057. Fever
Title: 057. Fever
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: T
Word Count: 1,447
Summary: In which John is sick and needs some looking after.
Disclaimer: Sherlock and its characters do not belong to me. That is all :)
“John.” John blearily opened his eyes. Sherlock was standing over him, looking concerned. It took John a second to realize that he was lying on the floor, having obviously rolled off his bed in his sleep. Which was probably what had alerted Sherlock in the first place.
He sat up, moaning and immediately grabbing his head as a spinning sensation gripped him.
“John?” Sherlock’s voice, so often calm and emotionless, suddenly carried a hint of concern.
“I need… to go back to bed, I think,” John said, suddenly feeling extremely ill. He began pulling himself back onto his bed and felt Sherlock’s hands, uncertain against his back. Once he was back on the mattress, Sherlock pulled the blankets over him.
“Get the thermometer in the bathroom cabinet, will you?” Sherlock wordlessly left the room.
“And bring some Paracetamol and water while you’re at it,” John called after him. He rolled over and pulled his pillow over his head. He felt hot. His ears hurt. He probably had a Middle Ear infection or something.
“Here.” John pulled the pillow away to see Sherlock placing the pills and water on his bedside table before handing him the thermometer.
“Thanks,” John said, placing the thermometer under his tongue and waiting while he measured out the proper amount of pills.
When the thermometer beeped, Sherlock pulled it unceremoniously out of John’s mouth and looked at the digital numbers.
“38.8,” he said. John sighed. Throwing back the medicine and washing it down with water, he lay back down and tried to get comfortable.
“Can I get you anything else?” John looked up at Sherlock, whose eyes were creased with worry.
“No, thank-you, Sherlock. I just need to ride this out.” Sherlock nodded.
“Well, if you need anything, bother Mrs. Hudson.” John rolled his eyes as Sherlock left the room.
--
When John opened his eyes again, the sun had set. The light of the darkening sky threw a blue-ish cast across the room.
John’s eyes fell upon his bedside table, where a bowl of soup, still steaming, sat waiting. Smiling, John sat up slowly and, ignoring the slight dizziness that came with the new position, picked up the bowl and began to eat.
He nearly choked. It appeared that someone had simply thrown a bunch of random ingredients into a pot of chicken broth, warmed it, and brought it up. Mrs. Hudson would never have used jam. There was no denying that this meal was made by Sherlock and Sherlock alone.
Still, it seemed he had worked hard. The vegetables had been chopped, rather crookedly perhaps, but into bite sized pieces, and the jam had been a nice touch, a gesture that stated quite clearly that Sherlock did sometimes pay attention.
So, grimacing slightly, John swallowed every last bite of soup before taking some more medicine and going back to sleep.
--
Everything was dark. John heard the sound of blasts. War was raging, it was so close. He could feel the gritty earth beneath him and he clung to it, wishing he could disappear into it.
“John.” There was Sherlock, wearing that deerstalker, the collar of his coat pulled up to shelter the pale skin of his face. His eyes were wide, a look of terror flitting across his face. “John, I’m scared.” John stared back, willing himself to be strong, to be brave.
“We have to move, Sherlock.” His voice was low and ragged. He was tired, so tired. “Come on, let’s go.”
Taking Sherlock’s hand, he looked around. He couldn’t see anything. He didn’t even know where they were. He stumbled forward in the dark, feeling with his feet as war raged on around them.
“Where are you going?” John turned. He was standing alone on cold white tile, a pool next to him. Moriarty stood before him, hands in his pockets, watching him with a smile playing around his lips. “There’s no point, you see. Sherlock will come. And then the final scene shall commence.” Red curtain fell around them. John could hear the clapping of the audience. What were his lines? He needed to find Sherlock, Sherlock would have a script.
He walked through the thin passageway of curtain, looking for an opening to the back stage. He called out to Sherlock, he needed him if only to remember what play he was in.
“Sherlock!”
“John, stop wasting time.” Sherlock stuck his head through the curtain up ahead. “He’s getting away! Let’s go!” John ran after him through the curtain, intent upon helping Sherlock.
Everything was dark. John heard the sound of blasts. War was raging, it was so close. He could feel the gritty earth beneath him and he clung to it, wishing he could disappear into it.
“John.” There was Sherlock, wearing that deerstalker, the collar of his coat pulled up to shelter the pale skin of his face. His eyes were wide, a look of terror flitting across his face. “John, I’m hurt.” John looked down where Sherlock was holding his side, blood smeared on his fingers. John stared, willing himself to be strong, to be brave.
“It’s okay, it will all be okay, Sherlock.” He pulled off his military-issue shirt, tore off a strip of fabric, and turned back to Sherlock. But he was gone.
“John.” Sherlock’s voice sounded from afar. “John, I’m scared.”
“Where are you?” John began feeling around in the dark, willing himself to find Sherlock and quickly. He had to save him.
“John, please.” The voice was pleading, faint amidst the sounds of war. “Help me.”
“Sherlock!” He called.
--
“John. John. Wake up.” John’s eyes snapped open. He couldn’t see anything. Perhaps he was still in Afghanistan. His chest was heaving as though he’d just run a mile.
