A Study in Sniffles (8/8, COMPLETE) - Sherlock BBC

[Always]

Hi everyone! I'm really humbled to see that there's still some interest in this old story of mine! Apologizes for the wait on this chapter; was going to just split the story into two final parts, but this specific chapter was starting to get pretty jumbled and lengthy, so I decided to just split it up and end the story in 3 parts instead of 2, to give myself a bit of a break.  Hopefully you all enjoy! This will all be over soon, I promise 

and to ohlala8 - I totally hear you. I guess in my brain Sherlock pieced together that this man he saw in the market fit his previous description of the criminal. The subtle hint I tried to drop a few chapters ago was that this guy was the guy who got Sherlock sick in the first place, and that's why his mind like raced back to this guy and then he did the Sherlock thing and just figured it all out in his head.  Kinda hard to portray through typing alone, lol! Hopefully the next coming chapters tie it all together a little better!

 

The two men’s cab rolled to a slow stop just outside of the market. Sherlock retrieved his wallet, paid their driver, and then exited the vehicle, John not far behind him. The change in temperature made his irritated nose twinge in protest, causing Sherlock to bring a finger up to rub at it with a wet sniff.

John stretched, his back popping in protest, “Alright, Sherlock.” He sighed, “Have you—”

“HhH’GSHh!” Sherlock sneezed harshly into a clenched fist, sniffing hard to stop a drip that hung dangerously at the end of his nose.

“—Bless you. Have you decided on what you plan on doing?” John continued, taking a concerning glance up at his friend, “I still think we should call Lestrade.”

“No,” Sherlock grunted, rubbing pathetically at his pink nose, “Not yet. We need evidence. While Lestrade usually trusts my judgement I highly doubt Anderson or Sally would let him lock this man up on my word alone.” He opened his coat slightly and dug his phone out of his inside pocket, showing John, “But if he were to confess, it wouldn’t just be my word. I’m going to speak to him, record him.”

John nodded slowly and hummed, beginning to understand. He paused for a moment before saying, “And you’re positive that this bloke is—”

“Yes, John.” Sherlock fired back quickly, now resorting to rubbing his runny nose with his sleeve.

“Just feels a bit like you’re grasping at straws here, Sherlock.” John shrugged slightly, “I mean, you’re not going on too much here. We both know you’re not really at your best.”

At this, Sherlock made his way over to John in two long strides, something that would have taken John nearly double the steps, and stopped mere inches from the other man. He stared down at him, expression nearly unreadable, “Do you trust me?” He asked, voice just as rich as ever, though slightly muddled with lingering congestion. 

“Sherlock—” John started with a bit of an eye roll. He made to step away from the other, but Sherlock grabbed his arm, stopping him. He forced eye contact once again.

“Do you trust me, John?” That voice again. John stared up at him, taking in the other’s face. His expression was stern, stoic. John noticed the small beads of sweat clinging to his pale brow, he assumed from the man’s fever starting to really take effect. He watched as a drip from his nose started making its way down to his lips. Sherlock made no immediate move to swipe it away, not seeming to notice it.

John gulped, shifting uncomfortable under the other’s intense gaze, “Yes.” He answered honestly, “'Course I do. Of course I do, Sherlock.”

“…Then do as I say.” Sherlock instructed, letting go of the other man’s arm. He reached up and took care of his runny nose, again with the back of his sleeve, cursing quietly to himself as he did it. He then whipped around, his back to John before continuing, “Exactly as I say.”

John gave a tight nod, although Sherlock couldn’t see it, and straightened up instinctively, “Just tell me what you need me to do.”

“I need you,” Sherlock began, “To stay out of the way.” John scoffed at this, but Sherlock continued before the other could object, “Type out a text to Lestrade telling him where we are, stay out of sight, and don’t send it until I give you a signal.”

John rolled his eyes, his voice doubtful, “What signal, not Vatican Cameos…?”

Sherlock shook his head, “You’ll know it when you hear it.”

“…Right. Okay.” John nodded, pausing for a moment to think the situation over before finally clapping back with, “You brought me here to send a text message?”

“If I recall correctly Doctor Watson you followed me.” Sherlock retorted quickly, raising a mocking eyebrow at his friend.

“Oh, sod off, Sherlock.” John sighed, shooting a glare at the other, “What choice did I have, what with you running off like a little – nevermind. Text message? To Greg?”

“Who’s Greg?” Sherlock asked, brow scrunching in confusion.

