Fic for Lefaym: Of Devious Non-Housekeepers and Slow Geniuses
Title: Of Devious Non-Housekeepers and Slow Geniuses
Recipient: lefaym
Author: elenothar
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock, Mrs Hudson, John
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
Summary: Sherlock is sick. Mrs Hudson does something about it. And for once John is being the unreasonable one.
Objectively regarded, the day hadn’t gone well. Of course Sherlock would never have admitted that, even to himself, if his head hadn’t been hurting so much.
Curled up on the sofa, his head throbbing in time with his heartbeat, throat sore, and nose dripping, he finally had to admit to himself that he was actually, truly sick. The affront of it all was simply staggering. He had better things to do than lying around at home, his thoughts slowed down to an intolerable snail-speed.
Another cough wracked his slender frame, nearly masking the sound of the door opening. At least his senses weren’t so dulled that he didn’t immediately recognize Mrs Hudson without looking by the cadence of her footsteps. It cheered him up only marginally.
Especially since her presence could only mean that a lot of mothering would follow, which was what he’d been trying to avoid in the first place.
She didn’t disappoint. “Oh, Sherlock, darling! Why didn’t you tell anyone you’re sick?”
He considered actually answering that question and then discarded the notion when his efforts were rewarded with a particularly bad throb behind his temples.
Mrs Hudson apparently hadn’t expected an answer anyway, as she was now puttering around in the kitchen, keeping up a steady stream of quite one-sided conversation. “There’s a wave of influenza going around the city right now, John told me the other day. The poor boy is working far too much I always say. You probably caught it running around on the streets as you always do.”
The words barely made it through to his muddled brain. Though he had noticed that John had been at work longer than usual lately, especially since he blew off coming on a case with Sherlock for it. Incidentally that had also been the case he’d nearly collapsed on because of his developing fever. Once Lestrade had started shooting him worried looks, he’d solved the case in record time (it had been ridiculously elementary anyway) and made a tactical retreat before he could be mother-henned in front of the whole Scotland Yard.
When he emerged from his train of thought, Sherlock had lost several minutes and Mrs Hudson was standing in front of him, holding a cup of tea.
“Drink,” she commanded, but her voice was as gentle as the wrinkled hand checking his forehead’s temperature.
“Tea isn’t actually the cure to all ills, Mrs Hudson,” he griped a little sourly, but the effect was mostly ruined by the hoarseness of his voice.
She just smiled at him, that warm expression that, for all that he usually pretended otherwise, thawed him in a way nothing much could anymore. But then again, she’d always been special, just like John.
“You’re running a dangerous fever,” she informed him, tone not quite worried yet. “Why didn’t you call John?”
“It’s only 39.5 degrees,” he mumbled, and because apparently being sick made his mind go weak and his tongue slip, he said, entirely truthfully “I didn’t want to worry him.”
She sighed, pointing out, far too reasonably, “Don’t you think he’d rather be called at work than find you passed out on the sofa when coming home?”
He let his eyes slide shut in protest, not even opening them again when Mrs Hudson firmly took his hand dangling from the edge of the sofa and pressed a warm mug into it.
Later he would chalk his acquiescent small sips of tea up to his tiredness. Arguing with Mrs Hudson usually didn’t go that well for him, never mind that he was supposed to be a genius.
Oh, and had he mentioned that she could be an exceptionally devious old woman when it suited her plans? Normal landladies/grudging part-time housekeepers certainly didn’t tend to drug one’s drink when ill.
His eyes slipped shut again, aided by the sudden fuzzy warmth.
*
When Sherlock woke up again, there was light streaming through the window and the afghan was securely tucked around him.
There was also a very tired-looking John Watson leaning over him, obviously unaware of his return to the land of the living. Even though his head still felt unacceptably fuzzy, he spent a few seconds examining the other out of pure habit. John’s normally neat hair was mussed (and it was longer than usual, implying an impending trip to the barber), his blue eyes rimmed, their tiredness only accentuated by the large bags beneath. In short, he looked like Sherlock felt.
