Tea & Sympathy || Sherlock (BBC) || John/Sherlock || PG-13 ||
Title: Tea & Sympathy
Author: _doodle
Fandom/Genre: Sherlock (BBC 2010) FPS
Pairing: Sherlock Holmes / John Watson
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,400
Summary: He’d not expected anything less of Sherlock, certainly not that he would actually listen to the trained medical professional. (No spoilers)
Beta: wenchpixie (Thank you!)
Notes: This my first time out in this fandom. It's been a real challenge moving away from my comfort zone and finding new voices for John and Sherlock, but I've really enjoyed it. This is for angelnetgirl who requested some John/Sherlock fluff/snuggling/kissing on the flat's sofa and I just had to provide it!
“You should be in bed,” John said sternly as he passed through the living room and into the kitchen. Sherlock was still in the same position on the sofa that John had left him in; stretched out under the heavy blanket John had borrowed from Mrs Hudson that morning and head rested against the arm.
Dropping the Tesco’s bag on the kitchen counter he listened for a moment, using the time it took Sherlock to retort to judge just how sick he was. It took longer than usual; John had unpacked the tins of cream of chicken soup, a loaf of long life bread and four pints of milk before he heard Sherlock’s dulcet tones.
“Do you honestly expect that my response to your suggestion will have changed in the time it’s taken you go to go to the newsagents?”
“Tesco’s,” John corrected and rolled his eyes. He’d not expected anything less of Sherlock, certainly not that he would actually listen to the trained medical professional. Even if he was sick enough to miss the blindly obvious carrier bag emblazoned with the Tesco logo John had just carried past him.
Ever since Sherlock’s temperature had started to climb, edging towards feverish despite the paracetamol he’d been feeding him, John had been trying to get Sherlock off the sofa and into bed. Sherlock, in typical Sherlock fashion, had been digging his heels in like a stubborn child, resolute in his determination not to go to his bed or even John’s.
When Sherlock didn’t offer a retort, biting or otherwise in response to the correction John flicked the kettle on and called out over the low hiss-and-whistle it made. “I’m not moving you, you know.”
“You say that as though it’s a threat, John,” Sherlock answered, barely audible as the hissing from the kettle built in intensity and John dropped a tea bag and two sugars into a clean mug. “When it in fact suits me just fine. I do believe I have told you more than once, I do not want to be moved.”
“Yes, well,” John answered, doing little to hide his disbelief as he finished the tea, “we’ll see how long that lasts when the aching starts.”
“The aching, I think you’ll find, has already begun,” Sherlock said with a hint of what sounded like a grimace, turning his head to watch John as he crossed from the kitchen to the sofa, tea in hand and concern no doubt all over his face.
“Why didn’t you tell me? When did it start?” He asked, slipping into serious doctor mode from concerned friend in an instant. Sherlock visibly stiffened at the change and John held out the tea as a peace offering. “I’m worried about you, you daft bastard.”
“Insults, yes, such an overwhelming sign of your concern,” Sherlock sniped before sipping his tea, but it was without any of his usual heat or venom and John smiled affectionately.
“I thought you could see past the obvious?” John teased, taking the cup from Sherlock’s shaking hand as it threatened to spill and put it on the carpet next to the sofa.
Sherlock shifted, a small smirk gracing his features in place of an answer and John shook his head, resisting the urge to grin right back at him. Instead he patted somewhere around the approximate location of Sherlock’s kneecap in wordless command. Sherlock huffed, but curled his legs up against the back of the sofa without complaint, making room for John to sit down.
Sherlock observed through half lidded eyes as John leaned in to study the pink flush to Sherlock’s cheeks, how the curls at his forehead clung to the sheen of sweat that was building. His pupils were dilated, eyes almost black as they tracked John’s not so subtle shift further up the sofa, sitting hip against hip through the blanket.
“You really would be more comfortable in bed,” John tried again, fingers running across the curve of Sherlock’s cheekbones, skin still too hot for John’s liking.
“Wrong. This is better,” Sherlock whispered and it sounded almost like a confession as his eyes fell shut and a shiver ran through him, shuddering under John’s touch.
“Me or not?” John asked, without ego or room for a less than honest answer.
“Both, perhaps,” Sherlock conceded, eyes glazed enough - just a hint - when they opened for John to move upwards and press the back of his hand to clammy skin. Another shiver and Sherlock added, “More not, I’m afraid.”
“Still running hot,” John muttered more to himself, mentally calculating weights and doses and the risks of hepatotoxicity versus fever possibly scrambling Sherlock’s brains. As John moved to stand, planning on getting another antipyretic, long and elegant fingers curled around his wrist to stop him, holding securely but not tightly. “Sherlock?”
“Stay?” It was a simple request, but the almost undetectable crack in his voicing of the word was enough to tell John how much it cost Sherlock just to ask, not demand.
John felt himself falter, just for a moment, in surprise at the request. What added up to as much of an admission of need as he was ever sure to get from Sherlock. Sherlock who of course took his blink of hesitation to mean entirely the wrong thing in a moment of such obtuseness it was almost as shocking as his plea.
