Fic: Enduring, Quiet, and Calm
Title: Enduring, Quiet, and Calm
Genre: Fluff, Gen-ish, H/C Bingo "minor illness"
Characters: Sherlock, John
Word Count: 1,000
Summary: At 2:37 AM, a feverish Sherlock decides to prepare a "romantic" dinner for John.
-Edit - What the hell! How do I only have three bingo squares filled in? D:< Damn, I am never going to win at this rate...
ANYWAY...
It was 2:37 AM when Sherlock shook him awake. Not that that was unusual.
"John," he said. His voice was that quiet, dark, midnight timbre, little more than a breath and a rumble. "John, come on."
John blinked heavily, and with a groan, rolled out of bed. He groped about for his trousers as Sherlock headed downstairs. After a moment, John followed.
"What is it?" he asked, when he found Sherlock standing in the living room, rubbing the corner of one eye with his finger. There was uncertainty in his posture, as though he were looking for something. "Sherlock?"
"Hm."
Sherlock then sort of meandered into the kitchen. Cautiously, John followed.
"Sit down," Sherlock commanded, and John took a seat at the kitchen table. It was littered with files, and text books, and mad scientist parephenalia. Sherlock began clearing the area in front of John, an intense look of concentration on his face as he shifted everything into cluttered piles on either end of the table. John's brow creased in concern.
"Sherlock," he began.
"I'm going to feed you."
John was struck dumb.
Sherlock retrieved a knife and a fork from the draining board and set them before John, then went to the pantry. He rattled around in there for quite some time before emerging with a sleeve of crackers. He opened a cabinet, looked inside, and closed it. He opened a different cabinet and took down a plate. He set the plate on the counter and then fished around for a pair of scissors. John watched him meticulously cut open the plastic sleeve.
"You feeling all right?" he asked. As capricious as Sherlock was, John didn't want to interrupt what might turn out to be important for a case. But they had just finished their latest case that morning - well, yesterday morning, now. John had been enjoying the coziness under his duvet, warm for the first time in what felt like days. Sherlock, on the other hand often took a long while to unwind.
Peeling the plastic open, Sherlock took a handful of crackers and dumped them onto the plate. He spread them out a bit, and then deposited another handful, caging them with his long fingers and until they settled into place. He delivered this mountain of crackers to John.
"Thank you," John said. Sherlock stood there, not quite watching him. Not quite watching anything, really. In his gentlest voice, John said, "Can you come here a moment?" Sherlock sort of leaned. John touched the backs of his fingers to one flushed cheek: burning up, as expected. "Sweetheart, you need to be in bed," John said.
"Hm." Sherlock didn't move. Then he turned around, went to the sink, and got John a glass of water. "I forgot," he said, and unearthed a bunsen burner from the detritus piled up around the table. He lit it; very slowly, very carefully setting the flame to low. The he turned out the lights. The kitchen was dark except for the light from the window and the small ring of blue flame on the table.
"Are we cooking something?"
"It's more romantic."
"Oh."
When his eyes had adjusted to the dark, John took up a cracker and nibbled the edge. "Thank you, Sherlock. This is delicious."
Sherlock stumbled into the nearest chair. John passed him the water.
"That's for you," Sherlock said.
"I'd like it if you'd share it with me."
Sherlock drank a tiny sip. John handed him a cracker. Sherlock took it, and in the barely-there, ethereal light of the bunsen burner, they shared their romantic dinner.
After a time, Sherlock leaned his head very low over the table. John edged the burner away from his hair. Sherlock lurched up, staggered over to the sink, and emptied the contents of his stomach into it. Predictably, it wasn't very much.
John switched off the burner and then went over, rubbing misshapen circles on Sherlock's back and uttering soft nonsense syllables. Sherlock convulsed, coughed, and spit.
"Easy now," John murmured. "Lets get to bed."
They made it as far as teh toilet before Sherlock stopped and stood his ground. "I need to brush my teeth."
"Okay."
Sherlock switched on the light and stood in front of the sink. He turned the water on, watching it for a moment. His eyes were fever-bright. Then Sherlock took John's toothbrush and held under the tap. He reached for the toothpaste, flicked open the cap, and then with the immense concentration reserved mainly for corpses, he squeezed the toothpaste onto the toothbrush. He sqeezed and squeezed and squeezed.
"Whoa, Sherlock, that's enough," John said. Sherlock handed the toothbrush to him. He reached for his own toothbrush and gave it the same treatment.
They brushed their teeth together. After four minutes, John said, "Come on, Sherlock, that's enough. You've done a good job."
Sherlock spit and spit and spit. John shook two paracetamol into his palm. When Sherlock was done spitting, John held out the tablets. "Here you are. Take these."
Sherlock took them and popped them into his mouth. He held them on his tongue, looking uncertain, until they began to dissolve, and then he grimaced. He leaned as though to spit them out but John clapped his hand over his mouth. He cast about for a cup or something but there wasn't one; they both generally knocked the tablets back dry when they took them. Sherlock squirmed under his hand but then swallowed.
"Sorry," John said. Sherlock took up his toothbrush again. John fetched a glass of water and stopped him after two minutes this time. "Rinse," he said. Sherlock rinsed and spit, and John refilled the glass from the tap and made him drink.
They settled into Sherlock's bed, under the heavy, winter blankets. John propped himself up on the pillows and Sherlock curled in against his shoulder. Sherlock pulled the blankets up to their necks and tucked it around so no cold air would get in. He shifted and nestled in closer.
"John. I take care of you," he said. John pressed his nose to Sherlock's hair, then kissed his forehead.
