep when John was ill? No, that couldn't be correct. Sherlock had played for hours when John had the flu specifically because it seemed to sooth the doctor.
Sherlock frowned; the flu was a very disgusting illness, what with all the coughing and excessive mucous production. At least during the flu, John had retreated to his old third floor bedroom, because he didn't want Sherlock to catch the virus too, which was quite thoughtful of John. Pity John was less thoughtful tonight...
Wait was that an actual tear forming?
Gah! No. Not that! John's tears were intolerable. Especially if Sherlock had caused John to cry—but then again, the two other times that John had cried had been Sherlock's fault too. Well, there wasn't going to be a third time. Not on Sherlock's watch.
"Never mind, John," said Sherlock, nobly sacrificing his music to prevent the waterworks. "I shall forgo the violin for the rest of the night."
John bestowed a watery smile on the younger man, before shuffling back to the bedroom.
Sherlock was still bored. He was still irritated that John had gotten sick—again. This was two illnesses in one year. It was inconvenient. It was disturbing. He was frankly disgusted by the all the sweating and the vomiting, even if the vomiting had only happened that one time.
On top of everything else, Sherlock felt a tiny stab of guilt since he was actively avoiding his partner because of a tiny blob of endodontic pustulence, which his partner couldn't have prevented. Or could John have prevented the infection? Sherlock was unsure.
Perhaps, if he knew more about the infection, he'd feel better about the whole thing. He decided to Google tooth abscesses. At the very least, it would pass the time, and he might learn some helpful tips to pass on to John later.
At first, the condition didn't seem too bad; he wondered why John was being such a baby about it. Common infection…Blah, blah, blah… Could be a sign of poor oral hygiene—not bloody likely in John's case. The man was a clean freak. The condition was often painful (a subjective symptom and therefore unreliable) and usually treated with antibiotics (hardly surprising) and root canal (Ouch!)
Root canal would make John cranky; Sherlock would have to try to find a cold case to avoid John post-operatively.
And then guilt, in the shape of a tiny, John-shaped angel, reared its affectionately smiling, self-righteous little head. No, 'a good partner did not abandon his partner post-operatively' said the little blond angel and Sherlock's conscience in unison.
Even if illnesses made Sherlock uncomfortable, he'd have to help John a little. Maybe he could ensure that Mrs. Hudson brought the cranky doctor some tea. Sherlock smirked; this was an excellent idea. Mrs. Hudson could bring John tea and tedious conversation, while Sherlock worked on a cold case down at the Yard with a clear conscience.
With the post-operative plan in place, the detective returned to John's laptop. He preferred to use John's laptop even though his own was far superior. There was a very small probability that sentiment was involved with this preference. For some time, colorful photos of tooth disease distracted the Sherlock's inquiring mind. Most of the pictures of abscesses were rather pedestrian, but the pictures of root canal procedures were gruesome and quite fascinating. He particularly enjoyed the videos.
Then he reached the section on possible complications seen with dental abscesses."...complications of an untreated abscess include serious infections such as cellulitis, osteomyelitis... even life threatening infections such as sepsis, endocarditis, pneumonia and brain abscesses."
Sherlock bit his thumb. He hadn't considered the possibility that John's tooth infection could kill him. What if John was suffering from one of these (admittedly rare) sequelae, which could potentially prove fatal if not treated aggressively? Might it not make sense to treat aggressively in order to prevent the deadly complications?
Sherlock was concerned, and his fingers drummed a nervous cadence on the desk. Upon reflection, he didn't think that John's dentist was treating this infection even a little aggressively. He wished he knew the name of John's dentist, so that he could research him or her. He considered contacting Mycroft, who would certainly know the name of the dentist and who would of course have a complete dossier on said dentist. But then, John's dentist couldn't be completely incompetent, or Mycroft would have replaced said dentist before now.
Perhaps the situation wasn't bad enough to involve Mycroft directly...not yet.
Still, the potential for disaster was high.
He couldn't lose John. Who would make the tea? Who would accompany Sherlock on cases and remind everyone how brilliant Sherlock was? Who would watch crap telly with him? Or make him eat? Or cuddle with him? Or yell at him while doing that adorable mouth-pursuing thing that made John look like a furious little hedgehog? Who would keep Sherlock right?
