This is my first Sherlock fic and my first fic in ages in general. I am so freaking excited to return to this half-dead fandom and I hope I find many new friends in it! I've been sick the past few days and I have a soft spot for Johnlock whump and doctor John. Title is from Shakeaspeare's Sonnet 57. Constructive criticism would make my day! Happy holidays everyone 3
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JOHN
People tend to forget there are certain crimes I, too, can get to the bottom of using the art of deduction. Crimes such as those committed directly by different strains of the common rhinovirus, let's say. Even Sherlock Holmes forgets about this ability of mine, sometimes. Today is such an instance.
I watch him walk into the kitchen in the morning fully dressed, always ready to storm out of the house and into a cab at the most unorthodox times of day (not that wearing nothing but his birthsuit and a sheet has stopped him from visiting the freaking Buckingham Palace in the past).
Hair product: check. Pressed shirt: check (honestly, I can't seem to fathom how a person so adamantly set on starving himself through sheer negligence manages to always have impeccably ironed shirts). Cologne: check. Too much in fact, which indicates that Sherlock couldn't smell it on himself, as well as that he made an effort. Could he be attempting to impress anyone? Impossible. Even if he was interested in someone, he'd always mind the amount of his cologne - he wouldn't be caught dead looking overzealous. He didn't make an effort to look good, no. He made an effort to look like he's got his shit together, to distract from the dark circles under his eyes, the pallor of his face and the open-mouthed breathing, deep, calculated, yet shaky, an obvious result of trying to swallow down the beginnings of a cough.
Sherlock is sick and trying to conceal it like a teenager, simply to avoid being fretted over. Chasing murderers around London in the rain like an idiot.
I let him fumble with the kettle and don't even flinch when he drops a tupperware full with eyeballs on the floor. I let him pick it up, eternally grateful for airtight plastic covers. I hear him groan. "There's some toast ready on the counter," I shout over my newspaper. "Whether it's sanitary to eat anything in there is another story," I mumble, mainly to myself.
Dishevelled Sherlock is oddly endearing. His efforts to appear unaffected by a human ailment are cute, and I try to silence the constant worrying as I leave him in peace for the rest of the day: it's probably just a cold. Sherlock gets them too, apparently, and I know better than testing his patience. I have been well trained.
I don't take my eyes off of him for the rest of the day. I know he knows that, and chooses not to address it. He must be feeling miserable. I nonchalantly offer some paracetamol on our way out - of course he's going out - and I watch him as he rubs his temple, clears his throat repeatedly, and loosens the scarf around his neck. Lestrade notices too. Donovan sneers that he should keep his germs away from us. Did we find something Sherlock Holmes is bad at, apart from social conventions?
Throughout the day I get the urge to lean over him and press two fingers on his carotid, to put a hand on his forehead as he kneels by a corpse, peer inside his throat with a light, and assess the damage. But I don't dare.
I know a lot about Sherlock's health but I've had to be very strategic about the process of acquiring the data. For someone who has unanimously been proclaimed as Sherlock's doctor, I haven't had the chance to examine him as much as one would imagine. I should probably be grateful about the fact that he almost never gets sick. The occasional press of his fingers against the inside of his wrist or his carotid, as well as some peering with a light in disoriented blue eyes after a nearby explosion or an attempted strangulation, and that's about it. All of it done mostly when Sherlock was unconscious, delirious, or concussed.
It's the first time that Sherlock serves as more of a distraction rather than a genius in a crime scene. Lestrade sends us home after Sherlock can't seem to go anywhere with his monologue about Thai food, cadmium, and George Augustus Polgreen Bridgetower. He is furious in the cab, can't get over the fact that he, too, can get mind fog every now and then. I stay silent and nod along to his rambling occasionally as illustrations of the respiratory system from the Netter Collection pass before my eyes. Must focus. Must. Be. Efficient.
I manage to slide a hand under his curls and feel him running a low grade fever right after he drops himself in his armchair and huffs, still wearing his coat. I put on the kettle and bring him his robe which he snatches from my hand. "What's your poison?" I offer. "Paracetamol? Ibuprofen?"
"No," he snaps, looking around frantically for the photos given to him by the Yard. I've dealt with petulant children before but they usually shut up when presented with a Babar band-aid or a lollipop.
I stand before him, hands resting on my hips. "Will you let me look you over?"
"No."
