On the Eighth Day of Sherlockmas... "Side Effects You Don't Expect", a gift for mahmfic.
Author: ?
Title: Side Effects You Don’t Expect
A gift for: mahmfic
Characters/Pairing: Sherlock/John, Mycroft/Lestrade, Molly
Category: Humour, Fluff
Rating: G
Warnings: None
Summary: In which John Watson discovers something he previously believed anatomically impossible, Molly’s hidden depths are revealed, Sherlock utterly fails to display the Christmas spirit, Mycroft is responsible for several things, and there is much travelling in taxis.
Author's Notes: Hugely large thanks to my betas, ? and ?, without whom this fic would have been very confusing and, in all likelihood, crack.
John was vomiting in the toilet: deep, wrenching heaves that were, from the sound of it, bringing up next to nothing. During what seemed to be a pause, Sherlock rapped on the bathroom door. “I do hope you’re not disturbing my experiment,” he said.
John did not respond in any significant fashion; he merely continued to vomit.
Sherlock knocked again. He did not particularly wish to knock, but for some reason John insisted upon Sherlock knocking on doors and waiting for a response before entering. It was the latter bit to which it was the most difficult to adhere, and Sherlock had argued vehemently in favour of its being excluded, but to no avail. This rule went double for the bathroom door. The consequence of not knocking was that John would lock the door, and as much as Sherlock despised knocking, he hated being locked out even more.
A few minutes passed before there came the faint sound of shuffling, and then the door opened a crack. “Sod your experiment,” John said, and shut the door in Sherlock’s face.
Sherlock knocked again, waited a moment, then gave up the entire business as being both counterintuitive and a supreme waste of his time, and opened the door.
A cursory glance assured him that the shower curtain had gone untouched, and the patches of mould upon it were continuing to grow unharmed. John was hunched on the floor with his head bent over the toilet bowl. After a moment he seemed to gather the strength to turn and look at Sherlock. The face with which Sherlock was presented was very nearly grey. John appeared much closer to Sherlock’s one hundred and twenty years than his own comparatively youthful forty.
“Mrs. Hudson made you ginger tea. She said it was good for the stomach,” Sherlock said. He waved a hand behind him to indicate the rest of the flat. “It’s in the sitting room.”
John had turned back to the toilet at the mention of tea and was occupied with breathing deeply.
“I could bring it in here,” Sherlock said cautiously. He wasn’t used to illness, but he had a vague memory that it was somewhat unpleasant for the afflicted.
“What are you hovering like that for?” John asked listlessly, swiping at his mouth with a sheet of toilet roll. “It’s just a bad curry. It’s not as though I’m pregnant or something.”
Sherlock disappeared from the doorway with the inhuman speed he only exhibited in pursuit of a criminal or when John wanted him to get the milk. John rubbed a hand over his face and began to get up. As his stomach rebelled, he resumed his position. There was something to be said for the floor, as it was cool and reassuring and never withheld vital information.
Molly studied the sample of Sherlock’s not-quite-blood under the microscope. “That’s-“She broke off to stare into space. “Wish my boyfriend could have kids,” she said dreamily.
“You don’t have a boyfriend,” John said from the floor of the lab. He hoped the floors were cleaned better now than they had been in his day. He was still recuperating from the taxi ride to St. Bart’s--it had been rough, but with the window rolled down he’d kept it together enough to not embarrass himself.
“There’s a lovely man in Radiology,” Molly said. “We’ve been having lunch together on Tuesdays.”
“Does he know you want him to have your children?” John asked. He’d made friends with the bin for human waste, and it was within arm’s reach in case the ginger tea felt like making a reappearance. “And I’m not really having a baby.”
“Well, not this time, anyway,” Sherlock said. He was looking at a slide of John’s blood through a different microscope, John having flatly refused to submit a urine sample.
“I shouldn’t be able to have a baby at any time,” John stated. “How is Molly better informed about this than I am?”
“Molly knows something about vampire physiognomy,” Sherlock said, “Having staked two vampiric boyfriends.”
He gestured at Molly, who coloured. “Ex-boyfriends,” she explained. “They weren’t very nice.”
