Matilda's Drabble Thread II (Sherlock)

[AngelEyes]

It's late and I'm too lazy to quote but you absolutely have their voices down. Hearing them in my head! The slightly snarky, pushy but altogether caring Greg, the bickering between brothers. It's just so perfect I can't even.....

[matilda3948]

Thanks!!! Glad you all liked it.

Okay, this part doesn't have a prompt...nor is it drabble length...basically I've gone rogue

They made it through dinner without incident—just minor barbs traded between the Holmes brothers. Greg was content to watch the two verbally spar with each other. It never got too nasty; Sherlock was clearly not feeling his best and Mycroft seemed satisfied to pull his punches, giving his brother just enough of a challenge without resorting to anything truly hurtful. Greg cleared their plates and went about making tea.

“Dinner was wonderful, Mycroft. Thank you,” he said, squeezing his lover’s shoulder and earning a labored sigh from Sherlock.

“Oh, do grow up, brother.” Whatever reply Sherlock had was quickly muted when he sneezed.

Ngsschhoo! hhNGsschhh! huhSNDSHHoo!

Both men blessed him and Sherlock couldn’t hold back a small sigh of discomfort. The sinus pressure and congestion hadn’t relented all day. Despite being under his brother’s eagle eye, he reached up and pinched the bridge of his nose. Greg frowned.

“You alright, Sherlock?”

“Fine. Cad I go home ndow?”

“I think not, little brother,” Mycroft said as he pushed back from the table. “I’ll get you something else for the congestion and headache.”

“I don’t have a headache,” Sherlock snapped. Mycroft just cocked his head and gave him an exasperated eye roll, then left the kitchen.

“The two of you are ridiculous,” Greg said with a smile. He fixed tea for the three of them and nodded towards the door. “Come on. Take your tea and come with me.” Sherlock followed Greg through the house to a slightly less formal living room. There was a large L-shaped sectional sofa against the wall facing a large flat screen television. Sherlock put his tea down and sprawled out on the long part of the sofa sticking out into the room—it was nearly as wide as his bed. Greg switched on the television and tuned into a soccer match.

“You get my brother to watch sports?” he asked with a sniffle.

“He reads,” Greg said, sitting down in the middle of the sofa (a little distance between brothers seemed smart at this point). He glanced at the young man to his right and felt that familiar tug he often felt when Sherlock was unwell. He had his hands steepled in front of his nose as the tickle in his nose slowly gathered strength. He sniffed once, then again before:

hehNGSHHH! NDGSSHHH!

“Bless you, Sherlock.”

“Thag you.”

“Good manners, brother? You must be feeling poorly,” Mycroft said, coming into the room. “Here, a decongestant and something for the headache.” He dropped both pills into Sherlock’s open hand. He downed the pills with a mouthful of tea. Mycroft then handed him a fresh handkerchief and an icepack wrapped in a soft towel. “Put that on your face; it will bring down the swelling in your sinuses.” Sherlock huffed and chucked the icepack to the side, sliding down on the sofa so he was half-sitting, half laying down. “Suit yourself,” Mycroft said, going to the far end of the sofa and sitting down. He picked up a book and his tea, discreetly reaching over and giving Greg’s hand a squeeze. It was their normal evening routine, but Greg was finding it hard to relax with a miserable, sulking Sherlock to his right.

“John and Mary will be back next week,” he said.

“Hmm.”

“He’ll probably be ready for a good case after such a long break,” Greg pressed.

“Doubtful.”

“Just because he’s married doesn’t mean he won’t…Sherlock, he’s still your friend and Mary’s brilliant. She’s not going to try and stop John from working with you.”

“Please stop talking,” Sherlock sighed.

“I’m serious. It’s not going to change as much as you think. Not like they’re pregnant or anything.” The pause that followed spoke volumes. Mycroft looked up from his book. “Really?” Greg asked. “Mary’s pregnant? That’s wonderful.”

“Delightful,” Sherlock said.

“Brother, if I may say something. A baby will indeed change your relationship with John and Mary. It’s the very nature of new additions to alter the family dynamic. But have you ever considered that the new family dynamic might be enjoyable?”