“You should work less, John,” he said, voice still hoarse. “It’s affecting your health.”
If John was surprised to hear him talk, he didn’t show it. “That’s rich coming from the guy who’s managed to blow a simple cold into epic proportions because he overworked himself.”
“The case needed to be solved,” Sherlock mumbled, hoping John wouldn’t pick up on the slight edge of defensiveness he hadn’t been able to keep out of his tone.
“And I’m needed at the clinic, Sherlock,” John replied, producing a cup of tea from the footstool. “Drink, you’re slightly dehydrated.”
Holding back a sigh - there he went with the mothering again - he accepted the cup. With John in his doctor mode, even Sherlock’s stubbornness wasn’t enough to dissuade him.
He did, however, surreptitiously sniff at the tea before taking a sip. It wouldn’t do to be drugged twice in as many days, especially when he’d already wasted so much time being sick.
He couldn’t help but peripherally notice that it tasted just like usual. John was the only person who managed to unfailingly recreate exactly the same cup of tea every time. He had got suspiciously fond of the precise blend and taste (contributing to his refusal to make tea himself).
Watching John drag himself back to the kitchen to put away the milk, weariness clear in every nuance of his posture, a plan began to form. He had to credit Mrs Hudson with some good ideas now and then.
The execution proved ridiculously easy, though for once he wasn’t quite sure whether that was because of his genius, or because John was simply far too tired for his own good, or both.
Having acquired the substance she had used on him during a quick, if slightly tottering visit downstairs - Mrs Hudson was easily convinced as soon as he mentioned John’s exhaustion - , while John was in the bathroom, it was only a matter of slipping two of the sleeping aid pills into John’s waiting evening tea cup and voila.
Thankfully John managed to get upstairs himself, yawning widely, before falling asleep all the way. Sherlock watched him go with a small smirk, already anticipating the minor explosion that was bound to happen when John found out that he’d overslept and missed his shift at the clinic the next day.
Well, Sherlock had even called in sick for him, what more could he ask for?
The next morning he found out that, as far as John was concerned, a whole lot - he was definitely suffering from a lack of reasonable priorities.
Recipient: lefaym
Author: elenothar
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock, Mrs Hudson, John
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
Summary: Sherlock is sick. Mrs Hudson does something about it. And for once John is being the unreasonable one.
Objectively regarded, the day hadn’t gone well. Of course Sherlock would never have admitted that, even to himself, if his head hadn’t been hurting so much.
Curled up on the sofa, his head throbbing in time with his heartbeat, throat sore, and nose dripping, he finally had to admit to himself that he was actually, truly sick. The affront of it all was simply staggering. He had better things to do than lying around at home, his thoughts slowed down to an intolerable snail-speed.
Another cough wracked his slender frame, nearly masking the sound of the door opening. At least his senses weren’t so dulled that he didn’t immediately recognize Mrs Hudson without looking by the cadence of her footsteps. It cheered him up only marginally.
Especially since her presence could only mean that a lot of mothering would follow, which was what he’d been trying to avoid in the first place.
She didn’t disappoint. “Oh, Sherlock, darling! Why didn’t you tell anyone you’re sick?”
He considered actually answering that question and then discarded the notion when his efforts were rewarded with a particularly bad throb behind his temples.
Mrs Hudson apparently hadn’t expected an answer anyway, as she was now puttering around in the kitchen, keeping up a steady stream of quite one-sided conversation. “There’s a wave of influenza going around the city right now, John told me the other day. The poor boy is working far too much I always say. You probably caught it running around on the streets as you always do.”
The words barely made it through to his muddled brain. Though he had noticed that John had been at work longer than usual lately, especially since he blew off coming on a case with Sherlock for it. Incidentally that had also been the case he’d nearly collapsed on because of his developing fever. Once Lestrade had started shooting him worried looks, he’d solved the case in record time (it had been ridiculously elementary anyway) and made a tactical retreat before he could be mother-henned in front of the whole Scotland Yard.
When he emerged from his train of thought, Sherlock had lost several minutes and Mrs Hudson was standing in front of him, holding a cup of tea.