“In addition to which,” Sherlock continued, “She is the only medical professional conversant with the compound I developed to circumvent that annoying blood problem.”
“The need to consume human blood regularly in order to survive? That ‘annoying blood problem?’”
“Just so,” Sherlock said, tone of voice indicating he was already bored with the conversation. He studied the slide again. “I only hypothesised this as a possible side effect. At the time I formulated the compound, it seemed unlikely in the extreme that any human would...”
He shot up straight in his seat, a very human expression of stark staring horror mingled with annoyance passing over his face. “Mycroft,” he growled. Without bothering to explain, he gathered his coat and was out of the room in ten seconds flat.
John struggled upright and made his goodbyes to Molly. He had a feeling that there was another taxi ride in his immediate future.
Lestrade was out of the office, having been called out to a crime scene in Croydon. When Sherlock and John got out of their taxi, Lestrade merely looked resigned. The marks under his eyes were darker than usual, and he looked deeply exhausted. Christmas was always a busy time for New Scotland Yard, and it seemed this year would be no different.
“I don’t even need to go inside to see it was the sister-in-law,” Sherlock grumbled as they approached Lestrade. “Double murder?” Sherlock asked once they were within hearing distance, and continued up the steps and into the house without waiting for Lestrade’s nod. He reappeared in the doorway almost immediately. “They’ve ignored a vital piece of evidence,” he said petulantly. “In both cases the wedding rings have been tampered with. I believe damage has been done to the inscriptions round the inside of each band, but I have to wait for Anderson to pry them off to be certain.”
“Very generous of you,” Lestrade said. “I like to see a bit of the Christmas spirit at work.”
“The rings are silver,” Sherlock said, crossing his arms and glaring at the house.
“Ah,” Lestrade said.
“You already told him who the murderer was anyway,” John said.
A satisfied gleam appeared in Sherlock’s eyes. “I told Anderson he could guess if he liked, and I’d say if he was correct or incorrect.”
The sound of someone swearing viciously drifted outside from the open front door. “Lovely,” Lestrade said, leaning back against a squad car. “Are you going soon?”
His eyes narrowed in speculation, Sherlock looked Lestrade up and down. "Your face is puffy," he said. "Have you put on weight?"
"Don't you start in on me as well!" Lestrade said, raising his hands in a placating gesture. "I would have thought you'd exhausted all your diet jokes on your brother."
“I was just making an observation," Sherlock said icily. He unearthed a specimen jar from his coat pocket. John only had time for a brief moment of trepidation before Sherlock continued, "I don’t suppose I could persuade you to urinate in this cup.” John made a grab for it and missed as Sherlock pulled away.
“Sherlock!” John said. To his astonishment, Lestrade didn’t seem altogether surprised by the unusual request.
“Look, can you just-pretend not to know?” Lestrade asked.
Sherlock fell back slightly at this, his brows knitting together in puzzlement.
“Mycroft wants to save it for Christmas dinner,” Lestrade explained. “So your mum will be excited, and forget about what happened in August. He wasn’t very specific about that bit.”
John could think of several things that had happened in August, but wasn’t inclined to think about which of these Mycroft felt accountable for. He saw visions of blackmail possibilities dancing in Sherlock’s eyes, and waved farewell to Lestrade over his shoulder as he dragged Sherlock out to the main road. John was in luck; his stomach no longer felt like it was trying to climb up his throat, and there was an empty taxi coming up the road towards them.
It was a good ten minutes before Sherlock stopped sulking long enough to say anything. “No children?” he asked.
“Sherlock,” John said dubiously, eyebrows rising.
“I absolutely don’t want them for experimenting upon,” Sherlock said with finality, but ruined it a moment later by adding, “That’s what I’m meant to say, isn’t it?”
John collapsed against his side of the taxi, trying not to laugh too hard. In spite of his still-tender stomach, he felt better than he had all day. The open window blew in a few snowflakes against his hot face; they melted almost immediately. Sherlock was looking out his own window and sulking again, but when John reached for his hand Sherlock’s lips curved ever so slightly upwards. The snow continued to fall as their taxi made its way through the London streets to 221B.