“Of course in this instance I’m not going to object to your insistence on playing doctor Watson,” Sherlock huffed, rolling onto his side so all John was graced with was the messy back of his head and the curve of his spine. His hand however, contradicted all the signs Sherlock was giving of starting a pretty spectacular sulk. His fingers were still locked around John’s wrist, arm stretched out behind him as his grip on John’s tightened instead of loosened. It gave more away than his words and pseudo-sulk ever could. In the silent, secret code of Sherlock it said please don’t leave and just for now and don’t make me ask again.
From the moment John had met Sherlock it had been impossible for him to say no to the man. Now was no different, with him stretched out across the sofa, hot with fever and the deal breaker: that he asked, needed.
“I suppose it can wait,” John said, curling his fingers to stroke over Sherlock’s wrist, in assurance and promise before slipping out of his grip.
John toed off his shoes, leaving them at the end of the sofa as Sherlock shifted, legs straightening back out and moving closer to the back cushions. As John stood to turn, Sherlock reached behind him to pull the blanket back in open invitation.
Silently accepting, John smiled and slid in behind Sherlock. It took a bit of wiggling, but it was easy for John to settle on his side, pressed against the length of Sherlock, and pull the blanket back over the both of them. As John rested his arm across Sherlock’s waist under the warmth of heavy wool, holding tight, he gave in to the urge to press a gentle, but lasting, kiss to the nape of Sherlock’s neck.
Sherlock sighed softly, settling back into John’s hold with a rumble of something like content passing through him and into John as he nosed at tangled curls.
“What?” John asked, grinning into Sherlock’s hair, sure enough of his knowledge of the man to know that he couldn’t let the moment pass without saying something.
“I seem to recall telling you this was better,” Sherlock said, craning his neck so he could give John a secretive half-smile as he did. Though his words were spoken with something close to his usual air of smugness, they were layered with something else that made John feel warm inside his chest, in a way that had nothing to do with fevered body heat.
“Seems you were right,” John conceded generously, reaching up to meet Sherlock for a kiss that was almost tender, little more than lips lingering against lips.
John shut his eyes, felt Sherlock’s smile against his own and kissed him again. Just because he could; because he wanted to and mostly because it made Sherlock - who’d been insufferable ever since he’d fallen in that blasted pond - smile.
“Surely you should be more concerned about contagions, doctor Watson,” Sherlock questioned, tone teasing as each word escaped from between lazy kisses.
“I think I can risk it,” John replied, each word spoken against Sherlock’s lips, into his mouth. “Just this once.”
Author: _doodle
Fandom/Genre: Sherlock (BBC 2010) FPS
Pairing: Sherlock Holmes / John Watson
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,400
Summary: He’d not expected anything less of Sherlock, certainly not that he would actually listen to the trained medical professional. (No spoilers)
Beta: wenchpixie (Thank you!)
Notes: This my first time out in this fandom. It's been a real challenge moving away from my comfort zone and finding new voices for John and Sherlock, but I've really enjoyed it. This is for angelnetgirl who requested some John/Sherlock fluff/snuggling/kissing on the flat's sofa and I just had to provide it!
“You should be in bed,” John said sternly as he passed through the living room and into the kitchen. Sherlock was still in the same position on the sofa that John had left him in; stretched out under the heavy blanket John had borrowed from Mrs Hudson that morning and head rested against the arm.
Dropping the Tesco’s bag on the kitchen counter he listened for a moment, using the time it took Sherlock to retort to judge just how sick he was. It took longer than usual; John had unpacked the tins of cream of chicken soup, a loaf of long life bread and four pints of milk before he heard Sherlock’s dulcet tones.
“Do you honestly expect that my response to your suggestion will have changed in the time it’s taken you go to go to the newsagents?”
“Tesco’s,” John corrected and rolled his eyes. He’d not expected anything less of Sherlock, certainly not that he would actually listen to the trained medical professional. Even if he was sick enough to miss the blindly obvious carrier bag emblazoned with the Tesco logo John had just carried past him.
Ever since Sherlock’s temperature had started to climb, edging towards feverish despite the paracetamol he’d been feeding him, John had been trying to get Sherlock off the sofa and into bed. Sherlock, in typical Sherlock fashion, had been digging his heels in like a stubborn child, resolute in his determination not to go to his bed or even John’s.
When Sherlock didn’t offer a retort, biting or otherwise in response to the correction John flicked the kettle on and called out over the low hiss-and-whistle it made. “I’m not moving you, you know.”
“You say that as though it’s a threat, John,” Sherlock answered, barely audible as the hissing from the kettle built in intensity and John dropped a tea bag and two sugars into a clean mug. “When it in fact suits me just fine. I do believe I have told you more than once, I do not want to be moved.”
“Yes, well,” John answered, doing little to hide his disbelief as he finished the tea, “we’ll see how long that lasts when the aching starts.”
“The aching, I think you’ll find, has already begun,” Sherlock said with a hint of what sounded like a grimace, turning his head to watch John as he crossed from the kitchen to the sofa, tea in hand and concern no doubt all over his face.
