Fic: Sherlock (BBC)
Title: Honorable Fools
Author: Alone Dreaming
Rating: PG (for sickies and a word)
Characters: John, Sherlock, Sarah
Warnings: Sickies, medical stuff, cranky!John, whiny!Sherlock, an utter lack of brit!pick or betaing.
Words: 1700ish
Author's Note: This was written for agent_era for the watsons_woes 500!members party. Originally, the request was for a continuation of my story "From Thy Pedestal" but as that is already being continued in another fic (with the scene described) I had to ask for a different prompt. The next prompt was, "Whump please." Well, here you are. Whump! please.
Summary: Trying to explain to Sherlock that he, John, is too sick to go to a crime scene reminds John of trying to explain to a child why he or she can't have another cookie.
Trying to explain to Sherlock that he, John, is too sick to go to a crime scene reminds John of trying to explain to a child why he or she can't have another cookie. The child sulks, stomps a foot, cajoles and, possibly, tantrums just to see if he or she can get his or her way. Sometimes he or she throws in that ever pleading, “Why?” drawing out the last part until it’s possible he or she has actually gotten stuck on that sound. Similarly, Sherlock sulks, scuffs his shoes, tempts (or, rather, pushes buttons), and, if John’s recently done something to offend his aloof roommate’s sensibilities, throws all manner of unnecessary (and unfriendly) feedback about John’s character. He has been known to ask, “Why?” on the occasion but he has never made it sound like John’s caught in a time warp; his “why?” is the impatient, foot tapping, surely-you-have-a-better-explanation-than-that “why” which makes John feel as though being sick is something utterly wrong.
“Because,” he answers, weary, unwilling to even raise his head from the arm of the couch. Fever and exhaustion have drawn him to a point of apathy and utter lethargy, so much so that he dreads taking his medicine in a few hours. Typically, he’d dread it because Sherlock may have replaced the contents with something far more deadly (or psychedelic) but, today, he simply doesn’t think he can move, “I am ill.”
“You’re not coughing,” Sherlock comments, “sneezing, blowing your nose, vomiting…” I see no outward signs, Sherlock pouts, so you must be lying. “You’ve accompanied me just after recovering from pneumonia, colds, and stab wounds.” There’s another reason, he accuses, you’re lying; and John tries to picture Sherlock several feet smaller with chubby cheeks and softer features. In John’s head, he’s even a bit pudgy.
What Sherlock says is true; he’s been utterly reckless in the past concerning his health and Sherlock’s cases. Nothing stopped him unless he was hospitalized which may have led him to where he is today. This probably began ages ago, when he first started skipping a glass of water in favor of darting down the stairs after Sherlock, but the symptoms started earlier in the week, at the clinic, with Sarah. That morning he’d woken up with a distant throb in his side, uncomfortable, but bearable, and he’d noted it only so he could keep track of it as the day persisted. By noon, he had to send his patient elsewhere, and had curled up on the floor under his desk. Sarah had found him there about an hour later, throwing up into his wastepaper basket.
“Kidney stone,” she told him, after hooking him up to an IV and pumping drugs into his system. She hadn’t forced him to move from his office for which he was eternally grateful. “All the symptoms point to it. You should’ve recognized this, John.”
“I know,” he mumbled, drained and more than a little embarrassed. “I know.”
“You probably haven’t been taking in enough fluids,” she continued, which he also knew. “And too much sodium in all the take-out; not to mention, you don’t sleep properly.”
He’d nodded his head, hating the oppressiveness of the morphine but too happy to have the pain gone to complain. “I know.”
“You need to take this seriously,” she pressed. Her hand lingered on his cheek. “John, you need to take care of yourself.” His hand wrapped over to his side protectively and she shook her head at him. “You need an MRI.”
They’d argued about it and she’d finally agreed to let him finish the drip, and see how he felt then. Better, he’d gritted, which was true, though the pain still stabbed at him, retreating back from agonizing to a happy five on a scale of one to ten. She’d informed the receptionist that she would be back in a moment, and had proceeded to bundle him home. When they reached the doorstep, him protectively hunched, her watching him with no limit of concern, she deposited a bag of antibiotics and painkillers in his hand.
“I’d tell you to catch it to have in analyzed,” she said, as he fumbled with his keys. “But you’re in no fit state. Make sure to take the antibiotics as a precaution.” When he didn’t acknowledge her, she added, “Promise me, you’ll watch this, John. You’ve got a bit of a fever. Get a full night’s rest and don’t do anything tomorrow. Lie around. Watch telly. Update your blog. Just don’t go out.”
“Of course,” he said to appease her, kissed her on her cheek, and waved to her as she left.
