Matilda's Drabble Thread II (Sherlock)

[Zuki]

Aww, these were fantastic! I especially liked the Molly and Sherlock one, it's so full of feels. <3

[stargazer]

What a way to start my week. Two new drabbles. Love them both.

[ID2006]

Yay, I've been missing your Sherlock drabbles

[AngelEyes]

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.

This is so absolutely Sherlock!!! I can practically see the wheels turning in his head!

“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.

Awwww.

I love both of these drabbles!!!

[VoOs]

You write the sweetest Sherlock/Molly interactions. Excuse me while I melt.

[Subtly Clashing Wishes]

As I was catching up on my reading I realized I hadn't extended my compliments to you on your drabbles. I really enjoy reading your work. I particularly like how you include Molly in your fics. And you do a wonderful job showing us the softer side of Sherlock.

[matilda3948]

Thank you all so much!!!

A little brotherly love tonight (with a side helping of meddling Anthea )

Prompts: Handkerchief, Pillow, Terrible

On my way. –SH

Anthea worried her bottom lip. It was a risky move, bringing Sherlock in to assist. However, she had reached the end of her available options. Mycroft was being beyond unreasonable. After suffering through a head cold for the better part of two weeks (and being insufferable in the progress), he had finally taken a turn for the worse. He’d even consented to work from home but his health continued to decline. Of course it probably had something to do with the fact that he was still barely sleeping…or eating…or doing anything but working like a compulsive robot. She might have used those exact words the last time she went into the study with a fresh pot of tea and another round of cold meds.

She met Sherlock at the front door and let him inside.

“Thank you for coming,” she said.

“Can’t have him starting a war because he has the sniffles,” Sherlock said.

“You think I asked you to come over for a case of the sniffles?” she asked. He chose to ignore the question and hung his coat and scarf in the hall closet.

“He’s going to be angry, you know,” he said, looking almost gleeful.

“He can be as peeved as he wants as long as it’s from his bed,” Anthea said, walking down the hallway. She opened the door to Mycroft’s office without knocking and then walked away to let the Holmes brothers sort themselves out. Sherlock leaned against the doorframe and frowned as he observed his brother. Mycroft looked genuinely terrible—Anthea should have called sooner. His skin had a sickly grey pallor to it except for the angry red tinge to his nose. There were empty tea cups on the desk and his trash bin was near overflowing with tissues. Mycroft was making notes on a document with one hand, the other busy tending to his nose with a tissue. He sniffed once, then again before sneezing.

hehhIHHshhh! huhhNGSHHoo!

They were thick and nasal and left him sniffling rapidly while he grabbed for another tissue. The fact that he hadn’t yet noticed Sherlock lurking in the doorway spoke volumes about just how ill he truly was.

“Well you sound truly disgusting,” Sherlock said, uncrossing his arms and coming into the office. Mycroft’s eyes shot open and he glared at his brother over the top of the tissues still pressed to his nose.

“What are you doig heh huh…here?”

“Was in the neighborhood.”

“Anthea then,” Mycroft sighed, his breath still uneven. Sherlock plopped down in the chair across from Mycroft’s desk.

“It would be a shame if your covert operations failed because you’re too ill to properly manage them.” Mycroft did his best to level his brother with a withering glare, but his eyes fluttered into narrow slits and he was forced to turn away, grabbing a tissue.

hehhNDSCHH! huhhGNSCHHoo!

He immediately began to cough into a loosely curled fist, the other hand clutching his throat as though it was the only thing holding it together. Sherlock reached in his coat pocket and pulled out a throat lozenge, sliding it across the desk and within Mycroft’s reach. It was his brother’s favorite—a honey and ginger flavor that wasn’t exactly easy to find. Mycroft put the cough drop in his mouth as soon as he was able and ran a shaky hand over his face.

“My apologies. Thank you for the lozenge.” Sherlock nodded.

“You’re not sleeping,” he said.

“I’m fine,” Mycroft said.

“You’ve lost weight too.”

“Sherlock.” There was a hint of warning in his voice.

“You’re anxious.”

“No I’m not.”

“Liar.”