“Why didn’t you tell me? When did it start?” He asked, slipping into serious doctor mode from concerned friend in an instant. Sherlock visibly stiffened at the change and John held out the tea as a peace offering. “I’m worried about you, you daft bastard.”
“Insults, yes, such an overwhelming sign of your concern,” Sherlock sniped before sipping his tea, but it was without any of his usual heat or venom and John smiled affectionately.
“I thought you could see past the obvious?” John teased, taking the cup from Sherlock’s shaking hand as it threatened to spill and put it on the carpet next to the sofa.
Sherlock shifted, a small smirk gracing his features in place of an answer and John shook his head, resisting the urge to grin right back at him. Instead he patted somewhere around the approximate location of Sherlock’s kneecap in wordless command. Sherlock huffed, but curled his legs up against the back of the sofa without complaint, making room for John to sit down.
Sherlock observed through half lidded eyes as John leaned in to study the pink flush to Sherlock’s cheeks, how the curls at his forehead clung to the sheen of sweat that was building. His pupils were dilated, eyes almost black as they tracked John’s not so subtle shift further up the sofa, sitting hip against hip through the blanket.
“You really would be more comfortable in bed,” John tried again, fingers running across the curve of Sherlock’s cheekbones, skin still too hot for John’s liking.
“Wrong. This is better,” Sherlock whispered and it sounded almost like a confession as his eyes fell shut and a shiver ran through him, shuddering under John’s touch.
“Me or not?” John asked, without ego or room for a less than honest answer.
“Both, perhaps,” Sherlock conceded, eyes glazed enough - just a hint - when they opened for John to move upwards and press the back of his hand to clammy skin. Another shiver and Sherlock added, “More not, I’m afraid.”
“Still running hot,” John muttered more to himself, mentally calculating weights and doses and the risks of hepatotoxicity versus fever possibly scrambling Sherlock’s brains. As John moved to stand, planning on getting another antipyretic, long and elegant fingers curled around his wrist to stop him, holding securely but not tightly. “Sherlock?”
“Stay?” It was a simple request, but the almost undetectable crack in his voicing of the word was enough to tell John how much it cost Sherlock just to ask, not demand.
John felt himself falter, just for a moment, in surprise at the request. What added up to as much of an admission of need as he was ever sure to get from Sherlock. Sherlock who of course took his blink of hesitation to mean entirely the wrong thing in a moment of such obtuseness it was almost as shocking as his plea.
“Of course in this instance I’m not going to object to your insistence on playing doctor Watson,” Sherlock huffed, rolling onto his side so all John was graced with was the messy back of his head and the curve of his spine. His hand however, contradicted all the signs Sherlock was giving of starting a pretty spectacular sulk. His fingers were still locked around John’s wrist, arm stretched out behind him as his grip on John’s tightened instead of loosened. It gave more away than his words and pseudo-sulk ever could. In the silent, secret code of Sherlock it said please don’t leave and just for now and don’t make me ask again.
From the moment John had met Sherlock it had been impossible for him to say no to the man. Now was no different, with him stretched out across the sofa, hot with fever and the deal breaker: that he asked, needed.
“I suppose it can wait,” John said, curling his fingers to stroke over Sherlock’s wrist, in assurance and promise before slipping out of his grip.
John toed off his shoes, leaving them at the end of the sofa as Sherlock shifted, legs straightening back out and moving closer to the back cushions. As John stood to turn, Sherlock reached behind him to pull the blanket back in open invitation.
Silently accepting, John smiled and slid in behind Sherlock. It took a bit of wiggling, but it was easy for John to settle on his side, pressed against the length of Sherlock, and pull the blanket back over the both of them. As John rested his arm across Sherlock’s waist under the warmth of heavy wool, holding tight, he gave in to the urge to press a gentle, but lasting, kiss to the nape of Sherlock’s neck.
Sherlock sighed softly, settling back into John’s hold with a rumble of something like content passing through him and into John as he nosed at tangled curls.
“What?” John asked, grinning into Sherlock’s hair, sure enough of his knowledge of the man to know that he couldn’t let the moment pass without saying something.
“I seem to recall telling you this was better,” Sherlock said, craning his neck so he could give John a secretive half-smile as he did. Though his words were spoken with something close to his usual air of smugness, they were layered with something else that made John feel warm inside his chest, in a way that had nothing to do with fevered body heat.
“Seems you were right,” John conceded generously, reaching up to meet Sherlock for a kiss that was almost tender, little more than lips lingering against lips.
John shut his eyes, felt Sherlock’s smile against his own and kissed him again. Just because he could; because he wanted to and mostly because it made Sherlock - who’d been insufferable ever since he’d fallen in that blasted pond - smile.
“Surely you should be more concerned about contagions, doctor Watson,” Sherlock questioned, tone teasing as each word escaped from between lazy kisses.
“I think I can risk it,” John replied, each word spoken against Sherlock’s lips, into his mouth. “Just this once.”