“Oh shut up Mycroft. What would you know about it?” Sherlock snapped. It only took a second before Sherlock realized the subtext to his brother’s little speech. Mycroft simply picked up his book and resumed reading. Sherlock was almost glad that he had to sneeze again. He was definitely glad he had a fresh handkerchief.

Hehhngtssshhh! hhNGSSHHoo! hehhNGSHH! huhEHHNXTsschh! hhNktsschhooo!

“Christ, bless you Sherlock!” Greg said.

“Indeed. God bless you, brother.”

Sherlock mumbled something that might have been a “thank you” before trying to blow his nose. The sound made Greg wince. He picked up the icepack and tossed one of the sofa pillows to him.

“Lay down already,” Greg said. Sherlock grumbled, but stretched out on his back. Once he was settled, Greg put the icepack across his eyes. “That’ll help,” he said. Greg brushed the mop of unruly black curls off Sherlock’s face. He wasn’t surprised at the soft, content sigh that his actions elicited; only that he did it with Mycroft close by. Greg had known Sherlock long enough to know how much of his prickly demeanor was for show, how much he really craved normal kindnesses, and few things soothed him as much as having his hair stroked. Mycroft was the same way—not that he would ever so much as hint that the two “arch enemies” had anything in common. He slowly kept running his fingers through Sherlock’s hair as he felt him settle down. Greg smiled, reviewing the new information. “Oh Sherlock, you are going to adore being an uncle,” he said. The young man issued a low hum; he was nearly out now.

Nearly thirty minutes later, Mycroft closed his book.

“Would you like more tea?” he asked.

“No thanks, love. I’m fine.”

“And what about the petulant child at the end of the sofa?” Mycroft asked.

“Oh you can drop the act,” Greg said with a smile. “He’s sound asleep.”

“Hmm.”

“I’ll take him home later,” Greg said.

“He hasn’t slept in nearly three days. I suppose he can stay here tonight.” Mycroft went and fixed himself another cup of tea, coming back to the living room to find Greg continuing to stroke Sherlock’s hair as the younger man slept. He grabbed a soft throw from a nearby chair and spread it over his brother’s long legs before resuming his seat. “You’re very good with him,” Mycroft said.

“What can I say? I’m the Holmes Whisperer,” Greg said.

“Indeed.” Mycroft leaned over and kissed Gregory deeply. Suddenly a sleepy baritone rang out from their right.

“Stop that.”

[MyOwnPrivateSFC]

Aw, Sherlock! He really is like a kid sometimes, isn't he? I have a mental image at the end of a little kid yelling "ewwwww!" when he sees his Mommy and Daddy kiss.

[cally]

Titles and word lengths are meant to be ignored.

This was so adorable! Poor Sherlock though. It's not hard being him.

[bangbang]

I actually feel a little bit like crying after that last drabble and I don't know why! Just how much Greg loves Sherlock (ha, Holmes Whisper indeed!) and how worried Sherlock is about change and how Mycroft comforts him by relating it to when Sherlock was born (but of course he can't say it out loud, everything is shrouded) and scared little baby!Mycroft got used to it and uuuuh I have so many feelings!

And that's not even mentioning how much I love the way your Greg and Mycroft relate to each other, how Greg is able to break past the harsh exterior of them both in different ways, and how they kiss and ARGH I am so hormonal.

[ID2006]

I love this so much

[AngelEyes]

Awwww. Petulant!Sherlock is wonderful. And I adore how caring Greg is with him! Definitely a Holmes Whisperer!

[matilda3948]

Titles and word lengths are meant to be ignored.

Right?? Thank goodness

I actually feel a little bit like crying after that last drabble and I don't know why! Just how much Greg loves Sherlock (ha, Holmes Whisper indeed!) and how worried Sherlock is about change and how Mycroft comforts him by relating it to when Sherlock was born (but of course he can't say it out loud, everything is shrouded) and scared little baby!Mycroft got used to it and uuuuh I have so many feelings!

And that's not even mentioning how much I love the way your Greg and Mycroft relate to each other, how Greg is able to break past the harsh exterior of them both in different ways, and how they kiss and ARGH I am so hormonal.

Aww...sweetie In my world, the Holmes brothers may be intellectual geniuses, but Greg has them both beat in the world of human emotions.

I love this so much

YAY! I'm sooo glad

Awwww. Petulant!Sherlock is wonderful. And I adore how caring Greg is with him! Definitely a Holmes Whisperer!