“Sherlock, enough! I have a very difficult job and I’m in the middle some very tense—”

“Still lying,” Sherlock said, leaning back in his chair. Mycroft might have argued but his nose making it impossible to speak. He dabbed his nose as his breathing grew shallow. Sherlock took this as his chance to press his advantage. “Your anxiety disorder is flaring up and you’re using work as a distraction. It happens about this time every year, though it seems to be more severe this time. You can mentally outrun it when you’re awake, but the panic comes back when you slow down enough to sleep so you just don’t sleep.”

hehhNDtschhh! heh…heh

“You’ve successfully worked yourself into the ground. The cold you started with twelve—no, thirteen days ago has finally thoroughly settled in your sinuses and it will continue to get worse unless you slow down and take care of yourself.”

“Sherihh ehh…hhhNGSCHHooo! huhSNsschhh!”

“It’s no different than when you were young. Mummy always used to say—”

“Sherlock stop. I’m begging you,” Mycroft said, leaning forward and resting his head in his hands. His head was throbbing and he didn’t have the energy to suffer through the rest of Sherlock’s analysis. He was startled when he felt a hand come to rest between his shoulder blades. He heard Sherlock close his laptop and switch off the desktop lamp.

“You’re burning up, Mycroft.” Sherlock’s voice was low and close to his ear. “You are going to go upstairs, change out of this ridiculous three piece suit, take a xanax from the emergency stash in your medicine cabinet, and get some sleep.

huhhIHHNGsschhh! hhSNTSCHHooo!

The sneezes caught him by surprise, as did the quiet blessing that followed them.

“Bless you, Mycroft. Here.” He placed a clean handkerchief on the desk and after giving his brother a moment to blow his nose, Sherlock helped haul him to his feet. Mycroft swayed as a wave of dizziness hit him and Sherlock frowned. He hadn’t seen Mycroft this ill in a very long time.

“Forgive me, little brother,” he said, straightening his tie and standing up under his own power. Sherlock rolled his eyes but just quietly stayed a step behind Mycroft as he slowly made his way upstairs and into the master suite. Anthea gave Sherlock a brief nod of approval and disappeared into the kitchen.

“Change and I’ll get your meds,” Sherlock said, going into the bathroom. Mycroft felt like he was on autopilot in some alternate universe. He went into his large walk-in closet and found his favorite flannel pajamas. His head was so clouded and slow. His body ached and he was thoroughly chilled. He grabbed a thick pair of wool socks and came into the bedroom to find Sherlock sitting on the side of his bed, pills in one hand, glass of water in the other. Mycroft dropped on the bed with a harsh cough.

“Please tell me I don’t need to go count the remaining xanax,” he said. “Frankly, I’m not sure I have the energy.”

“If I wanted drugs there are easier places to get them than your medicine cabinet.”

“Hmm.”

“Plus you know sedatives were never really my thing,” Sherlock added.

“They’re not mine either,” Mycroft mumbled, accepting the pills and swallowing them all with a gulp of water.

“You have to take them when you need them, Mycroft. You have them for a reason.”

“It hasn’t been that bad.”

“You really are ill—your lies are as transparent as your skin.” Sherlock got up and yanked the duvet back. “Lay down before you pass out, you idiot.”

Mycroft held up a finger and looked around for the handkerchief he had earlier or a box of tissues—anything really to smother the impending sneeze that was working its way through his sinuses. Immediately seeing the problem, Sherlock went and rummaged through Mycroft’s dresser drawer until he found a couple handkerchiefs (not passing up the opportunity to completely destroy the neatly arranged rows of socks in the process). He didn’t get it to his brother before he sneezed though.

huhhIHHsschhh!

“Here.” Sherlock held the cloth within a few inches of Mycroft’s hands. He barely managed to get it to his nose before being overwhelmed with a violent sneezing fit.

Heh Huhh hhINGSCHH! huhhSNCHHoo! NTSCHH! SNSSCHHH! hehTSCHHHooo! hehh—ehh huhhIHHNGsschhh! hhSNTSCHHooo!

“Bless you,” Sherlock said. Mycroft nodded but couldn’t answer until he gave his nose a thorough, wet blow. “Here’s another,” he said, handing his older brother a clean handkerchief.

