Sick: Sherlock
Featuring: Sherlock Holmes, Amelia Wilson, and John Watson.
Sherlock Homes was sick, that much was quite obvious to everyone, but for the stubbornly insistent detective. Amelia Wilson, for one, was growing quite bored of attempting to force Sherlock into finally admitting, after two days of listening to him sniffle and cough and sit hunched miserably on the couch, that he was ill, while the man utterly refused to accept that he was actually ill. She didn't know what his issue was; he looked like death warmed over as it was, his curls limp and lank from sweat, evidently from his refusal to even take anything for his ever increasing temperature, while his flesh was practically grey and his eyes bloodshot, with heavy, black circles beneath them. His voice sounded terrible, too, thick from congestion and horse from a no doubt painful throat.
And still, the man refused to admit that he was sick.
"Just face it, Sherlock," she sighed, for what must have been the eleventh time in three days, kohl lined eye steadily gazing at him from her seat in his usual armchair, Sherlock sitting hunched up in a near ball on the end of the sofa, his back turned to the room, "You're sick. You're human, it happens..."
"I am not sick!" his heavily congested voice was almost funny, and he sniffled, though without turning around to face the room.
"You sure sound and look sick to me, Sherlock," John cut in with a knowing expression, mingled with an exasperated eye roll when the sickly man coughed. It sounded rather like a dry bark. He rolled his eyes and crossed the room from the kitchen door to place his tea cup on the small table by his armchair, throwing the detective's back a look and crossing his arms across his chest, "Come on, Sherlock. You're just being childish now".
"I am not sick," Sherlock insisted thickly, finally unravelling himself enough to turn his head to look back to them, fixing them with a slightly glazed over, half-hearted glare, "I'm fine..." he briefly paused to cough into his sleeve of his silk dressing gown, only causing John to stare at him in disbelief and Amelia to reach up and rub her forehead. He sniffed and, attempting to give them a stern glare, said with a slightly horse huff, "I'm just tired".
"I don't doubt that you probably are," Amelia nodded, though her expression was tinged with something close to exasperation, "I could hear you coughing from my flat last night, it's a wonder any of us got sleep with that bark".
His tired, sickly gaze narrowed on her and he rolled himself onto his back, before struggling to pull himself up to a sitting position. It was almost pitiful to watch him dragging himself up right, Amelia very nearly rose to go to his aid, but she knew that he would only get more cross and, quite honestly, she felt too bad for him to push things right now. Once he was sitting upright, though still hunched over and giving her a glare from beneath his curls, he looked even worse than he had when he had originally dragged himself into the room and collapsed onto the couch, utterly ignoring his breakfast and any attempts from his friends for him to at least drink his tea. He sniffled, again, and Amelia had to bite down the sudden, possibly rather insensitive urge to burst into giggles at just how pathetic and so ordinarily human he looked. But she held herself back...he hadn't giggled at her when she had been sick the previous week, in fact, he had been rather sweet and taken care of her. She owed it to him.
"I am not sick, for the last time," he said as firmly as he possibly could manage, through his horse voice and stuffy nose, "And, if I was..." he narrowed his already narrowed eyes on Amelia, so that he surely couldn't possibly see her, "It would be all your fault, Amelia".
She smiled, guiltily, though she was a little to amused for it to be fully believable, "I never said it wasn't," she said with a light shrug, still smiling lightly at him, "But, to be fair, you were the one who decided to hang out in my sick bed. You kind of brought this upon yourself..."
"You asked me to sit with you," he reminded her pointedly, still glaring.
"I didn't ask you to fall asleep in my germ riddled bed, though. That was all you, Holmes".
"She makes a good point, Sherlock," John spoke up, his eyes oddly bright and his lips upturned into something close to a teasing smirk. He moved to sit down in his armchair, eyeing Sherlock with a small, knowing grin, "Why were you sleeping in Amelia's bed when she was sick?"
Sherlock sniffed and looked away from them both, attempting to clear his throat...before he quickly stopped and grimaced, as if it pained him, "I'm not sick," he told them, again, seemingly having no means of excusing his previous behaviour as he moved to drag himself up onto his feet, looking very much like death warmed up as he wobbled briefly. He attempted to cover it up by straightening his dressing gown, tugging it firmly around his slim frame, "I don't get sick".
