Sherlock100 45/100 #62 Spring
Title: Stubborn
Characters: Sherlock & John
Prompt: So Sherlock breaks his arm or his ankle or something, and John is like "oh ffffff" because he expects that now, Sherlock will demand that John do EVERYTHING for him, "fetch me this," "run do that," "get the shopping," etc. But as it turns out, despite his normal laziness, when he's injured Sherlock is one of those "don't help me, I CAN DO IT MYSELF" types, and John has to chase after him all the time to STOP him from doing everything.
Word Count (if fiction): ~2000
Rating: PG15
Summary: Sherlock breaks his arm. Why is he being so stubborn?, John wonders.
Spoilers: First season
Warnings: Pretty mild talk of injuries; John's language; John's POV
Disclaimer: Don't own Sherlock or John
My table: http://marill-chan.livejournal.com/4488.html
I was enjoying a cool morning in Spring, taking slow sips of tea and sitting in a fuzzy dressing gown. It was one of the few days that I was able to relax and take in a late morning since Sherlock was out. Just as I was getting ready to read the newspaper, there was a creak on the staircase, indicating that Sherlock was back from his…whatever he was doing all night. I sighed. Well, nothing lasts forever.
He came stumbling into the flat without preamble and looking frightful. I was on my feet almost immediately, my paper wafting to the floor. Sherlock had a cast on his right arm, cradled in a sling. I saw some defensive injuries on his fingers and the palms of his hands. Any other injuries he might have had were masked by his clothing.
“Sherlock, what happened?” I asked the obvious question.
Sherlock gave me a withering glare, as if to say Can you not glean that information from looking me over once?
“I fell on some stairs trying to chase after someone who turned out to be nobody,” he said. He went on to elaborate, “It’s icy out. I misjudged.”
I looked at his standard medical sling. “Have you been to the A&E?”
He nodded and went over to pour himself some tea from the brew I’d made earlier. I watched him for any sign of lower body injuries and didn’t see any limping, not even a well-concealed indication of pain. My stomach unclenched then, and I let go of a little breath. Sherlock brought his tea with him and sat gingerly on the couch.
I gave him a moment to settle. Then, “Why didn’t anyone call me? I assume you didn’t go to hospital all by yourself.”
He set his tea on his lap, balancing the saucer on his thigh. “No, I did go by myself. Well, a taxi driver got me there, of course…”
I frowned. “Sherlock, why didn’t you call me? I would have helped you.”
He shrugged his left shoulder. “You would’ve made me go to hospital anyway. It’s a compound fracture. I’m not so stupid that I’d let it go unattended.” He said the last with bitterness.
That was the moment when I realised something sigh-worthy. Sherlock was going to be a royal pain during his recovery. I was going to have to get him things at all hours of the day and night (not that that was new), cart his experiments and rotting body parts around and flip channels on the telly for him. Basically, I was looking at 6 weeks to 3 months of being a full-time maid.
I waited. I wasn’t about to offer anything to him before he asked for it. Best not to encourage it. Sure, I would take care of the man as he was clearly hurting, but I knew that he would try to take advantage of me if I let him.
About an hour later, Sherlock fished a pain pill out of his pocket, took it, and fell asleep on the sofa. I covered him up with a blanket and sat back across from him. After I grew tired of watching his chest rise and fall, I decided that I would go out and buy a few things from the shops. Best to have a fully stocked kitchen on hand for my newest patient.
…
I returned about two hours later after taking two taxis and having petty annoyances with the machines in the grocery store. I went back into the flat carrying four bags of items I thought Sherlock might enjoy eating while he convalesced.
As I entered the living room, I turned an expectant eye towards the couch but didn’t find Sherlock there. “Sherlock?” I called, wondering if maybe he had retreated off to bed.
“Yes?” His voice startled me, coming from the kitchen. I walked around a little awkwardly with all my shopping and found him shakily holding a pipette in his left hand. He dropped some of the liquid on the table, causing one of the placements to get singed.