“Thag you. Please excuse me.”

“Stop apologizing you posh git and get into bed.”

Mycroft slid under the blankets with a weary sigh and Sherlock tucked another pillow behind him.

“Although choking on your own mucus would be a hilarious way for you to die, I don’t want to have to explain it to Mummy.”

Anthea knocked on the open bedroom door, carrying a tray with hot tea.

“Well, you’re in good hands now,” Sherlock said. “And I’ve wasted enough time trying to get you to come to your senses.”

“Annoying isn’t it?” Mycroft quipped. The corners of Sherlock’s mouth twitched before he assumed his usual scowl. Anthea watch as Sherlock looked ready to leave before stopping and turning back to the bed. He leaned down, put a hand on Mycroft’s shoulder, and whispered something into his ear. Mycroft glanced up and nodded at his younger brother.

“Thank you, Sherlock,” Anthea said. He nodded and mumbled something about texting him later. She steeled herself and came into the bedroom, putting her boss’ tea and a box of tissues down on the bedside table.

“Anthea?”

“Before you say anything sir, I would just like to remind you that my job is to assist you always, and protect you when needed. This includes the times when you need to be protected from yourself and, frankly, I’ve been quite worried about you the last few days. For better or worse, your brother can sometimes convince you of things when I cannot so I called him. Even though I knew you would be angry I stand by my decision.”

He gave her a bemused, if exhausted, smile.

“I was just going to say thank you.” He reached for a tissue.

“Oh. You’re welcome sir.”

huhhNGSCHHooo!

“God bless you, Mr. Holmes.”

[AngelEyes]

This is just wonderfully wonderful! Poor Mycroft all strung out and miserable. Sherlock. Bullying him, but somehow doing it tenderly. I just love every part of this!!!!! But I have to know.....What did he whisper??????

[bangbang]

This ticks all my boxes. Love anxious, sick Mycroft, love how nasal and heady the sneezes are, love how Anthea called in recruitments, love how Sherlock was his usual prickly self with an added dose of compassion. The reference to their childhood broke my heart - so did Mycroft asking if he had to count the Xanax because noooo so sad!

[matilda3948]

But I have to know.....What did he whisper??????

I don't know

Seriously, I felt like he needed to say something nice, but everything I wrote just seemed so out of character that I decided to leave the scene in but the actual bit of dialogue secret. Feel silly admitting that.

[Subtly Clashing Wishes]

Oooo I like this whisper being left a secret. It leaves so much to the imagination. Love the drabble. Anthea knows Sherlock and Mycroft mean more to each other then they are willing to let on. Marvelous.

[matilda3948]

Wow! Not doing too great with the updating in 2015

Just a pointless sick Sherlock drabble.

Prompts: Wool, Massage

John yawned and got out of bed, stretching out the kinks in his neck that he’d gotten during last night’s stakeout. He and Sherlock had been crammed in an alleyway for hours waiting for their suspect to leave his office so they could break in or “just entering after hours” as Sherlock called it to photocopy files that Sherlock suspected would reveal an elaborate money laundering operation. It was after 3am when they finally made it back to Baker Street. John went straight to bed and assumed that Sherlock had done the same. The moment he went into the living room he saw he was mistaken; Sherlock had pinned all of the paperwork to the wall, effectively covering every blank space behind the sofa. The consulting detective was now standing, arms crossed, his eyes rapidly running over the data that now wallpapered the room. John shook his head.

“Did you sleep at all last night?” he asked.

“Shut up. Thinking.”

John smirked—that was as good as a “no” and he went into the kitchen to make coffee. He was sniffing the milk trying to decide if it was worth risking when he heard Sherlock sneeze.

hhAhhTschhhoo!

“Bless you,” John called, not really expecting an answer. He wasn’t expecting a second sneeze either and frowned when his friend was overtaken with another one.

hehAHHtsschhoo!

“Bless you again,” John said, coming in with a cup of coffee in each hand. “You alright?” he asked putting a mug in Sherlock’s line of sight.

“What?”

“I asked if you were alright,” John repeated. Sherlock took the coffee with a nod in John’s direction and took a sip before answering.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You sneezed. Twice.”