John laughed, while Amelia scoffed loudly, "Everyone gets sick," the doctor shook his head, still laughing faintly.
Sherlock paused as he began moving to edge around the corner of the coffee table, giving them a serious frown, "I don't," he said with an almost bemused expression.
"You're seriously the most unbelievable man I have ever met," Amelia shook her head slowly in wonder, laughing slightly at she stared at him in open disbelief. He turned his frown onto her, "I mean, the superiority complex you Holmes's have is just amazing, but at least Mycroft owns up to his. You, on the other hand, would rather act like a child then admit the truth".
He gave her a cold glare...it likely would have been slightly more impactful, if it wasn't for his red, tired eyes and hunched shoulders, "I'm going to bed," he said in the most dignified tone he could possibly manage...it didn't work, John simply watched him with open amusement, while Amelia's eyebrows rose. He lifted his chin higher, trying and failing to look down his nose, mainly at Amelia, "I'll leave you two to amuse yourselves with your own utterly false deductions".
"You sure you don't want some Panadol first?" John asked him as he turned on his heel to lumber out of the room, his footsteps far more heavy and sluggish for the usually light footed detective.
"No, thank you," he replied stiffly over his shoulder, before coughing roughly, rather ruining his poor attempt at seeming perfectly healthy.
Amelia bit her red painted lip to try and stop herself from giggling, knowing that she really shouldn't be finding this whole thing as amusing as she was, but Sherlock sick and utterly refusing to just admit it, was really quite funny. She had never known a man to deny being ill as steadfast as Sherlock was, in her own experience, most men would practically claim that they were dying when they just simply had a bit of a sore throat and blocked nose, how many times had she found herself barely resisting the urge to whack one of her ex's when he was ill, because he wouldn't stop moaning about having a headache? Sherlock denying that he was ill, as childish and absurd as it was, at least he wasn't acting as if he was dying and insisting on being waited on by her and John, as she might have previously have expected from him.
"Well..." John smiled thinly, and moved to sit down in his armchair, picking up his tea cup as he crossed one jean clad leg over the other...the sound of Sherlock's bedroom door snapping shut echoed back to them. He gave Amelia a look, "He's definitely caught that virus you had last week".
"Apparently," she sighed slightly, feeling a little guilty about it, but she hadn't exactly told him to climb into bed with her and sleep. She had been a little clingy, though, which had been horribly embarrassing to have to face the next day, but Sherlock seemed determined to pretend as if it hadn't happened, so she followed his cues...until John gleefully began showing everyone and everything that moved the picture of the two of them sleeping that he had snapped. Lestrade had practically had a field day.
"So...how are you going to deal with him, Amelia?"
For a moment, Amelia merely looked at the fireplace, lost in thoughts and her ears ringing with Lestrade's cackles of delight...when it finally hit her just what John had just said. She blinked and her head snapped around to look at him, startled, causing the small, rounded black drop earrings to lightly swing. John was watching her with his eyebrows raised, smiling very slightly...no, smirking, more like it.
"Excuse me?" she narrowed her eyes at him, her tone growing sharper.
"You got him sick, you get to babysit him till he's better. Sounds like a fair deal to me".
She scoffed and crossed her arms across the front of the dark plum coloured, fitted dress she wore, "You're the doctor in our little group," she pointed out, "Isn't it your job to nurse and tend to us when we're sick or wounded?"
John smiled wider, "You're not paying me".
"I could".
"Amelia..." he shook his head, "Even you couldn't afford to pay me to look after a sick, totally in-denial Sherlock Holmes. There isn't enough money in the Bank of England for that".
"And you have a date with that cute little brunet you ran into at the shops the other day tonight, right?"
"That too," he nodded, taking a large gulp from his cup, while Amelia rolled her eyes and gave him a dirty glare. He sighed slightly, swallowing his mouthful and lowering his cup, "Amelia, it won't even be that bad, just keep trying to get him to drink, try and get some pain killers into him. He'll probably sleep for the rest of the day and evening, anyway. He just needs someone around to keep an eye on him".