“Why are you playing with acid when you’ve got your good arm all wrapped up?” I asked, my mouth wrinkling into a scowl.
Sherlock gave a quick glance towards me and then did his version of a double-take. He was up from the table instantly, his pipette forgotten and dripping onto the ruined placemat. “Did you get any lemons? We’re out and I need it for my tests…” Then he tried to take one of the bags that I was still holding in my dumbfound stupor.
I jerked away from his questing fingers. “Can you wait until I get all this put away? Yes, I got lemons.” I swear he growled at me. “Sit down. You can’t carry these bags. They’re heavy.”
He sulked back over to the table and picked up his instrument again. “I am not an invalid, John,” he muttered. “It’s just a broken arm.”
I hummed in agreement, but didn’t state my real opinion. Instead I unpacked the bags one at a time and placed a couple of lemons next to him. No other strange incidents happened that day, unless you count Sherlock being quiet and not demanding anything of me. I hardly noticed, I was so busy cleaning up the flat and watching telly with all the free time I had.
…
Sherlock and I had parted ways at about nine o’clock that night. He’d gone off to his bedroom (to sleep, I’d assumed) and I had stayed up for a few hours reading. Eventually I climbed the staircase up to my bedroom and fell asleep quickly.
A noise woke me. I squinted over at the alarm clock and saw the red numbers saying 3:25. I rubbed my face and planned to go back to sleep but heard cursing and then a sound like a whimper. I swallowed back my morning breath (technically morning) and shifted out of the bed. I stumbled down the stairs in the darkness until my fingers ran over the switch for the hall lights.
Illuminated there on the floor of the living room was Sherlock clutching his shoulder and glaring at me, as if I were intruding on him. That’s when I saw what was going on. The coffee table was out of place and centered underneath the main overhead light. A replacement bulb was sitting next to Sherlock’s foot.
“I’ll get it,” I told him, my voice betraying none of the aggravation I felt.
“No!” Sherlock snapped at me. “I will do it, just give me a moment…in fact, go back to sleep. This doesn’t concern you at’all.”
“Why won’t you let me help you?” I crossed my arms over my chest. “Why are you being so stubborn? Why are you even trying to change the bulb in the middle of the night?”
“I was already awake and I needed the light to read,” he said, attempting to get up. “And I don’t need help,” he snarled when he saw me coming over to steady him to his feet.
I shrugged. “Fine. But you are really being childish.”
I watched as he stood up on the table and unscrewed the dead bulb. He got down and sat in the reclining chair to breathe heavily and clutch at his likely throbbing arm. While he panted, I took the new light bulb from the floor and screwed it into place while Sherlock protested my every move. I rolled my eyes. Not like he could stop me.
…
Finally, he agreed to go off to bed, if only to allow me to get some rest. I slept well until late that morning, waking up with a stiff lower back. Cursing myself for sleeping so late, I got up and showered. Once I was dressed, I headed back downstairs to make some breakfast. Perhaps this would be one of the occasions when Sherlock deigned to eat with me.
While I was toying with the coffee maker (damn bloody, fecking machines) I heard the noise of the shower running in Sherlock’s bathroom. I pursed my lips and frowned. He had better be testing water temperatures or washing the blood off a murder weapon.
I knocked on the door.
“Go away,” said Sherlock’s muffled voice.
I knocked again, harder. “Sherlock, you’re not taking a shower, are you?” Quiet. “Because you can’t get your cast wet. It could cause irritation or give you an infection, especially with the compound fracture.”
“I’m handling it,” he replied.
I groaned. “Call me if you need anything.” I stalked angrily back into the kitchen to finish with the brew. “Damn that stubborn arse,” I said to myself. I poured a cup of coffee for myself, adding some sugar and left the rest of it for Sherlock, if he ever made it out of the shower.
Sherlock finally came to join me in the sitting room, wearing his dressing gown a little lopsided. I assumed that was because he was having pain and refused to take more of his painkillers. He saw that I was having coffee and went to the kitchen to pour himself some. I heard him struggling with the sugar bowl and sighed. If he was going to be mulish, I was going to leave it to him.
