Matilda's Drabble Thread II (Sherlock)

[Wildwood]

“God bless you. There’s no need to stifle your sneezes like that—your head must be splitting.”

Pot, kettle, black.

And now I have OJ all over my pajamas. This is so true it's sad.

Another drabble well done, Matilda!

[Seniorstatus14]

AWWWWW that was too adorable!!! I love this story line entirely too much

[AngelEyes]

“Please come in. I appreciate you coming to see me on such short notice.”

“Was it optional?”

“Not really, but I appreciate it nonetheless. Why don’t we go into my office?”

Molly suspected this was another (not really) optional suggestion and followed him down the hallway.

Most things are "not really" optional with Mycroft, yet he does so try to be polite about it.

“Mycroft, why did you ask me here tonight?” She shifted in her chair so she could look him in the eye.

Somehow I can totally just picture this!

Mycroft wanting to share the burden, to comfort both Molly and himself, but being a bit awkward about is really just perfect. I love your portrayal!

[matilda3948]

Awww my heart! That was so amazing and sweet! I absolutely adore this story line! Please let John forgive Sherlock

I so hope you write a piece where John sees the wounds as well. Gah I'm a sucker for angst and sick Sherlock and caretaking.

Oh Sherlock.

I hadn't originally planned on writing another section with John but then I got to thinking about it. The thinking resulted in some writing. So...here's the bit where John finally shows up to deal with Sherlock.

Prompts: Desperation, Stare, Temperature

Greg looked down at his mobile and considered this last act of desperation. He’d been coming to check on Sherlock every day after work and every day the younger man seemed more ill. Today when he showed up he found Sherlock huddled in his bed under a pile of blankets shaking with chills. He was running a fever and Greg swore he heard a wheeze when Sherlock tried to take a deep breath. His suggestion that they go see a doctor was met with a resounding “no” and a withering glare. Next Greg tried Mycroft but the elder Holmes must have been up to his neck in a diplomatic crisis because he hadn’t responded yet. That left him with one final option: John. Greg took a deep breath and sent a text.

Need to talk to you about Sherlock. –GL

“He’s not going to answer,” Sherlock said quietly. His voice was strained and thick with congestion.

“Of course he will,” Greg said, passing Sherlock a couple tissues. He was sitting in a chair next to the bed and he knew Sherlock had to be feeling genuinely awful to allow him inside his bedroom.

“John hates me,” Sherlock sighed. Greg felt a tug behind his ribcage. He leaned over and cupped the side of Sherlock’s face. Still too warm, he thought.

“John does not hate you. He’s mad at you. There’s a difference.”

Sherlock gave an exhausted version of his “you’re an idiot” eye roll and then scrunched his nose up, pawing at it with the handful of tissues. His sneezes were throaty and deep and threatened to steal what was left of his voice.

heh ahh HahhNGSHH! hhNgtSHHH!

“Bless you.” Greg’s mobile chirped.

Nothing to talk about. –JW

“Told you,” Sherlock said. He couldn’t possibly see Greg’s phone but, even with a fever, deduced the answer anyway.

I know you’re angry but he’s sick and I need you to take a look at him. –GL

I wouldn’t ask but Mycroft’s not answering and he’s been getting worse every day. –GL

Just when Greg was beginning to think John wasn’t going to answer, his screen lit up.

Symptoms? –JW

Had a cold last week. Cough’s getting bad, sneezing, chills. Can’t keep his temperature down. –GL

Greg knew that somewhere John was pacing and cursing his Hippocratic Oath.

On my way. –JW

“See? Told you he’d come,” Greg said. Sherlock looked like he wanted to reply but settled on trying to cough up a lung instead. “Christ, you sound awful,” Greg mumbled, glad that reinforcements were on the way.

John let himself in and took a couple deep breaths before climbing the stairs to the upstairs flat. He opened the door and was surprised that Sherlock wasn't sprawled out on the sofa. If he was in bed he really must be feeling ill. A quick exam. Like any other patient, John told himself. He paused at the threshold of the bedroom door and doubled his resolve.

“Hey, John,” Greg said, getting up. “Thanks for coming, mate. I know things are…well, thanks for coming.” John gave him a tight nod and Greg stepped aside. “I’ll just make some tea and let you to get to it, yeah?” John hadn’t moved and Greg thought it best to get out of the way, so he slipped around him and made for the kitchen.

Doctor Watson looked at Sherlock. He certainly looked sick…and too thin and too pale. His nose was red and raw, his eyes glassy, and the deep dark circles under his eyes told John everything he needed to know about how he was sleeping.

“I have conditions,” John finally said. Sherlock nodded. “I’m here as your doctor. Nothing more. No lies, do you understand?” Again Sherlock nodded. “I mean it. I will only ask medically relevant questions but I expect you to answer them truthfully like any other patient.”

“Understood, doctor.”