TOTALLY a Holmes Whisperer!

#38 Horses

He had to admit, death by stampede had to score at least an eight. Death by a stampede…of horses…in London…maybe an eight and a half. Sherlock sauntered onto the crime scene ignoring (perhaps relishing in) the glares from the Yard personnel. It was a very exclusive equestrian stable and practice facility—one of the best in the country.

“Who called the freak?” Sally Donovan asked loudly as soon as she caught sight of him.

“Donovan,” he greeted. “I’m sure your boyfriend appreciated you getting called to a crime scene so he could have another private rendezvous with his personal trainer.” The look that crossed her face was utterly delicious. He spotted Lestrade standing near the body. It was laying on the ground where the horses would enter the training grounds after leaving the paddocks.

“I didn’t call you for a consult,” Greg said when Sherlock came up to him.

“So?”

“So, I’m not even sure this is a homicide ehh…yet.” Lestrade turned away and sneezed harshly into his elbow.

huhRAHHHssschhh!

Sherlock looked disgusted, though it was unclear whether the cause was Lestrade’s sneeze or perceived stupidity.

“Of course it was a homicide,” he said, kneeling down next to the corpse and beginning to examine both the body and the area surrounding it. Greg crouched down next to him.

“How can you be sure there was foul play?” he asked.

“These are mostly dressage horses. They’re not just going to stampede. These animals are extensively trained to be graceful and responsive; they’re not a pack of racing studs.” Sherlock spared a glance to his left when he heard Greg sniffle wetly. “Plus, the victim’s a trainer,” Sherlock said. “There’s no way he’d get himself trampled even in the incredibly unlikely event that the horses spooked.”

Greg rubbed his nose and tried to focus on what the consulting detective was telling him, but his nose was tickling like mad. All morning his throat had been bothering him and his nose was running and itching. He really hoped he wasn’t coming down with a cold. He sniffled again and felt the tickle surge through his sinuses. Greg just managed to cup his hands over his nose and mouth before sneezing.

huhhRahhhSHHH! RuhhSHHOOO!

He might have lost his balance if a strong pair of hands hadn’t steadied him and then hauled him to his feet. Sherlock pulled Greg away from the body as he continued to sneeze.

HuhhKSSCCHHHooo! huhRAHHHSSSHHHOOOO! huh Huhh hhRAHHTSSCHHooo!

His body shook with the force of the wet, desperate sneezes. It seemed as if each one seemed to trigger the next.

huhhAHHKSSHHHooo! RahhTISHHOOO! RahhTISHHOOO! huhruhhKTSSSHHHHOOOO!

“Bless you,” Sherlock said quietly. “Here.” Greg opened his watery eyes to find a handkerchief next to his hands. He took it gratefully and pressed it to his nose. He’d never experienced something like this before; it was as if a dam had crested behind his eyes and nose and now they simply couldn’t stop streaming.

“Sorry, Sherlock. I don’t kndow—” He doubled over suddenly with a fit of rapid, ticklish sneezes.

HuhrahhTSCHHoo! huhTSCHHOOO! huhTSCHHoo! huhTissshhh! hhTISHHH! huhh hah…RuhhAHHSSSCHHHooo!

“God bless. I take it you didn’t know you were allergic to horses?” Sherlock asked.

“Dever been around theb before,” Greg managed before blowing his nose.

“Any trouble breathing?” Sherlock asked. Greg took a couple breaths.

“No.”

“Difficulty swallowing? Feel like your throat is swelling?”

“Uh…no.” Greg wasn’t sure what confused him more—his newly discovered allergy or Sherlock’s seemingly genuine concern for his health. His answer clearly didn’t satisfy the younger man and Greg found himself with fingers probing both sides of his neck, apparently checking for swelling. “I’b okay, Sherlock,” he said. “Hey?” Greg patted him on shoulder until Sherlock looked up at him. “I’b fide, okay?” Greg held still and let Sherlock run his eyes over him until he came to his own conclusion. Finally satisfied, Sherlock nodded once.

“The stampede was staged. Your victim was beaten to death somewhere else, transported here, and then the horse’s stables were opened. Make sure Molly does the autopsy. Have her run an advanced tox screen and see if she can find any bruising patterns consistent with horse hooves. She won’t, but have her check anyway.”