“Irrelevant,” Sherlock said. Again, not really an answer but John decided to let it go. Who knew the inner workings of a Holmes mind? They stood side by side for a few minutes drinking coffee and surveying the impressive spread of evidence now splayed across their living room wall.

“What exactly are we looking for?” John asked. When he wasn’t immediately greeted with either a manic explanation or a withering insult, John glanced to his right. Sherlock’s head was tilted back slightly, his eyes closed, and lips parted taking small, hitching gulps of air. The bridge of his nose wrinkled and his eyebrows rose just before and sneezed openly towards the floor.

AhhTSCHHooo! hhAHHTSSHHHHooo!

“Bless you.”

Sherlock nodded, bringing his wrist up to his nose and sniffling wetly. His eyes were still squeezed shut and his breathing uneven. John frowned and snagged a box of tissues off the desk behind him. Sherlock squelched a pair of wet sneezes against his pale wrist.

hhngtschhhhh! Ntschhhh!

“Bless you, mate. Here,” John said, holding the tissues out to him. Sherlock pulled several from the box and pressed them to his nose and turned back to the paperwork on the living room wall. John stepped in front of him earning a trademark Sherlock glare overtop of the handful of tissues. “Oh stop it,” John said. “You’re coming down with a cold—let me take a look at you.”

“Johnd, I’b fine.”

“Yeah, there’s no ‘D’ in my name. Now shut up and hold still.”

Sherlock sighed but held still and let John look him over. He did his best to continue to examine the evidence as John felt his forehead and cheeks for fever, check the glands on his neck, but winced when John’s fingers pressed against his sinuses.

“Does that hurt?”

“No, I flinched because it felt good,” Sherlock snapped.

“Right. Sorry. You should get some rest—you’re a bit feverish.”

“I told you that I’m working.”

John opened his mouth to argue but thought better of it. Instead he decided the sooner they solved the case, the sooner Sherlock could go to bed.

“Fine then. Tell me what we need to find,” he said.

“We need to figure out how Mr. Sambourne is hiding his illegal reehh hahh…revenue stream.” He brought the crumpled wad of tissues up to his nose, inhaling sharply.

hehAHH-Ktschhhooo! hhSCHHHtschhhoo!

“Whoa, easy!” John grabbed Sherlock’s upper arm when he swayed.

hhAHHHntschhhooo!

“Bless you, Sherlock. Come on, you need to lie down. This isn’t a murder case or a kidnapping, it’s a bloody financial crime. It can wait until you’re better.” John started to tug him towards the hall.

“Stop it. I told you I’b—”

“Working. Yeah, I know,” John sighed, dropping Sherlock’s arm. “Fine.” The doctor took a few steps back and grabbed the back of Sherlock’s chair, spinning it around and dragging it until it was directly behind him. “At least sit down,” John said, gently pushing his friend backwards. Sherlock flopped down in his chair and massaged the bridge of his nose. “You want tea?” John asked. Sherlock nodded and resumed his study.

Ten minutes later and John had drug his chair next to Sherlock’s, put the side table between them, and set a hot cup of tea and the tissues on it. Now that he was sitting down Sherlock felt his energy fading. His head was fuzzy and he was having a difficult time focusing on the task at hand. Since the moment John drew his attention to his illness he’d begun feeling worse—definitely a low-grade fever, sore throat, and the near constant urge to sneeze. He sipped his tea and answered John’s questions about the financial paper trail but he wasn’t making any progress.

John frowned and watched as Sherlock shivered and sunk down in his chair. He wondered how long he’d be able to keep going before falling asleep. He looked exhausted…and frustrated. John did his best not to make any gesture of sympathy when Sherlock was suddenly overcome with a trio of harsh sneeze.

ahhntschhh! hhNTSCHHoo! hhhAHHSCTSCHHHoo!

“Bless you.”

“Thag you.” Sherlock grabbed a couple tissues from the box and wiped his nose, shivering again. John got up and went up to his room, grabbing a soft wool blanket off the foot of his bed. He came back downstairs to find his friend’s face screwed up, tilted towards the ceiling, tissues a few inches from his nose. He froze that way for a few seconds before pitching forward.

hhNTSCHHooo! hhSCHHHtschhhoo!