That night, he went out with Sherlock and he stayed with Sherlock through the rest of the next day. The antibiotics went forgotten on the counter, lost amongst plans, cultures, human eyeballs and something lumpy and green. When he looked for them around noon the next day, he found nothing at all and gave up. More chasing, more excitement, more chills than the weather merited and certainly far more sweat. He’d curled up in bed around two the next morning feeling utterly done in, his side throbbing with his heart, and didn’t awaken until ten when Sarah called him. Her voice, worried, wondering, made him feel like an utter ass.
“Still feverish?” she asked and he made an iffy sound which worried her even more. “Maybe I should come over. You’ve probably got a kidney infection.”
“No, no,” he assured. “No, I’m,” he cleared his throat and pulled his blankets tighter, “all right. Just need another day’s rest. Feel like crap.” Which he did, reasonably, and most people in his situation would even with proper medication and relaxation.
They’d spoken a bit more, she told him to take the rest of the week, and he’d gone back to sleep. When he managed to drag himself up later on that evening, he hunted for the pills and had no luck. Sherlock was out and about, no doubt trying to acquire a new form of suppressant for his boredom, so he enjoyed a fairly quiet evening, even if it required him checking his temperature and making frequent trips to the bathroom, and retired early for a deserved night’s rest.
He didn’t achieve it. Every thirty minutes, he needed the toilet, and the rest of the time a churning stomach, sweats and fever had him tearing the kitchen apart for the medicine. Finally, he found it hiding behind a severed hand in the pantry. He took the antibiotic first but forewent the painkiller for a bit. The pain was substantial, now taking up most of his abdomen and back, but it was not unbearable and, therefore, not worth being muddled. He collapsed on the couch afterwards, drifting hazily in and out of sleep until Sherlock had approached him and asked for his presence.
“I need an assistant,” Sherlock presses, a step from becoming fussy. His foot tapped against the corner of the couch.
“I need,” he starts, then stopped. He needs new kidneys. “I need sleep.”
“You’ve been sleeping for two days, now,” Sherlock sniffs. “Surely you’ve gotten enough at this point.”
The worst part-his psychiatrist would have a field day with this if he was still seeing her-is he wants to. More than anything, he wants to take two of the painkillers and spend the rest of the day hobbling after Sherlock, enjoying the chase and the thrills and watching Sherlock solve the unsolvable. Even though he’s so ill that he can’t find the strength to lift his hand, he actually considers trying to get up and follow Sherlock into the battlefield again. He’s sure that would have her scribbling, her eyebrows up at her hairline, her lips pursed, and she would say something about a lack of self-preservation and self-worth. His fingers twitch against his palm and he closes his eyes. Yeah, he’s been daft about all of this, and, now, he’s paying for it. The only part that worries him is that he hasn’t learned whatever lesson his body’s attempting to teach him.
“John,” Sherlock says. “I need you.” He stresses the ‘need’ and the ‘you.’
Just by the tone that Sherlock uses, John knows he’s being manipulated. Those words, “I need you,” words he thrives on, force his heavy lids up and he manages to sit up on the couch. The world doesn’t spin but gravity seems to have multiplied ten times over. His arms weigh as much as his whole body does normally and he’s clumsy about maneuvering them. He gains his feet slowly, painfully, Sherlock watching him the entire time with a shrewd, calculating gaze. Just the stairs alone look like hell, and the idea of having to stay on his feet for more than a few seconds makes him nauseated. Imagine how embarrassing it would be to have a fainting fit in front of Lestrade or Donovan or-God forbid-Anderson. The doctor in him, rather repressed of late in favor of the soldier, reminds him that this will be almost a guarantee if he pushes himself. He’s still feverish, still pissing blood, still aching worse than he did after any rugby match, and he needs to rest.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, sitting back down with a thump. “You’ll be fine, I’m sure. I’ll help I just can’t… now.”
The silence is almost palpable as Sherlock looms above him, and he ponders the easiest way to force his legs up onto the couch again. A heavy hand drops on his head, almost knocking him over, and he cranes so he can stare up at Sherlock who wears a rather strange expression. In fact, John doesn’t think he’s ever seen that expression on Sherlock, even after months and months of rooming with the man, and he’s not exactly sure what to make of it.
“You’re a fool,” Sherlock informs him, which is exactly what he needs to hear when he thinks he never wants to move again. A flush unrelated to the fever crawls over him and he attempts not to bristle. “A stubborn, honorable fool.”
And the great Sherlock Holmes removes his hand, leaving John as the sulking child. Later on though, when John wakes up from a nap, he finds the antibiotics and a semi-clean glass of water sitting on the ground nearby.