“John, you were having a bad dream.” John looked up as his eyes focused. Sherlock was standing over him, perfectly unhurt in his plum shirt (and completely deerstalker-less). “Do you wish for me to turn on the light?”
“Yes, please.” Sherlock reached down to the lamp and flicked it on. A warm golden glow filled the room. John sat up. His mouth was dry and he was covered in a cold sweat.
“Here,” John looked up as Sherlock handed him a glass of water. “Drink this.” John looked up at Sherlock whose eyes were studying him carefully.
“Thanks,” he said, taking the glass and lifting it to his lips.
“I’ve got a case, but I have informed Mrs. Hudson to be ready in case you require any assistance.” John tried to ignore the feeling in his stomach. The dream-image of Sherlock holding his hand to his wound kept swimming before him. He wanted him close. He wanted him safe. He was going out to a case where God knows what could happen. And John would be stuck at home, unable to assist him. He wished his ears would stop hurting.
“I want to go with you,” he said, putting on a brave face and trying to get out of bed.
“Don’t be ridiculous. You look dreadful and need rest.” Sherlock handed him the thermometer. “Take your temperature. Take care of yourself. I’ll be home later.”
“Okay,” he said quietly. “Please be careful.” Sherlock’s eyes lingered on John’s face.
“I always do,” he said. Then he was gone. John listened to him bound down the stairs, gleeful as he usually was after taking on a case.
It was nice of him to stop in before, John thought as he lay back and put the thermometer under his tongue.
--
The next morning, John stretched, yawning before he opened his eyes. He felt warm, his ears barely ached, and altogether he decided it was a definite improvement on yesterday.
Rolling over, he found himself facing a wall of curly brown hair.
“Sherlock!” he said, practically falling off his bed again. Sherlock opened his sleepy eyes and looked at John. “What are you doing here?”
“When I came home early this morning you were shivering. I thought some extra body heat might help.”
“Oh.” John looked at the alarm clock on his bedside table. It was eleven in the morning.
“Bit not good?” John looked back at Sherlock, who was eyeing him questioningly.
“No, it’s fine. Thanks.” Sherlock’s eyes lit up slightly. He sat up and pulled one side of the covers back.
“Toast?”
“Please.” As Sherlock crossed to the door, John said, “Hey, thank-you for taking care of me.” Sherlock, now at the door, turned to look at him.
“You’re the doctor here, John. Who else is going to take care of you when you’re sick?” They were quiet for a moment, then Sherlock flashed one of his rare smiles.
“Right. Toast.”
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: T
Word Count: 1,447
Summary: In which John is sick and needs some looking after.
Disclaimer: Sherlock and its characters do not belong to me. That is all :)
“John.” John blearily opened his eyes. Sherlock was standing over him, looking concerned. It took John a second to realize that he was lying on the floor, having obviously rolled off his bed in his sleep. Which was probably what had alerted Sherlock in the first place.
He sat up, moaning and immediately grabbing his head as a spinning sensation gripped him.
“John?” Sherlock’s voice, so often calm and emotionless, suddenly carried a hint of concern.
“I need… to go back to bed, I think,” John said, suddenly feeling extremely ill. He began pulling himself back onto his bed and felt Sherlock’s hands, uncertain against his back. Once he was back on the mattress, Sherlock pulled the blankets over him.
“Get the thermometer in the bathroom cabinet, will you?” Sherlock wordlessly left the room.
“And bring some Paracetamol and water while you’re at it,” John called after him. He rolled over and pulled his pillow over his head. He felt hot. His ears hurt. He probably had a Middle Ear infection or something.
“Here.” John pulled the pillow away to see Sherlock placing the pills and water on his bedside table before handing him the thermometer.
“Thanks,” John said, placing the thermometer under his tongue and waiting while he measured out the proper amount of pills.
When the thermometer beeped, Sherlock pulled it unceremoniously out of John’s mouth and looked at the digital numbers.
“38.8,” he said. John sighed. Throwing back the medicine and washing it down with water, he lay back down and tried to get comfortable.
“Can I get you anything else?” John looked up at Sherlock, whose eyes were creased with worry.
“No, thank-you, Sherlock. I just need to ride this out.” Sherlock nodded.
“Well, if you need anything, bother Mrs. Hudson.” John rolled his eyes as Sherlock left the room.
--
When John opened his eyes again, the sun had set. The light of the darkening sky threw a blue-ish cast across the room.
John’s eyes fell upon his bedside table, where a bowl of soup, still steaming, sat waiting. Smiling, John sat up slowly and, ignoring the slight dizziness that came with the new position, picked up the bowl and began to eat.
He nearly choked. It appeared that someone had simply thrown a bunch of random ingredients into a pot of chicken broth, warmed it, and brought it up. Mrs. Hudson would never have used jam. There was no denying that this meal was made by Sherlock and Sherlock alone.
Still, it seemed he had worked hard. The vegetables had been chopped, rather crookedly perhaps, but into bite sized pieces, and the jam had been a nice touch, a gesture that stated quite clearly that Sherlock did sometimes pay attention.
