Sherlock comment-fic: Sicker Than Thou
ariadnes_string is holding a multi-fandom fever-themed fic-commenting meme, here. Go and prompt! Or fill! Or just read!
I found a prompt that jumped out at me: A wet day in December. Sherlock and John curled up in 221b with horrible colds, trying to decide who has to go and get medicine. Only way to solve this? The person with the highest temperature gets to stay in bed and the other one has to brave the outside.
And this comment-ficlet sort of wrote itself.
John's phone beeped at him, and he surfaced from a half-daze to grope for it irritably. The movement set off a fresh wave of coughing, and he glared at the screen. It was, of course, a text from Sherlock.
Am confined to bed and deathly ill. Require sustenance and medication. SH
He sank back into the bed. Composing a return message seemed to take twice as long as usual. Probably the fever.
Just a cold. Tak some paracetmaol & chickn soup.
The reply was almost instant. No paracetamol in flat. Fairly certain condition is more serious than a cold. Critical care absolutely necessary. SH
John groaned. Apparently his dreams of sleep were going to remain exactly that. He pulled the blankets up more securely around himself, and texted back.
Youre fine. Have some soup.
Again, the nearly-immediate response. Availability of chicken soup equals availability of paracetamol. SH
Then eat teh severd ear in freezer & leabe me alome, John sent irritably.
There was a noticeable pause before the next message arrived. Your texts are even more incomprehensible than usual. Are you also unwell? SH
Good dedctoin, John typed out laboriously. Fever, pain, couhj. same thng you have.
Am certain you have not managed to contract illness to the degree that I have, but at least you understand the need for sustenance. SH
John fought the urge to throw the phone across the room. NOT goign to shop for u. Am to sock myself.
If a text message could be called pathetic, the next one was. Almost. John, I am completely incapable of obtaining the necessary supplies on my own. I require your assistance. SH
Unfortunately, the deep ache in his bones and the constant coughing had left John too weak and too cranky to be able to muster up much sympathy. Piss off.
I have had intermittent fever and chills. May be developing influenza. SH
Oh yeah? John thought. I cant breath. May have penumonia.
Fever is abnormally high. Also, unexplained bruises developing. Possible indications of internal bleeding. SH
From what? John typed furiously. U don't bleed to deth from whiny.
The next text was...reproving? Your bedside manner needs work, John. My fever is spiking again. Really dangerously hot. SH
Me too John texted back savagely. In fact I hav just BURST INTO FLAEMS.
He shoved the phone under his pillow and thought, with hazy satisfaction,Top THAT. Moments later, he was half-asleep, drifting again.
Perhaps an hour later, his phone buzzed again. He pulled it out and checked it, blinking, before he remembered why he really didn't want to. Hope you're reasonably decent. Mycroft is on his way up with food and medication. SH
Even as he read it, the door swung open to reveal Sherlock's brother balancing a tray as if he'd been born into service, not a hair out of place. "John," Mycroft greeted him, coming towards him and setting the tray down on the bedside table. "Pardon the intrusion. Sherlock texted that you were both unwell and unable to care for yourselves, and I took the liberty of obtaining provisions for you."
He indicated the cup on the tray with a wave of his hand. "Tea? Or soup first?"
"Tea, please," John said. But before he took the offered cup, he sent back one more message. u txted ur brother for help? I give up, u are more sick htan me.
This entry originally posted to http://travels-in-time.dreamwidth.org/260814.html, where there are
comments.
I found a prompt that jumped out at me: A wet day in December. Sherlock and John curled up in 221b with horrible colds, trying to decide who has to go and get medicine. Only way to solve this? The person with the highest temperature gets to stay in bed and the other one has to brave the outside.
And this comment-ficlet sort of wrote itself.
John's phone beeped at him, and he surfaced from a half-daze to grope for it irritably. The movement set off a fresh wave of coughing, and he glared at the screen. It was, of course, a text from Sherlock.
Am confined to bed and deathly ill. Require sustenance and medication. SH
He sank back into the bed. Composing a return message seemed to take twice as long as usual. Probably the fever.
Just a cold. Tak some paracetmaol & chickn soup.
The reply was almost instant. No paracetamol in flat. Fairly certain condition is more serious than a cold. Critical care absolutely necessary. SH
John groaned. Apparently his dreams of sleep were going to remain exactly that. He pulled the blankets up more securely around himself, and texted back.
Youre fine. Have some soup.
Again, the nearly-immediate response. Availability of chicken soup equals availability of paracetamol. SH
Then eat teh severd ear in freezer & leabe me alome, John sent irritably.
There was a noticeable pause before the next message arrived. Your texts are even more incomprehensible than usual. Are you also unwell? SH
Good dedctoin, John typed out laboriously. Fever, pain, couhj. same thng you have.
Am certain you have not managed to contract illness to the degree that I have, but at least you understand the need for sustenance. SH
John fought the urge to throw the phone across the room. NOT goign to shop for u. Am to sock myself.
If a text message could be called pathetic, the next one was. Almost. John, I am completely incapable of obtaining the necessary supplies on my own. I require your assistance. SH
Unfortunately, the deep ache in his bones and the constant coughing had left John too weak and too cranky to be able to muster up much sympathy. Piss off.
I have had intermittent fever and chills. May be developing influenza. SH
Oh yeah? John thought. I cant breath. May have penumonia.
Fever is abnormally high. Also, unexplained bruises developing. Possible indications of internal bleeding. SH
From what? John typed furiously. U don't bleed to deth from whiny.
The next text was...reproving? Your bedside manner needs work, John. My fever is spiking again. Really dangerously hot. SH
Me too John texted back savagely. In fact I hav just BURST INTO FLAEMS.
He shoved the phone under his pillow and thought, with hazy satisfaction,Top THAT. Moments later, he was half-asleep, drifting again.
Perhaps an hour later, his phone buzzed again. He pulled it out and checked it, blinking, before he remembered why he really didn't want to. Hope you're reasonably decent. Mycroft is on his way up with food and medication. SH
Even as he read it, the door swung open to reveal Sherlock's brother balancing a tray as if he'd been born into service, not a hair out of place. "John," Mycroft greeted him, coming towards him and setting the tray down on the bedside table. "Pardon the intrusion. Sherlock texted that you were both unwell and unable to care for yourselves, and I took the liberty of obtaining provisions for you."
He indicated the cup on the tray with a wave of his hand. "Tea? Or soup first?"
"Tea, please," John said. But before he took the offered cup, he sent back one more message. u txted ur brother for help? I give up, u are more sick htan me.
This entry originally posted to http://travels-in-time.dreamwidth.org/260814.html, where there are
comments.