(no subject)
Prompted by swtalmnd for Make Me A Monday: “Sherlock gets a cold/flu/allergies and instead of his usual "bored, everyone is beneath me" ennui, he descends into a proper Eeyore-ish "I don't fit in, nobody loves me, everybody hates me" depression. John consoles him. There is tea.”
This probably isn’t what was asked for, but it wouldn’t go away, so tada!
Sherlock moaned haplessly as John strode out of his bedroom with a handful of mugs and a plate. He didn’t turn back - couldn’t. Sherlock had been dreadfully ill for two days, and John really wasn’t handling it so well. So he’d taken to making tea whenever Sherlock became too much. That fact reflected truthfully on his life, John thought bitterly.
Five hours into what John was now calling The Flu, with capitals and everything, Sherlock had insisted on dragging the tele into his room and not allowing John to leave under any circumstances what-so-ever. It was John’s job, he reasoned, to prevent him from getting so bored he jumped off the roof, because as his live-in doctor John should have prevented this illness. John mentioned the fact that he was always trying to push vitamin C and Echinacea tablets and actual, you know, food down Sherlock’s throat, but he was met with Sherlock’s usual retorts - all having the same implication of ‘John, your IQ is less than an amoeba’s, your opinion is therefore invalid and I only keep you here to not-so-silently mock your lack of intelligence’. One of those moments had happened recently, which was why John was attempting to escape under the guise of ‘tea’, his seventh cup this morning.
Sherlock had been quieter today, not even complaining after the fourth episode of Midsomer Murders, although he did make a half-hearted attempt to ridicule Mrs Hudson’s pumpkin soup, so that counted for something.
John, carefully carrying two cups of tea up the stairs, was met by Sherlock curled in his bed, facing the wall. “You feeling okay, Sherlock?” John asked absently, placing down the teas and watching the beginning of what looked like a promising classic Who marathon. When he heard the faint, half-strangled whimper Sherlock uttered, though, he spun around. Doctor John to the rescue.
“Does anything hurt more than usual, Sherlock?” He asked, placing a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder to roll him over. Sherlock slumped onto his back, bloodshot eyes looking pleadingly up at John.
“No one loves me, John.” Sherlock said, mouth upturned. John pursed his lips and checked Sherlock’s forehead. Warm.
“Of course they do, Sherlock. You’ve just got a fev-“
“No they don’t, John!” Sherlock slurred, too tired to be properly angry. “Lestrade thought he did, but now he loves Mycroft. And Mycroft loves him and Mummy had Daddy and now she has Octavius and Mrs Hudson had her husband and now she has Mrs Turner - which was a surprise, even for me…” Sherlock slurred that last part and his face fell to the side. John thought he’d fallen asleep until he snapped back and started again. “An’ anyway, I never fitted in, not ever. I was the freak, people didn’t want to know what I’d deduced, just wanted me to shut up…” Sherlock fell to the side again and John decided to take action. He took hold of Sherlock’s shoulders, intending to prop Sherlock up, but he took hold of John arms, so John sat down behind him, letting his lean on his chest. John put his hand out for the tea, handing it to a now reawakened Sherlock, who was moaning different notes softly under his breath. Tea certainly wasn’t the best thing for fever-induced delirium, but there wasn’t much of an option at that moment.
Sherlock jumped when he reacknowledged John’s existence and sort of, curled, into him. John had never been in such a peculiar position in his life, but Sherlock was clearly upset and he if had sadness on his mind, John figured he’d do what he could to help.
“Now, Sherlock, you’re talking about a different kind of love,” he said softly so as not to startle the man, who now seemed to be listening intently, as though John was talking about the coagulation of snails’ blood at subzero temperatures or something. “There’s a difference between love and being in love. For example, Mycroft is in love with Lestrade, and he loves you. The difference is that he wants to marry Lestrade and have sex with him, whereas he doesn’t with you.”
Sherlock made a little disbelieving noise at this point that John decided to ignore for sanity’s sake. “Mrs Hudson and Mr Hudson were married, and from what you’ve implied she’s going at it with Mrs Turner as well, and that’s a different kind of love too. Lestrade loves you as a brother, I know he does. I think you’re just upset because people who are in love have someone to look after them while they’re sick, despite their complaining and their snot and their moaning, and you want it, that’s all.”
Sherlock harrumphed and John smiled. “Welcome to being human. Leave your logic at the door and there’s no turning back.”
Sherlock closed his eyes tight for a moment, as though thinking was difficult for him. “But John that must mean you’re in love with me.” John’s eyebrows knitted together and he spluttered on his tea a little. “You really did leave your logic at the door, didn’t you Sherlock?’ he remarked, a little bemused.
“No, John, listen. You’re here, looking after me despite my tremendous complaining and my dignified snotting and my fevered moaning, which is what you said people who are in love with each other do. I’d do it for you. Does that mean I love you too? Do we love each other?”
John laughed through his nose and contemplated this for a little while, with Sherlock nearly falling asleep in his arms.
