[Sherlock BBC] {Fic}
Title: Cycle 1/Round 2: Dark Fic
Series: thegameison_sh
Genre/Warnings: Drama. Insinuations of Munchausen by proxy / poisoning
Rating: R-ish.
Characters: John, Sherlock
Word Count: 718
Disclaimer: Characters are not mine, and this is fiction purely written for entertainment purposes and no monetary gain is attained from it.
John is throwing up again.
His hands are wrapped around the bowl, clutching it in counterpart to the paroxysmal heaving of his body. His knuckles are white and he's lost weight. Not much, not yet, but it's obvious to anyone who is really looking. He can hide it beneath the bulk of his jumpers at the moment, but it's warmer now, and the jumpers will soon have to be put away. Then the changes will be more clear, more viewable.
His feet kick out behind him as he lunges back to the toilet, certain for almost a whole minute there that he had been finished. He won't be for a while yet. His bed will remain empty for the time being, sheets cooling now that they are free from the feverish heat of his body.
He knows he's sick, but he doesn't know why. He thought for a while there that he had merely contracted a case of viral Gastroenteritis from one of his younger patients. He tested for that, and even Giardia, and despite all his results being clear, dosed himself on horrible-tasting antibiotics and anti-viral medication. The side effects of which included everything tasting like metal for a week. He was wrong.
It's not the food he's eating, he's changed everything in the fridge at least twice since he first suspected food poisoning-and disinfected it each time. Wrong.
He's sterilised the flat from top to bottom, inspected it for black mould spores, and tested it for the manufacturing of methamphetamine. Wrong, wrong, wrong.
Aside from exerting himself unnecessarily and the flat being spotlessly clean for five hours, it changed nothing. Every night without fail, between two and four hours after he falls exhaustedly into bed, he is throwing himself into the water closet and emptying his stomach into the toilet. Some nights he doesn't even make it that far.
He looks unwell. In the stark lighting of the toilet his colour is not good, though the whites of his eyes are as bright as ever. The bags beneath them are gone, but have been replaced by permanent dark circles and his skin seems very thin. The exhaustion is showing plainly, the sleepless nights obviously taking their toll. Sherlock thinks that is why John hasn't realised the reason yet.
John moans, low and pained and frustrated in a quiescent moment, and Sherlock takes this as his cue. He straightens from where he's been leaning silently against the doorframe, watching, and adjusts the fall of his bare feet so that they slap audibly against the cool tile. Crouching down, he places one hand on the floor for balance, and the other he slides up the nape of John's neck. His skin is smooth, slick with warm sweat, and the short hairs tickle against Sherlock's spread fingers.
John makes a small sound at the touch, something between a sigh and a moan. Sherlock feels a warmth bloom in his chest at the noise, and he makes his own in return. John tilts his head back into Sherlock's palm, then asks for some water.
There's a small glass of it sitting by John's knee. Sherlock has gotten used to the sight of it there every night, and unerringly grabs it, placing it in John's reaching hand. It's shaking, and Sherlock steadies his grip, wrapping his own fingers around John's, helping him to lift the glass to his lips. He watches avidly as John drinks with lips pursed and cheekbones highlighted by the slashes of light from the stark bulb overhead. He wonders what John would do without him.
“Thank you,” John whispers against the glass, and Sherlock takes it away.
He doesn't respond verbally, is afraid that the thickness of his voice will give him away. Instead, he runs his fingers through John's sodden hair. It's longer now, and parts around his fingers with a texture so enchanting he wonders how he can stand to be without it.
John sighs, and butts his head up into Sherlock's touch, and Sherlock thinks that he has to know. He has to know by now. Yet John is still here, and Sherlock cannot keep from touching him, from memorising the changes.
Pale and feverish, shivering beneath his hands, John entrances him utterly. And to Sherlock, he has never looked more beautiful.
.
Series: thegameison_sh
Genre/Warnings: Drama. Insinuations of Munchausen by proxy / poisoning
Rating: R-ish.
Characters: John, Sherlock
Word Count: 718
Disclaimer: Characters are not mine, and this is fiction purely written for entertainment purposes and no monetary gain is attained from it.
John is throwing up again.
His hands are wrapped around the bowl, clutching it in counterpart to the paroxysmal heaving of his body. His knuckles are white and he's lost weight. Not much, not yet, but it's obvious to anyone who is really looking. He can hide it beneath the bulk of his jumpers at the moment, but it's warmer now, and the jumpers will soon have to be put away. Then the changes will be more clear, more viewable.
His feet kick out behind him as he lunges back to the toilet, certain for almost a whole minute there that he had been finished. He won't be for a while yet. His bed will remain empty for the time being, sheets cooling now that they are free from the feverish heat of his body.
He knows he's sick, but he doesn't know why. He thought for a while there that he had merely contracted a case of viral Gastroenteritis from one of his younger patients. He tested for that, and even Giardia, and despite all his results being clear, dosed himself on horrible-tasting antibiotics and anti-viral medication. The side effects of which included everything tasting like metal for a week. He was wrong.
It's not the food he's eating, he's changed everything in the fridge at least twice since he first suspected food poisoning-and disinfected it each time. Wrong.
He's sterilised the flat from top to bottom, inspected it for black mould spores, and tested it for the manufacturing of methamphetamine. Wrong, wrong, wrong.
Aside from exerting himself unnecessarily and the flat being spotlessly clean for five hours, it changed nothing. Every night without fail, between two and four hours after he falls exhaustedly into bed, he is throwing himself into the water closet and emptying his stomach into the toilet. Some nights he doesn't even make it that far.
He looks unwell. In the stark lighting of the toilet his colour is not good, though the whites of his eyes are as bright as ever. The bags beneath them are gone, but have been replaced by permanent dark circles and his skin seems very thin. The exhaustion is showing plainly, the sleepless nights obviously taking their toll. Sherlock thinks that is why John hasn't realised the reason yet.
John moans, low and pained and frustrated in a quiescent moment, and Sherlock takes this as his cue. He straightens from where he's been leaning silently against the doorframe, watching, and adjusts the fall of his bare feet so that they slap audibly against the cool tile. Crouching down, he places one hand on the floor for balance, and the other he slides up the nape of John's neck. His skin is smooth, slick with warm sweat, and the short hairs tickle against Sherlock's spread fingers.
John makes a small sound at the touch, something between a sigh and a moan. Sherlock feels a warmth bloom in his chest at the noise, and he makes his own in return. John tilts his head back into Sherlock's palm, then asks for some water.
There's a small glass of it sitting by John's knee. Sherlock has gotten used to the sight of it there every night, and unerringly grabs it, placing it in John's reaching hand. It's shaking, and Sherlock steadies his grip, wrapping his own fingers around John's, helping him to lift the glass to his lips. He watches avidly as John drinks with lips pursed and cheekbones highlighted by the slashes of light from the stark bulb overhead. He wonders what John would do without him.
“Thank you,” John whispers against the glass, and Sherlock takes it away.
He doesn't respond verbally, is afraid that the thickness of his voice will give him away. Instead, he runs his fingers through John's sodden hair. It's longer now, and parts around his fingers with a texture so enchanting he wonders how he can stand to be without it.
John sighs, and butts his head up into Sherlock's touch, and Sherlock thinks that he has to know. He has to know by now. Yet John is still here, and Sherlock cannot keep from touching him, from memorising the changes.
Pale and feverish, shivering beneath his hands, John entrances him utterly. And to Sherlock, he has never looked more beautiful.
.