Oblivious 2/? 1373 words
Fill #2 for this prompt: SHerlock Holmes is SO IN LOVE, that he won't let John alone. (You know. 'Where are you?' texts when he leaves the room for 5 minutes, following him into the bathroom, standing right behind him in the kitchen, and so on.) John is annoyed, but secretly he adores the attention.
Found http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/575.html?thread=337471#t337471
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John steps out of the bathroom, tousling his hair with a towel and calling out to Sherlock, “I’m getting ready for work, would you like some tea?”
“Two sugars and cream, if you please!”
John smiles, a little wryly, and pads barefoot up the stairs in his pyjama pants. “That’s fine.”
Soon he’s treading back down the stairs, fully dressed in a thick gray jumper and khaki pants, and heading for the kitchen. He passes by Sherlock on the couch (who appears to be typing on John’s laptop) and enters the kitchen without a word.
“Better leave the toaster, I’m not sure what’s in there.”
John sighs and retwists the bread bag. “Anything that is safe?”
“Why do you need to eat?”
“I’ve got work, Sherlock.”
Silence.
“You know, that institution that I get called into to diagnose strangers and earn a paycheck every month?”
“Will you see Molly then, do you think? She promised me more fingers.”
“More like you bullied her into giving you some,” John mutters.
“What was that?”
“I’ll drop by to see her with some coffee and ask,” he lies.
Sherlock hums. “You do that. Skip the coffee, though. She appears to only make it for other people.”
Exasperated, John drags his palm across his face. “Only because every time she invites you out for coffee, you just demand that she brings you a cup.”
“Is that relevant? It doesn’t sound like you’re talking about my toes.”
John just sighs again and set the kettle down on the stove. If it hits it with a clang, well then, he just blames the tremor in his left hand.
“Can you think of anything edible, Sherlock? Or shall I just go to a chip shop during my break? Oh wait, I paid for the last five cabs you insisted we take, even though Lestrade offered many rides, and the last time I used it, it got rejected.”
“And?”
“It means I have no money for food, Sherlock. So please, if you can, stay away from the freezer. You wouldn’t want me to get E. Coli, would you?”
“Well, there would be interesting…”
“Sherlock!”
“Yes?”
“Bit not good, that. In fact, really not good.”
“Hm, there’s an apple in the crisps drawer that shouldn’t be soft, or contaminated.”
“Thank you.”
He opens the fridge, stoops to the bottom (ignoring the head on the shelf) and pulls open the drawer.
“Well,” he murmurs. “Whaddya know.”
The shiny red apple rolls into his palm, chill and intact, and he grins. “Thanks Sherlock!” he calls over his shoulder. It crunches crisply as he bites into it, letting the fridge fall shut, and turns to the now whistling kettle.
His phone buzzes in his pocket, so he bites into the apple to fish it out and turn off the stove at the same time.
It’s his alarm, reminding him to leave. He curses under his breath.
“Sherlock! I gotta go, can you handle pouring the hot water and making your own cup?”
Silence.
He groans.
He bangs around for a few moments, drawing out the least battered tea bag he can find and plopping it into an only slightly grimy tea mug.
“Where’s my tea,” a voice calls down the stairs.
“On the coffee table!” he shouts back, jamming his hand straight into the sugar jar, plopping an unmeasured amount into the mug, and ditching it without a spoon in front of the settee.
He takes a bite of the apple, and chews it noisily while slipping his shoes on by the door. He assesses the weather through the window, and then decides that a coat is probably necessary. His mouth full, he slips it on and leaves the flat without a word.
Two blocks down the street, he’s walking swiftly towards the tube.
His phone buzzes in his pocket.
Where’s my spoon? SH
He crunches his apple and strides around the corner, typing slowly back.
You’ll have to wash one, I haven’t done the dishes.
You do it. SH
I’m not there, you twat.
Well, appear. SH
He scowls, and reaches to shove his phone back in his pocket.
It buzzes again.
Immediately. SH
He rolls his eyes, puts his phone on silence, then justifies that by muttering, “Have to turn it off at Barts anyways.”
He shows up for his shift five minutes late, and smiles shamelessly at Sarah at the front desk. “Sorry,” he offers.
She smiles back.
“Sherlock? I sent you a few texts.”
He tosses the apple core in the bin, and pulls out his phone.
“More like 20,” he mutters.
“Pardon?” she replies, smiling warmly.
“Not Sherlock. Well, not directly. Just couldn’t find anything to eat, and then I tried to make tea….”
“I made you a cup when I made mine a bit ago,” she says, pushing a mug across her desk.
“Bless you,” he says thankfully, picking it up and scanning the desk. “Which room today?”
“Three, here’s your files.”
He tucks his phone back into his pocket so that he can carry the files under his arm and the mug in his hand and smiles again. “Thanks, Sarah. I’ll be uh…You know, being a doctor.”
She laughs. “Good luck with that, then.”
He steps into the room, sets down the mug, and dares to check a few messages before his patient enters.
What part of immediately did you not catch? SH
You know, this might be important. SH
Your train is running late, might as well turn around and come back home. SH
You’re being awfully persistent about this “work” thing. SH
How many poisons do you estimate would be tasteless in a cup of tea? SH
If you couldn’t guess, Mycroft is here. SH
He says hello. Lord knows why, you hate him. SH
You do, don’t you? SH
“Hullo?” A shy woman peers around the door. “Are you Dr. Watson?”
He smiles, and pockets punches out a message real quickly. “Of course, please sit down.”
Mycroft would notice and I’ll be home in a few hours. Live.
But he can’t help but smile that such an annoying trait of Sherlock’s can be so….cute. Sarah didn’t think it was cute, of course, he thinks as the woman natters on about some rash or another. But John does.
It’s likely why they didn’t work out.
“Your cat,” he says suddenly.
“What?” she asks, startled. “How did you know that I have a cat? And I’ve never been allergic before.”
“That’s because you’re not.” He reaches across the desk, gently grasps her wrist, and slides up her sleeve. “See?” Some red bumps trail up her arm. “She gave you an infection. Looks like ringworm.” He carefully points out the different circles in various stages without touching them. “That’s a fungus, by the way, and you’ll have to get treatment for your cat as well.”
“Well,” she huffs, pulling arm back and sliding her sleeve back down. “How do you figure? And how do you know I have a cat?”
“Fur on your collar, under it too, meaning it’s yours and not just a friends. Also, you have scratches on the backs of your hands.”
She hurriedly curls them in her lap and John suddenly feels like Sherlock when he makes a person feel uncomfortable. He grins.
“It’s most likely ringworm, because it has two stages: little red pimples then the large rings with the dried skin around the edge. The other option just breaks out into the big rings right away. We’ll test it to make sure, but you should take your cat to the vet otherwise it’ll just re-infect you.”
She sighs. “You sure? I don’t have that much money right now.”
“The cream for you is really cheap,” he assures her. “Should be for the cat as well. No worries. Now let’s get a swab.”
As he moves out of the room to test the sample he took, he slips his phone out of his pocket to check a few more of his texts. There’s a new one from the crazy detective, so he checks that first.
Wash your hands, if you please. SH
He laughs. Yes, Sherlock is crazy, but it’s oddly endearing. At least, it is to him.
And that’s all that matters.
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