“Right. Thanks.” Stunning as usual, Greg thought. He started to walk back towards the crime scene when he felt Sherlock grab his arm.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he asked.

“To finish working the scene.” Sherlock rolled his eyes and huffed impatiently.

“Unless you wish to repeat your previous disgusting allergic performance, do not go anywhere near those stables. Call it in to Donovan…specifically while on your way to a chemist to get some antihistamine.”

[Spoo]

Mmmm. Those sneezes sounded positively lovely. Nice and throaty and forceful - you know, the typical Lestrade sneeze. I really liked how Sherlock was concerned and was making sure Greg was okay. Awwww.

[cally]

Oh Gregory you poor thing. That was a most terrible (delicious) fit. Good thing for Sherlock and his strong hands (another issue altogether)

[Seniorstatus14]

Awwww those were so cute!!! I can't believe I missed the last couple!!! I especially loved the ones with Sherlock over at Greg and Mycroft's house! Soo adroable

[AngelEyes]

Horses. You had to go there. With Greg. I just can't, um, think? This opens up such fun ideas in my brain...... (I'm a horse girl.) Shall we take a ride? Really, I insist. Oooooh, the fits! You broke my brain.....

[matilda3948]

I just can't stay away from Sherlock drabbles

#10 Worried

“You really must stop doing this, brother mine.”

Sherlock registered his brother’s voice through the throbbing headache. He really wouldn’t be surprised if his head was actually splitting open. He couldn’t quite muster the energy to open his eyes yet, but he knew he was no longer in the back alley where he’d blacked out. Based on the softness of the sheets and the lack of bleach smell, he knew he was back at Mycroft’s house. He opened his mouth and tried to speak, but his throat was sore and all that came out was a hoarse squeak. An unusual withdrawal symptom, he thought. He heard Mycroft moving around and then a straw was resting against his lips.

“You know the procedure. Small sips,” Mycroft said. After a couple sips of water Sherlock was finally able to clear his throat and even managed to open his eyes. He studied his brother: Mycroft had discarded his tie and waistcoat and his shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows.

“Must have been a bad one,” Sherlock said.

“They’re all bad, Sherlock.”

“You look worried this time.”

Sherlock was genuinely surprised when Mycroft didn’t respond with the expected barb. He was even more surprised when his brother sighed and sat down on the edge of the bed, rubbing a hand over his face.

“I keep thinking I’m prepared,” Mycroft said. “Each time I go to fish you out of an alley or a flop house. I think I’m prepared to press my fingers against your throat and find you…” His voice trailed off.

“I’m fine, Mycroft,” Sherlock huffed. “And since when were you prone to such spells of brotherly love?”

“Hmm. Yes, well I’m just glad we didn’t end up at hospital this time.” Mycroft stood up and smoothed out his trousers. “I’ll be back with something for your head and some cold medicine.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “You’re ill,” Mycroft said.

“I am not,” Sherlock said, though he was beginning to wonder. His head felt like it was full of cement and his throat was still on fire. Now that Mycroft had mentioned it, Sherlock could tell that he was feeling more than just his normal withdrawal symptoms.

“Here,” Mycroft said, placing a handkerchief on the bed. “I’ll be back.”

#8 Fever

Sherlock felt his nose beginning to tickle and he glared at the handkerchief as though its presence was what had caused it. He pinched the bridge of his nose and cleared his throat. Now that he’d fully woken up, he was beginning to register just how awful he really felt. How long had he been passed out in that alley? He couldn’t remember Mycroft coming to collect him…or getting upstairs, changed, and into bed.

hhNGTK! NGTKK! Sherlock hissed as the pressure behind his eyes spiked as a result of stifling his sneezes.

“God bless you,” Mycroft said, coming back into the bedroom. He was carrying a tray that he slid onto the bedside table. He handed Sherlock a glass of water. “Did you take anything other than cocaine? I’d rather not give you medication that’s going to kill you.” Sherlock shook his head and Mycroft handed him several pills. After downing the pills, Sherlock accepted a cup of tea from his brother. Mycroft sat back down and took a sip of his own tea. A tense silence settled between the two brothers, neither wanting to break it first. However, Sherlock was unable to avoid sneezing again.

heh hhNKTss! NKTSHH! He winced and held his breath until the pain receded.