“Bless you.”

hhAHHTSSHHHHooo!

“And again,” John said, giving Sherlock a moment to recover. He unfolded the blanket and spread it over his friend, taking note of the flush spreading across his high cheekbones. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed and he looked ready to fling the blanket to the side. John raised a hand. “Stop. Just say ‘thank you, John’ and get back to work,” he said. Sherlock huffed and drew the blanket up underneath his chin, looking every bit the petulant child. John resumed his seat and they fell into a comfortable silence for several minutes. John glanced over when he heard Sherlock yawn and saw that he was finally about to give in and sleep for a bit. He’d drawn his legs up and rested his head against the back of the chair, his eyes drifting shut.

“Thank you, John,” he mumbled.

[Zuki]

Aww, I love it! absolutely adorable, and I love how John just sort of compromises to let Sherlock work knowing full well that he'll give in to sleep sooner or later.

[stargazer]

Poor sick Sherlock. Yeah to John for just letting Sherlock be for once.

[cally]

Awww these last 2. (How did I NOT comment on the Mycroft one?) I do love your Sherlock.

[Subtly Clashing Wishes]

Ahh, the old "if you can't beat 'em, join 'em" technique. Excellent choice for Dr Watson when approaching a stubborn consulting detective with a cold. Loved how Sherlock slowly gave in.

[VoOs]

“Johnd, I’b fine.”

“Yeah, there’s no ‘D’ in my name. Now shut up and hold still.”

*gigglesnort* <3

Ahh, but I love me an ill, grumpy Sherlock. This thread continues to be a goldmine. Thank you.

[Seniorstatus14]

“Johnd, I’b fine.”

“Yeah, there’s no ‘D’ in my name. Now shut up and hold still.”

This quote is just brilliant! I can just hear John's exasperated and sarcastic voice saying this to Sherlock. GAH! It was such a great drabble!

[ID2006]

So excited to see more sherlock

[AngelEyes]

Poor Sherlock. I like John finally just sticking the chair behind him. Compromise!

[matilda3948]

Thank you all

Today, I've got a little sick John for you.

Prompts: Interrupt, Frost, Under the Weather

John shivered and shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his coat. The frost-covered grass crunched under his feet and his breath made little white puffs in the cold air. He glanced at Sherlock and felt a bit jealous of the long, thick Belstaff jacket. His friend looked warm, focused, and absolutely giddy as they came up on the crime scene. Greg lifted the police tape and both men ducked underneath.

“Body was discovered this morning. Nothing’s been touched. Never seen anything like it,” he said.

John slowed down and fell a few steps behind Sherlock and Greg. He pulled a tissue from his coat pocket and quickly brought it to his nose.

huhhIhhSHH!

“Bless you,” Greg said. John nodded and gave a congested sniffle. Sherlock hadn’t bothered to even glance back and was now crouched down next to a dead man’s body, eyes rapidly cataloguing the data in front of him. John sniffed again and rubbed his nose as he stood beside Greg waiting for Sherlock to start sharing his insights. His head ached, his throat hurt, and he was so congested it felt like he was trying to breathe through wet cement. As much as he wanted to stay in bed that morning, when Sherlock came bursting into his bedroom talking about a corpse with no fingers or toes, John forced himself to get dressed and follow his friend out into the frigid London morning.

“John? John?” Lestrade called for the second time, placing a hand on John’s shoulder.

“Sorry. What?”

“I asked if you were alright,” Greg repeated. “You look a bit under the weather.” John dipped his head and considered lying but he just shrugged and shook his head.

“Feel a bit awful actually,” he said, a thick sniffle underscoring his answer.

“Why’d you come out if you feel bad?”

John nodded his head towards the consulting detective (who was currently tasting some sort of residue he’d found on the dead man’s lapel).

“He wouldn’t let you take a sick day?” Greg teased.

