On His Case

[Dusty15]

On His Case

-By Dusty15

I wrote the majority of this before the recently-posted link to the excellent Sherlock H/C comic that's in the media section. This has a similar plotline, but I say the more Sherlock drabbles, the better! Enjoy!

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FLAT. NOW. V.IMPORTANT.

John Watson glanced down at his mobile, his heart skipping a beat as it always did when a new text came through from his flatmate Sherlock. Occasionally, Sherlock’s summons were for something incredibly mundane, like fetching a bit of paper from the next room, but more often than not they meant a new case, and Watson’s life now revolved around these cases.

He’d come to live with the investigative genius by pure divine luck, and though Sherlock had his quirks, John found that each day provided the kind of heart-skipping adventure he’d never known he needed before he’d come to 221b Baker St.

Powering his mobile screen off and pocketing it, John hurried out of the café he’d been lunching at and down the block to his flat. When he’d left, Sherlock was still asleep, as per his usual routine of rising late and going to bed late. Mounting the stairs, Watson entered their living room to find his flatmate lounging on the chaise, a blanket across his legs.

“Thank god,” Holmes cried. “I’m dying, John, I’m sure of it.”

“You’re positive you just haven’t overdone it with the nicotine patches?” Watson asked. But then he noticed the red tinge around Sherlock’s nose and the open-mouthed, dazed look that only meant one thing. “Ah, no, that’s not it. You’ve got a bloody flu, that’s what.”

“Flu?” Holmes asked, head lolling back against his pillow. “John, please, this is far worse than the flu. I need a doctor. I think I-”

He broke off, head snapping to the side with a sneeze he didn’t attempt to cover.

Hehh’txhtt!

“Bless,” John said, retrieving a handkerchief from his trouser pocket. “Holmes, I am a doctor.”

He handed over the hankie and watched as Sherlock attempted to blow his nose, resulting in a sort of squelching, congested honk that left him red in the face and coughing.

“Don’t force it,” Watson said, siding up to his friend and pressing a palm to his brow. “You aren’t feverish. It’s probably no more than a bad cold, actually.”

“Acute viral rhinopharyngitis,” Holmes recited. “Usually a 7 to 10 day period of infection. I haven’t the time for this John, there are things to be done. Surely you can fix this.”

“There isn’t a cure for the common cold, Sherlock,” Watson said, exasperated. “You should just rest and lie low for a while.”

“There’s a case,” he rasped, his hand gesturing towards his open laptop. An email remained open on the screen and Watson read it.

“It’s a robbery, Holmes,” he said. “No one is dead, so you can take a week to rest and then work on it.”

“But I’ve got to investigate the location before those wankers at forensics fuck it all up.”

“Well, you’ll just have to use their photos, won’t you?”

“I’m going,” Sherlock said, tossing the blanket from his legs and standing, swaying on the spot for a moment. “I need a jumper.”

“Sit down, I’ll get it,” John insisted with a sigh. “I expected this would improve the minute I told you there was no fix.”

“I still feel bloody awful.”

“I’m sure. You look bloody awful.”

“Ta, mate.”

Watson retrieved a jumper from Sherlock’s bedroom, carefully avoiding a stack of beakers containing some foul-smelling liquid and a rather precarious shelf of books that looked ready to tip at any moment. Returning with it, he handed it over along with a fresh stack of handkerchiefs.

“Thanks,” Holmes said, pulling on the wooly jumper and shrugging into his customary black coat and with his scarf tied tight around his throat. “Coming?”

“I suppose I must,” Watson joked. “You’re under a doctor’s care, so the doctor must attend.”

“January, average temperature is four degrees,” Holmes said as they hailed a cab outside. “Not conducive to head colds.”

He ducked into the black cab as it stopped and wrapped a handkerchief around his prominent nose, wiping away some congestion. He gave the driver their destination in a muffled, thick voice and Watson ended up repeating the directions to clarify.

Heh’tshxttt!

Holmes had one hand holding the handkerchief to his nose while the other thumbed through the texts on his mobile. The sneeze barely interrupted his typing and he pressed “send” before flipping the phone shut.

