Imagine Your OTP is the worst blog ever, oh my god. So many ideas for fics, so I guess I'll just stick all my fics on this blog. This one is the first real fic I've finished, so I'll post it first. Enjoy! x
Imagine
person B of your OTP getting sick, and person A goes out of their way to leave
work and when person A gets home, they cuddle with person B.
~
Sherlock
awoke later than usual that morning. It was a usual December Saturday, where
John was away at the surgery by seven in the morning, leaving Sherlock alone in
the flat to sulk in his own boredom until his beloved flatmate would return.
This was usually how days when John was called to work would go, because as of
late Sherlock didn’t feel right going to crime scenes alone. He just couldn’t
stand not having his short friend at his side, throwing out compliments every
once and a while and giving his own input on the case at hand. Although this
behavior used to be annoying to the detective, he now welcomed it, and missed
it dearly when John wasn’t with him.
In the
same swift motion, Sherlock ripped off the sheets and sat up, seizing his phone
and checking the time. It was noon. He’d slept for close to twelve hours,
having gone to bed around midnight the night before after chasing a rather
crafty serial robber through the streets of London in the pouring rain. Fucking
weather.
A chill
went up Sherlock’s spine, and he shivered sharply. He looked at his arms and
noticed they were covered in goosebumps – his legs as well. With shaking hands,
he grabbed the bedsheet and put it over him in an act of heat conservation, and
decided it was only logical to go put some clothes on and turn on the heat.
Still shaking, he stood. The wooden floors felt like ice on his bare feet, and
with one step forward he found himself toppling back over onto the bed after
losing his balance. He cursed and attempted to stand for the second time, only
failing once again.
Augh, Sherlock thought, screw it.
He threw his legs onto the
bed and clutched the remaining two layers of bedsheets in his hands, throwing
them over himself. He rubbed his nose, and in the reflection of his phone, he
saw that it was an alarming shade of red afterward. This seemed to trigger a
chain reaction – he sniffled, which then began a coughing fit so loud he was
sure Mrs. Hudson had heard it from downstairs. The fit was just long and
intense enough that it resulted in a headache and a sore throat, and Sherlock
let out an audible moan of frustration. Fed up, he unlocked his phone and, with
no one else to turn to except for Mrs. Hudson, (who was probably just about to
leave to go shopping considering the time of day – 12:07, at this point,) he
texted John.
“My
physical health status has decreased considerably overnight and as much as it
pains me to ask for it, I need your assistance. SH”
He sent
it, and the coughing fit started again - this time with much more cursing
afterward.
~
“Wonderful,”
John said cheerfully to his patient on the other end of the phone, “Well, I’m
sure the swelling will stop once the ibuprofen kicks in... You took the
suggested two tablets, correct? ...
Excellent. I’ll be expecting you here on the fourteenth at four thirty…
Great… Okay, see you then… Bye.” He hung up the phone, took down a note about
getting a prescription for Mrs. Miles, who he had just remembered he was
expecting later in the week, and leaned back in his chair. While he didn’t
necessarily like the toned down, calm, peaceful setting of the surgery most of
the time, he didn’t hate it. He had enough action with Sherlock in his life,
and although his PTSD had been almost completely cured because of it, he still
needed a break from battle every now and again. Also, he enjoyed working with
Sarah… for obvious reasons.
Bzz.
The
vibration of his phone took John by surprise, but he quickly recovered and
checked it.
“Oh
Jesus Christ, Sherlock…” he said aloud, surprised to see that the detective had
even bothered to text him during work hours.
“My
physical health status has decreased considerably overnight and as much as it
pains me to ask for it, I need your assistance. SH”
John
stared at the message in awe. Really? Sherlock was in need of HIS assistance?
He understood that Sherlock probably trusted John over himself with health
matters, but there was a deafening thought in his brain that maybe Sherlock was
pretending he was sick just for attention. This wouldn’t be the first time,
either, but John felt that this time it was genuine.
“I TOLD
you not to stay out in the rain for this exact reason. I’ll be there in 20. JW”
~
20
minutes later, John arrived at 221B, thankful that Sherlock had texted him 10
minutes before the next bus. Thinking back on it as he walked up the steps to
the flat, he’d probably planned that.