Amelia's glare didn't waver, "You're his flatmate," she tried, "And a doctor, did I mention? Isn't it a part of one of your oaths to do no harm, hmm?"
"Me going on a date isn't placing Sherlock in harm, Amelia".
"No, but it may be placing my sanity dealing with a sick Sherlock at risk. Have you considered that?"
John gave her a sudden grin, one that was far to knowing and teasing for her liking, "I thought you two were getting along great?" he commented, mock innocently, "You looked very close snuggled up in bed together".
"I swear to God, John, I will upturn that tea cup over your head if you say one more word about that".
He grimaced very slightly, his teasing instantly fading as he seemed to recognise some truth to her threat, "Amelia..." he said slowly, almost pleadingly now, giving her a hopeful look and everything, "Please just keep an eye on Sherlock for a few hours. I'm not going to be out all night, just three, four hours..."
"That's a worrying sign," Amelia noted without any hint of her expression softening, eyeing him with a knowing look, "You're already not making plans for the date to go any longer than four hours, clearly you're really not as interested in her as you would like to act like you are. Probably because you hate her perfume".
"How...?" he began, gaping at her slightly, before he hastily shook his head and held up a hand to stop her, sighing, "No, don't...just don't. Please, Amelia..." he gave her another pleading look, "I'll owe you, big time".
Amelia pressed her red lips together and watched him closely, eyes narrowed in thought. She tapped her painted red fingernails on the right armrest, noting with some satisfaction that his eyes tracked the movement with a slightly exasperated flicker. She, at least, had hoped that when or if Sherlock ever got sick, she and John could handle it together, or John would just deal with it, being the doctor of their little group and having enough of a balance between being stern and gentle to possibly get through to Sherlock...evidently, that was not the case. It wasn't even the fact that she was being forced to take care of Sherlock that bothered her, it was more that she was being abandoned with the task, when she knew John was far better at it then her. But even she couldn't turn down a plea like that forever, sighing heavily and rolling her eyes.
"Fine!" she groaned, sounding like a moody teenager, she knew, but she didn't care. John instantly began smiling, making her give him a half-hearted glare, "Go on your bloody date, John. Enjoy it, because it's likely the only one you'll have with her, given you history".
"Thanks for the vote of confidence".
"Hush. You're leaving me to deal with a sick, grumpy Sherlock, let me express some of my bitterness".
...
An hour later, John was gone and Amelia found herself standing in the boy's mess of a kitchen, putting together a breakfast tray with a large glass of cold water on it, along with a white and blue bowl of chicken noodle soup. She paused to look it over, trying to brace herself for what she knew was about to come, before sighing. No point in waiting or putting it off, she had made a deal with John to at least try her best to look after Sherlock, and he had tried to take care of her, in his own way when she had been ill. This was just repaying the favour.
She picked up the tray and carried it out of the kitchen, off down the short hallway towards Sherlock's closed bedroom door. She heard a horrible, bark-like cough sound from behind it and grimaced. She used the tip of her platform, plum coloured heel to knock on the door, before using her elbow to awkwardly open the door, managing to somehow not slosh any soup or water all over the place. She quickly spotted Sherlock peering weakly up at her from beneath a bundle of blankets, curls more wild then ever and sweat coating his brow, catching in his hair. He blinked up at her, looking bemused by her presence.
"Dinner, Sherlock," she said in greeting, holding the tray up pointedly for him to see. He simply frowned vaguely up at her, "Chicken noodle soup. Everyone's stereotypical sick, food go to. Enjoy," she stepped closer to his bed, waiting for him to sit up or reach up to take it from her, but he didn't.
"I'm not sick".
"And I didn't cook this soup, technically I warmed it," she replied in much the same light, upbeat tone as before, still holding the tray before her pointedly, "Let's not get caught up on the details. Are you going to sit up for me?"
He continued to peer up her, frowning, "Why?" he grimaced as he coughed rather pathetically, ducking his head into his blanket, rather than extracting his hand...Amelia tried hard not to grimace, making a mental note to suggest to John that stripping Sherlock's bed when he did the next load of laundry might be wise.