With that, John came into the familiar room and put his bag down on the floor. He took up the chair where Greg had been sitting.

“When did you first start feeling bad?” he asked. Sherlock didn’t answer and John looked up to find him sitting there with his eyes shut, seemingly frozen in place. “I just finished saying that I expect you to answer my questions and you—”

huh hhRHHDNSHH!

He doubled over with a punishing sneeze. John sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration.

ehh hhNDSSCHHH! huhh ehhh hahhEHHRTSCHHHHH!

“Bless you. Sorry.”

“S’fide,” he said as he grabbed a fistful of clean tissues and blew his nose until his ears popped. “Eight days ndow,” he said, still feeling as congested as he was moments ago.

“Have you been out of the country in the last thirty days?”

“Serbia.”

“Okay. I need to take your temperature,” John said. He opened his bag and took out a thermometer but before he had a chance to give it to his patient, Sherlock began coughing. It was worse than anything John had ever heard from him before—a wet, barking cough that definitely indicated some kind of infection. Sherlock had tears in his eyes by the time the spasm calmed down. As soon as he caught his breath he held out his hand and put the thermometer under his tongue. The silence was beyond uncomfortable, the bedroom so thick with tension that both men were relieved when the thermometer beeped. 39.2. “That’s too high,” John said, frowning. “When was the last time you took something to bring your fever down?”

“Two hours ago.”

“That’s a bit not good,” John said more to himself. “Let me take a look at you.”

“Hold huhh ehh…hold od…” Sherlock curled a finger under his twitching nostrils until he was able to pull a few tissues from the box. He cupped the tissues around his nose and mouth and succumbed to a fit of nasty, exhausting sneezes.

hehRHDSSCHH! huhh hhAhhGNKSHHHH! SNDSCHHHooo! huh ehh hhSKTSSCHHHoo!

“Bless you.” Like the coughing that followed, John had never heard Sherlock sound so awful. He’d be lucky if he had a shred of his voice left by this time tomorrow if he kept up like this. He looked so…defeated. “Are you on any other medications?” John asked.

“Why?” Sherlock rasped.

“Because it’s a standard part of a medical exam and I need to know,” John snapped. Sherlock proceeded to rattle off the list of medications that Mycroft’s people had given him. “None of those are for respiratory infection.”

“No,” Sherlock said. Like any other patient, John reminded himself. It doesn’t matter why he was given the medications, just that he was.

“Let me finish my exam.” John sat on the edge of the bed and looked at Sherlock’s ears, eyes and throat. He felt his glands and probed his sinuses. Except for an occasional sniffle and one coughing fit, Sherlock remained silent through the whole thing. It was only when John grabbed his stethoscope and tried to lift Sherlock’s shirt that the younger man pulled away. “What are you doing? I’ve got to listen to your lungs,” John said.

“Do I have to take my shirt off?”

“Yes. I can’t hear through the fabric and whatever this is it’s clearly in your chest. You don’t have to take your shirt all the way off, just lift it a bit so I can hear.”

“M’too cold.”

“Sherlock, this isn’t negotiable. The quicker we do it, the quicker you can get back under the blankets and warm up again.”

Sherlock swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded. He closed his eyes as John’s hand snaked underneath the front of his shirt and pressed the cold metal disk to his chest.

“Deep breaths,” John said. Sherlock repeatedly inhaled as deeply as he could as John listened to different areas of his lungs. The doctor frowned when he heard the telltale crackle and wheeze when he reached the top of Sherlock’s airway. He pulled his hand away and Sherlock immediately turned to the side, sneezing into the bend of his arm.

huhNGSSCHHoo! hhSNDTSCHHHoo!

“Bless you. Here.” John handed him a couple tissues and waited until Sherlock finished blowing his nose. “Let me listen to the back of your lungs and we’re done.”

Sherlock sat up and leaned forward slightly, his heart racing as he felt John’s hand reach under his shirt. He hoped that by some small miracle John wouldn’t notice. The second he heard the doctor gasp he knew that hope had been in vain.

John pulled the shirt up to Sherlock’s shoulders and looked at his back. It was littered with cuts, some stitched together, some healing without it. They were fresh—no more than two weeks old by John’s estimate.

“Jesus, Sherlock. What…what the hell happened?” He felt like he was shouting but John’s voice was barely above a whisper. He couldn’t stop staring.

“It’s fine. Just ran into a bit of trouble in Serbia.”

“A bit of trouble? You were tortured.”

“Only slightly.”

“Only slightly,” John whispered in disbelief. He ran his fingers over the better healed lacerations as the dominos began to fall into place. The medications Sherlock was taking. The sleep deprivation. The—“Oh, God. I threw you on the floor,” John said. “On your back, just days after you…”

“You didn’t know,” Sherlock said. His voice may have been calm but his body was rigid, tremors rippling through him every now and then, and his eyes were clenched shut.