“God bless you. Why do you insist on doing things that hurt so much?” Mycroft’s voice was quiet and strained. Sherlock didn’t answer, but finished his tea and then moved to get up from the bed. “What are you doing?” Mycroft asked.

“Going home,” Sherlock said. Mycroft put his hands on Sherlock’s chest, keeping him in the bed.

“Absolutely not. You’re still coming down of your most recent…outing. You’re feverish and unwell.”

“I don’t need a nurse.”

“You could have fooled me,” Mycroft said.

“I’m fine,” Sherlock snapped, standing up suddenly. The room lurched violently and he all but collapsed back onto the bed.

“Yes, clearly,” Mycroft sighed. “Lay back down, little brother. Please,” he added after a moment’s pause.

huhTSHHHoo! hhCHHooo! Sherlock sneezed suddenly into his hands. Mycroft picked up the discarded handkerchief and placed it in his brother’s hand.

“God bless you.” Sherlock nodded his thanks, pressing the cloth to his nose.

huhhISHHHoo! HuhSSHHHoo!

“I’m sorry,” he said with a wet sniffle.

“Get some rest, Sherlock. You look like you haven’t slept in days.” Sherlock glanced up at his brother. “I’ll be right here,” Mycroft said, sitting down in a chair.

[Seniorstatus14]

Awww I love sick Sherlock! This is so amazing! Thank you so much for writing this awesome drabble!

[MyOwnPrivateSFC]

Aw! Poor sick, withdrawal-ing Sherlock! I, for one, am quite glad you can't stay away from him.

[cally]

I honestly would quote the entire thing. I really think this is the best written one (not that you're others aren't of course) I've read. Just something about it.

[AngelEyes]

Oh Sherlock. Poor Mycroft, so worried.

[matilda3948]

Sorry for my absence. Have a lot on my plate right now. Apparently I'm on a "Worried Mycroft" kick right now.

Bed, Headache, and Humiliated

Mycroft glanced down at the text message for the third time in ten minutes.

Apologies Mr. Holmes, but I’m ill and need to take the day off. –A

He knocked on her front door and fidgeted with the handle of his umbrella. When she didn’t answer he decided to use his emergency key; perhaps she was in real trouble. He entered quietly and looked around. Nothing appeared to be out of place, no sign of a struggle. Mycroft turned the corner and was nearly met with the receiving end of a stun gun. With reflexes that would have surprised those who thought he was just an office man, Mycroft dodged Anthea and twisted her arm, successfully disarming the woman.

“Mr. Holmes?” She cried. “What are you—” A harsh, barking cough cut off her question. She nearly doubled over, tears stinging her eyes.

“Oh, Anthea,” Mycroft sighed and guided her towards the sofa. He grabbed the blanket off the back and wrapped it around her shoulders both because she looked cold and because he knew she would be humiliated when she realized he’d seen her in pajamas. Mycroft had never seen Anthea in anything other than Chanel. It took a moment for her to settle her cough and her voice was strained when she was finally able to finish her question.

“What are you doing here?”

“My apologies, Anthea. I thought perhaps something had happened to you.”

“Didn’t you get by text?”

“I did,” he said, getting his handkerchief from his pocket. “But you’ve never called in sick in all the years we’ve worked together. I couldn’t help but think that perhaps you were in distress.”

“Did I use by under duress code word?” she asked, rubbing her forehead.

“No.”

“But you thought you’d…” her voice waivered and she took the handkerchief from her boss. Her nose flared and her eyes fluttered shut.

Ahh ahh hahh..hhTschhew! Ktschhew! Tschhew! AhhNKsshhew! Ksschheew!

“God bless you.”

AhhSHHeew! hhTschheew! ahhKTsschh! Ktsschhew!

“God bless you, my dear!” Mycroft’s frown deepened when Anthea just shook her head, clearly not done yet.

hehAhh hahh ahhTSHHeew! Ktsschhew! AHHTschhew! AhhNKsshhew! Ksschheew!

“My goodness, Anthea. God bless you again.”

“Thag you. M’sorry,” she whispered before blowing her nose.

“I’m the one who should be apologizing,” he said. “I was concerned when you didn’t answer your door.”