Title: Side Effects You Don’t Expect
A gift for: mahmfic
Characters/Pairing: Sherlock/John, Mycroft/Lestrade, Molly
Category: Humour, Fluff
Rating: G
Warnings: None
Summary: In which John Watson discovers something he previously believed anatomically impossible, Molly’s hidden depths are revealed, Sherlock utterly fails to display the Christmas spirit, Mycroft is responsible for several things, and there is much travelling in taxis.
Author's Notes: Hugely large thanks to my betas, ? and ?, without whom this fic would have been very confusing and, in all likelihood, crack.
John was vomiting in the toilet: deep, wrenching heaves that were, from the sound of it, bringing up next to nothing. During what seemed to be a pause, Sherlock rapped on the bathroom door. “I do hope you’re not disturbing my experiment,” he said.
John did not respond in any significant fashion; he merely continued to vomit.
Sherlock knocked again. He did not particularly wish to knock, but for some reason John insisted upon Sherlock knocking on doors and waiting for a response before entering. It was the latter bit to which it was the most difficult to adhere, and Sherlock had argued vehemently in favour of its being excluded, but to no avail. This rule went double for the bathroom door. The consequence of not knocking was that John would lock the door, and as much as Sherlock despised knocking, he hated being locked out even more.
A few minutes passed before there came the faint sound of shuffling, and then the door opened a crack. “Sod your experiment,” John said, and shut the door in Sherlock’s face.
Sherlock knocked again, waited a moment, then gave up the entire business as being both counterintuitive and a supreme waste of his time, and opened the door.
A cursory glance assured him that the shower curtain had gone untouched, and the patches of mould upon it were continuing to grow unharmed. John was hunched on the floor with his head bent over the toilet bowl. After a moment he seemed to gather the strength to turn and look at Sherlock. The face with which Sherlock was presented was very nearly grey. John appeared much closer to Sherlock’s one hundred and twenty years than his own comparatively youthful forty.
“Mrs. Hudson made you ginger tea. She said it was good for the stomach,” Sherlock said. He waved a hand behind him to indicate the rest of the flat. “It’s in the sitting room.”
John had turned back to the toilet at the mention of tea and was occupied with breathing deeply.
“I could bring it in here,” Sherlock said cautiously. He wasn’t used to illness, but he had a vague memory that it was somewhat unpleasant for the afflicted.
“What are you hovering like that for?” John asked listlessly, swiping at his mouth with a sheet of toilet roll. “It’s just a bad curry. It’s not as though I’m pregnant or something.”
Sherlock disappeared from the doorway with the inhuman speed he only exhibited in pursuit of a criminal or when John wanted him to get the milk. John rubbed a hand over his face and began to get up. As his stomach rebelled, he resumed his position. There was something to be said for the floor, as it was cool and reassuring and never withheld vital information.
Molly studied the sample of Sherlock’s not-quite-blood under the microscope. “That’s-“She broke off to stare into space. “Wish my boyfriend could have kids,” she said dreamily.
“You don’t have a boyfriend,” John said from the floor of the lab. He hoped the floors were cleaned better now than they had been in his day. He was still recuperating from the taxi ride to St. Bart’s--it had been rough, but with the window rolled down he’d kept it together enough to not embarrass himself.
“There’s a lovely man in Radiology,” Molly said. “We’ve been having lunch together on Tuesdays.”
“Does he know you want him to have your children?” John asked. He’d made friends with the bin for human waste, and it was within arm’s reach in case the ginger tea felt like making a reappearance. “And I’m not really having a baby.”
“Well, not this time, anyway,” Sherlock said. He was looking at a slide of John’s blood through a different microscope, John having flatly refused to submit a urine sample.
“I shouldn’t be able to have a baby at any time,” John stated. “How is Molly better informed about this than I am?”
“Molly knows something about vampire physiognomy,” Sherlock said, “Having staked two vampiric boyfriends.”
He gestured at Molly, who coloured. “Ex-boyfriends,” she explained. “They weren’t very nice.”