“I hurt you,” John said. “Why didn’t you say anything?” It was silent for a moment before John repeated his question. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“You hated me.” This time a full-fledge shiver wracked through Sherlock’s frame and John had the sense to lower his shirt. When he looked at Sherlock he saw that what little color he had was gone. John tugged at him until their foreheads were touching.

“I don't hate you. I’m angry but I could never hate you.” He reached up and cupped the back of Sherlock’s neck, massaging the tense muscles. John closed his eyes too and just sat there, his forehead resting against his best friend’s.

“That’s what Lestrade said too.” He sighed. “M’sorry,” Sherlock whispered.

“I know. Me too.” Sherlock leaned forward and buried his face in John’s shoulder.

“M’so sorry, John. So sorry.” John gingerly wrapped an arm around Sherlock’s shoulders, now being particularly mindful of his injuries.

“Shh. Everything’s going to be okay now.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay, Sherlock. Come on. You need to lay back down. I think you’ve managed to come down with pneumonia. Caught it early, but you’re still really unwell.”

“Pneumonia?”

“Only slightly,” John said with a sad smile. “I’ll call in the really good antibiotics and try and get your fever down to make you more comfortable. Should be able to treat it from home.”

“Thaahh hehh…” He pinched the bridge of his nose and held his breath trying to delay the sneeze. John handed him a few tissues.

“You know that never works for you. Just have a sneeze and be done with it.”

huh hehRHDSSCHH! SNDSCHHHooo! ehh hhAhhGNKSHHHH! huh—hhSKTSSCHHHoo!

“Bless you.” Sherlock nodded and began the now familiar routine of blowing his nose, violent coughing, and blowing his nose again. He finally lifted a pair of water eyes to John.

“Wasn’t Gavin making tea?

[cally]

“Wasn’t Gavin making tea?

I was planning this big epic OMG Sherlock/John :sob: OMG perfect descriptions of Sherlock feeling miserable/being miserable/those sneezes and the whole John knowing he can't hold them back and then you wrote that and I had to laugh.

[MyOwnPrivateSFC]

Oh, my loves, back together! I can't help but think this is nearly a mirror to ACD!Watson's "worth a wound" monologue: if illness & injury is what it took to get John back, I can't see Sherlock feeling too bad about it.

[VoOs]

I totally teared up a bit at the end there.

So, so wonderful. :heart:

[ID2006]

OMG, thank you thank you thank

[Zuki]

Absolutely loved this last installment .

[AngelEyes]

“John does not hate you. He’s mad at you. There’s a difference.”

Poor baby has no idea.

You can't say you can't write John now, because this. This is exactly John.

John let himself in and took a couple deep breaths before climbing the stairs to the upstairs flat. He opened the door and was surprised that Sherlock was sprawled out on the sofa. If he was in bed he really must be feeling ill. A quick exam. Like any other patient, John told himself. He paused at the threshold of the bedroom door and doubled his resolve.

“That’s a bit not good,” John said more to himself.

I know I'm weird but I love this expression.

“A bit of trouble? You were tortured.”

“Only slightly.”

“Only slightly,” John whispered in disbelief.

Oh Sherlock.

“I don't hate you. I’m angry but I could never hate you.” He reached up and cupped the back of Sherlock’s neck, massaging the tense muscles. John closed his eyes too and just sat there, his forehead resting against his best friend’s.

This is just beautiful.

“Wasn’t Gavin making tea?

ROTFL

[Seniorstatus14]

Greg knew that somewhere John was pacing and cursing his Hippocratic Oath.

I don't know why this part made me laugh so hard but it did. Haha

Thank you so much for continuing this story line. It was absolutely amazing! Loved it to pieces! Sick Sherlock with Doctor John is seriously my weakness

[matilda3948]

Hi all Sorry I haven't posted anything in a few weeks. I've been overwhelmed with work and haven't had very much time. Hopefully things will settle down soon.

Prompts: Loud, Induce, First Time

Sherlock’s ears perked up when he heard John’s footsteps coming up the stairs. He’d been visiting his sister for the last few days (something Sherlock had vigorously discouraged) and he could tell his blogger was weary based on how long it took him to make it up the stairs. He glanced up from his desk when John came through the front door, dropping his bag by the front door with a heavy sigh.

“Told you it was a bad idea,” Sherlock said. John winced as though his voice was far too loud. He hung his coat up and took his bag up to his room without comment. Sherlock noticed that his gait was a little uneven. Interesting—this was the first time John’s psychosomatic condition had resurfaced since he’d moved to Baker Street. Sherlock went into the kitchen and switched the kettle on, then resumed his spot at his desk. John trudged downstairs a few moments later dressed in something terrible close to pajamas despite it being mid-day. He went straight into the kitchen and didn’t comment on the fact that Sherlock had already started the process of making tea. That certainly was an anomaly; John was nothing if not hideously polite. Sherlock stared at John’s back—he was slumped forward, leaning on the counter with his head dipped, yet there was tension in every muscle of his body. Suddenly, John jerked forward, sneezing into his hands.

huhIHHsschh!