"Because..." she sighed slightly, briefly closing her eyes and rolling them upwards, "John is on a date and he would positively kill me if he returned to find that I had left you to starve," she smiled faintly, "And I am reliably informed that he is an army doctor who has had quite a few bad days in his time. I have little desire to get on his bad side today".
Sherlock scoffed, though he broke off with another dry little cough, managing to still roll his eyes at her, "Your concern is overwhelming," he commented between sniffles.
"If I thought that expressing my concern for your health would truly work in any way to get you to do what I wished, then I would do so, Holmes. As it is, I rather think it would have the opposite effect. Now, please sit up and take your soup, my arms are getting sore".
"I'm not hungry".
Amelia sighed heavily, silently pleading for patience, "Alright," she said heavily, resigned, "Forget the soup," she glanced at the small dark stained, wooden bedside table that merely held a single very modern looking stainless steel lamp upon it, and moved to carefully place the tray upon it. It barely fitted, but she was confident it wasn't about to topple off and smash everything on the floor for her to clean. She straightened to fix Sherlock with a look...he looked almost, dare she say it, cute peering up over his blankets, hair messy and wild, eyes heavy with lack of sleep and sickness, cheeks flushed. She refused to let that thought cross her own features, however, "The least you can do is drink something, Sherlock".
He narrowed his tired eyes at her, "Why?"
"Dear God..." she groaned slightly, briefly squeezing her eyes shut and clenching her fists at her sides until her manicured nails nipped at her flesh, "It's like dealing with a six year old, it seriously is..."
"Go away, Amelia".
"No," she huffed, opening her eyes to fix him with a stern, annoyed glare, crossing her arms across her chest and stepping closer to the edge of his bed, until she was easily looming over him. He truly looked pathetic, even his poor attempt at a glare held little emotion in it, "You're ill, Sherlock, whether you bloody well wish to admit it, and you know what? I do actually care about you and don't wish for you to end up developing pneumonia because you refused to let anyone try and take care of you! You're an ex-smoker, for God's sake, your lungs are already compromised from that, never mind whatever else the years of drug use did to your system and you refusal to take care of yourself on a near daily bases, which I could only possibly imagine likely causes one to develop a higher chance of being likely to develop a severe infection. You could end up in hospital if you don't start letting us try and help you, Sherlock! Is that what you want?"
It was a little too late for Amelia to stop the rant once it had started, she really hadn't meant to basically lecture, at best, and rant at worst, at Sherlock about his current condition, but patience was something she was very good at in certain areas...dealing with this sort of thing was not something she was good at being patient with. She took health issues seriously, her dad had died from a heart attack that could have easily have been prevented had he simply listened to his doctors advice and changed his lifestyle, she had tried to get him to change and he hadn't listened to her, and seeing Sherlock basically refusing to accept that he was sick and refusing to so much as drink a bloody glass of water just to make her happy, it was just so incredibly frustrating to her. Sherlock was a pretty fit guy, for the fact that he skipped meals frequently and barely had a sleeping pattern that any normal person could survive enduring for a week, he still somehow managed to function largely and she knew that he worked out, he had rather defined muscles. Not that she noticed, but he did, okay? But his past history of also abusing his body with drugs and cigarettes also hadn't helped matters, she might not be a doctor but she understood that very well. Sherlock could end up getting seriously sick if he didn't take this seriously, the time to humour his denial was over.
Amelia was done.
Sherlock stared up at her, bloodshot eyes wide and his lips parted slightly, gaping at her with a slight look of shock and disbelief. He looked truly startled by her rant and Amelia, left breathing slightly more heavily then she cared to admit, cheeks warmed and fists clenched tightly now back down at her sides, couldn't help feeling a little flicker of guilt for basically shouting at a sick man. But...hey, she imagined that if it wasn't her, it would have been John, and John probably would have ended up using far more colourful language and threats, so maybe this was better. Maybe. Slowly, Sherlock blinked and his mouth closed, his eyes dropping from her to scowl slightly at the opposite wall of his bedroom at a large poster that seemed to depict a whole array of different bee species upon it.
