Why, hello, everyone! First Sherlock sick!fic, boo-yah! Sorry if this sick!fic isn't nearly as enjoyable or as cute as other sick!fics...I'm still working on how to write fan fictions for the Sherlock fandom. XD
Anyways, even though there are just about hundreds and possibly thousands sick!fics of Sherlock and such, I just HAD to write one, because I wasn't feeling so great over last week and was in serious need to torture some characters...*sighs* Sick!fics are my guilty pleasure...they always have been. :P
This will be a multi-chapter sick!fic, so don't give up on me just yet when you read this first chapter! I'll be working on some more torture and Johnlock [friendship] fluff! (Before anyone can ask, I'm not really a Johnlock [romantic] shipper...I guess I'm sort of struggling between Sherlolly and Johnlock. :/ I don't think I really ship Sherlock with anyone, lol, but I do love Johnlock friendship. XD)
On that note, please enjoy! Reviews are awesome, and so are faves/follows! :)
John wasn't very surprised that Sherlock was still asleep when he walked into the sitting room. It was a Saturday, for one, and the two had been up 'till five in the morning because of some stupid chase.
Sadly, Sherlock and John somehow weren't able to catch up to the culprit—and to John's surprise, Sherlock didn't argue against Lestrade when he said that he'd take over.
Yawning, John glanced at the clock. It was almost two o'clock in the afternoon, according to it. Stretching his arms, John sat down in his armchair and stared out the window. The sky was grey—as usual—and rain was beginning to fall lightly from the clouds.
"Sherlock's not awake yet?" John heard Mrs. Hudson ask from the doorway. He turned around and smiled sheepishly. "Not yet, no."
"You two came in late—I was surprised to hear the door opening early in the morning." Mrs. Hudson said, opening some curtains.
"Yeah," John mumbled, rubbing his eyes. "Greg came through, though."
"Good—you boys need the rest." Mrs. Hudson said with a smile. "I'll be downstairs, dear."
John nodded in thanks as the older woman walked out of the room. He stood up and headed into the kitchen. He was in need for some coffee, anyways.
•◊•
It was around three thirty when John was beginning to wonder if Sherlock was still sleeping, or if he was perhaps just shut up in his room, working on some experiment.
However, all of the equipment was laid out on the kitchen table so he couldn't possibly be experimenting on anything—then again, Sherlock could turn anything into an experiment.
John sighed and stood up. He might as well check on his friend—who knew what he was doing.
"Sherlock?" John opened the bedroom door. "You okay?"
He looked down at Sherlock's bed and, sure enough, found the detective fast asleep underneath the blankets. John frowned. He was still sleeping?
John drummed his fingers against the wall and paused, unsure whether to wake him up or leave him there.
"Sherlock? Are you actually sleeping, or just faking it?" John asked at last. "You've been sleeping for a little over ten hours and that's not really us—"
John's voice was cut off when Sherlock sat up in bed abruptly, his eyes wide and confused. "It was the baker!" He yelled hoarsely, pointing at the wall.
John raised an eyebrow. "We had a case that involved a baker?" He asked.
Sherlock looked over to John with a frown. "Thought we did," he muttered audibly. "Why're we here?"
"We came here 'cause it was five in the morning and we were still chasing that bastard, remember? Drug dealer or something?" John said, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Oh. That. What a disappointment." Sherlock murmured dismissively, falling back into bed and staring up at the ceiling.
"You okay? I was wondering when you'd wake up." John said, staring at Sherlock's still form.
"Hm? Oh, yes, I'm fine." Sherlock replied, closing his eyes. "I need to think."
John's eyebrows furrowed together. "Doesn't look like you're trying to think—more like trying to go back to sleep. If you're really tired, I'll go back out, and there's no shame in admitting that you're—"
"Why would you say that? I think all the time, John, unlike you." Sherlock snapped back.
John paused, and with a shake of his head, leaned against the doorway. "Whenever you think, you have that look, remember? The…Mind Palace pose?" He said with a small eye roll.
"Pose? I have a pose? Thought never crossed my mind," Sherlock replied, his eyes still closed. "Now, John, please get out—I need to think some things through."
"Oh, no, wouldn't want to interfere with that." John quipped, straightening himself. "I'll be in the sitting room, then, if you need me."
"Mm…" Was Sherlock's only response.
With another sigh, John walked back into the sitting room and opened his laptop. He didn't quite know what to do for several minutes—he didn't think he's ever seen Sherlock sleep in so late before until now.
John tapped his fingers ever so lightly against the keyboard and sighed again.
'It's quiet when Sherlock sleeps in,' was his very first sentence of his blog post.
•◊•
John was still in a typing zone when he heard the loud thump coming from Sherlock's bedroom. He almost immediately stood up. He was fairly sure it was the very first noise he heard all day beside Mrs. Hudson cleaning from downstairs.
John walked out of the sitting room and opened Sherlock's door. He looked automatically to the bed only to have his eyes slide down.