The quiet groan that followed told Sherlock everything he needed to know. As John washed his hands and fixed his tea, Sherlock got up and drew all the curtains in the living room, significantly darkening the sitting room. John walked in and sank down on the sofa, resting his head in his hands.

“Caffeinated tea, right?” Sherlock asked, keeping his voice as low as possible. He knew it probably still sounded like shouting to John.

“Yeah,” John answered. A look of dread flashed over his face as his nose flared slightly. He curled his fingers into a loose fist and rubbed his nose. Sneezing with a migraine was pure misery, causing pain to spike through his skull and spots to dance in front of his eyes. John fought it as long as possible but finally had to concede to his body’s demand.

huh huhIhhSSHHoo!

Sherlock frowned and walked over to John, making several deductions simultaneously.

“Get the cold first or the migraine first?” he asked quietly.

“Cold first,” John sighed.

“The migraine is likely a psychosomatic response induced by Harriett’s continued alcoholism and—”

“Shh…” John practically begged.

Sherlock abruptly walked away and John leaned his head back against the sofa. He didn’t care if Sherlock was right. His head was splitting, his body ached, and his throat was killing him. The regular sneezing only served to aggravate all of the aforementioned conditions. Given the last few days, he was entitled to a short temper and a stress-induced illness or two.

“John?” Sherlock whispered. “Here. Take these.” When he forced his eyes open he saw Sherlock standing there with a glass of water and several pills—decongestants and pain pills. He downed all of them and then rubbed his aching forehead. Sherlock handed him a handkerchief and went to the kitchen. He heard John sneeze (as he knew he was going to) and grabbed a couple icepacks from the freezer. It was something he’d read about the first time he’d watched John suffer through a migraine.

HuhhIHHssschhhoo!

Sherlock came in just as John smothered another sneeze in the handkerchief.

“Bless you.” John nodded but couldn’t bear to talk and wiped his nose as gently as possible. Sherlock sat down at the end of the sofa and put a pillow on his lap.

“Lay down, John.” His spoke just loud enough for John to hear him. John felt too miserable too even question him. Laying down was all he’d wanted to do since he’d woken up that morning. He drained the rest of his tea and eased himself down onto his back, resting his head on Sherlock’s lap. He clenched his eyes shut a white bolt of pain flashed through his head. He opened them suddenly when he felt something cold pressed against his temples—Sherlock had placed icepacks on either side of his head. “The dura’s blood supply comes from arteries that run through the temples. Studies suggest that cooling the blood can—”

“Shh. Don’t care. Feels good.”

As John began to relax, Sherlock slowly worked his long fingers over the crown of his head and forehead, gently massaging as he went. Gradually, the throbbing pain in his head began to lessen.

“Thought you said it was psychosomatic,” John mumbled.

“Doesn’t mean it not’s real.”

“That’s exactly what it means.”

“The pain’s real,” Sherlock said. “Regardless of what caused it.”

“MmmHmm.”

“Cold seems legitimate though,” Sherlock said. “Bless you.” John’s nose had indeed begun to itch again. He dreaded the prospect of sneezing again and making his headache worsen. He sniffed and his eyes fluttered shut, breath hitching several times.

huh ehh Huhh…

Sherlock’s palms braced either side of John’s head, his fingers resting across John’s forehead, bracing and immobilizing his head as best as possible.

Hehh huhtssshhhooo! hhntssschhoo!

“Thanks,” John said. It still hurt but not nearly as bad as it had even a half hour ago.

“Rest, John.”

[Zuki]

*wakes up in the corner in a sleeping bag*

I knew camping out here would pay off. Love this last Drabble! So cute, I like reading Sherlock being all caring and helpful.

[cally]

I love caring!Sherlock.

[stargazer]

Awe...caring Sherlock is so sweet.

[AngelEyes]

Awww. Sherlock does know how to make things better for his John.

[matilda3948]

Thank you all for your sweet comments!

Prompts: Cat, Stifle, Attack

“In here,” John whispered and pulled Sherlock into the bedroom closet the second he heard keys in the front door. They were doing surveillance at a suspect’s house—technically breaking and entering, but that never factored into Sherlock’s equation. Their suspect came home earlier than expected and now the two men were crammed into the back of a closet, a thin strip of light coming in under the door. John squinted and tried to glance in between the wooden slats in the closet door. He quickly saw that they were in trouble. It wasn’t their suspect who’d entered the room, but a couple of huge men dressed head-to-toe in black. They immediately began turning the room upside-down looking for something. John glanced at Sherlock and realized they were in more trouble than he’d first thought. The consulting detective was currently pressed against the back wall of the closet with both hands clamped over his nose and mouth. He was blinking rapidly and John could see he was trying to breathe as slowly as possible. John silently mouthed the word “Cat?” Sherlock nodded and John’s stomach dropped.

