Title: The Perfect Sickfic.
Rating: PG for language.
Tags: BBC Sherlock, Angst, Friendship/Romance, Flu, Cough, Sherlock sick
Warnings: No spoilers, sometime in the first season. No really sexual slash, but still some romantic overtones (because that's what we all want, right?).
Summary: I won't lie. I have a most unhealthy addiction to BBC's Sherlock, and if I could wrap up Sherlock and John and keep them in my room, I would. I have pretty much read every Sherlock cold/flu/pneumonia fic out there, but I wanted to try my hand at making a really good one (although there are plenty of great ones out there already.) A little fluffy, a little angsty, and lots of good Sherlock whiney stubborn-ness. Please read, review, share, whatever you wish. Feedback is VERY appreciated!
*And I don't own Sherlock. Or any of the other characters. Sadly. Trust me, if I did, my life would be much better.
The weather outside was foul, but not nearly so foul at the atmosphere which was brewing inside apartment 221B. John paced back and forth in front of the hearth, reminding even himself vaguely of the apartment's other owner, a certain private detective, who was, as of the moment, approximately three hours and twenty six minutes late for a very important meeting. And as of such, Lestrade was none too pleased with either of the flats inhabitants.
Since, as per usual, Sherlock was no where to be found and had not been answering his phone, John had been left to deal with the mess of paperwork and forms alone, and was now plotting the extremely irritable rant which he was preparing to hurl upon Sherlock at the moment he walked through the door. John threw his hands up in exasperation, kicking the trash can with such force that a large dent appeared in the side. He didn't care. He was fed up with all of Sherlock's whining and complaining and ordering him around. He was finished. Finished with it all. He was considering calling Sherlock for a fourth time, and in fact went so far as to pull his phone from his pocket, when the slam of the front door and the sound of footsteps on the stairs told him that it wouldn't be necessary.
The footsteps were rather uncharacteristically slow, and John began to tap his foot irritably as he waited for his parter to open the door. Finally the knob turned, and a very out of breath, soaking wet Sherlock entered.
"Fancy seeing you here." John struggled to keep his tone steady as he eyed the dripping detective remove his coat and scarf. "I'm so glad you were able to take some time out of your precious day to... oh I don't know... maybe answer one of my EIGHT messages to tell me where the hell you've been all day? But no, obviously the GREAT SHERLOCK HOLMES simply doesn't have time for such trivial matters as PAPERWORK, because he's off looking at different kinds of mold in the bloody alleyways and whatever else you do all day long!" John paused for a moment, breathing heavily, to glare at the back of Sherlock's inky black head. Sherlock dropped his coat to the floor, avoiding John's gaze as he made his way to the sofa and collapsed onto his back, staring straight at the ceiling, eyes closed.
"For the love of god, Sherlock are you going to at least say something?"
No answer.
"I sure hope you have a damn good reason for being unreachable all bloody day, because you have no idea what I've been through... "
Sherlock remained expressionless, folding his hands neatly onto his chest and huffing loudly. John felt another stab of anger overwhelm him.
"And another thing-!" John gestured to the crumpled heap of clothes by the doorway. "Is it too much to ask that you at least pretend to tidy up after yourself? I'm not your maid, and I'm sick and tired of cleaning this whole damn apartment every damn day, and then running around at your beck and call, driving all the way across the city, just so I can send a bloody text mess-"
"ESHHOO!"
John started slightly, rather taken aback by the sudden noise. Sherlock sniffed twice, wiping his nose on the back of his hand, before resuming his stubborn gaze at the ceiling, sniffling.
"Are you sick?" John asked incredulously, momentarily forgetting to be angry as he stared open mouthed at Sherlock's rain-soaked figure. He had never so much as heard a cough from Sherlock's mouth, let alone a sneeze or sniffling.
Sherlock tore his gaze away from the ceiling long enough to send a withering look at John.
"I don't get sick. Boring people get sick." His voice was it's usual lazy self, but there was something about his eyes that seemed a little too bright, a little too shiny. "And as for the whole paperwork business..." Sherlock cracked his back, twisting to both sides before laying back down facing the wall. "...I don't see how it matters. I do all the difficult things around here- if you have to do the dishes or the paperwork, you might as well. It's not as though you qualify for anything else."
John stepped back slightly, Sherlock's words striking him like a slap across the face. Sherlock nestled deeper into the sofa, curling his knees into his chest before speaking:
"Oh and you'll need to go and buy some more milk tomorrow- I poured the old one down the drain. I needed to bottle for an experiment."
John felt his face burn, and resisted the urge to punch every inch of Sherlock he could reach.
"Fine." He said, voice carefully measured. "I'll do that. And while I'm out I'll be sure to look for a new flat mate while I'm at it. Have fun finding someone else to put up with your childishness. I can't imagine you'll find many takers." John turned sharply, making his way upstairs toward his bedroom.
"Oh also..." He paused on the stairs. "I suggest you put on something dry. If you get sick, even though apparently you're above all that, I am not taking care of you, because I will be going to my boring job tomorrow. And god knows there's no one else on this planet who would put up with your whiney, selfish, arrogant, self-pitying bullshit." With that John stomped upstairs, slamming his door behind him.
He began to change into his night clothes, relaxing a little as he melted into the familiar fabrics, before laying down wearily. He felt a small pang of worry as he thought of Sherlock sitting downstairs on the sofa, soaking wet and sniffling to himself. He really did look a little bit off, and John couldn't even remember the last time Sherlock had eaten or slept thoroughly. The worry vanished quickly as his cold words flashed back through John's mind, and suddenly the thought of Sherlock being alone- cold and miserable with no one to complain to, was very appealing.
He deserves to suffer in silence, Though John as he pulled the heavy duvet over himself, It's about time he got what was coming to him. John smirked to himself, shutting off the light, yet still felt remnants of the worry nagging at him at he drifted into a fitful slumber.
*sorry for the long setup. Promise it gets better! I prefer one-shots to long tedious reads, but the plot was getting rather long, so I felt it was best to break it up a little bit. R&R always appreciated!