“In addition to which,” Sherlock continued, “She is the only medical professional conversant with the compound I developed to circumvent that annoying blood problem.”
“The need to consume human blood regularly in order to survive? That ‘annoying blood problem?’”
“Just so,” Sherlock said, tone of voice indicating he was already bored with the conversation. He studied the slide again. “I only hypothesised this as a possible side effect. At the time I formulated the compound, it seemed unlikely in the extreme that any human would...”
He shot up straight in his seat, a very human expression of stark staring horror mingled with annoyance passing over his face. “Mycroft,” he growled. Without bothering to explain, he gathered his coat and was out of the room in ten seconds flat.
John struggled upright and made his goodbyes to Molly. He had a feeling that there was another taxi ride in his immediate future.
Lestrade was out of the office, having been called out to a crime scene in Croydon. When Sherlock and John got out of their taxi, Lestrade merely looked resigned. The marks under his eyes were darker than usual, and he looked deeply exhausted. Christmas was always a busy time for New Scotland Yard, and it seemed this year would be no different.
“I don’t even need to go inside to see it was the sister-in-law,” Sherlock grumbled as they approached Lestrade. “Double murder?” Sherlock asked once they were within hearing distance, and continued up the steps and into the house without waiting for Lestrade’s nod. He reappeared in the doorway almost immediately. “They’ve ignored a vital piece of evidence,” he said petulantly. “In both cases the wedding rings have been tampered with. I believe damage has been done to the inscriptions round the inside of each band, but I have to wait for Anderson to pry them off to be certain.”
“Very generous of you,” Lestrade said. “I like to see a bit of the Christmas spirit at work.”
“The rings are silver,” Sherlock said, crossing his arms and glaring at the house.
“Ah,” Lestrade said.
“You already told him who the murderer was anyway,” John said.
A satisfied gleam appeared in Sherlock’s eyes. “I told Anderson he could guess if he liked, and I’d say if he was correct or incorrect.”
The sound of someone swearing viciously drifted outside from the open front door. “Lovely,” Lestrade said, leaning back against a squad car. “Are you going soon?”
His eyes narrowed in speculation, Sherlock looked Lestrade up and down. "Your face is puffy," he said. "Have you put on weight?"
"Don't you start in on me as well!" Lestrade said, raising his hands in a placating gesture. "I would have thought you'd exhausted all your diet jokes on your brother."
“I was just making an observation," Sherlock said icily. He unearthed a specimen jar from his coat pocket. John only had time for a brief moment of trepidation before Sherlock continued, "I don’t suppose I could persuade you to urinate in this cup.” John made a grab for it and missed as Sherlock pulled away.
“Sherlock!” John said. To his astonishment, Lestrade didn’t seem altogether surprised by the unusual request.
“Look, can you just-pretend not to know?” Lestrade asked.
Sherlock fell back slightly at this, his brows knitting together in puzzlement.
“Mycroft wants to save it for Christmas dinner,” Lestrade explained. “So your mum will be excited, and forget about what happened in August. He wasn’t very specific about that bit.”
John could think of several things that had happened in August, but wasn’t inclined to think about which of these Mycroft felt accountable for. He saw visions of blackmail possibilities dancing in Sherlock’s eyes, and waved farewell to Lestrade over his shoulder as he dragged Sherlock out to the main road. John was in luck; his stomach no longer felt like it was trying to climb up his throat, and there was an empty taxi coming up the road towards them.
It was a good ten minutes before Sherlock stopped sulking long enough to say anything. “No children?” he asked.
“Sherlock,” John said dubiously, eyebrows rising.
“I absolutely don’t want them for experimenting upon,” Sherlock said with finality, but ruined it a moment later by adding, “That’s what I’m meant to say, isn’t it?”
John collapsed against his side of the taxi, trying not to laugh too hard. In spite of his still-tender stomach, he felt better than he had all day. The open window blew in a few snowflakes against his hot face; they melted almost immediately. Sherlock was looking out his own window and sulking again, but when John reached for his hand Sherlock’s lips curved ever so slightly upwards. The snow continued to fall as their taxi made its way through the London streets to 221B.