"You okay?" John asked, walking around the bed to greet his friend on the floor.
"Fine. Fell out of bed," Sherlock grumbled. "If you couldn't tell already."
"No, I could tell. C'mon, up you go." John said, tugging at Sherlock's hand.
"I know how to stand up, John." Sherlock sighed, blinking his eyes wearily. "So if you would stop flocking around like a mother hen, that would be so helpful."
"I'm not acting like a—wait, Sherlock, hold still." John muttered with a frown. "Something's off—Sherlock, you're warm."
Sherlock violently tugged his hand away. "For heaven's sake, John, I've been in bed for more than half the day—of course I'd be a bit warm."
"No, I mean that you're really warm. Are you feeling okay?" John asked, searching Sherlock's face. Now that he could see him properly, John could detect the tiredness in his friend's eyes, as well as the darkened circles underneath them.
His curls were pressed closely to his forehead by sweat, not to mention that his face was much paler than usual except for his cheeks, which were flushed where the fever revealed itself.
"Sherlock, hold on, I'm going to grab a thermometer." John said. "Don't go anywhere."
"Wouldn't dream of it," Sherlock muttered dryly.
John headed into the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet, and quickly grabbed the thermometer from inside. He ran it over with some water and looked up at the mirror. He wasn't quite sure what to make of Sherlock being sick—if anything, it wouldn't be too major, hopefully.
Sherlock never counted himself as a human, after all. Maybe that would extend to his reaction to being sick…?
John's heart sank. He wasn't sure if that was the case or not.
"Sherlock, open your mouth." John said, walking back into the bedroom.
"No."
John sighed. "Sherlock, not now, please."
"I'm not sick, if that's what you're wondering."
John pressed his lips tightly together and shook his head. "Sorry, Sherlock, but that's not going to work on me. Even the stupidest person in England can take one look at you and say that you aren't feeling well."
"Hm…I don't know, it might take a bit longer for Anderson." Sherlock said thoughtfully.
John sighed. "Open your mouth, please."
"This is ridiculous."
"I know, but if you aren't sick, then you shouldn't have a problem with sticking a thermometer in your mouth." John replied.
"And if I wasn't sick, I wouldn't be telling you to stick a thermometer in my mouth, anyways." Sherlock countered stubbornly.
"For God's sake," John grumbled and shoved the thermometer into Sherlock's mouth.
"John!" Sherlock's words came out slightly muffled as he tried to speak around the thermometer. He continued to speak in unintelligible words that included several swears until the thermometer began to beep.
"That wasn't so hard, now, was it?" John asked lightly, taking it out of Sherlock's mouth.
Sherlock grimaced and wiped at his mouth.
John looked down at the thermometer and his eyes widened. "Sherlock, you bastard!" He growled, tossing the thermometer on the nightstand. "If you weren't feeling well, tell me!"
"I feel fine. You're overreacting. As usual, I might add." Sherlock said, resting his head in a pillow.
John shook his head. "I'll be right back." He muttered, standing up.
Sherlock didn't reply.
•◊•
It was in the middle of the night did John wake up from the sitting room to hear terrible coughing from Sherlock's bedroom.
Rubbing his eyes, John staggered to a somewhat standing position. With a loud yawn, John managed to pour a glass of water from the kitchen. He opened Sherlock's door and mumbled sleepily, "Sherlock?"
The coughing ceased immediately and John managed to make out a faint outline of Sherlock's body on the bed. His chest was rising and falling ever so slightly, but John could still hear him panting in labored breaths.
"Get out," Sherlock groaned as John sat down at his bedside, placing the water cup on the night stand. He felt Sherlock feebly attempt to push him away with a weak hand. When John didn't move, Sherlock's hand fell limply over the side of the bed.
John blinked, trying to wake himself and then said, "I got you water. Can you sit up?"
"'Course I can sit up," Sherlock replied irritably. "I'm not a—" He broke off the rest of his sentence with a coughing fit and rolled over, stuffing his face into the pillow.
"No, Sherlock, you'll suffocate yourself." John said gently, turning him right side up.
Sherlock gripped John's shoulder and swallowed. John reached over to the night stand and carefully handed Sherlock the water cup.
"Small sips," John murmured soothingly as Sherlock took it gratefully. "Don't rush, or you'll choke."
For several long minutes, John waited for his friend to slowly finish the glass. Once he was finished, he placed the cup back on the night stand and Sherlock slowly relaxed back into bed.
"That was tedious." He muttered, his voice hoarse and lower than usual.
John sighed and said, "Don't talk. Your throat will hurt and then you won't be able to speak."
"I thought you wanted that?" Sherlock mumbled, a small spark of dry humor igniting in his voice.
John managed to crack a smile. "Well, yeah, but it'd hurt, and I don't want to deal with you complaining like a child by throwing a silent tantrum."
"Mm…good point. Night, John." Sherlock's words slowly slurred together and within a couple minutes, the only sounds that were heard were the two men's breaths as they slept.