A cat. How could he have missed it? They’d have been better off jumping out the second floor window than hiding in a closet full of clothing that was practically covered in cat dander and hair—or least it felt like the clothes were covered. It was more likely that it had just taken a few moments for the allergic response to fully kick in. However, now that it had, Sherlock felt like his nose was absolutely on fire. He pinched his nose tightly between his thumb and forefinger, then he pressed his other hand over that for good measure. He was taking slow breaths through his mouth, holding them as long as possible before slowly exhaling. His eyes were on fire and starting to water, but he didn’t dare take a hand away from his nose to rub them. The hot, feathery sensation snaking through his sinuses was too strong. The allergy attack was inevitable—he was just hoping he could keep it in check until it was less likely to get him and John killed.

John watched Sherlock’s head bob forward as he silently stifled the first sneeze. He stayed frozen in that position and a few seconds later, a second silent sneeze. When Sherlock raised his head John saw that his eyes were streaming and even in the dim light John could tell he was flushed—no doubt his nose red and angry underneath those long fingers. John took the long end of Sherlock’s scarf and wiped the allergic tears off his face before Sherlock grabbed it and crushed it to his nose. Out in the bedroom, the two men continued tearing the room apart, pulling books off their shelves, upending tables, and dumping boxes out onto the floor. John wondered what the chances were that he could take both of them when they inevitably reached the closet.

Sherlock wasn’t sure how much longer he could hold out. His body was violently protesting the presence of the cat hair and he was losing the battle to keep himself under control. He doubted that his scarf would be able to adequately muffle the sound (and he would have to have that laundered immediately…assuming he lived of course). If only he didn’t have to breathe. Every inhalation threatened to explode into an uncontrollable fit of sneezes but oxygen was an inconvenient necessity. Sherlock twisted and moved as far into the back corner as possible, jerking forward with a violent triple—the first two silent and the last one making a slight nasal hiss.

John felt Sherlock’s body shake with the effort of holding the sneezes back. He knew they had two minutes at most before it was beyond even Sherlock’s control. John felt the adrenalin flood his body and his muscles tense as he mentally prepared himself to try fight their way out of the room. The taller of the two men had reached the closet, his hand on the handle, when the second man called out.

“Found it!” He held up a flash drive. “Now let’s get the hell out of here.”

It wasn’t the first time they’d gotten lucky, but it was one of the best. A moment later the front door shut. A split second after that Sherlock began to sneeze, still silently at first but in a rapid fit of six that left him almost doubled over. John slid the door open and stepped into the messy room. He doubled checked to make sure they were indeed alone, then tugged Sherlock out into the bedroom as well. It was worse than he’d suspected. Sherlock was an absolute mess.

“They’re gone. Come on, sit down for a minute.”

Sherlock sank down on the edge of the bed and finally let go of his nose and giving in to a series of liquid sniffles.

Hahngtshh! Ngtsschh! Gktschh! Nktsschh! KTschhh!

“Bless you!” John went into the ensuite and came back with a handful of tissues. “We broke in, might as well take something useful.” He handed Sherlock a couple. He blew his nose then wiped his eyes, but they both knew his allergy attack was far from over and the sooner they got out of the house the better. They were nearly at the front door when Sherlock paused, his breath hitching wildly, eyelashes damp and fluttering. He cupped his hands around his nose, one sneeze melting into the next.

HahhNTSSSCHH—Ktsschhh!—NTSSCHH!

“Oh, Sherlock. Bless you,” John sighed. He looped an arm around Sherlock’s waist and pulled him out into the chilly London air. He could feel the consulting detective’s wavering breath and John quickly hailed a cab. They slid in the back and John gave Sherlock another handful of tissues. No sooner had he brought them to his face than

HahhTSCHHoo! NGSSCHHHooo! huh Ahh HuhhNDSCHHooo!

“Bless you. You really were holding them back, weren’t you?” Sherlock made a face but John wasn’t sure if it was supposed to be a withering eyeroll or simply another pre-sneeze scowl.

huhahhSNGSHHHHoo! NGTSCHHHHooo! Nktsschhoo! KTschhhooo!

“Bless you again.” John frowned when Sherlock just nodded and leaned his head back, breathing through his mouth. “Your breathing okay? Sounds like you’re wheezing a bit.”

“M’fide.” The thick nasal reply sounded anything but fine, but John decided to let it go.

“When we get back to Baker Street I’ll get you an antihistamine,” he said.

“Why are we going to Baker Street?”

“Umm…”

“Johd, we have to get that flash drive. It’s the whole reasod we went there id the first place.”

