Sherlock - fic - Endless Winters Froze The Sea, Sherlock/John, PG
Title - Endless Winters Froze The Sea
Author - laurab1
Rating - PG
Pairing - Sherlock/John friendship, possibly pre-slash
Length - 900 words
Summary - h/c, Sherlock using John's stethoscope
Spoilers - S1 of Sherlock
Disclaimer - Alas, none of these people are mine. This version of Sherlock Holmes belongs to Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, the BBC et al. Sherlock Holmes as created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle is in the public domain.
Feedback is loved and appreciated :) Enjoy!
For ladyfiresprite, as requested here, on this sherlockbbc Make Me A Monday request post.
Endless Winters Froze The Sea
by Laura
Falling in the Thames, while in pursuit of criminals, which happens to them far too often, is never a particularly pleasant experience; in the dead of winter, it’s a bloody awful one. It was John’s turn, this time, and yes, of course, it happened when the Thames was freezing cold. It’s been a week since the accident, and while he’s over the worst of it, thank God, he knows his lungs still sound dreadful. And even more so when, sat at a desk, typing up the case that ended with his little swim in the river, a coughing fit overtakes him.
“You cannot be ill, John, I forbid it,” Sherlock says. Well, orders. John can’t see him, but knows from the sounds that he will be hauling himself up from his messy sprawl on the sofa. “I need you with me.”
I didn’t do it deliberately, you know, John would say, if he could actually speak. But he can’t, so he settles for a little smile to himself, at what passes for comfort to Sherlock’s way of thinking. Then there are footsteps, and the sounds of a glass being found, the kitchen tap running and being turned off, and the glass is placed on the table, right in front of him. He grabs it, and takes a few sips.
“Thanks,” he says, when he can breathe, adding, “Yes, well, I did fall in the river, Sherlock, and it was absolutely bloody freezing. You’re going to have to do most of the cases on your own for another week, I think. Well, the mad running about parts, at least.”
John’s words look like they’re going to send Sherlock back into his sulk on the sofa. “Which is nowhere near as much fun as when you’re running by my side,” he says, petulantly.
That makes John smile, and decide to take pity on him, so Sherlock can see, and hear, for himself, just how ill he really is. “Would you go and get my doctor’s bag for me, please?” he asks.
Sherlock nods, leaving so quickly that John completely misses whatever expression might have been on his face. He sips the water again, and listens. Quick steps up the stairs to his room, door opened and closed, quick steps back down again, even with the extra weight. Then Sherlock is stood by the chair, large black case in his hand.
“Thank you.” John takes the bag from him, sets it on his lap, and opens it up. He reaches inside, pulls out his stethoscope, and, with a smirk, hands it to Sherlock. “Here. You can listen to my lungs.” He knows that as far as the detective is concerned, that’s practically a proposition: the look John gets in return is, well, predatory. He finds himself hastily pulled up from his chair and taken over to the sofa.
Sherlock arranges the stethoscope on his own ears and sits beside him. “You’ll have to remove your jumper, John,” he says, “and unbutton your shirt.”
“Yes. Make sure you --" he starts, and then realises he didn’t have to say anything, as yes, of course, Sherlock’s warming up the metal part by breathing on it. He chuckles to himself as he takes off his jumper, and undoes a few buttons. The end of the stethoscope is then placed on his bare chest. And it’s still bloody cold. “I think you could’ve warmed it up a little more, Sherlock!”
Another predatory look, accompanied by a slightly wicked grin, and Sherlock’s asking him to breathe in and out. The noise his lungs are making becomes obvious on his flatmate’s face, and then he’s offering him one of the earpieces.
“You really are quite badly ill, John,” Sherlock finally allows, expression grim.
John takes a listen for himself, and oh, God, his lungs sound so much worse through the stethoscope. Still, nothing that can’t be fixed, though, and he’s suffered far, far worse than a chill. He removes the two earpieces, and takes the instrument from Sherlock. “Yes. Lemsip with a shot of whisky in it, that’ll help.”
Sherlock has an eyebrow raised. “Is that medically wise, Doctor Watson?”
John laughs. “Oh, God, yes. Now would be nice, too.”
“Very well,” Sherlock replies, reaching out to do the shirt buttons back up.
Before John can formulate a reaction to that, the stethoscope is taken from him again. Sherlock walks back to the bag, and places it carefully inside. After putting his jumper back on again, he watches Sherlock make the Lemsip, and find the whisky he requested. His medicinal drink (yes, all of it) is shortly presented to him, along with his laptop.
“Thank you, Sherlock. No more typing tonight, though,” he says, tasting the hot (and alcoholic) liquid.
He saves his Word document, puts the computer on the coffee table, and, instead of moving to his chair, leans back against the sofa. Then, much to John’s surprise, there’s an arm around his shoulders. He looks from Sherlock’s face to his arm, eyebrow raised. In reply, Sherlock raises his own eyebrow, pulls him closer, and John is even more surprised to find a kiss pressed to his temple, accompanied by a whispered, “Get well soon, John. Running on my own really is so frightfully boring.”