“I was id bed.”

“Which is exactly where you belong.” Mycroft stood and held out a hand. Anthea took it and stood up as well, clenching her eyes shut as the room tilted. Mycroft wrapped an arm around her waist. “I’m so sorry I dragged you out of bed and frightened you—especially when you’re in this condition.”

“It’s okay,” she said. Anthea was able to walk under her own power, but Mycroft stayed just a step behind her in case she got dizzy again. She all but collapsed on her bed which was a tangle of sheets and blankets. Mycroft silently went about straightening the bedding; Anthea watched him with something akin to shock. “You don’t deed to do that,” she said. Mycroft looked thoughtful—unsure of what to say next. Anthea thought he looked like Sherlock in that moment. He perched on the edge of her bed, smoothing out a nonexistent wrinkle in his pants.

“Anthea, you always look after me when I’m ill. I would very much appreciate the opportunity to return the favor.” She nodded once. “Did you feel unwell on Friday?”

“Had a terrible headache but I just thought I was just overtired.” Mycroft nodded. They had suffered through a rather stressful week (even by their standards).

“This came on suddenly,” he said. “Have you taken anything?”

“Don’t remember whed,” she said, rubbing her nose against the back of her wrist.

“May I get you something?” She nodded.

“Id the ehh ahh…kitched.” Anthea made a sound that sounded suspiciously like a whimper as she buried her nose in the handkerchief.

AhhSHHeew! hhtschheew! ahhktsschh! Ktsschhew! Ahh hahh…ahhTSCHH! AHHTschhew! AhhNKsshhew! Ksschheew!

“God bless you, Anthea.” She waved a hand in his direction, perhaps as a ‘thank you,’ perhaps as a ‘don’t bother’

hah ahh Ahhtsschhew! Ktsschhew! ahhTSCHHEEEW! heh HahhKtschhEEEW!

“God bless you, again,” Mycroft said quietly. After giving her a moment to tend to her nose, he reached over and brushed his fingers against her forehead. “You’re quite warm, Anthea. Perhaps I should place a call to Doctor Watson.”

“Bit premature for that, sir,” she said.

“Hmm.”

[cally]

You have no idea how much this made me squeal with delight! I love caring!Mycroft and oh poor, poor Anthea. What a terrible, awful sneezy cold.

[Seniorstatus14]

This was so so sooo good! I'm so happy you updated!

[Lietome]

Everything is sooo perfect! I'm drowning in feels!!

[matilda3948]

Shaking off some pretty brutal writer's block and finding a rhythm again. Hope you like

#28 Hoarse, #7 Hands, #50 Quarrel

Sherlock crouched next to the body of the dead man and began compiling data.

Early 40s, dead 72 hours, white collar work—investment banking, maybe insurance.

Something derailed his train of thought. A sound from behind him? Sherlock shrugged and picked up the victim’s hand and examined it.

Went to university on a lacrosse scholarship. Had hopes of turning professional until he tore a ligament in his wrist. Came into the city Monday morning but never made it to the office. No sign of—

His mind skipped again, distracted by that noise behind him. Not conversation—voices were like white noise to the consulting detective.

huhrahhhSHHHMF!

Oh. Of course. Greg was ill. Sherlock had noticed it the moment he answered his phone that morning and heard the detective’s slightly hoarse voice. His deduction was confirmed the moment he saw older man: Exhausted, pale, hadn’t slept soundly in three days. He was off rotation so the cause of his insomnia is personal. Most likely the wife cheating again. Sluggish response time. Headache, sore throat. Clearly a severe rhinovirus. Remember to thoroughly wash hands when finished at crime scene.

Sherlock hadn’t said anything at the time and hadn’t given it another thought until it had begun to interfere with his work. He gave his head a slight shake and returned to the task at hand.

Clothes undisturbed except for slightly askew necktie.

Sherlock slid his fingers around the man’s throat loosening the tie and then unbuttoning the collar. He got his pocket magnifying glass and examined the skin.

“What does the wife do?” Sherlock asked, correctly assuming that Lestrade was standing a few feet behind him. However, when the older man didn’t answer Sherlock spun around impatiently. “Lestr—” It didn’t take a genius to immediately see why his question had gone unanswered, the pre-sneeze look clearly written all over his face. Greg had a handkerchief (Well used for this early in the morning. Been sneezing since he woke up).

huhRahhSHHHMF! RuhhAHHSHHHooo!