“Right, what was I thinking?” John mumbled.

“Clearly you hahh ahh…you weren’t…HuhhAHHSCHHHoo!”

“Bless you.”

“Maybe a quick stop at home wouldn’t be ad awful idea.”

[cally]

oxygen was an inconvenient necessity.

Damned oxygen. Poor, poor Sherlock.

[AngelEyes]

If only he didn’t have to breathe. Every inhalation threatened to explode into an uncontrollable fit of sneezes but oxygen was an inconvenient necessity.

Breathing is Boring!!! This was great! Can never have enough allergic!Sherlock.

[Skyler]

I've only just caught up on all of these! I love them!

[matilda3948]

Wow! Did I really not post anything the entire month of November? Sorry about that. Here are two long-ish drabbles. One features sick Sherlock and the other is a Molly and Sherlock story that I've been wanting to write forever. I put sneezing into it because...well, it's always better with sneezing, right?

Prompts: Broody, Annoy, Pills

John glanced at Sherlock for the millionth time that day. The consulting detective had been laying on the sofa for hours. He’d been broody all day, locked in his own mind working on something. His fingertips were pressed together resting at his lips and his eyes somehow seemed simultaneously unfocused and razor sharp. They’d finished a case yesterday and rather than unwind and sleep like he usually did, Sherlock remained wired and pensive. John stood over him and frowned. Sherlock had dark circles ringing his eyes and his face looked drawn and pale.

“Are you okay?” John asked.

“Thinking.”

“You need to eat something and get some sleep. It’s been days since you’ve done either.” Sherlock have an annoyed huff and refocused on the ceiling. John rolled his eyes and grabbed his coat. “I’m running out for a bit. Need anything?”

Silence.

“Okay then. Back soon,” John said.

When he got back he found Sherlock in the same position. John felt a little twist of worry in his stomach. He put the shopping bags down and sat on the edge of the sofa.

“Hey. What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Don’t feel well,” Sherlock mumbled. John frowned and put his hand on his friend’s forehead. “What are you doing?” Sherlock snapped.

“Seeing if you have a fever. Think you might actually,” John said. Sherlock looked confused. “You just said you didn’t feel well,” John said.

“No I didn’t.”

“Yes you did—not even ten seconds ago.”

“Get your hearing checked, John. I’m fine.”

Sherlock listened as John went into the kitchen and began making tea. Had he said he wasn’t feeling well? How was he feeling? Sherlock began a mental inventory of his body. Perhaps he didn’t feel well. His head was aching and his throat was sore. His limbs felt heavy and his sinuses felt irritated and congested. Sherlock frowned. He felt ill.

“Here. Come on and sit up,” John said as he came back into the living room. He put a cup of tea down on the coffee table and set a couple of pills next to it. Now that he’d put some attention on his body, Sherlock was extremely aware of how badly he needed something to ease his sore throat. He flung his lanky legs over the side of the sofa and hauled himself into a sitting position. The sudden movement made his head spin and the color drained from his face so quickly that John was afraid he was going to pass out. “Whoa. Easy.” He sat next to him and placed one hand on Sherlock’s back, the other in the center of his chest. “What is going on with you?” John asked. Sherlock looked like he was about to answer when his face went slack and he sneezed into the bend of his arm.

hhNgtsshh! huhMNTsschhh!

“Bless you,” John said. Sherlock nodded and shook his head slightly. He reached out and picked up his tea, taking a couple of sips, letting his eyes close as it soothed his raw throat. “Take the pills too,” John prodded softly. Sherlock downed them and then leaned back against the sofa, unable to suppress a shiver. His nose was stuffy and tickling so he was breathing through his mouth to avoid sneezing again. When did he start feeling so poorly? Probably during the case and he just deleted it until it became too severe to ignore. Yes, now that he thought about it, he did feel a bit off when he was talking to Lestrade at the last crime scene. He’d sneezed a few times then as well—Gavin had asked if he was okay. He’d said something scathing of course. John’s voice cut through his thoughts.

“Sherlock?”

“What?”

“Tell me what’s bothering you. Maybe I can help.”

“Was trying to figure out when started to feel siihh heh sick.” His voice trailed off and his body pitched forward as he sneezed into steepled hands.

Hehhntschhoo! hhNTschhoo!

“Bless you.” John got up and grabbed a box of tissues from the closet, tearing the top off. He handed Sherlock a couple then went and turned the heat up a few degrees before sitting back down. Sherlock sniffled thickly and coughed into his fist. John sat back down and nudged Sherlock’s shoulder with his own.

“Something about this last case is staying with you. Tell me what’s going on in that rare, gigantic brain of yours.” Maybe it was the compliment, maybe he was just too tired and ill to care, but Sherlock sighed and began to explain.

“I’ve been trying to figure out what made Annabel Jones snap like that. She had met all the conventional benchmarks of success—pedestrian though they may be.” John frowned.