John couldn't die. John was too important. He was much more important than Sherlock. John saved lives both as a doctor and as a former soldier with a slightly illegal sidearm...but mostly as a doctor. John was good and kind and compassionate. John deserved to live more than anyone. Besides, John loved the World's Only Consulting Detective. And the World's Only Consulting Detective felt a bit of sentiment for John.
Perhaps...he even cared about John.
Well, of course he cared about John.
Oh all right, he loved John Watson—more than anything in the whole world.
And Sherlock had let his beloved wander off into their dark and probably cold bedroom (That stupid room was always too cold. Sherlock would be sure to complain to the landlady first thing in the morning.) What if John was cold or, heaven forfend, was having a serious complication from the infection right now?
Sherlock strode to the bedroom, only remembering at the last minute not to bang the door. Banging doors in the dark had a queer effect on John's PTSD, so the detective was careful not to make any sudden, loud noises.
It was quiet. Ominously quiet. Too quiet. There wasn't even any snoring...wait, wrong. John was snoring softly, just like always, which was good. Breathing wasn't dull when it was John doing the breathing.
The consulting detective crept closer to the bed. The former army doctor was almost cute in spite of his illness. Actually, a sleeping John was always very cute, although Sherlock was usually wise enough not to say so.
The detective brushed back John's adorable hedgehoggy hair and bravely kissed his sick partner's forehead.
"Jeezhus!" John cried out, pushing Sherlock sharply away. The blond sat up, breathing heavily and looking wildly around the room in obvious confusion.
Heavy breathing could be a sign of pneumonia. Mental confusion could be a sign of a brain abscess. Add in John's fever, and this did not bode well.
"John, are you having difficulty breathing?" asked Sherlock, timing the respirations.
"She'wock? What the hell? I thought you were a wampire!" exclaimed John.
"How. Is. Your. Breathing?" said Sherlock, keeping the words slow and simple, in case the mental confusion was serious.
"My bweathing? It's fine," said John, leaning back with a sigh.
"Good. That's. Good. Now. Tell. Me. Your. Name?"
"John Watson?"
"Good, John, very good," said Sherlock encouragingly. "Now. What. Is. Today?"
"It's night," hissed John.
"Very good. Which. Night?"
"The night one of us dies!"
Sherlock frowned. That sounded like mental confusion or else typical middle of the night John hostility—difficult to be sure. He'd try another question before sending for an ambulance.
"Who. Is. The. Prime. Minister?" asked Sherlock.
"Dabid Camewon...and Mycwoft Homes," said John. "She'wock, Ah weawy don't feel good. Can Ah pwease, go back to sweep?"
John's answer to the last question was doubly correct. It made up for not correctly naming the day (or night) of the week, which was a comfort. Perhaps the ambulance was unnecessary just yet.
"You have a fever."
"Ah know that, She'wock," said John flinging an arm over his eyes. The blond could be such a drama queen.
"Fever is treated with paracetamol or ibuprofen and copious amounts of fluids."
"Yes, Ah know. Ah am a docta'," said John.
"Well, would you prefer paracetamol or ibuprofen?"
"Pawacetamol?" John mumbled.
John's pronunciation was extremely funny, but Sherlock managed to keep a straight face—better a straight face than a bruised face.
"Very well. You rest here, and I will return with paracetamol and plenty of water," said Sherlock.
John took his medicine without complaint and drank some of the water.
"Half a glass of water is not a copious amount of fluid," said Sherlock.
"Ah pwomise to dwink some mo' in a bit," said John. "And She'wock...thank you."
The sickly doctor smiled crookedly and gazed up at Sherlock in adoration. Sherlock felt a frisson of warmth from the heat in John's eyes.
Even sick, John wasn't that disgusting and he didn't seem to be on the verge of death just yet, so perhaps Sherlock could stop worrying a tiny bit.
And the doctor's funny speech impediment was really cute. It was so cute that Sherlock decided to turn off the light and risk climbing into bed. He would sit next to John and provide comfort like a good partner should. It helped to know that abscesses were not contagious, which he had known all along, but the online confirmation didn't hurt.
"What aww you doing?" asked John suspiciously.
"I am providing you moral support in your time of need. I will also provide you with warmth."