“Shit,” he muttered. I turned around to see that he had filled his mug too full and spilled some of the coffee on his fingers. He sipped off the top, probably burning his tongue, and then came to sit back on the couch which had come to be known as his.
“Let me ask you,” I said, folding my hands between my knees, “why do you have to be so bloody stubborn about this? Why can’t you let me help you with something? You’re injured. Your dominant arm in unusable. Any other day you would be snapping at me to get you pens and fingers and crisps. Why won’t you let me help?”
He stared at me soberly throughout my rant. “I took care of myself when I was five and had a broken arm,” he said after a beat. “Why should it be any different when I’m an adult?”
“You broke your arm when you were five?” I asked. “The same arm?”
“Yes. No one believed it was really broken at first. I went on for two days and I did everything that was normally expected of me until finally Mycroft convinced my mother to take me to hospital.”
I felt my throat tighten a little, thinking of five-year-old Sherlock with a broken arm having to clean up his toys and do writing assignments, or whatever he did at that age. “I’m sorry that you had that happen to you,” I said, trying to be empathic.
He shrugged his good shoulder. “My mother still feels guilty to this day. She didn’t believe that anyone could break an arm tripping over a misplaced broom.”
I nodded. “Sherlock…I know that you were dealing with it alone when you were a kid, and that’s really awful, but you don’t have to do everything yourself this time. I will help you. I’ll get you anything you want and I’ll carry heavy stuff so you won’t end up on the floor in pain.” I figuratively crossed my fingers, hoping he would let me help him. I couldn’t wake up in the middle of the night to find him nearly in tears again.
He seemed to study my face. Then, “John, I require my laptop, another cup of coffee, my pain pills and my mobile.” I almost laughed. Then, he went on, “And while you’re getting all that, make a call to the number on the business card pinned to the fridge, and ask them to meet you on Rosenthal Avenue and give you the box of rat femurs.”
What have I done?
Characters: Sherlock & John
Prompt: So Sherlock breaks his arm or his ankle or something, and John is like "oh ffffff" because he expects that now, Sherlock will demand that John do EVERYTHING for him, "fetch me this," "run do that," "get the shopping," etc. But as it turns out, despite his normal laziness, when he's injured Sherlock is one of those "don't help me, I CAN DO IT MYSELF" types, and John has to chase after him all the time to STOP him from doing everything.
Word Count (if fiction): ~2000
Rating: PG15
Summary: Sherlock breaks his arm. Why is he being so stubborn?, John wonders.
Spoilers: First season
Warnings: Pretty mild talk of injuries; John's language; John's POV
Disclaimer: Don't own Sherlock or John
My table: http://marill-chan.livejournal.com/4488.html
I was enjoying a cool morning in Spring, taking slow sips of tea and sitting in a fuzzy dressing gown. It was one of the few days that I was able to relax and take in a late morning since Sherlock was out. Just as I was getting ready to read the newspaper, there was a creak on the staircase, indicating that Sherlock was back from his…whatever he was doing all night. I sighed. Well, nothing lasts forever.
He came stumbling into the flat without preamble and looking frightful. I was on my feet almost immediately, my paper wafting to the floor. Sherlock had a cast on his right arm, cradled in a sling. I saw some defensive injuries on his fingers and the palms of his hands. Any other injuries he might have had were masked by his clothing.
“Sherlock, what happened?” I asked the obvious question.
Sherlock gave me a withering glare, as if to say Can you not glean that information from looking me over once?
“I fell on some stairs trying to chase after someone who turned out to be nobody,” he said. He went on to elaborate, “It’s icy out. I misjudged.”
I looked at his standard medical sling. “Have you been to the A&E?”
He nodded and went over to pour himself some tea from the brew I’d made earlier. I watched him for any sign of lower body injuries and didn’t see any limping, not even a well-concealed indication of pain. My stomach unclenched then, and I let go of a little breath. Sherlock brought his tea with him and sat gingerly on the couch.