“Oh for God’s-Lestrade.” John sighed, defeated, “Text to Lestrade. Tell him where we are? That we got the guy?”

Sherlock nodded in response, gesturing towards the entrance to the market as his nose began to twitch. “Pre-hii-Precise…” He shook his head when he realized he couldn’t finish his sentence and held up a finger to pause his thoughts. His eyes fluttered involuntarily as he tried to fight off the tickle shooting down his slender nose. He gave one final sharp intake of breath before losing the battle, “Hh’IIiSHh’uh!!” He pitched forward harshly into his gloved hands before pulling his head back and snapping forward again with another desperate sounding, “Hh’GGSHh!...uh.” He cleared his throat, “Precisely.” He finally finished, his voice thick and nasally from the intense sneezes. He brought a hand up to his head and swayed slightly in place.

“Jesus, Sherlock.” John tutted with a shake of his head. He made his way over to the other man quickly and placed a firm hand on his forearm, holding him steady. He raised up his free hand to Sherlock’s forehead, resting the palm of his hand against the detective’s skin. He held it there a moment before lowering his hand and inhaling sharply, “Jesus, Sherlock.” He repeated, his voice taking on a more urgent tone, “You’re really burning up.”

“I’m fine, John.” Sherlock hissed, rubbing his nose on the back of his sleeve.

“You’re not.” John insisted, “I’m not just your bloody sidekick, Sherlock, I’m a doctor and I know a head cold when I see one. You need to be resting, you need fluids.”

“What I need,” Sherlock began, shrugging off John, “Is to finish my work.”

John stared at him a moment, blinking, mouth slightly agape in a combination of awe and anger, “You…” He began, putting one hand on his hip, the other pointing accusingly at Sherlock, “You. Are. Impossible.”

“So I’m told.” Sherlock grumbled, sniffing thickly. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets and started making his way towards the entrance, leaving John behind him. “Are you coming?” He called over his shoulder, voice thick and croaky.

“You…you…bloody…moron.” John huffed under his breath, before jogging to catch up with his slender friend. What else could he possibly do? At least this awful day would finally be coming to an end.

Edited December 20, 2017 by Always

[MyOwnPrivateSFC]

Oh, Sherlock! You ridiculous boy!  ❤️

Edited December 20, 2017 by MyOwnPrivateSFC

[Jelloicious]

9 hours ago, Always said:

 

“Who’s Greg?” Sherlock asked, brow scrunching in confusion.

“Oh for God’s-Lestrade.” John sighed, defeated, “Text to Lestrade. Tell him where we are? That we got the guy?”

This was golden.   Your character voices are so spot-on!

“You…you…bloody…moron.” John huffed under his breath, before jogging to catch up with his slender friend. What else could he possibly do? At least this awful day would finally be coming to an end.

Poor John....

 

[Always]

Hi again, everyone! Buckle up, this is going to be a long chapter! I wasn't very happy with the way I wrote the last installment, and really tried my best to immerse you all into the story a bit better with more descriptions, actions, etc. And I'm also very happy I was able to finish this part so quickly! We're almost done, can you believe it? Only took me 5 years . The case is finally coming to a close in this chapter, and I have one more bonus chapter I will be writing to cap this story off, and then, finally, it will be done! So keep your eyes peeled for the last installment, which will hopefully be written within the next few weeks. Happy holidays everybody, I hope you all enjoy! 

 

The automatic market doors opened with a soft buzzing noise as if greeting the two men. Sherlock strode in, John in tow, and made a sharp sudden veer to the left, John nearly tripping as he tried to follow. The market’s insides were very white, almost obnoxiously so, giving it a sort of hygienic feel. The floor was lined with various aisles of everything you could possibly think of; from rows and rows of teas to cereals…John could almost make out a dairy section towards the back. They themselves however, had darted into the biscuit aisle. Sherlock stopped abruptly, about a quarter of the way through the aisle, causing John to nearly topple into him.

“Christ, Sherlock…” John muttered under his breath, shaking his head.

Sherlock spun around to face John, coat tails billowing. He grabbed the doctor’s shoulders and spun him around, too, now facing the check-out lines, “There.” Sherlock murmured, pointing discreetly.

John blinked hard against the bright lights overhead as he followed Sherlock’s finger, bracing himself for the worst as he laid his eyes upon the cashier Sherlock Holmes believed committed the five atrocious murders.

“Paper or plastic, miss?” Croaked the voice of a thin man, probably no older than twenty-three.

John whipped back around, “Him?” He whispered harshly, “Seriously?”

