Why Do That?
"Oh, for God's sake. What are you doing now?"
John glanced up, unable to stop himself as he gave his flatmate a look of disgust. "What?"
"You're sniveling all over the place. It's atrocious," Sherlock replied with a flick of his hand, raising his mug to his lips. He was drinking coffee, John thought, and the thought made his stomach turn. Sherlock took his coffee black, with sugar. John's personal opinion was that it tasted like garbage, but, then Sherlock was the one who called John weird when John took his coffee with milk. A common denominator? They had learned to drink more tea than coffee. They could both settle on similar methods of taking tea.
Tea sounded wonderful to John right now. His throat was aching. It had been all dry and scratchy and he was thirsty, but getting off the couch seemed like a stupid idea. He was tired and cold and had been cursing Sherlock, mentally, for the chase through the snow they had taken last night.
"I'm sorry that my nose is running, Sherlock," John replied, searching for the box of tissues. Upon finding the box, his fingers endeavoured to find the tissues themselves, but the box was empty. John paused before sighing, dropping his head into his hands. He refused to say that he was sick, because saying it out loud gave it new meaning. So, John stayed silent, refusing to voice the two words I'm sick aloud.
Sherlock beat him to it. "You're sick."
John almost wanted to throw the pillow at Sherlock. He didn't want to hear that he was sick, because, damn it, he had had that feeling already and he was trying to ignore it! "I am not."
Sherlock's face took up the expression of confusion, that look that he got when he didn't quite understand some sentimentality of a situation, or even a hint of humanity. "But-"
"No," John interrupted, coughing harshly afterwards. He refused to believe that he was sick. Sherlock never got sick. Sherlock went about everything with some proper thinking, so John reckoned that if he had the proper thinking, too, he wouldn't get sick, either.
His stomach made an unconscious decision without him and, in the next moment, John felt bile rising in the back of his throat. He stiffened, gripping his hands into fists and swallowing hard. Sherlock's eyes were on him; Sherlock was waiting, just waiting. But John had clenched his jaw and made up his mind and he was most definitely not sick!
He knew Sherlock was still watching him as he swallowed back the urge to be sick again. He didn't look up. He, instead, took a few deep and calculated breaths before leaning back into the cushions again.
"I'm fine," he said, right about the time that Sherlock uttered something about "fish and chips being left in the fridge if you're hungry".
With all the dignity of a sick man, John managed to run to the bathroom before spending a good minute throwing up.
Sherlock was smirking, actually smirking, when John resurfaced.
"Are you happy? Just, just tell me, are you pleased with yourself, you clot?"
"So, you're not sick then, doctor. Whatever else could it be that makes you profusively vomit when I mention a certain food? Are you pregnant?" Sherlock asked innocently, his fingers reaching for his violin bow.
"Don't make me explain how that's not possible," John said, sniffling.
"Don't make me explain how I know that you're sick," Sherlock replied quickly, an instinctual rebound.
"I'm not sick," John shot back just as quickly.
Sherlock was silent for a moment. John had the sudden urge to disappear upstairs into his bedroom, because he had this terrible feeling that something was com-
"The flush of your skin indicates there is an internal temperature higher than 37.2°. There's sweat beginning to bead up around your hairline and even from here, I can make out the slight tremors in your hand. Considering that your intermittant tremor only occurs in the left, and only when you're bored, at that, it's clear that you've got the chills. There's dark shadows under your eyes, a sign that you didn't sleep, or didn't sleep well. You're sluggish. It doesn't help against the argument. You were staggering as you re-entered the living room, using the frame for support. You're blinking slower than usual, maybe a sign of trying to blink something away; however, the eye isn't red, thus, there isn't anything in it that would cause the reaction, so I can only presume that you're fending off your vertigo. Considering the fact that certain mentioned foods make you vomit on a moment's notice, I can confirm my hypothesis. So, flushed skin, sweating, chills, exhaustion, dizziness, vomiting, and the excess of sniveling can only add up to one thing." Sherlock paused, looking back to his computer. "Sick."
John sniffed hard. "Amazing..." Sherlock had mentioned things that John really hadn't noticed for himself.
"Annoying," Sherlock replied, punctuating his statement by drawing his bow against the violin strings.
His music was as smooth as ever, pure liquid gold but grating on John's headache. He hadn't even really noticed how bad his head was pounding until Sherlock started playing.
"Sherlock," he rasped. "Sherlock, for God's sake, stop that!"
Sherlock's playing came to an abrupt end. "This is hideous, John. I warned you that I play the violin when I'm thinking. I didn't say that I would stop just when you ask me to."
"Sherlock, I'm sick. It's a bit different."
"No, it's the same difference." He pulled the bow across the strings, in a much less smooth motion this time.
"Sherlock!"
Sherlock sighed in an exaggerated motion before dropping his violin and bow onto the couch. "Right. Silence. Dull."
"You could make me some tea," John muttered, albeit if he hadn't exactly meant for Sherlock to hear it, or rather, he hadn't expected Sherlock to actually listen.
"Tea? Right. Sure."
John opened his eyes abruptly when he heard Sherlock get up. "... You're- you're serious?"
"I do know how to make tea, John," Sherlock replied from the kitchen.
Blinking in surprise, John pondered a response but decided against it. He didn't feel like having that conversation right now. Tea was good. He'd just settle for that.
Some minutes later, John was disturbed from a semi-unconscious state by movement in front of him. John opened his eyes to find Sherlock's face right in front of him. He jumped and leaned back as much as the chair allowed, instinctively holding his breath. He knew Sherlock thought that he was invincible to germs or something, but John didn't want to risk it by breathing in his face.
"You look terrible," Sherlock said, moving away. "I made you toast."
"Wait- what?" John tried to differentiate between the utter differences in the sentences, glancing reflexively towards the table. There was a cup of tea and two pieces of toast, cut neatly into four triangles and sprinkled with cinnamon.
"I'm not sure if your stomach can handle it," Sherlock started, but John had made for the toast. Toast with cinnamon, as it were, was a weakness. How had Sherlock noticed that? Sherlock didn't pay attention to stupid stuff... but John didn't mind. It was good.
"... You're going to need to get some rest, John," Sherlock said. John glanced up, halfway through his cup of tea. "It's essential to your getting better..." Sherlock was at the window, looking out into the streets, John imagined. He didn't look back towards the sick doctor.
John blinked, his cup still halfway to his lips. Coming to his somewhat-dull senses, John returned the cup to the saucer. "Right... Was thinking about going for a kip... Might be good..."
Sherlock nodded, more to himself, not saying another word.
John blinked again and went for another drink of tea, smiling behind his teacup.
Sherlock does care! :D
Anyway, a revamp of a story of mine that is no longer online, but I prefer this. Maybe planning on doing a John!sick!fic that's shorter, too.
Leave your thoughts below. :P Thanks!