Sick Days
I’ve come down with the flu, so… that’s the inspiration for this! Wanted to write a little something.
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Sherlock wakes with a sore throat and he instantly feel a surge of disappointment.
Sickness. Tedious.
Of course, a sore throat won’t stop him, especially since he also sees that he got a text from Lestrade, advertising a case for him.
Before going out, Sherlock drinks plenty of water, striving to make this laughable setback disappear.
Sherlock and John go to the case and John keeps setting his eyes on Sherlock, noticing his slightly red cheeks and how his eyelids are droopy.
“You alright, love?” John asks quietly in the cab.
It takes a second to acknowledge that John is speaking to him due to his hazy state. He turns and blinks slowly at the blogger. “Hm?”
John pauses in suspicion. “Are you alright?” He asks again.
Sherlock nods, looking away. “Fine.”
John puts the back of his hand to Sherlock’s head, feeling him. “God, Sherlock, you’re burning up!”
Sherlock huffs and shrugs him off. “John, I’m fine.”
They arrive at the crime scene and Lestrade leads them to the body. Sherlock looks down at it and gains more frustration when he can find nothing. Deductions usually pop up quickly for him, like sprouts. But as he kneels down and scans the body, he finds nothing popping up. Nothing at all. Sherlock can only see a dead woman.
Lestrade stands beside him, looking down uncertainty. “Uh… anything?”
Sherlock stands, but as he does, a wave of dizziness hits him. He closes his eyes for a moment, trying to gain steadiness. He opens his eyes again and tries to think of something, anything.
“She- She was… married,” Sherlock concludes, starting to feel uncomfortably hot.
Lestrade furrows his brows. “Uh- yes. Yes, she was. We interviewed her husband.”
“Yes,” Sherlock agrees in a low voice. “Of course.”
Silence draws out within the room.
Sherlock swallows and winces, pain advancing through his throat.
“Sherlock.” John’s voice soothes through his thoughts. “You sure you’re okay?”
Sherlock nods, rolling his shoulders. “Yes. Um- the woman. She… seems to have… have been killed with a knife wound…”
Sherlock trails off, feeling slightly hazy. God, this is exhausting. Why is this so exhausting? It shouldn’t be exhausting.
“I think that’s our cue to leave,” John says, putting a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “He’s been burning up since this morning.”
“Sherlock!” Lestrade scolds. “You shouldn’t be at a bloody crime scene when you feel like death.”
Sherlock rolls his eyes, but even that hursts his head. “You both are being quite over dramatic.”
“No, we’re being sensible,” John corrects him. He squeezes his shoulder. “How about this, Lestrade will deliver you the case files and you can observe them in bed.”
Sherlock sighs in complaint. He tries to argue with John, but he knows it’s useless. Finally, he readily agrees, too tired to voice any more disagreement.
Sherlock and John head back to 221B and once they are finally in their warm flat, Sherlock can’t help but feel a sense of relief.
“Alright, you.” John takes off his coat, then helps Sherlock with his. “You’re going to lay down and I will hear none of it, hm?”
“Oh, John, you’re—“
“I said I will hear none of it,” John reminds him, hanging their coats up.
John adjusts the pillows and blankets on the sofa, and Sherlock reluctantly lays down. Once his head hits the pillow, he instantly sighs in contentment, shifting to get in the most comfortable position he can muster. He faintly feels a hand on his forehead, then a thermometer in his mouth.
John makes a displeased noise. “Too high. Much too high.”
Sherlock hums. “Are you going to play doctor with me?”
John chuckles. “I am. Have a problem with it?”
Sherlock gives a small grin. “I may.”
“Well, then, that’s just too bad,” John teases, kneeling down to get eye-level with Sherlock. “Because I’m going to play doctor hard with you.”
Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Do not say it like that.”
John only grins and presses a kiss to the detective’s lips. Sherlock yanks his head back incredulously. “John! I don’t wish to get my germs on you in my state.”
“Don’t worry. I’m a doctor; I’m immune to sickness.”
“I don’t think that’s how that works.”
“It is now,” John whispers, pressing another kiss to his head. “I’m making you soup and you’re eating it.”
The rest of the day, John takes care of Sherlock, making sure he eats (even if he’s only getting the broth of the soup in his stomach) and bundling him up in blankets.
Sherlock huffs and complains, claiming that he doesn’t need assistance. But then again, John hardly ever listens to Sherlock.
Hours pass and Sherlock wakes up from a nap he didn’t even know he fell into. As he blinks his eyes open, the first thing he notices is his throat. He swallows and it’s as if needles are poking through his skin. His lips are dry and his head is foggy.
That’s the thing Sherlock hates the most.
His brain being in this state.
He isn’t able to properly think. And in a way… that frightens him.
He catches sight of the window and notices it’s already dark out. He makes a groan of complaint as he shifts under the heavy blankets.
John hears him from where he’s sitting on his chair. “How are you feeling?”
“Marvelous,” Sherlock murmurs in a dry voice.
John sighs, setting his laptop down. “I’m sorry, love. Do you need anything?”
Sherlock is about to shake his head, but he pauses. Instead, he reaches his limp hand out, gesturing to John.
John grins and stands, making his way over to the detective. Gently, he lifts Sherlock up and settles behind him, resting his back on the arm of the sofa. He positions his legs on either side of Sherlock, wrapping his arms around his middle. Sherlock releases a shaky sigh, resting his back on John’s chest. John hums, running his hand up and down his side. “Look at you. So snuggly when you’re sick,” John observes.
Sherlock doesn’t have the energy to banter, so he only denies it with a, “Hardly.”
John laughs softly, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Mhmm. I’m sure.”
Before Sherlock can say anything, he’s interrupted by his own cough. Oh, for the love of all that is good, he’s coughing now? Tiresome.
“Oh, darling,” says John softly. “I should go get you some medicine.”
Sherlock holds John’s hand tighter, leaning his head back to look at him properly. “Don’t go,” Sherlock pleads in a rough voice. “Please.”
John stares at him for a moment, a bit in bemusement, then smiles and settles back down. “Okay. I won’t. I’ll stay here and get sick with you.”
“I thought you were immune?”
“Sick with love,” John elaborates.
“Ugh. How sentimental,” Sherlock grumbles.
“Git. You love it.”
Sherlock sighs, resting his head on John’s shoulder. “I’m afraid I do.”