Author: Alone Dreaming
Rating: PG (for sickies and a word)
Characters: John, Sherlock, Sarah
Warnings: Sickies, medical stuff, cranky!John, whiny!Sherlock, an utter lack of brit!pick or betaing.
Words: 1700ish
Author's Note: This was written for agent_era for the watsons_woes 500!members party. Originally, the request was for a continuation of my story "From Thy Pedestal" but as that is already being continued in another fic (with the scene described) I had to ask for a different prompt. The next prompt was, "Whump please." Well, here you are. Whump! please.
Summary: Trying to explain to Sherlock that he, John, is too sick to go to a crime scene reminds John of trying to explain to a child why he or she can't have another cookie.
Trying to explain to Sherlock that he, John, is too sick to go to a crime scene reminds John of trying to explain to a child why he or she can't have another cookie. The child sulks, stomps a foot, cajoles and, possibly, tantrums just to see if he or she can get his or her way. Sometimes he or she throws in that ever pleading, “Why?” drawing out the last part until it’s possible he or she has actually gotten stuck on that sound. Similarly, Sherlock sulks, scuffs his shoes, tempts (or, rather, pushes buttons), and, if John’s recently done something to offend his aloof roommate’s sensibilities, throws all manner of unnecessary (and unfriendly) feedback about John’s character. He has been known to ask, “Why?” on the occasion but he has never made it sound like John’s caught in a time warp; his “why?” is the impatient, foot tapping, surely-you-have-a-better-explanation-than-that “why” which makes John feel as though being sick is something utterly wrong.
“Because,” he answers, weary, unwilling to even raise his head from the arm of the couch. Fever and exhaustion have drawn him to a point of apathy and utter lethargy, so much so that he dreads taking his medicine in a few hours. Typically, he’d dread it because Sherlock may have replaced the contents with something far more deadly (or psychedelic) but, today, he simply doesn’t think he can move, “I am ill.”
“You’re not coughing,” Sherlock comments, “sneezing, blowing your nose, vomiting…” I see no outward signs, Sherlock pouts, so you must be lying. “You’ve accompanied me just after recovering from pneumonia, colds, and stab wounds.” There’s another reason, he accuses, you’re lying; and John tries to picture Sherlock several feet smaller with chubby cheeks and softer features. In John’s head, he’s even a bit pudgy.
What Sherlock says is true; he’s been utterly reckless in the past concerning his health and Sherlock’s cases. Nothing stopped him unless he was hospitalized which may have led him to where he is today. This probably began ages ago, when he first started skipping a glass of water in favor of darting down the stairs after Sherlock, but the symptoms started earlier in the week, at the clinic, with Sarah. That morning he’d woken up with a distant throb in his side, uncomfortable, but bearable, and he’d noted it only so he could keep track of it as the day persisted. By noon, he had to send his patient elsewhere, and had curled up on the floor under his desk. Sarah had found him there about an hour later, throwing up into his wastepaper basket.
“Kidney stone,” she told him, after hooking him up to an IV and pumping drugs into his system. She hadn’t forced him to move from his office for which he was eternally grateful. “All the symptoms point to it. You should’ve recognized this, John.”
“I know,” he mumbled, drained and more than a little embarrassed. “I know.”
“You probably haven’t been taking in enough fluids,” she continued, which he also knew. “And too much sodium in all the take-out; not to mention, you don’t sleep properly.”
He’d nodded his head, hating the oppressiveness of the morphine but too happy to have the pain gone to complain. “I know.”
“You need to take this seriously,” she pressed. Her hand lingered on his cheek. “John, you need to take care of yourself.” His hand wrapped over to his side protectively and she shook her head at him. “You need an MRI.”
They’d argued about it and she’d finally agreed to let him finish the drip, and see how he felt then. Better, he’d gritted, which was true, though the pain still stabbed at him, retreating back from agonizing to a happy five on a scale of one to ten. She’d informed the receptionist that she would be back in a moment, and had proceeded to bundle him home. When they reached the doorstep, him protectively hunched, her watching him with no limit of concern, she deposited a bag of antibiotics and painkillers in his hand.
“I’d tell you to catch it to have in analyzed,” she said, as he fumbled with his keys. “But you’re in no fit state. Make sure to take the antibiotics as a precaution.” When he didn’t acknowledge her, she added, “Promise me, you’ll watch this, John. You’ve got a bit of a fever. Get a full night’s rest and don’t do anything tomorrow. Lie around. Watch telly. Update your blog. Just don’t go out.”
“Of course,” he said to appease her, kissed her on her cheek, and waved to her as she left.