"I thought as much. Sherlock." I realize I've raised my voice to get his attention, but I immediately regret it because he has an obvious headache. I walk up to him and grab his shoulders. He stops dead at his tracks and raises his head to face me, breathing heavily, which is making a strand of hair that's hanging over his eyes move back and forth with his respiratory rate.
"Sherlock. Go to bed. You have a fever."
"You have a fever," he spits out. I wince at his foreshadowing, wiping the germs that have landed on my face. He shakes off my grip and heads upstairs, leaving me standing in the middle of the living room.
I can't deal with this. Nope. I will have some tea and watch the five year old in the lanky body of a giant as he lands himself to the hospital. He always has complete disregard for the worry he brings on us. Oh, he's running the shower. Clever. That will bring down his temperature. He knows how to take care of himself, he just won't bother.
I sit in front of the telly and put on Still Game. I text Carol and we talk about our date later tonight. My flirting game is only starting to get good when I hear a loud thud from upstairs. The water has stopped running.
The timing of the man.
My mind is invaded by the most horrible scenarios as I fly up the stairs and rush into the bathroom, where I find the mighty Sherlock Holmes in all his naked glory - save for an emerald green towel wrapped around his waist, thank god - lying in an empty yet wet bathtub with his head against its porcelain wall, looking… disoriented to say the least, white long limbs sprawled over the porcelain in weird angles, one leg half hanging out. Every few seconds Sherlock presses his eyes shut and groans softly.
"Jee-sus Sherlock," I hear myself shouting as I kneel by the bathtub, shifting my weight on my good knee and throwing my arms around his naked, burning flesh, trying to help him sit up. My hand flies to his radial pulse, feeling the blood thrum frantically beneath my fingers. "Did you hit your head?" he shakes it and I wonder whether I should believe him. My fingers slide between the damp curls and palpate the back of his head. No sensitivity there. "Okay, stand up now, here you go, big boy," I groan. Sherlock is heavier than I can handle, but I manage to help him out of the bathtub and steady him momentarily against the wall. Sherlock has thrown an arm around me and is leaning his weight on my weary body as we stumble to his bedroom. My mind is racing - I expect his is currently not, for a change. I try hard not to merely drop him like deadweight on the explosion of tangled sheets and blankets on his bed although I'd very much like to. Exasperation and worry fight for dominance inside me - who knows what other delightful combination of sentiments I have yet to experience. With Sherlock I don't need therapy anymore. He simply drives me to my limits so often that constant introspection has become my second nature: it is a survival strategy, albeit an annoying one.
Because, to survive as Sherlock's flatmate, friend and colleague, while constantly fighting off a crush on the detective, one has to be careful of their feelings. Because of course I am attracted to him, there are many a thing a man can ignore and arousal is not one of them (except if he's Sherlock, maybe), especially when the detective's conception of boundaries and intimacy is so… distorted. Sherlock will not be caught dead admitting to his human feelings about anything, not even to his best friend, but at the same time he doesn't mind asking him to shove hands in his pockets to retrieve a phone, or walking around in various states of undress as one of his whims.
This time, of course, is different. New. Sherlock has fallen in the bathtub because of course he did, trying to shower alone with a raging fever, simply to bring it down so that Mrs. Hudson or I wouldn't notice it. His pale body will probably bruise. He's barely conscious, and he's nuzzling his face in the crook of my shoulder.
"Stay with me," I command him, covering him back with the towel that is threatening to come off at his waist, and "you need to put some clothes on". I stand up, frantic in my motions, not flustered, and fumble on the pile of clothes on his chair, managing to retrieve a pair of pyjama bottoms and a shirt with no obvious human matter on. I help the ailing damsel into her clothes, trying to stay as clinical as possible, repeating the mantra that he's just a patient but Sherlock is not just a patient. He seems to be coming around, looking more conscious and alert despite the glassy eyes, although he is now starting to shake and is broken in half by a coughing fit I really don't like the sound of. I should have noticed this earlier.
"I'm fine," he protests breathlessly between the coughs.