“Drink,” she commanded, but her voice was as gentle as the wrinkled hand checking his forehead’s temperature.
“Tea isn’t actually the cure to all ills, Mrs Hudson,” he griped a little sourly, but the effect was mostly ruined by the hoarseness of his voice.
She just smiled at him, that warm expression that, for all that he usually pretended otherwise, thawed him in a way nothing much could anymore. But then again, she’d always been special, just like John.
“You’re running a dangerous fever,” she informed him, tone not quite worried yet. “Why didn’t you call John?”
“It’s only 39.5 degrees,” he mumbled, and because apparently being sick made his mind go weak and his tongue slip, he said, entirely truthfully “I didn’t want to worry him.”
She sighed, pointing out, far too reasonably, “Don’t you think he’d rather be called at work than find you passed out on the sofa when coming home?”
He let his eyes slide shut in protest, not even opening them again when Mrs Hudson firmly took his hand dangling from the edge of the sofa and pressed a warm mug into it.
Later he would chalk his acquiescent small sips of tea up to his tiredness. Arguing with Mrs Hudson usually didn’t go that well for him, never mind that he was supposed to be a genius.
Oh, and had he mentioned that she could be an exceptionally devious old woman when it suited her plans? Normal landladies/grudging part-time housekeepers certainly didn’t tend to drug one’s drink when ill.
His eyes slipped shut again, aided by the sudden fuzzy warmth.
*
When Sherlock woke up again, there was light streaming through the window and the afghan was securely tucked around him.
There was also a very tired-looking John Watson leaning over him, obviously unaware of his return to the land of the living. Even though his head still felt unacceptably fuzzy, he spent a few seconds examining the other out of pure habit. John’s normally neat hair was mussed (and it was longer than usual, implying an impending trip to the barber), his blue eyes rimmed, their tiredness only accentuated by the large bags beneath. In short, he looked like Sherlock felt.
“You should work less, John,” he said, voice still hoarse. “It’s affecting your health.”
If John was surprised to hear him talk, he didn’t show it. “That’s rich coming from the guy who’s managed to blow a simple cold into epic proportions because he overworked himself.”
“The case needed to be solved,” Sherlock mumbled, hoping John wouldn’t pick up on the slight edge of defensiveness he hadn’t been able to keep out of his tone.
“And I’m needed at the clinic, Sherlock,” John replied, producing a cup of tea from the footstool. “Drink, you’re slightly dehydrated.”
Holding back a sigh - there he went with the mothering again - he accepted the cup. With John in his doctor mode, even Sherlock’s stubbornness wasn’t enough to dissuade him.
He did, however, surreptitiously sniff at the tea before taking a sip. It wouldn’t do to be drugged twice in as many days, especially when he’d already wasted so much time being sick.
He couldn’t help but peripherally notice that it tasted just like usual. John was the only person who managed to unfailingly recreate exactly the same cup of tea every time. He had got suspiciously fond of the precise blend and taste (contributing to his refusal to make tea himself).
Watching John drag himself back to the kitchen to put away the milk, weariness clear in every nuance of his posture, a plan began to form. He had to credit Mrs Hudson with some good ideas now and then.
The execution proved ridiculously easy, though for once he wasn’t quite sure whether that was because of his genius, or because John was simply far too tired for his own good, or both.
Having acquired the substance she had used on him during a quick, if slightly tottering visit downstairs - Mrs Hudson was easily convinced as soon as he mentioned John’s exhaustion - , while John was in the bathroom, it was only a matter of slipping two of the sleeping aid pills into John’s waiting evening tea cup and voila.
Thankfully John managed to get upstairs himself, yawning widely, before falling asleep all the way. Sherlock watched him go with a small smirk, already anticipating the minor explosion that was bound to happen when John found out that he’d overslept and missed his shift at the clinic the next day.
Well, Sherlock had even called in sick for him, what more could he ask for?
The next morning he found out that, as far as John was concerned, a whole lot - he was definitely suffering from a lack of reasonable priorities.