Sherlock nodded tightly, eyes not leaving the cashier as he watched him bag a woman’s groceries in the paper bags she requested. John glowered up a Sherlock for a moment, not really sure what to think, before slowly turning back around to get a better look at their presumed killer. He was a thin, athletic build; perfect body for football, as Sherlock had previous predicted. His hair was dark black and slightly shiny with grease. Unshaved five o’ clock shadow clung to his cheeks amidst a small amount of acne scarring. His nose was slightly tinged a light pink, irritated, perhaps, from a lingering cold, as Sherlock said he had had when they had first interacted. John watched as the young woman gathered her groceries and left. And then, as if almost comically timed with his last observation, the young man pulled out a bottle of nose drops, and gave them a sharp wet inhale into each nostril.

“Nose drops…Like at the crime…” He began, turning around to face Sherlock, who absolutely, one hundred percent, was not there anymore. “…scene.” He finished quietly, darting his head up and down the biscuit aisle looking for his friend. He briefly tried standing on his toes, but was too short to see over the high shelves. He cursed to himself. “Sherlock!?” He called out in a harsh whisper. A woman passing through the aisle shot John a judgmental glance, causing him to straighten up in embarrassment and give her a sheepish smile in return, “Hi, sorry, sorry. These biscuits here? Right, sorry, I’ll move. Sorry.” He stumbled on his words, shifting out of the way so she could grab her cookie of choice. He waited until she had completely left the aisle before resuming his search for the sick detective. He ended up not having to search at all.

“Hh’nXxT!” Came a pinched sneeze from behind John. He spun around just in time to see Sherlock coming up behind him, hand still pinching his twitching nose, head ducked down in anticipation for another sneeze.

“Sherlock, where did you-”

“Hah…hA’nNcH!”

“Bless you, what the hell were you-” John stopped again as Sherlock looked up at him, the tickle in his nose seeming to subside. John watched as the man snuffled against his hand, eyes watering slightly behind a pair of…glasses. Sherlock Holmes was wearing glasses.

“What the hell are those?” John asked, exasperated.

“Reading glasses.” Sherlock replied thickly, still snuffling.

“Why in the world are you wearing reading glasses?”

“Disguise.” Sherlock answered, “Doubt he’ll recognize me but can never be too careful.”

“Please tell me you didn’t nab those from someone…”

Sherlock looked slightly offended at this accusation, “There’s a rack of reading glasses around the corner, John.” He said, gesturing behind him, “Saw them last time I was here.”

“Great.” John nodded, “Good. You didn’t take them from anyone, that’s good. Real good. Instead you’re just stealing them from the store.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and shook his head, clearly not wanting to have that argument. John took the cue and dropped it, if only for now. He’d do his best to make sure Sherlock returned them before they left.

Sherlock gave his nose one final paw before sighing, pulling his phone out of his concealed pocket once again. He pushed a few buttons, (John assumed getting the device ready to record) flipped the phone to silent, and slid it back into his pocket.

“Right.” Sherlock sniffed thickly, turning his attention to John, “Have you typed out your message?”

John rummaged around in his own pocket evading countless amounts of Sherlock’s used tissues before finding his phone. He typed out a quick message to Lestrade before pocketing his phone again, grimacing only slightly as his hand touched a particularly damp tissue. He focused his attention back onto Sherlock and gave the other a tight nod. He was ready.

Sherlock nodded back, “Don’t send it until I give the signal. Don’t look too obvious.”

The two men shared a moment of held eye contact before Sherlock spun on his heels and began making his way towards, and then slightly past, the young cashier. He brought the back of his hand up to his forehead and wiped away a few beads of sweat. He definitely felt warm now and his head throbbed in protest, but he was so close and to Sherlock Holmes that meant that nothing else mattered, not even his own health.

John grabbed a biscuit box from the shelf to blend in a bit more and watched in slight puzzlement as Sherlock began to walk past the cashier. He crinkled his brow and craned his neck a little to see better. He watched Sherlock wipe his forehead, and then pause in place. The man raised a shaky hand in front of his face, and John could see, but not hear, Sherlock begin to take long, drawn out breaths, his shoulders shaking in time with each inhale, until finally–

“Hh’DUshH!” Sherlock sneezed loudly into his hand, eyeglasses slipping down the bridge of his nose. He stumbled comically with the force of it. John couldn’t tell if the man had faked it or if one had snuck up on him at a very convenient time, but either way, it sure was convincing.

