"Here," Sherlock announced, thumping a box of tissues next to John.
John looked up wearily. He had been resting his forehead on the toilet seat when he had heard Sherlock re-enter the flat. He hadn't bothered to look up, expecting Sherlock to drop the shopping bags onto the floor without a word and return to his experiment.
However, Sherlock had walked into the bathroom, now thumping the box of tissues onto the floor.
"Oh, yeah, thanks... Forgot to mention..." John murmured.
"Nasal drainage is disgusting, John. Do try to contain it into tissues."
John would have laughed, if he didn't feel so miserable. Sherlock couldn't just say snot like a normal person, could he?
"I bought what seems to be a reliable brand of an antiemetic. I wouldn't know, as I've never had to test such things, nor did you suggest it to me while I was profusely vomiting."
"Didn't I...?" John muttered, trying to think. Why hadn't he? Perhaps it had been the panic of Sherlock texting him and saying that he couldn't stop breathing, that his nose was bleeding and there was blood all over the bathroom-
John turned his attention back to the toilet, vomiting again.
"There's nothing left in your stomach," Sherlock commented. "Vomiting up bile is-"
"Disgusting," John interrupted, sitting up slightly. "Give me the damn... vomiting stuff," he muttered, rubbing the back of his hand across his mouth.
Sherlock handed him the bottle of syrup. John measured out the correct amount and swallowed the cupful of medication down, cringing at the taste of fake-flavouring against his taste buds. Now, as long as he could keep this down long enough for it to take effect...
"What else did you get...?" John mumbled. He really hoped that Sherlock would go on about something that he had bought, or something that had happened in the queue at the store, anything normal, that would keep John's mind off of vomiting until the antiemetic worked.
"Applesauce," Sherlock started, but John interrupted again.
"Ah, no, don't talk..." He swallowed. "Don't talk about food right now..."
Sherlock sighed. "I debated over two different brands of antiemetics. I settled on this simply for the fact that it said doctor recommended."
"Well, that is a good thing..."
"I also bought another bottle of paracetamol, just in case you decide to use the last of it for the purpose of defeating this... illness." Sherlock placed the box of medication into the counter, placing the antiemetic alongside it. "I went to the library and checked out a few of the books that you like to read, Shakespeare and war stories and that one guy who writes the really sappy romances novels-"
"Nicholas Sparks?" John supplied.
"Yes, the man who has nothing better to do than write romantic drivel that women like to read."
"Sherlock," John muttered, sitting up straighter, "I like one book by him. And I was introduced to it through a movie, so... stop making fun."
"I'm not making fun; I simply don't understand why a grown man of military standards such as yourself could read such pointless rubbish."
"It's only rubbish to you. He's insanely popular."
"Further proof that humanity is degrading."
"Yes, okay, Sparks, what else?"
"Patterson. Oh, and some apparent mystery involving Scotland Yard of the 1800's. I'm sure it's a complete waste of paper, but I thought perhaps you'd like it."
"Oh... Okay. Sounds good..."
"I also checked out all of the Bond movies that were available at the time being, as well as Dexter, but that's for me."
John looked up. "You... You like Dexter?"
"It's really quite the perfect scenario. The man isn't the most intelligent when it boils down to means or meditation, but it is really quite the perfect cover-up. A murderer, but a police officer... It's an interesting concept, even if the blood splatter is nothing more than, quite obviously, badly mixed red paint."
"Is this the crap telly you watch at two in the morning?"
Sherlock shrugged. "Occasionally."
"Thought the flat smelled like popcorn one morning..." John murmured.
"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock retorted. "Speaking of popcorn, can I now continue on telling you what I bought you on the trip that you sent me out on?"
"I suppose..."
"Applesauce, ginger ale, freeze pops, coffee, peppermint tea, yoghurt, ice cream, soup, and, oh, cakes from Speedy's."
John blinked. For someone who never went shopping, Sherlock was very... thorough. (John was not complaining.)
"You should go shopping more often," John murmured. "You bought things that I didn't even remember to mention..."
"Yes, well, unlike you, I know what can be useful."
"Useful for flu?"
Sherlock turned for the door. "It wasn't a terribly difficult leap, John. Soft foods, easy to eat and light on the stomach."
John smiled faintly, slowly getting to his feet.
"Did you want me to make you some soup, then? Since the antiemetic seems to be working..." Sherlock looked over his shoulder at John, expecting an answer.
"Er... Sherlock... can you even make soup?"
"It's not difficult. You seem to forget that I've lived on my own for the past fifteen or so years."
"Yeah, don't know how you're still alive..." John muttered.
"Just go sit down," Sherlock said, waving John away. "I'll put soup on."
John followed Sherlock's advice, curling up on the sofa. "Glass of orange juice would be great, too..."
"Fine. Give me a few minutes."
"Mind your experiments. I don't want... liver or-or whatever you're experimenting on in my soup..."
"John. Just let me cook."
John sighed, drawing his blanket over himself. Sherlock cooking...? John couldn't help but worry.
No offense intended towards Nicholas Sparks, anything related, or any fans. I feel like Sherlock would hate the really romantic stuff that I think tends to be Sparks's writing. =p As for Dexter, I got the idea that Sherlock might like the plot. I do not own anything Sparks related, I do not own Dexter, and I, as usual, do not own Sherlock.
More doctor!Lock will occur as John gets more ill (which he will... at least, slightly).
Reviews are appreciated. Thank you!