One-Shot: A Favour
My third bingo story today, BBC!Sherlock this time... I hope to get my blackout finished before I run out of time for writing...
Title: A Favour
Author: Jaelijn
Rating: PG
Warnings: illness, fluff
Disclaimer: Sherlock is property of BBC and Messrs Moffat and Gatiss. No copyright infringement intended.
Prompt: pneumonia
Characters: John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, Mrs Hudson
Summary: John falls ill.
Author's Note: BBC!Sherlock-verse. I never thought I would need a disclaimer on a Holmes story! ;) First published Sherlock story. Do you like it? Not sure I have John's voice right... Sherlock is so much easier...
Written for my hc_bingo card square of “pneumonia”.
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He was cold - or was he? Probably not, it was the fever. The thermometer he held before his eyes with shacking hands certainly said so - even if he couldn't be sure of the temperature, the numbers kept jumping up and down - most curious - the blinking, not-smiling smiley was plain enough.
John placed the thermometer on the sidetable, or tried to, because he missed it by a fraction and the cursed thermometer dropped to the floor, promptly rolling away under his bed. He was far too tired to get up and fetch it.
Mrs Hudson had brought him tea, but sadly, that was hardly a remedy for influenza.
John clutched his chest as another painful cough rattled him. That really did not sound healthy. He should pop down to the apothecary... As if.
He really shouldn't ask another favour of Mrs Hudson. The woman was a saint as it was for putting up with Sherlock; John didn't want to add to her grievances.
His flatmate had made his departure early in the morning - a case, thankfully - and was out of town for a day or two. He hadn't noticed John was feeling unwell when he departed, quite probably. Not that John would have expected to feel that wretched, bedridden with a raging fever, so soon.
John struggled to pick up the glass of water beside him - it wouldn't stay within his grasp, but that was probably a hallucination anyway - when his mobile phone buzzed.
John had been aware enough to take it with him when he took to his bed, sure that Sherlock would phone, or text, at least once while he was away, if only to tell him that he had solved the case. Sherlock could never resist an opportunity to get some praise.
One new message.
Case solved. Dull.
On my way back.
SH.
Nice. The phone got lost somewhere in the sheets as John lay back, resting his aching head in the cushions. He did not particularly care about the phone when a new bout of coughs hit him and he spluttered water all over his pyjama.
“Ooh ooh.” Mrs Hudson stood at his door, knocking slightly against the wood. “I don't like the sound of that cough of yours, dear.”
“Mrs Hudson.” Even to him, his voice sounded like a hoarse croak. “It's really nothing to be concerned about. Merely a cold.”
“I could call a doctor.”
“I am a doctor! I'm sorry, Mrs Hudson, I know you are concerned - I have not been feeling well.”
She gave him a sympathetic look and bustled in to fetch the empty tea cup. “Don't worry, dear, I can tell. I'll make you another cuppa.”
“Thank you, Mrs Hudson.”
The tea was some time coming, and John dozed away over waiting for it. He knew he had probably developed a light pneumonia and should be swallowing antibiotics, but he really could not bring himself to rise and fetch them from the cabinet in the kitchen, where they should be stored - if Sherlock had not occupied the space with some poisons of his. Again.
He awoke to the sound of voice downstairs in their sitting room, Mrs Hudson's voice, and a man's, too low to distinguish it clearly - or maybe that's just the pounding in his head - but by the tone of their landlady's chirping, it was probably Sherlock.
He's back, then. John tried to sit up a little, leaning back against the pillow stuffed behind his back. He had no wish to show Sherlock just how ill he felt. He had his doubts whether Sherlock was familiar with such situations - the bedside manner of a man like the detective probably left much to be desired. In fact, John would have counted himself lucky if Sherlock looked in on him at all.
Below, the conversation died down, and John could hear footsteps on the stairs - not Mrs Hudson's, he had picked up enough from Sherlock to observe that. It was Sherlock, then, probably making for his own bedroom to refresh and change after the journey.
To John's surprise, his door, which had been left slightly ajar anyway, was pushed open by a booted foot, followed by Sherlock's tall and slender frame. He had discarded his coat and overcoat, but was still wearing the maroon shirt he had departed with in the morning, now wrinkled, and was carrying a tray with tea for two, a plate of biscuits, and a small paper box - probably the antibiotics.
John was too stunned to speak for a moment, imitating a fish instead. Sherlock paid him no heed but placed the tray precariously on the side table, pulling a chair for himself close with his foot.
“Sherlock”, John croaked, stifling a cough. “You're back.”
“Obviously.” Sherlock's face remained blank as he poured some milk into one cup, handing the other to John. “You should take those antibiotics. You have pneumonia.”
“How... oh, never mind. Since when have you become a doctor?” John swallowed the pills, washing them down with the rest of his water.
“I have not, John. What a dull choice of profession! All those petty little illnesses, sniffles and rashes...” Sherlock stirred his tea with a spoon, looking down
John cleared his throat, both in indignation and discomfort.
At that, his flatmate smirked. “You are, or have been, an army doctor. That is different.”
“I see.” John had long given up to be able to follow Sherlock's logic. “So, how was the case?”
“A triviality. Nothing of interest at all. Certainly nothing to entertain the readers of your blog.”
“Why, then, are you here, in my room, at my bedside?”
Sherlock tilted his head, his expression a curious mixture between honest surprise and the 'you are all so stupid'-expression he did so well. “I was reliably informed you were ill.”
“That's it? You didn't come in here to annoy me, or to observe the symptoms of pneumonia, or to brag about that case?”
“I'm really far too modest to do that.”
“No, you're not.”
“No, I'm not.” Sherlock smirked again. “You constantly fussed over me after that unfortunate incident two weeks ago - I didn't complain.”
“An unfortunate incident, is it now? You fainted. Right in front of Lestrade, Donovan and Anderson. Because you had eaten not a scrap for three days.”
“I do remember.”
John chuckled at Sherlock's sulky expression. “So this is payback for my fussing? I have to suffer through your company until my head bursts?”
“No.” Sherlock returned to stirring his tea. “I am merely returning the favour in kind.”
John imitated a fish again. “Oh. Oh!”
“Yes.”
“That's... nice. Thank you.”
Sherlock's mouth twitched slightly. “You're welcome.”
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