Sherlock sniffled and groaned loudly, keeping the heel of his hand pressed harshly against his nose, “Oh, oh dear…” He whined, pushing his glasses back into place with his free hand, “Er, excuse me,” he proclaimed, turning towards the cashier, “Have you got a hankie?”

John tried not to scoff at Sherlock’s change of character, as really, the man was quite a good actor, and instead focused more intently on the biscuit box he was holding to try to keep himself on track. With his free hand he fiddled nervously with the phone in his pocket, ready to send out his text to Lestrade whenever he was given the signal, whatever that might be.

“Sure, mate.” The cashier, who’s sloppily written nametag read Ben, replied as Sherlock made his way over, snuffling pathetically, “Bless. Got a bad one, eh?” The man added sympathetically, handing Sherlock a tissue from a shelf under the register.

“Oh, terrible.” Sherlock embellished with a bit of an eye roll. He grabbed the tissue from the other and gave his nose a small blow.

“Aye. Just starting to get over one meself.” The cashier nodded knowingly, empathizing his point with a small gurgling sniffle, “Ruddy awful.”

“Bloody tell me about it…” Sherlock moaned, “I’m a professor. Picked it up from one of my students, I think. That time of year, you know.” He sniffed hard before continuing, “You look about the age type. Are you in school?”

“Uh, just came into some money from me dead great aunt, actually.” He stated, “Enrolled meself for next term. Hoping to make the football team.”

Sherlock seemed to break character, if only for a moment, and cocked his eyebrow at the boy before continuing on with his performance, “Ah! Football! A strapping lad like yourself will have no trouble making the team. An old mate of mine used to play, and he was quite good. John, I think his name was…”

John nearly dropped his biscuits. Was that the cue? What type of evidence had Sherlock possibly gathered? Surely he wasn’t serious. John felt his palms go sweaty, his thumb hovering over the ‘send’ button on his phone, hesitating slightly.

“Yes, I’m quite sure his name was John. But Anyway–”

He said it again. That had to be it. John hesitated just a moment more, hoping upon hope that he hadn’t misinterpreted that somehow, and hit send on his phone.

Greg. Market Place at West End. We have him. Bring back up. - JW

“You know, actually, the more I’ve been talking to you the more this has come to my attention, but I’m almost positive I recognize you from somewhere.” Sherlock almost murmured, bringing a finger up to rub at his tender nose.

“Recognize?” Ben questioned, obviously confused.

“Yes, in fact I’m almost sure of it.” Sherlock smiled slightly and folded his arms across his chest. He cocked an eyebrow, “Haven’t I seen you hanging around with Lauren Taylor?”

“I don’t know anybody by that name. You must be mistaken.” Ben spoke quickly, “I should be getting back to work, mate. My boss’ll do me in.”

“No, no, I know I must be right!” Sherlock proclaimed, almost laughing, “She’s a student of mine. Doesn’t live too far from here, if I’m not mistaken. In fact, didn’t I see you go into her flat just the other day?”

“Her…flat?” Ben choked out, “I–” He began, but cut himself off with a few raspy coughs, “Listen mate, I-”

“Oh, but then I’m sure you’ve heard the terrible news about her.” Sherlock interjected, shaking his head, “Found dead, and in her own flat, no less. All over the news.”

Ben shifted uncomfortably.

“What in the world are you doing, Sherlock…” John whispered to himself. He could barely make out their conversation anymore, and could feel himself getting more antsy by the minute, his phone vibrating in his pocket every now and then. He fished it out and gave it a quick glance.

Are you serious? – GL

Alright…West End Market you said? We’re on our way. – GL

This better be worth it. – GL

Hang on, why are you the one texting me and not Sherlock, everything alright? – GL

John? – GL

John ignored the messages and pocketed his phone again. He didn’t have any of the answers Lestrade was looking for and instead focused his attention back to his biscuits, straining hard to hear the other’s conversation. He swiped a finger under his nose absentmindedly.

“I really don’t know what you’re talking about, mate.” Ben croaked, “I really need to get back to work.”

“Oh, but I think you very well do know what I’m talking about, Benjamin.” Whatever smile had been on Sherlock’s face before faded quickly, his character performance slowly crumbling, “I mean, it was all over the news, don’t tell me you don’t know.”

“I…I…” His face contorted slightly and his nose twitched, he reached blindly for his tissue box, pulling one out just in time to sneeze a wet, “hHH’RRSh!” into it, “Blimey.” He sniffed hard, “’Scuse me.” And began rummaging around in his pocket for something. Sherlock already knew what it was.

