A/N: This 221B sickfic is for Ashtrees! Thank you for the suggestion, I hope it lives up to your expectations! I aim to please :) in return, I ask only for a review!
A Dramatic Patient
Sherlock Holmes had been confined to a couch, wrapped in a tight ball of something that felt oddly like his silk bed sheet. His hands were bound… at least they felt so; achy and old, like the bones had aged twenty-years without his permission.
His nose was running uncontrollably, like a constant nosebleed yet he didn't feel injured, he felt drained.
There was a brush of something on his cheek; it felt strangely like soft lips. Light sounds danced by his pale ears but never made it inside to be deciphered. He thought he heard "soup" but it passed by too quickly.
Suddenly his throat was engulfed by fire.
He could have sworn he was being forced to drink pure acid. He'd have bet his life's work on it.
The taste was vulgar, the liquid felt hot; unwelcomed, it burned a trail of lava down Sherlock's throat. He tried sputtering a protest. He could hear a distant voice but tones and fluctuations of cadence were scratchy; they made the detectives head throb.
"John… John, I think I'm dying…"
Opening his heavy eyes Sherlock saw the blurry face, barely distinguishing soft blue eyes and an infuriating smirk spreading under them.
"You're always so bloody dramatic, Sherlock."
With that Sherlock pouted childishly with his full lips, and the Doctor stuffed a thermometer between.