“I wouldn’t risk it. A corpse with his fingers and toes cut off seems like just the kind of case that heh huhh…” he trailed off and scrubbed his nose against the back of his wrist. “Sorry. Seems like the kind of case he’s liable to get in trouble solving.” John’s voice rose as he finished his sentence, frantically trying to get a tissue from his pocket, just managing before having to sneeze.

hehhIhhgschhh! hhGNSHHoo!

“Bless you,” Greg said.

huhEhhtschh! hihhSNGschhh!

“And again.”

huh…ihh huhNGSCHH! huhehhNDSCHHoo!

“Christ, bless you John!” Greg frowned as he watched the doctor grab another couple tissues from his pocket and blow his nose. This was followed by a combined yawn/shiver/heavy sigh. “You should be in bed, mate. Why don’t you head home? I’ll keep an eye on him.”

“Lestrade,” Sherlock called.

“Are you sure?” John asked. “You know how he can be when—”

“Lestrade!” Sherlock barked, standing up and pushing himself between John and Greg. “I believe you are the one who called me out here to do your job and now you’re too busy chatting with John to bother to listen me.”

“Hey! I was just checking to see if John was alright.”

“Of course John’s alright. Why on earth wouldn’t he be?” Sherlock waved a hand in John’s general direction. Greg glared at the younger man before it occurred to him that Sherlock might actually be serious. “Honestly, Sherlock? Did you really not notice that he’s sick?”

“He is n—” The words died on his tongue when he turned around to look at John. Sherlock frowned and narrowed his eyes, taking a step towards the doctor. Pale skin, irritated skin around the nose, dark circles under the eyes, breathing through his mouth, about to sneeze two—no, three times. “You didn’t say anything,” Sherlock said.

“I didn’t thihh think I hahh had to.” John turned his head and caught three thick, heady sneezes into the last two tissues he’d stashed in his pocket.

huhIHHngtschh! hhGNDsschh! hahh huhihhNDSCHHooo!

“Bless you!” Greg said. Sherlock frowned and reached inside his jacket, pulling out a white handkerchief. He held it out to his friend.

“Bless you, John.”

“Thag you.” John blew his nose and saw Sherlock was still trying to work something out. “Did you really not know I was sick?”

“Did you think I would have asked you to assist on a case if you were ill?”

“I just…um, Sherlock you notice everything. I thought it was pretty obvious. Why did you think I was sneezing so much on the cab ride over here?”

“I was checking to see if there were any other murders matching this one and I…I must have deleted it.”

John looked at the bewildered genius and couldn’t help but laugh. The laugh dissolved into a rattling cough and it took him a moment to recover.

“Alright, I’m calling a cab for you,” Greg said. “You really need to be in bed with some Lemsip. You,” he said, pointing at Sherlock. “Don’t go anywhere. You’re stuck with me today since your usual assistant is out of commission.” Sherlock opened his mouth to argue but Greg interrupted. “No. If you try to run off on your own, we both know John’s going to follow you. Is that what you want for him?” Sherlock mumbled something. “I didn’t hear you,” Greg said.

“Fine!” Sherlock threw his head back huffed. “But be quick about it. There’s work to do.”

Greg rolled his eyes and tugged an exhausted John Watson away from the crime scene.

“Haahh…hold od…” he stopped, clutching the handkerchief to his irritated nose, breath hitching rapidly.

hhNDSCHHoo! huhihhGNSCHHoo!

“Bless you, John. Come on, let’s get you home,” Greg said, patting him on the back. They made it a few more steps when Sherlock called out,

“John?”

“Yeah?”

“I should have Scotland Yard’s case solved for them by half six. Take away from Lemongrass tonight?”

John smiled. Sherlock may have deleted him showing symptoms, but he remembered the specific restaurant that made a spicy Thai soup that he liked when he had a cold.

“Thanks, Sherlock,” John said.

[stargazer]

Awe...poor miserable John.

[MyOwnPrivateSFC]

Aw! Poor John! I'm glad Sherlock came around at the end...and that Lestrade doesn't get stuck in his own thoughts the way Sherlock does!

[cally]

Awwww poor, miserable John. Love the additional Lestrade.

[Zuki]

Awww... I just want to wrap John up in a blanket and plop him down on the couch next to Sherlock with a tea and cuddles. This was such a lovely drabble. I hope it continues?