"Ah'm wawm enough," said John, who was being stubbornly stoic again.
"You are shivering. You are always cold, and it gets worse when you are sick," said Sherlock. "Not to mention, this room is always cold. I shall complain to the management."
"No, don't botha Mrs. Hudson with it!" said John.
"Hm, perhaps you're right. You'd end up being the one to fix the radiator anyway," said Sherlock. "Perhaps I'll try to obtain an electric space heater tomorrow."
"That would be nice," said John. He still sounded suspicious. "Wook, you don't have to sit here. Ah know you get uncomfwable when Ah'm sick."
"Yes."
"You can't stand to be nea' me when Ah'm sick."
"Yes, I was thinking about that, while watching the videos on tooth extractions and root canal procedures. Anyway, I think my discomfort is caused by my resentment that you are sick and unable to provide me with your usual supports such as tea and biscuits."
"Mm," hummed John, crossing his arms defensively across his chest.
"And I worry. I think I get angry when you're sick, because I fear losing you."
"Yeah, who would make you tea?" asked John defensively.
"I did wonder that, but I decided that if you...died, I probably wouldn't want tea anymore anyway. I wouldn't want anything anymore without you."
"Oh, She'wock," said John. Clearly Sherlock had managed to say something appropriate. The doctor started to roll over to hug the younger man, then pulled back. "Oh, sowwy. I forgot the 'no touching when I'm sick' wule."
"Since you are not contagious, and I did confirm this online, and since you are looking rather cute, I would like to hold you. It will help warm you up and might even help you sleep."
"Ahm not cute," said John, hugging his chest and looking fiercely adorable.
"Ahm not cute," said John, looking fiercely adorable in the dim light that crept in from the hallway.
"Yes, you are," said Sherlock, dragging his blogger into his arms and settling the smaller man against his chest.
John shivered and remained stubbornly stiff, which paradoxically only made him more adorable. The stoic and resolutely not-cute blond held out for almost two minutes before snuggling in against Sherlock's broad chest.
"Just for the record, John," said Sherlock, "There'll be no kissing until the infection is completely gone, because the infection is in your mouth and kissing would be gross."
"Ah can wiv with that," said John, throwing a leg and arm around his detective in order to capture more body heat. He might also have wanted a hug, which Sherlock provided.
He held his blogger close, yet he couldn't help but notice that John was abnormally warm. This was only to be expected, given that John was running a fever. However, John was also a bit sweaty. This might have been expected, yet it was a bit repugnant too.
Sherlock couldn't help his reflexive recoil.
"Oh, God. What's wong now," said John, sounding annoyed and ever-so-slightly hurt.
The detective's aversion now mixed with guilt. After all, he loved the man in his arms. Nevertheless, it was impossible to ignore the sweat seeping into Sherlock's shirt.
"Ah'll just lie back on my own piwwows," offered John, who had guessed the problem in one. The blond tried to roll over but was stopped when Sherlock's strong arms tightened around him.
'This is ridiculous,' thought the younger man, growling in frustration at his own indecisiveness.
"No," said the detective.
"No?"
"No. You were comfortable…"
"But you wewn't," said John. Screwing his face up as if in pain or, more likely, in deep thought. "How 'bout a compwomise."
"How about you avoid multisyllabic words until your abscess has resolved," snarked Sherlock, allowing John squirm off the detective, although his head still rested on the detective's chest.
"How's this?" asked John.
"Better," answered Sherlock. "Those words were monosyllabic…"
"No, you git," said John, jabbing his elbow into Sherlock's side, but without much force. "Ah meant…"
"I know what you meant," scoffed the World's Only Consulting Detective, tousling his lover's hair, because he knew that John hated having his hair mussed—except during sex, which is why Sherlock almost had a Pavlovian arousal when he saw John's hair sticking up in all directions.
Sherlock suspected that one shouldn't initiate sexual congress with one's ailing lover, so it was lucky that the detective couldn't really see John's hair in the dark.
"Well..." prompted John.
"Yes!" snapped Sherlock. "This position is better. But I shouldn't need this compromise. I don't understand why your sweat is so repugnant. I don't mind trawling through rubbish or examining rotting corpses. I don't even mind your sweat when we copulate."
