Fic: Sherlock Holmes
Untitled
By Alone Dreaming
Rating: PG ( I wouldn't mind if my seven year old cousin read it, though she'd probably get lost midway and give up)
Characters: Watson, Holmes
Universe: Canon UI (under the influence; but not a UTI which is quite different)
Warnings: Snot, my deplorable English
Words: unknown (not all that long though)
Author's Note: Written as a pick me up for kcscribbler who's sick... Feel better. :)
The only thing worse than a sick Sherlock Holmes, Watson decides sometime in the evening, after successfully failing to coerce his fellow into consuming the somewhat palatable (and only somewhat because his taste buds had met an unfortunate death to congestion) broth Mrs. Hudson had left by the sitting room door (out of pity, no doubt), is being sick while nursing a sick Sherlock Holmes. He has settled himself at his desk, blowing his nose into his handkerchief as he thinks this, and his next thought is that he's being rather uncharitable. After all, he has often tried the most patient of his friends when under the sway of a cold, due to nothing more than the whims of a low fever and the misery of stunted breathing. He attempts to convince himself that he's oversensitive and that he ought to not take the chucked handkerchiefs (and pillows, for that matter) as a sign of discourtesy so much as the discontent of a febrile brain. His occupation has shown him far worse behavior and he has handled it admirably so surely he can show such patience and fortitude against one petulant detective with a head cold.
Or he could sulk.
He does not sulk frequently. Despite his proclivity towards a quick temper, he admirably fights off disappointment by convincing himself that better times will come. His initial return to England may have been fraught with a certain depression but his natural disposition has always been towards happiness and contentment. With his position (and roommate) as a doctor, he has never had the pleasure of defecting to crankiness when things do not go his way. Right now, however, it sounds delightful. How wonderful would it be, to sit in his room and fling things at innocent philanthropists bearing soup and fresh linens and cool pitchers of water. He could even do that here, burrow into the blanket Mrs. Hudson (good woman, kind woman) set with the soup and hiss at anyone who comes within his five foot personal boundary.
But sulking, he notes, as he slinks to his chair, takes a great deal of resolve and strength; two seconds in and he finds it to be a waste of time. If he sulks, he cannot stoke the fire or fumble with the kettle to reheat the water. He cannot hope to shuffle back to his desk for his book or to shakily steep tea. No, if he gives in to that morose behavior and lies in wait for some samaritan to deliver his necessities like a ill-tempered lapdog, he'll very likely suffer worse for it. How Holmes allows it to happen on a regular basis, he muses, drowsily, he cannot comprehend.
"Or you don't have to speak to me," Holmes huffs. He has shuffled close to the fire, a tatty houserobe pulled tightly about his lean form. His eyes (rather puffy) narrow at Watson. "What can you possibly be contemplating so deeply that you didn't hear me calling?"
He chuckles, beyond the melancholy into the dull, exhausted stupor of the ill. "What it is like to be you. I've concluded I have neither the energy nor the character to imitate your behavior."
His nose decides, right then, right there, that it has no interest in remaining inactive. It twitches, the tell-tale itch starts, and he starts a frantic search for a handkerchief only to find he left it at the desk. Ten feet never seems as far as when one must desperately reach the other end of it. He puts his hands over his face, attempts to stand, and sets off a tremendous sneeze. It feels as though his brain may have slopped out his nostrils and into his hands. His eyes water from the force. He is in desperate need of a handkerchief and a sink.
As though responding to his wishes, a clean square of cloth dangles before him. He snatches it without request and wipes his nose and hands with as much dignity as possible.
"Of course, you don't," Holmes says, curling into his own chair with all the languishing dignity of the gods of old. "You are nothing like me Watson," his tone would be insulting if not for the next bit, "that's why I like you."
"Tea?" Watson offers, peering at the rather leafy sludge he's created.
"I'd rather die."
His lips turn up at the edges as he pours his own cup and allows the burn to claw at his throat.