So, grimacing slightly, John swallowed every last bite of soup before taking some more medicine and going back to sleep.
--
Everything was dark. John heard the sound of blasts. War was raging, it was so close. He could feel the gritty earth beneath him and he clung to it, wishing he could disappear into it.
“John.” There was Sherlock, wearing that deerstalker, the collar of his coat pulled up to shelter the pale skin of his face. His eyes were wide, a look of terror flitting across his face. “John, I’m scared.” John stared back, willing himself to be strong, to be brave.
“We have to move, Sherlock.” His voice was low and ragged. He was tired, so tired. “Come on, let’s go.”
Taking Sherlock’s hand, he looked around. He couldn’t see anything. He didn’t even know where they were. He stumbled forward in the dark, feeling with his feet as war raged on around them.
“Where are you going?” John turned. He was standing alone on cold white tile, a pool next to him. Moriarty stood before him, hands in his pockets, watching him with a smile playing around his lips. “There’s no point, you see. Sherlock will come. And then the final scene shall commence.” Red curtain fell around them. John could hear the clapping of the audience. What were his lines? He needed to find Sherlock, Sherlock would have a script.
He walked through the thin passageway of curtain, looking for an opening to the back stage. He called out to Sherlock, he needed him if only to remember what play he was in.
“Sherlock!”
“John, stop wasting time.” Sherlock stuck his head through the curtain up ahead. “He’s getting away! Let’s go!” John ran after him through the curtain, intent upon helping Sherlock.
Everything was dark. John heard the sound of blasts. War was raging, it was so close. He could feel the gritty earth beneath him and he clung to it, wishing he could disappear into it.
“John.” There was Sherlock, wearing that deerstalker, the collar of his coat pulled up to shelter the pale skin of his face. His eyes were wide, a look of terror flitting across his face. “John, I’m hurt.” John looked down where Sherlock was holding his side, blood smeared on his fingers. John stared, willing himself to be strong, to be brave.
“It’s okay, it will all be okay, Sherlock.” He pulled off his military-issue shirt, tore off a strip of fabric, and turned back to Sherlock. But he was gone.
“John.” Sherlock’s voice sounded from afar. “John, I’m scared.”
“Where are you?” John began feeling around in the dark, willing himself to find Sherlock and quickly. He had to save him.
“John, please.” The voice was pleading, faint amidst the sounds of war. “Help me.”
“Sherlock!” He called.
--
“John. John. Wake up.” John’s eyes snapped open. He couldn’t see anything. Perhaps he was still in Afghanistan. His chest was heaving as though he’d just run a mile.
“John, you were having a bad dream.” John looked up as his eyes focused. Sherlock was standing over him, perfectly unhurt in his plum shirt (and completely deerstalker-less). “Do you wish for me to turn on the light?”
“Yes, please.” Sherlock reached down to the lamp and flicked it on. A warm golden glow filled the room. John sat up. His mouth was dry and he was covered in a cold sweat.
“Here,” John looked up as Sherlock handed him a glass of water. “Drink this.” John looked up at Sherlock whose eyes were studying him carefully.
“Thanks,” he said, taking the glass and lifting it to his lips.
“I’ve got a case, but I have informed Mrs. Hudson to be ready in case you require any assistance.” John tried to ignore the feeling in his stomach. The dream-image of Sherlock holding his hand to his wound kept swimming before him. He wanted him close. He wanted him safe. He was going out to a case where God knows what could happen. And John would be stuck at home, unable to assist him. He wished his ears would stop hurting.
“I want to go with you,” he said, putting on a brave face and trying to get out of bed.
“Don’t be ridiculous. You look dreadful and need rest.” Sherlock handed him the thermometer. “Take your temperature. Take care of yourself. I’ll be home later.”
“Okay,” he said quietly. “Please be careful.” Sherlock’s eyes lingered on John’s face.
“I always do,” he said. Then he was gone. John listened to him bound down the stairs, gleeful as he usually was after taking on a case.
It was nice of him to stop in before, John thought as he lay back and put the thermometer under his tongue.
--
The next morning, John stretched, yawning before he opened his eyes. He felt warm, his ears barely ached, and altogether he decided it was a definite improvement on yesterday.
Rolling over, he found himself facing a wall of curly brown hair.
“Sherlock!” he said, practically falling off his bed again. Sherlock opened his sleepy eyes and looked at John. “What are you doing here?”
“When I came home early this morning you were shivering. I thought some extra body heat might help.”
“Oh.” John looked at the alarm clock on his bedside table. It was eleven in the morning.
“Bit not good?” John looked back at Sherlock, who was eyeing him questioningly.
“No, it’s fine. Thanks.” Sherlock’s eyes lit up slightly. He sat up and pulled one side of the covers back.
“Toast?”
“Please.” As Sherlock crossed to the door, John said, “Hey, thank-you for taking care of me.” Sherlock, now at the door, turned to look at him.
“You’re the doctor here, John. Who else is going to take care of you when you’re sick?” They were quiet for a moment, then Sherlock flashed one of his rare smiles.
“Right. Toast.”