"Like hell you are," I mumble and push him back against the pillows before standing up and making my way to my room where I retrieve the thermometer, a pocketlight and my stethoscope from my bag. I rush back to Sherlock's dimly lit bedroom, hoping to find him where I left him. Of course he's already sat up and fumbling with the sheets. Good. I sit on the edge of the bed and palpate his neck. "Stay still, please, Sherlock." Lymph nodes: swollen. "There is nothing wrong with me so stop fretting!" he shouts. Idiot. He's gonna regret the shouting with that throat and it will serve him just right. "Open up." I stay focused and determined to ignore his protests as I put my thumb on his chin. "You're gonna regret this," Sherlock hisses but complies, even sticks his tongue out without me telling him as if to mock me, and I peer into his mouth with the light. Geez, the state of that throat. "Oh am I," I mutter, shoving the thermometer between his lips and tapping his chin shut before he has a chance to react. He rolls his eyes as I reach for his radial again. Impossible. That man is impossible. His blood thrums under my fingers and the hands on my watch chase it to no avail. 130 bpm. 39,2. Feverish, furious, frantic, Sherlock.
"Lean a bit forward, I want to have a listen to that mess." He snorts at the sight of my stethoscope, what a dick, maybe I should let him get pneumonia instead. "Sherlock," I tug on the hem of his shirt and he unexpectedly complies, lifting it up while leaning forward. I know I'm gonna have to suffer for this when he feels more like himself.
"You need a new one, you know, this is practically useless."
"My littmann is still extremely reliable, thank you very much." Of course he's used my stethoscope in his experiments without my consent. I wish I had disinfected it before sticking the pieces in my ears. I press the diaphragm on his back without warming it up and without a warning. I am allowed some spite every now and then, am I not? He hisses at the cold but proceeds to take in a deep, shaky breath, without even being prompted to. I tut and move the metal piece on the other side. "If you wanted to feel me up you could have just asked," he mumbles, before breathing in again. "Don't flatter yourself," I say. "Now out." He exhales. "Better just smash a hammer in my head, put me out of my misery. This is tedious!" I move the stethoscope around his hunched back, feeling the heat radiating from his insides as the side of my thumb brushes against skin, saying nothing about the fact that he's talking on purpose while I'm listening to everything in Dolby surround, so that my ears will suffer. So vengeful, that man and his dignity.
I take my time listening to the majestic whooshing of the air inside Sherlock's lungs, trying my best to ignore the desire pooling in the pit of my belly, making me want to kiss the arrogance off his face and slap it at the same time.
Of course I am attracted to Sherlock Holmes. I'm not gay but I'm definitely bi and have acknowledged my attraction to friends of mine before. That's it. Sherlock is just a friend to whom I find myself inexplicably attracted and I'll just have to live with it, as I've done in the past.
Then of course, no friend of mine has ever outdone me in diagnosing his illness.
"It's bronchitis," he rolls his eyes as I lower his shirt, satisfied, and push him back against the pillows.
"Yes it is," I confirm, sliding the stethoscope under his shirt and placing it firmly on his pulmonic. This time he does not protest, almost leans into the touch, god help me. Something jolts in my stomach as I move to the triscupid and my head is filled with the frantic contractions of the muscle. I can hardly control my other hand that comes to rest on his arm, rubbing his skin reassuringly with my thumb. I can see he is suffering - not even he can ignore it anymore. Is this the only kind of intimacy Sherlock leans into? Clinical?
God he must be touch-starved. I must bring his heart rate down.
Our eyes meet when I move to the apex of his heart, gathering and storing data that might be useful in this insane journey as the doctor of the greatest detective alive. His hummingbird heart is thrumming beneath my fingers as we maintain eye contact. He looks calmer, reassured, and is this… taken aback? Is this vulnerability? I find myself wishing that, in his current state, he won't be able to diagnose my own tachycardia just from looking at my nostrils or something equally absurd.
"Good. You're doing good," I mutter, failing to hold back a smile, continuing to stroke his arm until his cough returns to deafen me. "You're gonna be fine, Sherlock" I lean closer to him. "I know," he rasps out as I take the earpieces out and set my ratty yet trustworthy littmann on his nightstand still feeling a bit butthurt. Show off, although I make a mental note to browse online for a new stethoscope later, some change wouldn't hurt. "Chest x-ray?" I suggest half-heartedly: I know it is futile.
"No," he asserts with what voice he has left, sinking deeper into his pillows. I pull his blankets back up to save what's left of his sore dignity. "No antibiotics needed, this is viral. Just bring me the antypyretics and something for the cough."
I hold my hands up in resignation. "You are the doctor after all," I say. "I will need your full history before writing you a prescription."