"Ta, fo' that," muttered John, as his arms automatically re-assumed their defensive position across his chest.
It was Sherlock's turn to say, "What?"
"You just said that Ah sweat duwing sex and that it weminds you of wubbish and wotting co'pses."
"First of all, stick to small words, John," said Sherlock. "Preferably, words without liquid consonants."
It was John's turn to say, "What?"
All these 'Whats?' were a bit dull, thought the World's Only Consulting Detective.
"Don't use words that require the use of the letter's R or L," said the genius of Baker Street, enunciating slowly to enable his non-genius companion to comprehend every word.
Of course it was impossible to see in the dark, but Sherlock assumed that his doctor must have begun scowling, because Sherlock easily detected a drop in room temperature.
"And secondly," continued Sherlock. "You know that my aversion to your sweat is non-existent during intercourse. Indeed, I find it attractive and arousing, perhaps because of the pheromones."
The consulting detective somehow heard his partner's eyes rolling in his head.
"The point I was endeavoring to make, John, is that I shouldn't be so fastidious when you are sick and vulnerable," Sherlock continued. "Just when you are most in need of comfort."
"Ah'm not a child, and Ah don't need comfo't," said John stoutly.
"Yet when I do manage to overcome my pathological aversions, you respond to comfort like a wilted flower," said the genius.
"Ah'm not a flowa wilted or oth'awise," growled John.
"Shut up. I want to comfort you, and I hate that my over-sensitivity gets in the way!"
John sighed, but his rigid tension began to melt, which was always a good sign.
"She'wock! Ah don't mind," said John, "Ah weawy don't. You put up with my ova-sensitivities, so I think that can handle yo' so-called pathawogica' ova-sensitivity."
"John, let me remind you to use short words without liquid consonants," Sherlock advised.
The sick doctor huffed.
"Besides, John, you don't do anything that I have to 'put up with'. You don't have any…"
"Yeah, Ah do. How about my PTSD, like when Ah ova-weact to ce'tain noises and ce'tain news stowies? Mm? How about my nightma'es?"
"Hmmm," hummed Sherlock.
This was all true. John sometimes had violent nightmares. And on rare occasions, John had problems with unexpected explosions or even…
"How about," said John, interrupting Sherlock's train of thought. "How about we shawe pwobwems and work on them as a team, one day at a time? Yeah?"
This was brilliant. John could be unexpectedly intelligent. Plus, it meant that John would have to share stories about his time in the army. Sherlock had long wanted to hear about John's experiences in Afghanistan.
"Since you brought it up, John, I have questions concerning your time in Afgha…"
"She'wock," interrupted John, "It's gweat that you want me t' shawe this with you, and Ah do wuv you fo' it, mo' than eva. "
Sherlock nodded, privately noting that John was unbearably adorable when he said 'wuv'.
"But…Ah was hoping that 'one day at a time' could start tomorro'?" said John. "It's been a wong day and I'm weawy tiwed."
"Yes, of course, John," Sherlock quickly assented. If he couldn't cuddle John properly, at least he could let the poor man sleep. "And for the record, John…"
The poor tired man moaned.
"…you are not going to clinic tomorrow," continued Sherlock. "I myself will call to let them know you are too sick to see patients. I will not mention that you might make some patients uncomfortable with your untoward symptoms, especially the emesis, not to mention, they'd have difficulty understanding your speech since you can't properly produce liquid consonants. Furthermore, I intend to make you tea and toast, before setting down to work on some cold cases that I shall obtain from Lestrade. You needn't worry about being left to fend for yourself; I shall also ensure that Mrs. Hudson provides you with additional tea, sustenance and tedious conversation."
"Ah'm glad some things haven't changed," said John.
"Just so, John," agreed the detective, missing the patient's dry tone. "It is preferable to have some sense of constancy and routine. You know…I have to admit, that so long as we are not too close together, spending time with you while you're sick is tolerable. Possibly even pleasant."
"Good."
"Your head isn't even very sweaty, and it's no more heavy than usual."
"Fantastic."
"Actually, your head isn't very sweaty anymore, not like your torso. Although your head was fairly damp too...earlier. Perhaps the fever is breaking."
"Mm hm."