“I suppose we do, Sherlock.”
Sherlock twisted his face upwards. “Does that mean I get to kiss you?”
“Like hell you do! I am not getting that flu.”
This probably isn’t what was asked for, but it wouldn’t go away, so tada!
Sherlock moaned haplessly as John strode out of his bedroom with a handful of mugs and a plate. He didn’t turn back - couldn’t. Sherlock had been dreadfully ill for two days, and John really wasn’t handling it so well. So he’d taken to making tea whenever Sherlock became too much. That fact reflected truthfully on his life, John thought bitterly.
Five hours into what John was now calling The Flu, with capitals and everything, Sherlock had insisted on dragging the tele into his room and not allowing John to leave under any circumstances what-so-ever. It was John’s job, he reasoned, to prevent him from getting so bored he jumped off the roof, because as his live-in doctor John should have prevented this illness. John mentioned the fact that he was always trying to push vitamin C and Echinacea tablets and actual, you know, food down Sherlock’s throat, but he was met with Sherlock’s usual retorts - all having the same implication of ‘John, your IQ is less than an amoeba’s, your opinion is therefore invalid and I only keep you here to not-so-silently mock your lack of intelligence’. One of those moments had happened recently, which was why John was attempting to escape under the guise of ‘tea’, his seventh cup this morning.
Sherlock had been quieter today, not even complaining after the fourth episode of Midsomer Murders, although he did make a half-hearted attempt to ridicule Mrs Hudson’s pumpkin soup, so that counted for something.
John, carefully carrying two cups of tea up the stairs, was met by Sherlock curled in his bed, facing the wall. “You feeling okay, Sherlock?” John asked absently, placing down the teas and watching the beginning of what looked like a promising classic Who marathon. When he heard the faint, half-strangled whimper Sherlock uttered, though, he spun around. Doctor John to the rescue.
“Does anything hurt more than usual, Sherlock?” He asked, placing a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder to roll him over. Sherlock slumped onto his back, bloodshot eyes looking pleadingly up at John.
“No one loves me, John.” Sherlock said, mouth upturned. John pursed his lips and checked Sherlock’s forehead. Warm.
“Of course they do, Sherlock. You’ve just got a fev-“
“No they don’t, John!” Sherlock slurred, too tired to be properly angry. “Lestrade thought he did, but now he loves Mycroft. And Mycroft loves him and Mummy had Daddy and now she has Octavius and Mrs Hudson had her husband and now she has Mrs Turner - which was a surprise, even for me…” Sherlock slurred that last part and his face fell to the side. John thought he’d fallen asleep until he snapped back and started again. “An’ anyway, I never fitted in, not ever. I was the freak, people didn’t want to know what I’d deduced, just wanted me to shut up…” Sherlock fell to the side again and John decided to take action. He took hold of Sherlock’s shoulders, intending to prop Sherlock up, but he took hold of John arms, so John sat down behind him, letting his lean on his chest. John put his hand out for the tea, handing it to a now reawakened Sherlock, who was moaning different notes softly under his breath. Tea certainly wasn’t the best thing for fever-induced delirium, but there wasn’t much of an option at that moment.
Sherlock jumped when he reacknowledged John’s existence and sort of, curled, into him. John had never been in such a peculiar position in his life, but Sherlock was clearly upset and he if had sadness on his mind, John figured he’d do what he could to help.
“Now, Sherlock, you’re talking about a different kind of love,” he said softly so as not to startle the man, who now seemed to be listening intently, as though John was talking about the coagulation of snails’ blood at subzero temperatures or something. “There’s a difference between love and being in love. For example, Mycroft is in love with Lestrade, and he loves you. The difference is that he wants to marry Lestrade and have sex with him, whereas he doesn’t with you.”
Sherlock made a little disbelieving noise at this point that John decided to ignore for sanity’s sake. “Mrs Hudson and Mr Hudson were married, and from what you’ve implied she’s going at it with Mrs Turner as well, and that’s a different kind of love too. Lestrade loves you as a brother, I know he does. I think you’re just upset because people who are in love have someone to look after them while they’re sick, despite their complaining and their snot and their moaning, and you want it, that’s all.”
Sherlock harrumphed and John smiled. “Welcome to being human. Leave your logic at the door and there’s no turning back.”
Sherlock closed his eyes tight for a moment, as though thinking was difficult for him. “But John that must mean you’re in love with me.” John’s eyebrows knitted together and he spluttered on his tea a little. “You really did leave your logic at the door, didn’t you Sherlock?’ he remarked, a little bemused.
“No, John, listen. You’re here, looking after me despite my tremendous complaining and my dignified snotting and my fevered moaning, which is what you said people who are in love with each other do. I’d do it for you. Does that mean I love you too? Do we love each other?”
John laughed through his nose and contemplated this for a little while, with Sherlock nearly falling asleep in his arms.
“I suppose we do, Sherlock.”
Sherlock twisted his face upwards. “Does that mean I get to kiss you?”
“Like hell you do! I am not getting that flu.”