I gave him a moment to settle. Then, “Why didn’t anyone call me? I assume you didn’t go to hospital all by yourself.”
He set his tea on his lap, balancing the saucer on his thigh. “No, I did go by myself. Well, a taxi driver got me there, of course…”
I frowned. “Sherlock, why didn’t you call me? I would have helped you.”
He shrugged his left shoulder. “You would’ve made me go to hospital anyway. It’s a compound fracture. I’m not so stupid that I’d let it go unattended.” He said the last with bitterness.
That was the moment when I realised something sigh-worthy. Sherlock was going to be a royal pain during his recovery. I was going to have to get him things at all hours of the day and night (not that that was new), cart his experiments and rotting body parts around and flip channels on the telly for him. Basically, I was looking at 6 weeks to 3 months of being a full-time maid.
I waited. I wasn’t about to offer anything to him before he asked for it. Best not to encourage it. Sure, I would take care of the man as he was clearly hurting, but I knew that he would try to take advantage of me if I let him.
About an hour later, Sherlock fished a pain pill out of his pocket, took it, and fell asleep on the sofa. I covered him up with a blanket and sat back across from him. After I grew tired of watching his chest rise and fall, I decided that I would go out and buy a few things from the shops. Best to have a fully stocked kitchen on hand for my newest patient.
…
I returned about two hours later after taking two taxis and having petty annoyances with the machines in the grocery store. I went back into the flat carrying four bags of items I thought Sherlock might enjoy eating while he convalesced.
As I entered the living room, I turned an expectant eye towards the couch but didn’t find Sherlock there. “Sherlock?” I called, wondering if maybe he had retreated off to bed.
“Yes?” His voice startled me, coming from the kitchen. I walked around a little awkwardly with all my shopping and found him shakily holding a pipette in his left hand. He dropped some of the liquid on the table, causing one of the placements to get singed.
“Why are you playing with acid when you’ve got your good arm all wrapped up?” I asked, my mouth wrinkling into a scowl.
Sherlock gave a quick glance towards me and then did his version of a double-take. He was up from the table instantly, his pipette forgotten and dripping onto the ruined placemat. “Did you get any lemons? We’re out and I need it for my tests…” Then he tried to take one of the bags that I was still holding in my dumbfound stupor.
I jerked away from his questing fingers. “Can you wait until I get all this put away? Yes, I got lemons.” I swear he growled at me. “Sit down. You can’t carry these bags. They’re heavy.”
He sulked back over to the table and picked up his instrument again. “I am not an invalid, John,” he muttered. “It’s just a broken arm.”
I hummed in agreement, but didn’t state my real opinion. Instead I unpacked the bags one at a time and placed a couple of lemons next to him. No other strange incidents happened that day, unless you count Sherlock being quiet and not demanding anything of me. I hardly noticed, I was so busy cleaning up the flat and watching telly with all the free time I had.
…
Sherlock and I had parted ways at about nine o’clock that night. He’d gone off to his bedroom (to sleep, I’d assumed) and I had stayed up for a few hours reading. Eventually I climbed the staircase up to my bedroom and fell asleep quickly.
A noise woke me. I squinted over at the alarm clock and saw the red numbers saying 3:25. I rubbed my face and planned to go back to sleep but heard cursing and then a sound like a whimper. I swallowed back my morning breath (technically morning) and shifted out of the bed. I stumbled down the stairs in the darkness until my fingers ran over the switch for the hall lights.
Illuminated there on the floor of the living room was Sherlock clutching his shoulder and glaring at me, as if I were intruding on him. That’s when I saw what was going on. The coffee table was out of place and centered underneath the main overhead light. A replacement bulb was sitting next to Sherlock’s foot.
“I’ll get it,” I told him, my voice betraying none of the aggravation I felt.
“No!” Sherlock snapped at me. “I will do it, just give me a moment…in fact, go back to sleep. This doesn’t concern you at’all.”