“Yes, strangest thing, really.” He murmured, voice barely above a whisper, “They say the only evidence they found at the scene of the crime was…” He made full eye contact with Ben, a smile creeping onto the corner of his lips as he watched Ben raise a bottle of nose drops into his left nostril, “…nose drops.”

Ben’s eyes widened, nose drops slipping from his hand and landing forgotten onto the floor. He held eye contact with Sherlock, brow sweating, heart nearly beating out of his chest. And then, after what seemed like forever, he bolted for the door without another word.

“JOHN!” Sherlock yelled, ripping off his reading glasses and immediately running to follow Ben. John dropped his biscuits and took off, nearly tripping over himself in the process.

“Lestrade!” Sherlock called out to John in a wheezy breath, “Did you text Lestrade?!” They were nearing the market doors now, Ben a few paces in front of Sherlock, and John a few paces behind him. He was running short on breath, the mucus in his lungs rattling with each inhale. If John had texted Lestrade when he had given him the signal, then the police should be showing up right about…

As if on cue six police officers, as well as Lestrade himself, rushed through the automatic doors of the market, shouting and yelling.

“Lestrade!” Sherlock yelled, gesturing towards the man he was chasing as wet coughs started to slow him down.

It only took Lestrade a moment to assess the situation before making a dive for Ben, the other officers following suit. They managed to nab the young man by the collar of his shirt before forcing his arms behind his back and handcuffing him on the spot.

Sherlock stopped running as soon as he saw the young man had been grabbed, and double over with harsh coughs that wracked his body. John jogged up behind him and put a hand on his back, rubbing rhythmically in an attempt to soothe the raspy coughs.

Lestrade approached the two men just as Sherlock’s coughing fit began to subside, “What in the world was all that, then?” The officer asked, crossing his arms, “Who the hell is this bloke?”

“Your killer.” Sherlock wheezed, straightening himself up and shrugging off John. He cleared his throat before continuing, fishing his phone out of his inside pocket, “This may help.” He ended the recording on his phone and handed it over to Lestrade.

“What’s this, a recording?” Lestrade asked, looking from the phone, to John (who shrugged), to Sherlock, “A confession?”

Sherlock shook his head, “No, but close. Question the boy, I believe he’ll fully confess not even a minute into interrogation.”

“How–” Lestrade began.

“The nose drops, inspector.” Sherlock sniffled, and pointed over to Ben’s cash register, “On the floor, over there. Take a sample, I guarantee they’ll match the drops from the crime scene.”

Lestrade, whose mouth was still open in a mixture of confusion and shock, turned his attention to John, who merely shrugged again. He was just as baffled as the inspector.

“Alright Sherlock but if this is some sort of fever driven conclusion –” Lestrade began but was quickly cut off.

“It’s not.”

“-If you’re somehow wrong –” He tried to continue but was again, cut short.

“I’m not.”

The inspector threw up his hands, clearly done trying. He gave one final look towards John, who held up his hands and shook his head, before grouping back with his officers.

Sherlock and John stood in silence for a moment, John still not convinced that all of craziness had just happened, and that, finally, the case seemed to be over. He glanced up at Sherlock, who for the first time since this ridiculous case had started, seemed genuinely exhausted; with the adrenaline now gone, his cold seemed to finally catch up with him. His eyes were glassy and watery, a thin sheen of sweat clung to his forehead, his curly hair sticking thickly to it. His nose was pink and chapped, his nostrils shiny and wet, his lips cracked, and his skin a pale, sickly white. He looked absolutely dreadful. John opened his mouth to say something, but Sherlock had begun to walk away, and seated himself on a nearby bench. John followed suit, sitting down beside his ill friend. The two continued to stay silence for a moment or two more before John finally spoke up. He turned to Sherlock.

“So…what do you suppose he wanted with all that blood?” He asked, “That’s how the bodies were found, right? No blood?”

“Well,” Sherlock sniffed hard, “Isn’t it obvious?”

John blinked at Sherlock for a moment as it trying it determine if he was actually serious before saying, “No, Sherlock, it’s, uh, it’s not obvious.”

“He was selling it.” Sherlock answered matter-of-factly. His nose crinkled and he brought his wrist up to rub at is aggressively.

“S-wha-selling it?” John sputtered.

“On the black market.” Sherlock added, voice stuffy.

“Sherlock, how in the world could you possibly have figured that out?”