"Call Mycroft," Sherlock mumbles under his covers. I can't help but smile again, glad he cannot see me this time because I'm feeling a bit like an idiot.
"That I will," I tell him. "No need to worry about it. I'll go get you some paracetamol before I drop to the pharmacy to get some cough syrup, okay?" God, was that tiny sound a whimper? That man is gonna be the death of me.
I pat the wrapped bundle on the bed somewhat awkwardly and help myself up. When I return to his room with the pills and some water a moment later, I find him fast asleep.
Good man, I think, satisfied. And, what a day.
SHERLOCK
Of course I can't smell the tea before he brings it up, of course I can't focus on the thud of his steps on the stairs and I miss this, I am totally unprepared when he pushes my door open with the weight of his left shoulder as he balances the tray with the pills and the beverage in his hands.
Faulty transport. Can't be unprepared. Can't be taken aback. Must solve this, must think.
Head is throbbing, god I hate this, bring the happy pills already, good doctor, and make this torture end.
"You know, you don't have to think all the time," John answers to my thought, lowering the tray on the nightstand and pulling the chair with all the clothes closer to my bed. "You can let this head of yours rest, take a day off, watch some telly without yelling at it. We could watch a true crime show without you taking it apart for once, or a rom-com without you dissecting people's emotions to their hormonal compounds."
"Wordy," I roll my eyes at him. Dizzy. Great, now he's touching my forehead again. "38,5," I provide helpfully, but he produces the bloody thermometer again. This is useless.
I didn't need to watch him watching me all day to know that he has been. I knew that he knew I was sick from the get go, astute as ever, and I only went and made a fool of myself by showering with cologne. Weak. Unreliable transport. Must start taking vitamins regularly if I want to prevent this from happening again: John getting his hands up my shirt.
Although god all I want to do right now is be felt up again by John Watson, to be prodded everywhere, palpated and listened to. Delirious. Feverish. Weak, weak transport.
He peers at the thermometer with perverse satisfaction. "You are wrong!"he says cheerfully. "It's lower, 38,2. No wonder you're feeling all better already."
"I've got you to thank, don't I?" I shut my eyes and press the heels of my hands against my throbbing meninges.
"Drink your tea, Sherlock," his voice feels soft against the bumpy terrain of my migraine. I feel his hand reaching for mine. He's calculating, he is uncertain of the unspoken boundaries, and eventually decides to pull it back after squeezing mine briefly. His hands return holding the tea. I sit up and take it from him. I down a sip and wince when I swallow, but the honey soothes my throat. He hands me the pills from the tray.
The tea gives me some clarity. How had I not noticed that John hasn't even had lunch today. Must feed him. He's been watching Still Game. Desperate - god, I've manage to bore him. He's also called off his date. Sheryl. Ginny. No, it was Carol, as suggested by the Siamese hair that's been on his jumper for three days, renewed after wearing it fresh from the laundry. I'm glad he cancelled his date, she's not good enough for John. I should save him time and let him know she's slept with her cousin. I want to ask John to stay in my bedroom forever, cross-legged on top of the pile of clothes on my chair, but I'd never admit that. "You're good at this," I say instead.
"Ta. It's my job, you know."
"I'll buy us a new one for Christmas."
"Us? My stethoscope is mine, Sherlock, and it's not a toy."
"I must make sure you have all the latest gear for whenever you feel like fretting."
"Are you planning to make a habit of getting bronchitis just so that you can have my attention?" he raises a quizzical eyebrow. He's in a good mood. I should let him take charge more often.
"I don't have to do anything to have your attention, John." A three-year-old could observe this.
"Have you ever been told that you're insufferable?"
"You might have mentioned it here and there."
"Go to sleep, Sherlock," he says softly and, to my dismay, gets up and pats my shoulder. This is humiliating. He walks to the door and seems to hesitate for a while. He then turns around and grins softly. "Thank you for letting me look after you," he says.
Noble. Chivalrous. John.
"Anytime." It's meant mockingly, but I scare myself with how genuine I sound. Weak.
John shakes his head incredulously, smile not leaving his face, before turning around and shutting the door behind him.
I remind myself that this would never work, him and I. This is for the best.
But then again, no harm in having some fun every now and then. I smile at an idea about my next strep throat experiment, and eventually lull myself to sleep, thinking of the tachycardia John developed while examining me.