“I acquired this cold three days ago,” Holmes said, voice stuffy. “In Camden. A bloke with a cold was on duty with blood spatter when I solved that murder case in the alley. Must’ve sneezed on his blood sample kit, because I touched it later and then I had a piece of gum a few moments after that. Sneeze to kit to hand to gum to cold.”

Watson shook his head, amazed. Only Holmes would be able to trace the very origin of a head cold.

The cabbie pulled over at their destination and Sherlock reached for his wallet, counting out five pounds less than the posted fare.

“You took us five blocks out of the way. That cheat might work on others but it’d never get past me. Clever, though, taking the bridge. Had to think twice about that route,” he said to the baffled cab driver. “Good day, and don’t try to stiff me again.”

Shaking his head, Watson strode after Holmes towards the crime scene, clearly marked with yellow caution tape. Ducking under the barrier, they were met by Lestrade, who looked agitated.

“Ten thousand quid, gone,” he said as they approached. “Forensics has nothing.”

Et’shxttttttt!

Holmes sneezed roughly into the crook of his arm.

“Bless. As I was saying,” Lestrade continued. “There seems to be- ”

Ehht’shttttt! T’shhhhtt!

“Bless you, Holmes. Chap, you look awful. You let him out of the flat like this, Watson? And I thought you were the sane one. There’s no way you’re going onto the crime scene sputtering like that.”

“Do shut up, Lestrade,” Holmes replied from behind the shield of his handkerchief as he wiped his reddening nose. “If I must, I’ll wear one of those bloody face shields. It’s not like this is a homicide investigation, anyway.”

“I won’t have you infecting my entire detective force,” Lestrade said tersely. “You’ll read up on the collected evidence from home and report your findings back to me via email. Watson, do see that Mr. Holmes gets home and to bed.”

Sherlock’s face was reddening and Watson was sure he was about to witness a burst of agitation from the detective but instead, Sherlock began to cough, mouth buried in the arm of his wool coat.

“C’mon then,” John said gently, pressing a hand against Sherlock’s back. “You heard the man.”

“I won’t be spoken to like that,” Holmes croaked, squirming out of Watson’s hold. “Let’s get on with it, Lestrade. Get me a mask and I’ll solve this for you.”

“Take a step onto the crime scene and I’ll have you removed for trespassing,” Lestrade countered.

“You asked me here,” Sherlock snapped.

“And I’m asking you to please go home and rest,” Lestrade replied. “The case can wait. I will email you the forensics findings tonight. Until then, I’m sure you’ll be in good hands with your friend the Doctor. Isn’t that right, Watson?”

“Indeed sir,” John mumbled, taking Sherlock by the arm. “Let’s go, now.”

With an irritated sniffle, Sherlock turned on his heel and strode away alongside John. Watson could hear his breath coming in ragged puffs.

“Slow down,” he said, tugging on the detective’s coat sleeve. “You’re already congested; no need to start wheezing.”

Sherlock slowed his page, his shoulders slumped in defeat.

“Don’t tell me you feel perfectly fine and aren’t looking forward to a rest?” John asked with a small smile. “You look retched, mate. A few days in bed will be just what you need. Besides, you work too hard.”

“Just get a cab,” Holmes grunted, extracting his handkerchief from his coat pocket and wiping his nose.

Et’tshiiii!

He sneezed, stifling the outburst in the hankie a bit. John raised his arm at the sight of a black London cab and the driver pulled over, allowing them inside.

Back at the flat, they discarded their coats and John went straight to the linen closet, gathering another quilt and pillow.

“Go put on some pyjamas,” he said. “I’ll do up the couch for you unless you’d prefer your bed.”

He knew the detective rarely slept in the bed anyway, and it wasn’t particularly tidy. Most mornings, John found his flatmate asleep in a chair or sprawled on the chaise.

“Couch is fine,” Holmes said with a gurgling sniffle as he retreated to his room and returned a few minutes later in a blue and grey striped pyjama set with a light silk housecoat slung over it.

“Here you are,” John said, gesturing to the nest he’d created on the sofa. “Climb in.”

Sherlock obeyed, with a small grumble of quiet protest, and settled down against the pillows.