“You’re not using your brain, John.” Sherlock responded from behind his wrist, sounding slightly irritated, “All the pieces are there you just have to think.”

John rolled his eyes at this but Sherlock didn’t seem to notice.

“Aspiring footballer, remember? He was selling the different blood types on the black market for money to pay his way into a good school.”

“How did you–”

“He didn’t come into any money. There was no great aunt.” Sherlock cut him off, finally lowering his hand from his face, “The way he stumbled over his words when he told me about her, no eye contact, fidgeting, so, great aunt isn’t dead, perhaps doesn’t exist at all. Why lie about the way he came into money? Because he came into it illegally. What’s illegal, can get someone enough money to enroll for school, and involves the missing blood of those five girls? The black market, obviously. Honestly, John, what’s it like, being you? It must be relaxing.”

John shook his head, baffled, as ususal, and let the conversation die. They fell into silence again, but that didn’t seem to last very long.

A harsh "hHRR'SHh!" tore its way out of Sherlock and echoed against the walls.

"Bless--"

"hH'NgSHHh!"

"Bless you!" John let out an exasperated sigh, "I think our part in this is about finished, don't you think?" He licked his lips, "Maybe it's time to go home?"

Sherlock rubbed his tender nose and eyed John, taking in the creases of worry in his forehead, but saying nothing.

"Please?" John tried once more, "Sherlock?"

Sherlock brought a fist to his mouth and cleared his sore throat before slowly standing up. He lingered for only a moment, not looking at John, and then turned on his heels and headed towards the exit.

John's gaze followed Sherlock on his way out, a corner of his mouth turning up into a slight, grateful smile as he jogged to catch up with his brilliant, ill friend.

Finally. Rest.

Edited December 24, 2017 by Always

[AngelEyes]

Brilliant Sherlock. I love how he seems even more erratic with being ill.

[Always]

Hi everyone! I hope you all had fantastic holidays and that the new year has been nothing but good to you so far! I'm very happy to announce that this little fic is finally FINISHED!  It only took me...what...5/6 years? Anyway, this is a bit of a "bonus" chapter of sorts, because let's face it: I'm a John Watson girl, and I couldn't write this story without messing around with him a little bit, too.  But anyway, thank you all for reading, for welcoming me back, for commenting, and for enjoying this story! It was a pleasure to write it and share it with you all. And I don't know if I can edit the title myself (I've been on the forum for what...ten years and I STILL get confused about things ) But if any mod reads this, could you kindly add to the title "[8/8] Complete" or something along those lines? It would be much appreciated.  ANYWAY! Without further ado, here is the finial chapter! Thanks again, everybody!

---

 

Over the next few days John Watson spent his time nursing his sick friend back to health as best he could. He found himself juggling the shopping, the cleaning, and the caretaking all at once. Sherlock Holmes had nearly pushed himself to pneumonia, and John made sure to give him a proper earful about what an absolute idiot he had been, and how very lucky he was that his flat mate happened to be a trained doctor. He had instructed Sherlock to stay in bed (Sherlock of course would sneak to the couch), drink lots of fluids, and that he absolutely, positively, could not leave to solve cases. John had even gone out of his way to call Greg Lestrade and tell him that Sherlock Holmes would not be taking any cases this week, thank you very much, and to not tempt the sick man-child with anything for the next several days. Greg had taken the news in stride, he respected John Watson and didn’t want to get on his bad side. However, about the third or fourth day after the phone call John had come home from the grocer to find Sherlock using his laptop to video call Greg Lestrade about three particularly gruesome murders. Sherlock had been hoarsely instructing Lestrade to bring the laptop closer to a dead man’s right earlobe when John burst into the living room and let the two of them have it. Lestrade quickly ended the video call and didn’t try calling again. By the fifth day Sherlock had started to look and sound better; his sneezes were few and far between, and the concerning rattling in his lungs had gone down considerably. By the sixth day, his voice had returned almost entirely, and his congestion was not nearly as intense as it had been previously. John had given him a tired smile; happy and thankful Sherlock had begun to make a full recovery. He himself was exhausted with all of the extra running around that he had been doing, but kept his aches and pains to himself. He finally felt comfortable enough to leave Sherlock alone, and return to work the next morning.

---

"Ah'sTuMF!"

A half-muffled squeak of a sneeze echoed through the flat, reaching the sleeping detective's ears and waking him up instantly. He hadn't even realized he'd been asleep.

"Huh--huH'AKsHuu!"