“Why won’t you let me help you?” I crossed my arms over my chest. “Why are you being so stubborn? Why are you even trying to change the bulb in the middle of the night?”
“I was already awake and I needed the light to read,” he said, attempting to get up. “And I don’t need help,” he snarled when he saw me coming over to steady him to his feet.
I shrugged. “Fine. But you are really being childish.”
I watched as he stood up on the table and unscrewed the dead bulb. He got down and sat in the reclining chair to breathe heavily and clutch at his likely throbbing arm. While he panted, I took the new light bulb from the floor and screwed it into place while Sherlock protested my every move. I rolled my eyes. Not like he could stop me.
…
Finally, he agreed to go off to bed, if only to allow me to get some rest. I slept well until late that morning, waking up with a stiff lower back. Cursing myself for sleeping so late, I got up and showered. Once I was dressed, I headed back downstairs to make some breakfast. Perhaps this would be one of the occasions when Sherlock deigned to eat with me.
While I was toying with the coffee maker (damn bloody, fecking machines) I heard the noise of the shower running in Sherlock’s bathroom. I pursed my lips and frowned. He had better be testing water temperatures or washing the blood off a murder weapon.
I knocked on the door.
“Go away,” said Sherlock’s muffled voice.
I knocked again, harder. “Sherlock, you’re not taking a shower, are you?” Quiet. “Because you can’t get your cast wet. It could cause irritation or give you an infection, especially with the compound fracture.”
“I’m handling it,” he replied.
I groaned. “Call me if you need anything.” I stalked angrily back into the kitchen to finish with the brew. “Damn that stubborn arse,” I said to myself. I poured a cup of coffee for myself, adding some sugar and left the rest of it for Sherlock, if he ever made it out of the shower.
Sherlock finally came to join me in the sitting room, wearing his dressing gown a little lopsided. I assumed that was because he was having pain and refused to take more of his painkillers. He saw that I was having coffee and went to the kitchen to pour himself some. I heard him struggling with the sugar bowl and sighed. If he was going to be mulish, I was going to leave it to him.
“Shit,” he muttered. I turned around to see that he had filled his mug too full and spilled some of the coffee on his fingers. He sipped off the top, probably burning his tongue, and then came to sit back on the couch which had come to be known as his.
“Let me ask you,” I said, folding my hands between my knees, “why do you have to be so bloody stubborn about this? Why can’t you let me help you with something? You’re injured. Your dominant arm in unusable. Any other day you would be snapping at me to get you pens and fingers and crisps. Why won’t you let me help?”
He stared at me soberly throughout my rant. “I took care of myself when I was five and had a broken arm,” he said after a beat. “Why should it be any different when I’m an adult?”
“You broke your arm when you were five?” I asked. “The same arm?”
“Yes. No one believed it was really broken at first. I went on for two days and I did everything that was normally expected of me until finally Mycroft convinced my mother to take me to hospital.”
I felt my throat tighten a little, thinking of five-year-old Sherlock with a broken arm having to clean up his toys and do writing assignments, or whatever he did at that age. “I’m sorry that you had that happen to you,” I said, trying to be empathic.
He shrugged his good shoulder. “My mother still feels guilty to this day. She didn’t believe that anyone could break an arm tripping over a misplaced broom.”
I nodded. “Sherlock…I know that you were dealing with it alone when you were a kid, and that’s really awful, but you don’t have to do everything yourself this time. I will help you. I’ll get you anything you want and I’ll carry heavy stuff so you won’t end up on the floor in pain.” I figuratively crossed my fingers, hoping he would let me help him. I couldn’t wake up in the middle of the night to find him nearly in tears again.
He seemed to study my face. Then, “John, I require my laptop, another cup of coffee, my pain pills and my mobile.” I almost laughed. Then, he went on, “And while you’re getting all that, make a call to the number on the business card pinned to the fridge, and ask them to meet you on Rosenthal Avenue and give you the box of rat femurs.”
What have I done?