John decides to just drink his Lemsip and smile. He might make a human, a good man, out of Sherlock Holmes, yet.
-end-
Author - laurab1
Rating - PG
Pairing - Sherlock/John friendship, possibly pre-slash
Length - 900 words
Summary - h/c, Sherlock using John's stethoscope
Spoilers - S1 of Sherlock
Disclaimer - Alas, none of these people are mine. This version of Sherlock Holmes belongs to Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, the BBC et al. Sherlock Holmes as created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle is in the public domain.
Feedback is loved and appreciated :) Enjoy!
For ladyfiresprite, as requested here, on this sherlockbbc Make Me A Monday request post.
Endless Winters Froze The Sea
by Laura
Falling in the Thames, while in pursuit of criminals, which happens to them far too often, is never a particularly pleasant experience; in the dead of winter, it’s a bloody awful one. It was John’s turn, this time, and yes, of course, it happened when the Thames was freezing cold. It’s been a week since the accident, and while he’s over the worst of it, thank God, he knows his lungs still sound dreadful. And even more so when, sat at a desk, typing up the case that ended with his little swim in the river, a coughing fit overtakes him.
“You cannot be ill, John, I forbid it,” Sherlock says. Well, orders. John can’t see him, but knows from the sounds that he will be hauling himself up from his messy sprawl on the sofa. “I need you with me.”
I didn’t do it deliberately, you know, John would say, if he could actually speak. But he can’t, so he settles for a little smile to himself, at what passes for comfort to Sherlock’s way of thinking. Then there are footsteps, and the sounds of a glass being found, the kitchen tap running and being turned off, and the glass is placed on the table, right in front of him. He grabs it, and takes a few sips.
“Thanks,” he says, when he can breathe, adding, “Yes, well, I did fall in the river, Sherlock, and it was absolutely bloody freezing. You’re going to have to do most of the cases on your own for another week, I think. Well, the mad running about parts, at least.”
John’s words look like they’re going to send Sherlock back into his sulk on the sofa. “Which is nowhere near as much fun as when you’re running by my side,” he says, petulantly.
That makes John smile, and decide to take pity on him, so Sherlock can see, and hear, for himself, just how ill he really is. “Would you go and get my doctor’s bag for me, please?” he asks.
Sherlock nods, leaving so quickly that John completely misses whatever expression might have been on his face. He sips the water again, and listens. Quick steps up the stairs to his room, door opened and closed, quick steps back down again, even with the extra weight. Then Sherlock is stood by the chair, large black case in his hand.
“Thank you.” John takes the bag from him, sets it on his lap, and opens it up. He reaches inside, pulls out his stethoscope, and, with a smirk, hands it to Sherlock. “Here. You can listen to my lungs.” He knows that as far as the detective is concerned, that’s practically a proposition: the look John gets in return is, well, predatory. He finds himself hastily pulled up from his chair and taken over to the sofa.
Sherlock arranges the stethoscope on his own ears and sits beside him. “You’ll have to remove your jumper, John,” he says, “and unbutton your shirt.”
“Yes. Make sure you --" he starts, and then realises he didn’t have to say anything, as yes, of course, Sherlock’s warming up the metal part by breathing on it. He chuckles to himself as he takes off his jumper, and undoes a few buttons. The end of the stethoscope is then placed on his bare chest. And it’s still bloody cold. “I think you could’ve warmed it up a little more, Sherlock!”
Another predatory look, accompanied by a slightly wicked grin, and Sherlock’s asking him to breathe in and out. The noise his lungs are making becomes obvious on his flatmate’s face, and then he’s offering him one of the earpieces.
“You really are quite badly ill, John,” Sherlock finally allows, expression grim.
John takes a listen for himself, and oh, God, his lungs sound so much worse through the stethoscope. Still, nothing that can’t be fixed, though, and he’s suffered far, far worse than a chill. He removes the two earpieces, and takes the instrument from Sherlock. “Yes. Lemsip with a shot of whisky in it, that’ll help.”
Sherlock has an eyebrow raised. “Is that medically wise, Doctor Watson?”
John laughs. “Oh, God, yes. Now would be nice, too.”
“Very well,” Sherlock replies, reaching out to do the shirt buttons back up.
Before John can formulate a reaction to that, the stethoscope is taken from him again. Sherlock walks back to the bag, and places it carefully inside. After putting his jumper back on again, he watches Sherlock make the Lemsip, and find the whisky he requested. His medicinal drink (yes, all of it) is shortly presented to him, along with his laptop.
“Thank you, Sherlock. No more typing tonight, though,” he says, tasting the hot (and alcoholic) liquid.
He saves his Word document, puts the computer on the coffee table, and, instead of moving to his chair, leans back against the sofa. Then, much to John’s surprise, there’s an arm around his shoulders. He looks from Sherlock’s face to his arm, eyebrow raised. In reply, Sherlock raises his own eyebrow, pulls him closer, and John is even more surprised to find a kiss pressed to his temple, accompanied by a whispered, “Get well soon, John. Running on my own really is so frightfully boring.”
John decides to just drink his Lemsip and smile. He might make a human, a good man, out of Sherlock Holmes, yet.
-end-