“Sherlock?”
he called out, opening the door to the living space. It was just how he’d left
it this morning: both of the flatmate’s soaking wet coats thrown on the coffee
table after neither of them felt like putting effort into hanging them up, an
empty cup of tea and a half-eaten piece of toast with strawberry jam that John
had placed on the arm of his chair and forgotten about after checking the time
and realizing that the bus was scheduled to come sooner than he had thought,
and a closed door to Sherlock’s bedroom at the end of the hallway. Without
hesitation, John knocked on the door and allowed himself in. Inside, he found
Sherlock, curled up on his bed with sheets in a bundle around him, shivering
and looking more dazed than John had ever seen him.
“Hello,
John,” said Sherlock, not moving his eyes from a certain spot on the wall.
“Glad you followed the text I sent you.”
“Of
course I did. You’re never sick.”
“I used
to get sick rather often,” he mentioned, “but now I can’t hardly remember the
last time I was.”
“Do you
need anything?”
“There’s
some acetaminophen in the top left hand cupboard above the sink, and some tea
to take it with would be lovely.”
“You
couldn’t get it yourself?”
“Although
you may not believe it, I actually tried more than once to get up and get it
but I failed every time. I wouldn’t have bothered you if I couldn’t do it
myself, and you know that.”
“Okay,
you’re right,” John agreed, shoving his hands in his pockets and shifting his
weight back and forth between his heels and his toes. “Need anything else while
I’m up?”
“Er,
not that I can think of,” said Sherlock. John nodded and headed out the door,
but immediately Sherlock called after him again. “Wait! Turn on the heat, and
bring more blankets in.” John stepped back in the room and walked closer to the
bed. He knelt down and placed the back of his hand on the detective’s forehead,
as though he were a mother checking their child for a fever.
“Nope,
no heater for you. I’ll bring in a few blankets, but you’re burning up more
than you think.” He stood and walked through the flat into the kitchen, where
he found the cold medicine (it was already opened, but the cap was stuck
tightly, which proved that Sherlock obviously hadn’t used it in a while) and he
boiled some water for tea. While he was waiting, he brought in two extra
blankets and another pillow, since Sherlock had a habit of only using one – and
how John knew this information, he had no idea. When the water was boiled, he
poured it into a travel mug just as a spilling precaution, and ripped off two
acetaminophen tablets. He put the tea bag in while he was walking to Sherlock’s
room.
“Thank
you very much, John,” Sherlock said, taking the tea first and then the tablets,
putting them to his side. He had situated himself with the extra pillow and was
now sitting up in his bed with blankets all around him, breaking out in a cold
sweat because of the raging fever that had escalated in the brief time John was
gone. Sherlock popped open the tablets and took both of them down in a single
swig of tea, puckering his face with discomfort momentarily as he swallowed –
another habit that John had picked up on – and set the tea off to the side.
“So I
have the rest of the day off from the surgery, so if you need anything else…”
John started walking out the door, but Sherlock stopped him once again.
“John,
it’s still freezing in here.”
“Well,
I’m not turning the heat on, because you’ll burn up way more than you already
have, and we don’t have any blankets left. What do you expect me to do?”
“You
could…” (Sherlock thought about it, and then looked back up at John again,) “…
sit with me, if you like.”
“I…”
John stuttered. “I guess I could.”
“Please?”
“Well…”
“Please.”
“Fine.”
John climbed onto the bed, and noticed that it was a rather firm mattress but
was also unbelievably comfortable. He laid down at Sherlock’s covered feet,
only finding himself feeling awkward and eventually moving right next to the
detective, where he set his head on the bare mattress, and eventually
Sherlock’s forearm.
“John…”
Sherlock said, unsure.
“Oh,
yeah, Sherlock?”
“… You’re
comfortable, yes?”
“Mhm.”
“Good.
That’s all that matters.” He grinned out of the side of his mouth and reached
for a book that he kept underneath his pillow. The two sat there in a comforting
silence for a few minutes, Sherlock reading quietly and John staring at the
ceiling and eventually at Sherlock, but he soon drifted off to sleep, for he
hadn’t gotten very much the night before. Upon noticing this, Sherlock
chuckled, almost touched that John was trusting enough of him to fall asleep so
quickly, and brushed some hair off the doctor’s face with his free hand. He
watched his relaxed face contently, and smiled. He felt so much better now that
John was here.