By Alone Dreaming
Rating: PG ( I wouldn't mind if my seven year old cousin read it, though she'd probably get lost midway and give up)
Characters: Watson, Holmes
Universe: Canon UI (under the influence; but not a UTI which is quite different)
Warnings: Snot, my deplorable English
Words: unknown (not all that long though)
Author's Note: Written as a pick me up for kcscribbler who's sick... Feel better. :)
The only thing worse than a sick Sherlock Holmes, Watson decides sometime in the evening, after successfully failing to coerce his fellow into consuming the somewhat palatable (and only somewhat because his taste buds had met an unfortunate death to congestion) broth Mrs. Hudson had left by the sitting room door (out of pity, no doubt), is being sick while nursing a sick Sherlock Holmes. He has settled himself at his desk, blowing his nose into his handkerchief as he thinks this, and his next thought is that he's being rather uncharitable. After all, he has often tried the most patient of his friends when under the sway of a cold, due to nothing more than the whims of a low fever and the misery of stunted breathing. He attempts to convince himself that he's oversensitive and that he ought to not take the chucked handkerchiefs (and pillows, for that matter) as a sign of discourtesy so much as the discontent of a febrile brain. His occupation has shown him far worse behavior and he has handled it admirably so surely he can show such patience and fortitude against one petulant detective with a head cold.
Or he could sulk.
He does not sulk frequently. Despite his proclivity towards a quick temper, he admirably fights off disappointment by convincing himself that better times will come. His initial return to England may have been fraught with a certain depression but his natural disposition has always been towards happiness and contentment. With his position (and roommate) as a doctor, he has never had the pleasure of defecting to crankiness when things do not go his way. Right now, however, it sounds delightful. How wonderful would it be, to sit in his room and fling things at innocent philanthropists bearing soup and fresh linens and cool pitchers of water. He could even do that here, burrow into the blanket Mrs. Hudson (good woman, kind woman) set with the soup and hiss at anyone who comes within his five foot personal boundary.
But sulking, he notes, as he slinks to his chair, takes a great deal of resolve and strength; two seconds in and he finds it to be a waste of time. If he sulks, he cannot stoke the fire or fumble with the kettle to reheat the water. He cannot hope to shuffle back to his desk for his book or to shakily steep tea. No, if he gives in to that morose behavior and lies in wait for some samaritan to deliver his necessities like a ill-tempered lapdog, he'll very likely suffer worse for it. How Holmes allows it to happen on a regular basis, he muses, drowsily, he cannot comprehend.
"Or you don't have to speak to me," Holmes huffs. He has shuffled close to the fire, a tatty houserobe pulled tightly about his lean form. His eyes (rather puffy) narrow at Watson. "What can you possibly be contemplating so deeply that you didn't hear me calling?"
He chuckles, beyond the melancholy into the dull, exhausted stupor of the ill. "What it is like to be you. I've concluded I have neither the energy nor the character to imitate your behavior."
His nose decides, right then, right there, that it has no interest in remaining inactive. It twitches, the tell-tale itch starts, and he starts a frantic search for a handkerchief only to find he left it at the desk. Ten feet never seems as far as when one must desperately reach the other end of it. He puts his hands over his face, attempts to stand, and sets off a tremendous sneeze. It feels as though his brain may have slopped out his nostrils and into his hands. His eyes water from the force. He is in desperate need of a handkerchief and a sink.
As though responding to his wishes, a clean square of cloth dangles before him. He snatches it without request and wipes his nose and hands with as much dignity as possible.
"Of course, you don't," Holmes says, curling into his own chair with all the languishing dignity of the gods of old. "You are nothing like me Watson," his tone would be insulting if not for the next bit, "that's why I like you."
"Tea?" Watson offers, peering at the rather leafy sludge he's created.
"I'd rather die."
His lips turn up at the edges as he pours his own cup and allows the burn to claw at his throat.