“You don’t usually care about why criminals do what they do. At least not beyond what you need in order to solve the case. What’s different about this one?” Sherlock’s breath caught and he sneezed into the crumpled up tissues from before.

hhgntschh! NTschhoo! hehTSCHHoo!

“Bless you.” Sherlock gave a tight nod.

“There was nothing in her history to suggest that Annabel would one day wake up and start killing people. She racked up eight bodies before we caught her.”

“You did the best you could; solved it quicker than anyone else would have,” John said. Sherlock scowled and rubbed his forehead. “That’s not it,” John said, more to himself than Sherlock.

“How can a person just…If someone like Annabel Jones can lose her mind just like that…” Sherlock stopped and pinched the bridge of his nose, though John didn’t know if it was because of his headache or because of what he was trying to express. “How fragile must the human mind be?” Sherlock whispered.

“Oh, Sherlock,” John sighed. He slid over and put a hand on his back (fully prepared to be yelled at). Instead, Sherlock leaned forward and rested his head in his hands. John cuffed the back of his neck and felt how warm his skin was. He sometimes wondered if Sherlock ever sensed his own fragility the way others did—if the hateful barbs and taunting he had endured most of his life ever permeated his ego. He felt his body shudder as Sherlock sneezed without lifting his head.

hhntsschh! Ntsschhoo!

“Bless you.”

heh huhNtsshhoo! hhSSCHHoo!

“And again. Come on, you really, really need to sleep.”

Both men stood up, Sherlock a little unsteady. When they got to his room, he flopped down on the bed and sighed as John pulled a blanket over him.

“You’re not her, you know,” John said quietly. Sherlock glanced up at him with rheumy eyes. “Can you just trust me on this until you’re feeling well enough to really discuss it?” Sherlock nodded. “Good. I’m just down the hall if you need anything.”

“John?”

“Yeah?”

“Could you…uh…stay? Just a few minutes?”

“As long as you want. Shove over.” Sherlock slid to one side of the bed and John sat on the bed, leaning up against the headboard. He noticed the way Sherlock’s breath hitched and he grabbed the tissue box from the nightstand. “Here you go.”

Heh hehh…hehhAhhNTSSCHHHHooo!

“Christ! Bless you, Sherlock.”

“Thag you, John.” He blew his nose and then slid closer to John, pulling the blanket up to his chin. John smoothed back Sherlock’s hair.

“Sleep well, mate.”

Prompts: Allergic, spring, sniff

He watched as she all but ran from the reception hall and out into the garden. The wedding was in full swing now that the slight distraction of an attempted murder had been solved. Never one to refuse an opportunity to withdraw from a party, Sherlock quietly slipped outside and went to find Molly.

The cool spring air felt good against her flushed skin. Molly turned the corner and, once she was out of sight of the rest of the wedding guests, leaned back against the wall. Her head was spinning and she knew she couldn’t stay in the reception hall for one more second. She pressed a hand over her chest and reaffirmed how shallow her breathing was and how quickly her heart was beating. It had been months since she’d last had a panic attack but this one was closing in around her.

“Molly?”

Great, she thought. Just what she needed. Sherlock Holmes witnessing her coming completely undone. She wanted to answer. To tell him to go away, that she was fine, but all that came out was a breathy gasp. She heard his shoes echo on the pavement as he closed the distance between them.

Sherlock put two and two together almost instantly. He took his jacket off and put it down on the ground before taking Molly by the arm and helping her sit down. Sherlock sat next to her and turned her hand over so he could check her pulse. He’d had panic attacks before when he was coming down off a spectacular high and knew how terrifying they were—defying logic and rendering a person completely at the mercy of the adrenalin flooding their body.

“It will pass, Molly,” he said quietly. “They never last forever.” She gave him a tight nod, but her eyes were squeezed shut and her body was shaking so hard that her teeth would have chattered if they weren’t clenched so tightly. Sherlock slid a little closer. “I don’t want to make you feel claustrophobic, but I can provide whatever level of contact you need.” Molly turned her head and rested her forehead against his upper arm. When he went to check her pulse again she grabbed his hand and squeezed it tight, a strained whimper sticking in her throat. “When you’re able, breathe through your nose and exhale through your mouth,” he said.

“M’trying,” she whispered.

Over the next several minutes Molly’s breathing slowed down, her heartbeat easing back into a normal rhythm. Just when Sherlock thought the panic attack was over her breath hitched several times in a row. She dropped his hand and turned her head away.

ahhTsschh! Tschhew! ahtsschhew!

“Bless you,” he said.

“Thank you. Ugh, sorry about...well, all of that,” she sighed and leaned her head back against the wall.

“Panic attacks are not something that can be controlled. The body has no choice but to respond to a sudden flood of adrenalin and cortisol by—”

Ahhtschh! Tschhew!