"I think with time, I could get used to tending to you when you're sick. It reminds me…"
"She'wock! Ah wuv you vewy much, and Ah appweciate yo' effowts, but would you pwease shut up now!"
Sherlock sighed, "Good night, John."
"Nite."
"I'm going to kiss your forehead," said the detective leaning down, "but I don't want you to kiss me until…"
"… the infection is gone," muttered John, raising his 'got it in one' finger.
Having bestowed a kiss on the smaller man's forehead, Sherlock subsided. He felt justifiably smug over his progress in overcoming his irrational aversion to John's indispostion. He was confident that John would be properly impressed and grateful when he was a little less cranky.
Sitting in the dark with John's head on his chest was comforting, because now he could monitor his lover for any life-threatening complications.
It was also a little boring.
"John?"
The doctor sighed deeply.
"Good, you're awake," said Sherlock. "I just wanted to know, why did you think I was a vampire?"
John tried to pretend that he was suddenly comatose—a futile endeavor.
"John, I know when you are feigning sleep, and you of all people should know by now, that ignoring me won't make me go away, at least not when I'm investigating…
"Awwight! Yes, I was dweaming about you!" huffed the exhausted doctor, who took his revenge by settling a bit closer to the excellent heat source sharing his bed. Since John was no longer very feverish or sweaty, Sherlock did not mind all that much.
"And I was a vampire?"
John raised a finger, probably intending to convery 'got it in one'. But in the dark, it was hard to make out John's primitive attempts at sign language, and it seemed as though John had used his middle finger and not his index finger, which would obviously change the entire meaning of the sign. Sherlock was well aware that John had picked up many unsavory Americanisms while serving along side U. S. soldiers in Afghanistan, including the single digit version of the two-fingered salute.
The detective frowned momentarily, but decided to overlook John's possibly unintentional rudeness to discover more about this dream. After all, the dream was about Sherlock and was therefore important.
"Tell me more," prompted Sherlock, only to receive silence in return.
"Well, John, was I frightening?"
"Yes," John sighed resignedly into his lover's chest.
"And you were frightened? Of me?" scoffed Sherlock. "Even if I was a vampire, that seems a bit ridiculous."
"Too bad. It was…well…it was fwightening," said John defensively. Then after a pause he added, "And sexy. Weawy, weawy sexy."
The huskiness of John's voice indicated possible arousal.
Sherlock automatically found this a tiny bit arousing too.
'I must have been a very sexy vampire,' thought Sherlock smugly.
"I wanted you to bite me," whispered John, who was clearly turned on by the idea.
Sherlock began to regret the no kissing and minimal touching rules.
"And I was a woof," whispered John.
"A woof?" asked Sherlock, momentarily confused. "Oh! You mean a wolf…Surely not a werewolf?"
"Yup!" said John.
The doctor's hand began to caress Sherlock's leg in clear violation of the minimal touching rule. The detective magnanimously decided to overlook this indiscretion, hoping to be violated further.
"And…I was going to bite you back," whispered the naughty doctor.
Sherlock wanted John to bite him. He thought he'd enjoy biting John and being bitten by John and...
"Maybe I can show you?" offered John.
"Yes," whispered Sherlock, dragging his fingers through John's hair in anticipation of…
"Maybe I can show you later, when I'm not sick and disgusting," said John, rolling over. "G'nite She'wock."
Sherlock was left with an uncomfortable arousal and an arm that was falling asleep because of someone's heavy, blond head. He was also certain that John was secretly laughing at him even as the devious little man began to snore.
Sherlock briefly entertained the notion of pushing John to the floor for revenge, but thought better of it (thanks to his angelic, John-shaped conscience). In the end, he did love John a great deal and was even a little bit glad to see that his partner seemed to be feeling better. Instead of pushing John away, he allowed his doctor to rest, using Sherlock's arm as a pillow.
'At least,' thought the frustrated detective, 'now I have time. I have all night to plan my retaliation. To begin with, I will need to acquire a convincing vampire costume and realistic fangs..."
A/N Thank you for reading yet another sic fic. Please share your thoughts, impressions, advice or con-crit in a review.
Disclaimer I don't own the rights to Sherlock, and I'm not a dentist either, so all dental information in this story could be very, very wrong. However, the information regarding sucrose is correct—I think. :D