Irritating Illnesses
Sherlock had been sitting at the countertop for the better part of five hours. He hadn't so much as shifted position within that time, his eyes locked on the lens in his microscope. He was working on an experiment- critical, although not for a case- and had finally managed to get the correct reaction. It had taken far too long, too many error-fraught test runs and even more slow reaction time, but the correct reaction was halfway finished.
He shifted slightly, replacing his previous position for something more comfortable. His neck had a crick in it, his back was aching, and his arms were numb from lack of use.
Sherlock stubbornly ignored it, keeping his gaze fixed on the reaction happening under the microscope.
Ten minutes later, he sat up a little straighter, trying to inconspicuously crack his back without taking his eyes off the experiment. It accomplished nothing but sending little shockwaves of pain through his body.
He resisted the urge to groan, but permitted an annoyed sigh.
Stupid transport.
He kept his eyes on the experiment.
It was just nearly an hour later that a small tickle started in his throat. He tried to ignore it to the best of his ability, swallowing reflexively to wash the irritate away. Saliva had no effect, so when the tickle got demanding, he cleared his throat.
The tickle only got worse over the period of another ten or so minutes and, although he tried clearing his throat again, nothing seemed to help it.
Thankfully, his experiment had finally finished its reaction, and he hurriedly scrawled down some notes in accompaniment, before sliding to his feet.
He stretched his arms above his head, causing his back to crack and pop. He wrung his hands together, snapping his knuckles, raising his hand to his mouth as he yawned. It was just past seven o' clock, he noted, and he was feeling the exhaustion from the past five days with little sleep.
"Finally tired?"
Sherlock glanced up towards the half-closed kitchen doors, noticing John leaning against one of them.
"I heard you moving about, figured you must have tore yourself away from your pressing experiment." John's voice was full of sarcasm.
Sherlock only turned away, stifling another yawn, as he prepared to put the kettle on.
"I'll take that as a yes," John muttered. "Well, I'm turning in early, so long as you're finished with that experiment."
Sherlock waved him away, fumbling through the cabinet for a clean teacup. The tickle in his throat still hadn't gone away; it was, however, nothing that a good cup of tea wouldn't handle.
"So, you're still not talking, then. Nice." John pushed the door aside, striding into the kitchen. "Make me a cup of tea while you're at it, will you?" He strode by, heading down the hall.
"If you're going to have a cup of tea, there's no point in brushing your teeth. If you put sugar in it, it'll just replace the sugar content..." Sherlock said. He nearly flinched, however, when a path of pain tore up his throat like burning flames.
"Chamomile," was all John said in return, the solitary snap of the bathroom door closing punctuating the statement.
Really needing that cup of tea, Sherlock quickly rinsed out the teapot, added the leaves, and followed it with the water. He irritably placed the lid back on and stretched again. Picking up his notes, he carefully started to sort through the many scribbles he had jotted down during his experiment, but he found his interest was lacking with the post-experiment phase. He was exhausted, his throat was aching, and his body was still protesting its mistreatment from the past six and a half hours. He really just wanted to take his cup of tea and be off to bed, although a long soak in a very hot bath didn't sound terrible.
Finally, when the tea had brewed, he poured himself a cup and took a hurried drink. It did little to help the pain- in fact, the water was still quite hot- but when the initial pain of the water had worn off, it helped to settle the ache in his throat into a dull ache.
He sighed pleasantly before taking another sip.
"I thought you didn't like chamomile," John said as he walked back into the kitchen. He walked to the counter and poured himself his own cup of tea, pausing to breath in the vapours of the steam.
Sherlock gave a slight shrug. "It'll do." Pain once again flared in his throat and he took another gulp of his tea, one that didn't go unnoticed by John.
"You know," John said, sipping at his own tea, "if you wouldn't sit there like a lump for over six hours, you wouldn't be so thirsty when you finally remember that you're human."
"Hm," Sherlock said in lieu of a response. He took another drink before starting back to his bedroom. He felt sluggish; his feet felt heavy and his body wanted to take a nap, immediately. It wasn't uncommon. He often found himself exhausted at the end of a case or important experiment, 'unhealthily so', as John had once said. Sherlock didn't mind it.
"Goodnight to you, too," John said. Sherlock thought he sounded amused.
Sherlock waved a hand as a dismissive 'goodnight' as he trudged the distance to his warm, inviting bed.
I must thank Storylover18 profusively for the idea for this fic. And I won't tell you all the idea, either, because that will be revealed in later chapters! I'll just say that it's not a common cold. And there's not much to go on this chapter, but this is only the prologue!
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