Another one. And that certainly wasn't him. Feeling considerably less achy, Sherlock gave a quick stretch before following the noise into the kitchen. That was where he found John pulling on a brown suit jacket while toasting some bread for breakfast.

"Sorry," The doctor snuffled, giving his nose a quick rub, "Did I wake you?"

Sherlock eyed him suspiciously.

"...Feeling better?" John offered when suddenly his toast popped, causing him to flinch. He went to retrieve it, realized he'd managed to burn it, and cursed to himself.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock questioned.

"Ah, work." John nodded, scurrying over to put the kettle on boil.

"But it's Sunday."

"It's Monday." Sniffed the man as he retrieved a to-go mug and popped off the lid.

"...Something's wrong."

"Nothing's wrong, why would something be wrong?" Responded John rather quickly as the kettle began to boil.

"You're ill." Sherlock accused, raising an eyebrow at the man. John continued scurrying about, doing every possible thing he could to avoid the piercing gaze of Sherlock Holmes, "Of course not." He scoffed back.

"But you are." Sherlock replied, his voice deep and rich. He sounded almost…sympathetic.

"It's nothing. Just a little sniffly." John reassured, sniffing quietly.

"So you are ill." Sherlock accused again, folding his arms across his chest. His blue dressing gown billowed slightly.

"Sherlock-" John began, but was immediately cut off.

"Stay home."

"What? Why would I-" John started, eye lids beginning to flutter as he trailed off. A small smirk crept onto Sherlock’s face.

"Bless you."

"Ah'ksSHhoo!...Ah." John scrubbed at his round irritated nose with the heel of his hand and glanced sheepishly up at Sherlock, "Thanks."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow as John let out a defeated sigh, "Maybe you're right." He quipped, "--Ugh. No, you're definitely right." His shoulders slumped slightly and he cleared his throat, "I feel like shite."

Sherlock smiled slightly, apologetically, before reaching into his dressing gown pocket, "Here's your phone." He said, handing John his cellphone, "Call in."

"What were you doing with my--oh, nevermind. Give it here." John snatched his phone out of Sherlock's hand and walked to the other side of the kitchen to make his phone call in to work.

Sherlock eyed John for a moment, the whistling kettle breaking his gaze. He glided over and removed it from the hot element, turning off the stove.

"Hello? -snrf- Hi, Sarah, yeah it's John Watson."

Pulling their teapot from a nearby cupboard, Sherlock began steeping them both a pot of English Breakfast.

"Ah'sNNnch! –excuse me, yeah, sorry." John palmed his irritated nose with the heel of his hand, rubbing aggressively, "Alright...thanks for understanding. Ta." He hung up his phone and sighed, placing it onto the kitchen table. He rummaged into his coat pocket and pulled out an old handkerchief, gave his nose a hearty blow, and then repocketed it, snuffling softly.

“Tea?” Sherlock offered, beginning to pour two cups. John hummed thankfully in response. He could tell Sherlock felt guilty about making him ill; his body language was softer, his facial expressions apologetic. He didn’t say it and probably never would, but he was sorry, and John could sense that.

John watched silently as Sherlock poured the tea carefully, slowly. He filled them almost to the top, leaving enough room for cream and sugar. Sherlock glided over to their fridge to get the cream, and found their sugar container on the shelf. John watched him drop one sugar cube and pour just a dash of cream into one of the mugs. He smiled to himself when he realized Sherlock knew how he liked his tea, because he’s Sherlock, so of course he would know. Still, the gesture warmed his heart somehow.

Sherlock turned around now to face John, both mugs in his hands. He gave a tight but kind smile, and made his way over. This is when John’s nose began to itch. He crinkled it involuntarily, his eyes pinching shut as the prickling sensation moved from the tip of his nose to deep within his sinuses. He wiggled his nose uselessly. Sherlock extended John’s mug of tea out to him, but John shook his head, pushing Sherlock’s hand away lightly, “Hah-hang on…going to—Ah--Ha’GgSHUu!” John whipped his head to the side and sneezed politely into his elbow. He kept his face buried for a moment after the sneeze, snuffling pathetically before bobbing forward again with another wet, “Ah’KSsHu!” He sniveled and rubbed his nose harshly against the fabric of his coat before straightening back up again, nose now slightly red with irritation, “Pardon me.”  He cleared his throat and extended a hand to accept the mug of tea, “Sorry. Ta.” Sherlock handed it over to him slowly, eyebrow raised, but said nothing. John took the mug gratefully, giving the steaming tea a gentle blow before sipping. He glanced up at Sherlock and gave the taller man a warm smile, “I’m not mad at you, you know.”