"Yes," he said. "You do."
Genre: Fluff, Gen-ish, H/C Bingo "minor illness"
Characters: Sherlock, John
Word Count: 1,000
Summary: At 2:37 AM, a feverish Sherlock decides to prepare a "romantic" dinner for John.
-Edit - What the hell! How do I only have three bingo squares filled in? D:< Damn, I am never going to win at this rate...
ANYWAY...
It was 2:37 AM when Sherlock shook him awake. Not that that was unusual.
"John," he said. His voice was that quiet, dark, midnight timbre, little more than a breath and a rumble. "John, come on."
John blinked heavily, and with a groan, rolled out of bed. He groped about for his trousers as Sherlock headed downstairs. After a moment, John followed.
"What is it?" he asked, when he found Sherlock standing in the living room, rubbing the corner of one eye with his finger. There was uncertainty in his posture, as though he were looking for something. "Sherlock?"
"Hm."
Sherlock then sort of meandered into the kitchen. Cautiously, John followed.
"Sit down," Sherlock commanded, and John took a seat at the kitchen table. It was littered with files, and text books, and mad scientist parephenalia. Sherlock began clearing the area in front of John, an intense look of concentration on his face as he shifted everything into cluttered piles on either end of the table. John's brow creased in concern.
"Sherlock," he began.
"I'm going to feed you."
John was struck dumb.
Sherlock retrieved a knife and a fork from the draining board and set them before John, then went to the pantry. He rattled around in there for quite some time before emerging with a sleeve of crackers. He opened a cabinet, looked inside, and closed it. He opened a different cabinet and took down a plate. He set the plate on the counter and then fished around for a pair of scissors. John watched him meticulously cut open the plastic sleeve.
"You feeling all right?" he asked. As capricious as Sherlock was, John didn't want to interrupt what might turn out to be important for a case. But they had just finished their latest case that morning - well, yesterday morning, now. John had been enjoying the coziness under his duvet, warm for the first time in what felt like days. Sherlock, on the other hand often took a long while to unwind.
Peeling the plastic open, Sherlock took a handful of crackers and dumped them onto the plate. He spread them out a bit, and then deposited another handful, caging them with his long fingers and until they settled into place. He delivered this mountain of crackers to John.
"Thank you," John said. Sherlock stood there, not quite watching him. Not quite watching anything, really. In his gentlest voice, John said, "Can you come here a moment?" Sherlock sort of leaned. John touched the backs of his fingers to one flushed cheek: burning up, as expected. "Sweetheart, you need to be in bed," John said.
"Hm." Sherlock didn't move. Then he turned around, went to the sink, and got John a glass of water. "I forgot," he said, and unearthed a bunsen burner from the detritus piled up around the table. He lit it; very slowly, very carefully setting the flame to low. The he turned out the lights. The kitchen was dark except for the light from the window and the small ring of blue flame on the table.
"Are we cooking something?"
"It's more romantic."
"Oh."
When his eyes had adjusted to the dark, John took up a cracker and nibbled the edge. "Thank you, Sherlock. This is delicious."
Sherlock stumbled into the nearest chair. John passed him the water.
"That's for you," Sherlock said.
"I'd like it if you'd share it with me."
Sherlock drank a tiny sip. John handed him a cracker. Sherlock took it, and in the barely-there, ethereal light of the bunsen burner, they shared their romantic dinner.
After a time, Sherlock leaned his head very low over the table. John edged the burner away from his hair. Sherlock lurched up, staggered over to the sink, and emptied the contents of his stomach into it. Predictably, it wasn't very much.
John switched off the burner and then went over, rubbing misshapen circles on Sherlock's back and uttering soft nonsense syllables. Sherlock convulsed, coughed, and spit.
"Easy now," John murmured. "Lets get to bed."
They made it as far as teh toilet before Sherlock stopped and stood his ground. "I need to brush my teeth."
"Okay."
Sherlock switched on the light and stood in front of the sink. He turned the water on, watching it for a moment. His eyes were fever-bright. Then Sherlock took John's toothbrush and held under the tap. He reached for the toothpaste, flicked open the cap, and then with the immense concentration reserved mainly for corpses, he squeezed the toothpaste onto the toothbrush. He sqeezed and squeezed and squeezed.
"Whoa, Sherlock, that's enough," John said. Sherlock handed the toothbrush to him. He reached for his own toothbrush and gave it the same treatment.
They brushed their teeth together. After four minutes, John said, "Come on, Sherlock, that's enough. You've done a good job."
Sherlock spit and spit and spit. John shook two paracetamol into his palm. When Sherlock was done spitting, John held out the tablets. "Here you are. Take these."
Sherlock took them and popped them into his mouth. He held them on his tongue, looking uncertain, until they began to dissolve, and then he grimaced. He leaned as though to spit them out but John clapped his hand over his mouth. He cast about for a cup or something but there wasn't one; they both generally knocked the tablets back dry when they took them. Sherlock squirmed under his hand but then swallowed.
"Sorry," John said. Sherlock took up his toothbrush again. John fetched a glass of water and stopped him after two minutes this time. "Rinse," he said. Sherlock rinsed and spit, and John refilled the glass from the tap and made him drink.
They settled into Sherlock's bed, under the heavy, winter blankets. John propped himself up on the pillows and Sherlock curled in against his shoulder. Sherlock pulled the blankets up to their necks and tucked it around so no cold air would get in. He shifted and nestled in closer.
"John. I take care of you," he said. John pressed his nose to Sherlock's hair, then kissed his forehead.
"Yes," he said. "You do."