“Sneezing shouldn’t be a symptom though,” Sherlock said.

“Not related,” she said.

“You sneezed eleven times in the reception hall tonight as well.” Molly looked at him as though he’d sprouted a second head. Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Trivial observation,” he said.

“Right.” She sniffed and rubbed her nose. Molly was exhausted, wrung out, and still feeling a bit shaky.

“There’s a handkerchief in the pocket of my jacket.”

She’d forgotten that she was sitting on his tuxedo jacket until he said something. She flipped the left side over and reached into the interior pocket, fishing around until her fingers found the soft fabric. After pulling it out she finally turned her head to look at Sherlock.

“I can’t believe I’m sitting on this very, very nice tuxedo,” she said.

“It’s a rental.”

“Still…”

“And John paid the deposit,” he added. She gave him a tired smile. Sherlock waited for her to offer more information—to explain what was wrong with her. Obviously she was emotionally distressed about something and experiencing some kind of respiratory irritation, but without more data that was all he could deduce. After a few moments of silence, he gave a frustrated sigh. “What is wrong with you?” he asked.

“What?”

“You’re…” he waived a hand in her direction, “You’re not okay and I don’t have enough information to figure out what’s wrong. So what’s wrong with you?” She blinked in surprise and then frowned, twisting the handkerchief in her hands.

“I can’t marry Tom,” she whispered.

“Of course you can’t. He’s a moron.”

“You think everyone’s a moron,” she said.

“It’s a sliding scale,” he said. “But he’s beneath you, Molly.” She frowned and her eyes filled with tears. It was the Sherlock Holmes version of a compliment, but it still made her sad. When he saw her bottom lip tremble Sherlock was even more confused. “Isn’t it better to realize that Tom is a disastrous match before marrying him?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Then I fail to see the problem,” he said. She started to answer but held up a finger instead, turning her head and sneezing again.

ahhtschew! Tishhew! AhhTSCHH!

“Sorry,” she sniffed. “And it’s not a problem exactly. It’s just…it’s sad.”

“Why?” he asked. The way her face crumpled told him that the question was probably not good, but he couldn’t help himself. Sherlock shifted slightly so he could look directly at Molly as she answered. For her part, Molly felt like she was trying to explain why a thirsty person craved a glass of water.

“Most people want someone to share their life with,” she started slowly. “They want to be with someone they really love and who loves them in return. It makes you feel…safe and cared for and…happy I guess.” She paused, expecting questions if not outright derision. When she was met with nothing but steady, blue eyes she continued. “Thing is, it has to be a deep, meaningful connection. When I saw John and Mary today I knew—I knew Tom wasn’t the person I wanted to spend my life with.”

“And that makes you sad?”

“Yes,” Molly said.

“Because he doesn’t make you feel safe, or cared for, or happy?” he asked. She nodded and quickly dashed away a tear. “Hmm. Well, if anyone deserves those things it’s you,” he said. She shook her head.

“I always make such a mess of things.”

“I fail to see how this is your fault. Tom should have been better—smarter, more deserving.” She sighed and rested her head on his shoulder.

“Thanks, Sherlock.”

“Speaking of Mr. Meat Dagger, why hasn’t he been out to check on you?” he asked.

“I told him I needed a few minutes of fresh air—that the flowers were making me sneeze.”

“You’re not allergic to any of the flowers in there.”

“No,” she said. “But I’m coming down with a cold and Tom can be cross when I get ill. Bit of a germaphobe.”

“What a spectacular moron,” Sherlock said. She laughed and then sniffled wetly. “You’re meant to use the handkerchief, Molly.”

“Right. Sorry.” She turned her head and blew her nose. “Ugh. I need more cold medicine.” Sherlock reached over and pressed a hand to her forehead. He frowned when he found she was running a mild fever and stood up.

“I’ll get us a cab.”

“Us? Don’t you need to stay? You are the best man you know.” Molly got to her feet and shook out his jacket. When she tried to hand it back to him he draped it over her shoulders.

“I gave a speech, stopped a homicide, and played an original waltz on my violin. My best man obligations have been met.”

AhhTschhew! Ntschhew! ahhTishheww!

“Bless you. Time to go, Molly.”

[coldcure08]

Absolutely adorable! I love these! And I'm sure everyone will second this sentiment: I'm very glad you're back!

[24Me]

Oh, these are lovely! I love Sherlock and Molly-they work so well together! I feel like I understand the characters, even though I haven't seen the show. You're just a fantastic author!

By the way, I'm so glad you're back! I've missed your writing!

[MyOwnPrivateSFC]

Aw, Sherlock! *attempts to turn herself into John so she can have license to cuddle him*

[Seniorstatus14]

Oh my gosh!!! These two drabbles made me so happy!!! They were absolutely wonderful! Thank you so so so sooooo much for writing them!!