"Can you pass me the glass of water?" he said, reluctantly and in a curiously very polite, formal tone. His scowl deepened, not matching his tone at all, "Please".
Amelia very nearly toppled off her heels in amazement, blinking rapidly as, almost without a thought, she silently leant down to pick up the chilled glass of water from the tray on the table, straightening to hand it out to him. He extracted a hand from his blankets and reached up to grasp it, still refusing to glance at her as he struggled to try and sit up right, his fingers brushing hers as he took the glass from her. His hand felt terribly hot, even a little sweaty, though she ignored it, watching silently and hopefully as he began drinking deeply, pausing here and there with a small grimace, but he drank the entire glass. He looked up to her, finally, glass empty and gave her a slightly annoyed glare.
"Happy?"
"Thank you," she said quietly, reaching out to take back the glass. He continued to glare at her, though he made little move to disappear back beneath the covers. He was wearing a dark grey T-shift, which was darkened with sweat and she grimaced slightly, "Will you please take something to take down your temperature, Sherlock?" she asked him, half-pleading.
He grimaced very slightly, before rolling his eyes, "Will you leave me alone if I do?" he sniffed.
"Once I'm happy that your temperature has gone done, yes".
Sherlock shot her a foul look, one that ordinarily she might have possibly have taken offence to, given that he hadn't looked at her like that in many, many months now since they're friendship had began to flourish and improve, but it was still, somehow, such a miserably poor attempt that it rather failed. He coughed into his blanket again and turned to scowl back at his bee poster.
"You will do what you feel you must, Amelia," he grumbled darkly, though it almost sounded funny, given how congested he was.
She flashed him a grin, taking little of what he had to say to heart, "You'll thank me when you don't end up in hospital," she said cheerfully, turning on her heel to walk away, glass still in hand.
Sherlock had nothing witty to say to that...Dear God, he was sicker then she thought, merely making a rather nasally, scoffing noise that dissolved into a cough. She slipped out of the room and back into the kitchen, quickly locating the packet of Panadol that she had left on the kitchen counter. She hadn't expected Sherlock to actually agree to take it for her; she was overjoyed that he had. If nothing else, it might take down his temperature and let him sleep off the worst of the virus, she hoped, anyway. It had helped her, she even thought that perhaps her cold and flu tablets might have helped...but they contained codeine, and given Sherlock history of drugs she was not about to go giving him that. She filled up the glass with more water from the fridge and returned to Sherlock's bedroom, two rounded pills in her hand.
He took them with little resistance, thankfully, though he still gave her a rather dark look as she pushed them into his hand. He swallowed them without reaching for the water...only to grimace and quickly reach for the glass, seemingly having been expecting to be able to dry swallow the tablets. Amelia smiled faintly as she watched him gulp down the water.
"Thank you, Holmes," she said gratefully, taking the glass back from him, partly full now, and settling it on the bedside table in easy reach for him. Seeing little point in standing around all day, and her arches starting to hurt from standing up in her heels for so long, she moved to plant herself on the edge of his bed, acutely aware of him watching her with a deep frown. She lifted and eyebrow and glanced back around his bed room, "Your room...it is in desperate need of a feminine touch".
The walls were a horrible, old fashioned green wallpaper, which she supposed couldn't be helped until Mrs Hudson could agree to change it, but it was a room with good bones. Darkly stained floorboards, large and with two windows looking out and down into the courtyard below that held Mrs Hudson's washing line and bins. The lace curtains were ugly, but not terribly bad, while even Sherlock's choice in furniture wasn't too bad. His bed was very large, the frame dark wood stained with matching tables, while an antique wardrobe sat in the corner with a mirror in the door, a second, slightly lighter stained wood dresser sitting on the other side of the bed against the wall. The walls had posters on them, framed insects and Japanese prints, but it was all very masculine feeling and neat.
"I think I'd prefer to go to hospital," Sherlock groaned slightly, giving her a flat look, "Anything but listen to your critiques on my decor," he mimicked her lightened Irish accent, though it failed horribly.
She grimaced, "Don't ever try to sound like me again," she told him, "Especially not while sounding that congested. That was just embarrassing".