“Beg pardon?”

“For getting me sick.” John sipped his tea, “I still think you were a bloody idiot galivanting about the way you did-”(Sherlock cracked a smile at this) “-but I’m not angry at you. I was bound to catch this sooner or later. That time of year.”

Sherlock nodded, still smiling slightly, and gave his own mug of tea a small sip, “Uh,” He began, looking to the floor, “Should you…lie down?”

John’s heart swelled as he realized Sherlock was trying to take care of him now. He chuckled softly, “Suppose I probably should.” And cracked his back. He let out a sigh and wiggled out of his dress coat, hanging it onto their nearby coat rack. He stole a glace at Sherlock, looking him up and down, “You should probably lay back down, too.” John nodded, “You’re not a hundred percent yet and the last thing I need is for you to have a relapse while I’m in this state. And finish your tea.” He picked back up his own mug with emphasis, trying to get his point across to the detective. Sherlock merely nodded, and took another small sip of his tea. The two men held eye contact for a moment or two, staring at each other and communicating in a way only they could. There was understanding there, trust. John held Sherlock’s gaze for a moment or two more before inhaling deeply and sighing through his nose. The air came out in a sort of whistle from his stuffiness. He looked away, clenched and unclenched his fist, “Right. Well. I’m off to bed.” With that, John headed toward the living room, walking past Sherlock, mug of tea in hand.

“John.”

John stopped dead in his tracks, tea sloshing slightly in the mug, and looked over his shoulder at Sherlock, “hmm?”

“Thank you.”

John smiled, “Of course. Bed?” Sherlock nodded, and followed John through the living room and into the hallway. They stopped just outside of their rooms.

“John, if there’s anything I can-” Sherlock began quickly, breaking their small silence. John interrupted by raising a hand.

“I’m alright, Sherlock. Truly. And I, unlike somebody I know, am going to go and lie down, take it easy, and kick this thing in the arse.” He chuckled softly, and was surprised when Sherlock did, too, “Thank you though. I appreciate it. Now. I’ll be in here, call me if you need anything. Alright?”

Sherlock nodded.

“Alright.” John smiled and entered his bedroom, shutting the door behind him. He stripped out of his work clothes, shivered at the sudden change in temperature, and then wiggled into a cozy jumper and pair of sleeping trousers. He had set his mug of still steaming tea onto his bedside table, and crawled into bed greedily, burying himself up to his neck in warm blankets. He let out a content sigh, happy for the new-found warmth, as he had started to get a bit of a chill. He realized he was slightly feverish, and snuggled even deeper into his blankets. He didn’t want to fall asleep in case Sherlock needed him for anything, because sick or not, he was the man’s doctor, but soon found his eyes fluttering closed, and before he knew it, he was snoring softly in a deep sleep.

                Sherlock, who had gone to lay down in his own bed, couldn’t stop thinking about John. He felt guilty for getting the other man sick after all John had done for him. He felt he owed John the same care the other had so graciously given him. Sherlock sat upright and rubbed his nose with the back of his fist. He stayed sitting there for a moment, and then disobeyed his doctor’s orders by getting out of bed. He was going to get John whatever he needed; more blankets, breakfast, more tea, anything. Quickly, he exited his bedroom and approached John’s. He raised a finger to knock gently on the door, but found himself stopping when the sound of John’s quiet snores reached his ears. He lowered his hand and cracked a small smile. He would leave the doctor to rest for now, and care for him the way John had, later on. Besides, after everything they had been through, his hardworking doctor deserved the rest.

 

End.

[lsbn]

Ahhhhh I loved the ending to this!!! So fantastic!!! I thought it was particularly adorable that Sherlock immediately knew something was wrong and then tried to (awkwardly) help John 😍

[MyOwnPrivateSFC]

😍😍😍

(Also, I edited the title for you. Let me know if you need anything else...especially if it involves any more Sherlock!fic! )

Edited January 4, 2018 by MyOwnPrivateSFC
What is typing?

[AngelEyes]

Awww. What a lovely ending!

[Seeker]

Ah, "complete"; most beautiful word in a fanfic title 

 

I loved this...very nicely done. They were well in character 

[Shamaël]

I don't know how I can have missed this story before because it's absolutely fantastic. I love every part of it! Thank you so much for finishing it!!! Sherlock was completely in character. I especially loved the "Do you trust me" part... And contagion at the very end... Perfect.