“I’ve added a second to prop you up,” John explained. “Might help the congestion a bit.”

He pulled up the quilts so they were tucked against Sherlock’s chest. The detective’s body was quickly betraying him and his eyes were fluttering shut.

“Get some rest, okay?” John said gently, adjusting a pillow. “I’ll put some stew on for supper.”

A snore was his only reply.

“That’s more like it,” Watson muttered, settling himself in a nearby chair to watch over his patient. He’d relish this bit of quiet, because he knew as soon as Holmes recovered, he’d not get another moment of it.

[blackrose]

awww, cute!

[LoraLee2]

ooh this is so good! thanks for writing this, it made my dayy

[murphy dee]

This was precious. I couldn't help but laugh when Holmes was actually able to trace back to where he picked up the cold. I also really liked that bit at the end when Watson was tucking him in and stuff, it was soooo sweet. Everything about that story was sweet!

[TheCakeIsAlive]

Gosh, yes, I definitely agree Dusty15! The more Sherlock stories the better and this really is a very good one.

This reads exactly like an episode, I think you've captured both the characters and the writing style perfectly. Loved reading this.

Love how Sherlock goes all over-dramatic at the start, but as soon as he's on his way, he's suddenly not dying any more. That's so him. And Watson being all level-headed and caring...

[swann_ee_song]

Uh-oh. While Sherlock is flaring up with flu, my Britophile obsession seems to be flaring up again. Because the writing here is just awesome!

There's really nothing left to say because it's all been said. But I thought what's the harm in popping in to add my agreement to the pile?

[p.s. Sigrith....(sorry for threadjacking)...Your last quote in your siggy comes from "Eleventh Hour" yah?] LOVE IT!

I'm also not the only one to say that Steven Moffat is a genius. AMIRIGHT?? Doctor Who, Torchwood, and now Sherlock? I'm so enjoying the new take on an old classic. Does anyone know when more episodes are coming out?

[Jorm]

This is so absolutely lovely. I think you really nailed the characters and style the way you wrote them. I love the idea that Sherlock starts being completely over dramatic until he finds out there isn't anything John can do. And the way that John responds to his being so ridiculous so nonchalantly is just perfect. I'd love to see more of this if you get inspired to add to it! Somehow I have a feeling that John might not get as much quiet as he'd like even with Sherlock dying of man-flu

I'm also not the only one to say that Steven Moffat is a genius. AMIRIGHT?? Doctor Who, Torchwood, and now Sherlock? I'm so enjoying the new take on an old classic. Does anyone know when more episodes are coming out?

Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss are both absolutely brilliant writers and the fact that they're such massive Holmes fans has Sherlock an especially well done series, I think. They're so dedicated to making it worthy of and in keeping with the tone and feel of the original stories that in many ways I think it's actually a better reflection of Conan Doyle's writing than a great many of the versions that have taken place in the original time period.

A second series of three episodes is planned to come out sometime late this year and Moffat has apparently only said "You can have three words to work from; Adler, hound, Reichenbach." in regard to what's going to happen in those three episodes. I don't know about anyone else, but that's enough to give me a massive fangasm already!

[Sitruuna]

Though I prefer sick Watson over sick Holmes, can I not love this fic? Dang, this is great. All the right elements... A sick, hot man... Mm

[iety]

Rejoice! I'd hoped someone would write something fetishy for this awesome show, and someone has 8D This is just lovely <3

[Hex]

Aah, this is precious! They're both so wonderfully stubborn. Loved it!

[count tiszula]

I must have missed this first time round. As ever. a really ingenious story, and as ever, I hope you actually welcome my comment on the Britishisms. This time, Lestrade wouldn't say " Chap "as a form of address, he would have to say "old chap" and for Lestrade this would have to be sarcastic. However, he could just about begin a sentence with "Mate......,"

I sometimes wonder why no other Brits say these things, but I suppose they're just not as downright rude as I am.....

[Septaero]

This was beautiful and amazingly written and it made my whole week. Sherlock Holmes happens to be pretty much my very favorite character out of anything ever, and this is something that I've been waiting to read or witness my whole life <3333