He paused, considering it, seemingly, before sighing and sinking deeper into his pillows, "Very likely," he muttered with a long, dragged out sigh through his lips, sniffling slightly. She silently reached for the tissue box she had also included on the tray and plucked a tissue out of it, holding it out to him. He took it without glancing her, "Thank you".
"You're welcome," she smiled, returning to observing his room, while he dabbed at his nose.
"This whole thing is".
She frowned at that, then, and looked back to him to find him with his head now leaning back against his pillows, eyes shut and a grimace still upon his face, "What was that?"
He pulled a face, "Embarrassing," he finally said through almost clenched teeth, mouth barely moving, making it near impossible to understand him, though Amelia managed. He made a vague gesture towards himself, eyes still firmly shut, "Me, being like...this".
"You mean sick?" she gave him a look.
He cracked an eye open to look at her, "Yes," he gritted out.
She smiled very slightly and shook her head, "You're human, Sherlock," she said softly, almost fondly, and without much thought she reached out to touch his hand as it laid on the grey sheets of his bed. His flesh still felt warm, but she thought it might be cooler and she noted that the feverish glow in his eyes and the flush in his cheeks seemed to have lessened, his gaze slightly more focused now. It immediately dropped down to her hand at her touch, his eyebrows darting up, before his features smothered out. She ignored it, still smiling at him, "Getting sick is not a weakness or something even you can avoid. It happens. Get over it".
He looked away from her again, his teeth briefly gritting, before he sighed heavily through his lips...Amelia almost wished she had a mask or something, "This is still all your fault," he looked back to her, then, and for the first time all day he actually looked a little lighter, a little more his usual self, if a very tired, worn-out version.
"You're the one who climbed into my bed and fell asleep in my germs".
"I took pity on you," he huffed slightly, giving her a glare, one that held little heat or anger, "You were so pathetically ill, Amelia, you seemed liable of chocking on your own tongue while attempting to breathe through your mouth".
Amelia laughed slightly at that and gave him a rather pointed look, "How the tables turn," she said with a smirk, making a sweeping gesture towards him.
He gave her a dirty look, sniffling, "I thought you were supposed to be looking after me," he grumbled, reaching for another tissue, using it to wipe his nose.
"I am," she rolled her eyes slightly, lifting an eyebrow, "Chicken soup?"
Sherlock paused, casting his eyes back over towards the tray, the bowl of soup sitting upon the tray still...he eyed it carefully, "...do we have any bread?" he asked with a slightly thoughtful frown.
...
John returned by ten that night, looking rather miserable and gloomy, only to find Amelia sitting with her legs curled up beneath her on the boys sofa, cup of tea clasped between her hands and a blanket from her flat draped over her bare legs, watching the late news. John immediately moved to flop onto the empty seat beside her and she merely glanced at him from the corner of her eye.
"Don't ask," he muttered, shaking his head and reaching up to tiredly rub his face.
Her lips lifted, her face clean of makeup, "Sherlock finally admitted he was sick," she said instead of responding, taking a small sip of her tea, face still turned towards the TV, which showed some celebrity embroiled in another cheating scandal.
"Oh, good," Amelia suddenly started laughing, causing John to frown and turn his head to look at her, giving her a bemused stare, "What?"
"Oh..." she giggled slightly, "It's just...who would have thought my evening looking after a sick Sherlock would turn out better than your date? I mean, that's got to say a lot, right?"
John could only stare at her, while she continued giggling into her tea cup, watching the TV. She was pleased she had spent the evening with Sherlock; at the end of it all...he wasn't that bad, frustrating and stubborn, and terribly prideful, but he was alright. She enjoyed his company, even if it was a very congested and sickly one.
Ever heard of the whole saying that you only really know if you've found a keeper if you can still be around them when they're sick? I feel like this implies to Sherlock and Amelia. And, of course, I could only ever imagine that Sherlock being sick would include a lot of denial about him being sick, and much frustration of everyone else's part for it. I hope you guys enjoyed this one-shot, let me know if you have any ideas or suggestions. Tell me what you thought, please review :)