“Wife’s occupation?” Sherlock repeated.

“Uh…she’s a durse,” Greg managed before blowing his nose.

Ingenious.

“Wife’s your killer. She gave him an air embolism.”

“What?”

“She injected him with an empty syringe.” He is rather ill. Feverish. “A little air bubble injected directly into a vein will invoke a stroke within seconds. Make it look like natural causes.” That cough doesn’t sound good either. Congested and exhausted. “There’s a small needle mark on his neck, near the carotid artery.” Needs to be in bed or risk illness progressing further.

HuhrahhSHHHMF! RuhhhAHHSHHHoo!

“S’cuse be,” Greg sniffled and scrubbed roughly at his nose with the handkerchief. “Okay, right. The wife. Thanks Sherlock.” His voice lacked any of the usual energy or enthusiasm it usually had when Sherlock had solved a perplexing case. In fact, he just sounded defeated.

Another quarrel with the wife. Quite a row this time. Maybe he finally figured out the affair with the tennis instructor and—Oh. Sherlock’s eyes snapped up and locked onto Lestrade’s face. Of course.

“What do you need?” Sherlock asked quietly.

“What?”

“You’re clearly distressed about you wife leaving. You have a hideous headcold and you haven’t slept in days. What do you need?”

Lestrade ran a tired hand over his face and sighed. That quickly dissolved into a rattling cough. Sherlock frowned and pulled Greg away from the crime scene. When the spasm finally eased, Greg massaged the back of his neck, trying to ease the stiff muscles.

“Incidentally, the correct answer to my question was some combination of going home, making tea, taking cold medicine, and going to bed,” Sherlock said.

huhRahhhSSHHOOO! ruhhahhhSHHHOOO!

The first two sneezes struck before Greg could even get his crumpled handkerchief to his nose. He quickly dug through his pocket and managed to dampen the noise of the remaining sneezes in the fabric.

hehRuhhhSSCHHHMF! ahhRAHHNSSCHHHMF! huh Huhh hhRNGSCHHHMFF!

“Bless you,” Sherlock said quietly. “I might also add a stop at the chemist to get some tissues. That,” he nodded towards the handkerchief, “looks absolutely disgusting.” Sherlock pulled a pressed, clean handkerchief out of his coat pocket and handed it to Lestrade.

“Thags, bate,” he said. Sherlock rolled his eyes. First because of how ridiculous Greg sounded, but also because he was never quite sure what to do when Greg implied that Sherlock was his friend. “I should get back to work,” Lestrade said after clearing his throat.

“Colds don’t usually affect a person’s hearing,” Sherlock said. “You need to go home.”

“Just a cold, Sherlock. People work with theb all the tibe.”

“You’ll have bronchitis in two days if you don’t tend to it now. A damp crime scene is—”

“I don’t want to go home,” Greg snapped before turning and coughing into his fist until his throat stung. When he turned back he found Sherlock’s staring at him, working something out in that massive brain of his.

“Fine. Come to my house.”

“Your house?”

“You really need to get your hearing checked. If you won’t go to your house, then come to mine.”

“Sherlock—”

“You don’t want to go home because your wife left and it’s distressing to be there. A problem of sentiment, I might add. Nothing changes the fact that your body is in desperate need of sleep. The most obvious solution is that you come home with me.”

huhAHHGNSCHHH! HuhhRahhNSSCHHMF! ahhRAHHNSSCHHHMF!

“Bless you. Come on. You know I’m right.”

[cally]

Oh, poor Greg. He sounds so wretched. I hope Sherlock can convince him to leave and get some rest.

[bangbang]

First because of how ridiculous Greg sounded, but also because he was never quite sure what to do when Greg implied that Sherlock was his friend.

Awwww. Oh Sherlock, one day maybe you'll learn how to interact in normal society. Until then, just stay your prickly self.

[Spoo]

I felt so bad for Greg. The issues he has with his wife, and how he doesn't want to be at home. Poor guy. I'm glad he has someone like Sherlock (even though Sherlock spends most of the time insulting him, but eeeehhh). Bittersweet but lovely.