That night, he went out with Sherlock and he stayed with Sherlock through the rest of the next day. The antibiotics went forgotten on the counter, lost amongst plans, cultures, human eyeballs and something lumpy and green. When he looked for them around noon the next day, he found nothing at all and gave up. More chasing, more excitement, more chills than the weather merited and certainly far more sweat. He’d curled up in bed around two the next morning feeling utterly done in, his side throbbing with his heart, and didn’t awaken until ten when Sarah called him. Her voice, worried, wondering, made him feel like an utter ass.
“Still feverish?” she asked and he made an iffy sound which worried her even more. “Maybe I should come over. You’ve probably got a kidney infection.”
“No, no,” he assured. “No, I’m,” he cleared his throat and pulled his blankets tighter, “all right. Just need another day’s rest. Feel like crap.” Which he did, reasonably, and most people in his situation would even with proper medication and relaxation.
They’d spoken a bit more, she told him to take the rest of the week, and he’d gone back to sleep. When he managed to drag himself up later on that evening, he hunted for the pills and had no luck. Sherlock was out and about, no doubt trying to acquire a new form of suppressant for his boredom, so he enjoyed a fairly quiet evening, even if it required him checking his temperature and making frequent trips to the bathroom, and retired early for a deserved night’s rest.
He didn’t achieve it. Every thirty minutes, he needed the toilet, and the rest of the time a churning stomach, sweats and fever had him tearing the kitchen apart for the medicine. Finally, he found it hiding behind a severed hand in the pantry. He took the antibiotic first but forewent the painkiller for a bit. The pain was substantial, now taking up most of his abdomen and back, but it was not unbearable and, therefore, not worth being muddled. He collapsed on the couch afterwards, drifting hazily in and out of sleep until Sherlock had approached him and asked for his presence.
“I need an assistant,” Sherlock presses, a step from becoming fussy. His foot tapped against the corner of the couch.
“I need,” he starts, then stopped. He needs new kidneys. “I need sleep.”
“You’ve been sleeping for two days, now,” Sherlock sniffs. “Surely you’ve gotten enough at this point.”
The worst part-his psychiatrist would have a field day with this if he was still seeing her-is he wants to. More than anything, he wants to take two of the painkillers and spend the rest of the day hobbling after Sherlock, enjoying the chase and the thrills and watching Sherlock solve the unsolvable. Even though he’s so ill that he can’t find the strength to lift his hand, he actually considers trying to get up and follow Sherlock into the battlefield again. He’s sure that would have her scribbling, her eyebrows up at her hairline, her lips pursed, and she would say something about a lack of self-preservation and self-worth. His fingers twitch against his palm and he closes his eyes. Yeah, he’s been daft about all of this, and, now, he’s paying for it. The only part that worries him is that he hasn’t learned whatever lesson his body’s attempting to teach him.
“John,” Sherlock says. “I need you.” He stresses the ‘need’ and the ‘you.’
Just by the tone that Sherlock uses, John knows he’s being manipulated. Those words, “I need you,” words he thrives on, force his heavy lids up and he manages to sit up on the couch. The world doesn’t spin but gravity seems to have multiplied ten times over. His arms weigh as much as his whole body does normally and he’s clumsy about maneuvering them. He gains his feet slowly, painfully, Sherlock watching him the entire time with a shrewd, calculating gaze. Just the stairs alone look like hell, and the idea of having to stay on his feet for more than a few seconds makes him nauseated. Imagine how embarrassing it would be to have a fainting fit in front of Lestrade or Donovan or-God forbid-Anderson. The doctor in him, rather repressed of late in favor of the soldier, reminds him that this will be almost a guarantee if he pushes himself. He’s still feverish, still pissing blood, still aching worse than he did after any rugby match, and he needs to rest.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, sitting back down with a thump. “You’ll be fine, I’m sure. I’ll help I just can’t… now.”
The silence is almost palpable as Sherlock looms above him, and he ponders the easiest way to force his legs up onto the couch again. A heavy hand drops on his head, almost knocking him over, and he cranes so he can stare up at Sherlock who wears a rather strange expression. In fact, John doesn’t think he’s ever seen that expression on Sherlock, even after months and months of rooming with the man, and he’s not exactly sure what to make of it.
“You’re a fool,” Sherlock informs him, which is exactly what he needs to hear when he thinks he never wants to move again. A flush unrelated to the fever crawls over him and he attempts not to bristle. “A stubborn, honorable fool.”
And the great Sherlock Holmes removes his hand, leaving John as the sulking child. Later on though, when John wakes up from a nap, he finds the antibiotics and a semi-clean glass of water sitting on the ground nearby.