BBC Sherlock--Sherlock (M)--For VoOs~!

[SterlingSilver]

A/N: OH BOY. THIS TOOK FOREVER xDDD. Forgive me, VoOs! Real life is seriously a busy animal > >.. Anyway, I suck at creating mysteries and cases and whatnot, so I didn’t concoct a cool caper for Sherlock to solve in this one. I’m actually really nervous about this, since I don’t feel confident about my Sherlock skills V___V… I hope you like it regardless, dear! It’s a slightly pitiful offering in comparison to what you gave me, but here it is anyway xD. I was actually trying to read some of the best authors on the forum who write BBC Sherlock (like AppleBlossom, Dusty15), but alas, I can’t match them x’DDD. I’m not so good with his character, but here’s hoping~~

It was autumn. Autumn, of all times. When the wind was just starting to bite, and the air was hanging heavy under the greying skies. Each day, the weather got a little more dismal, and each day, John drew his scarf a little tighter around his neck. It was still sweater weather, and the doctor never felt compelled to put on more than a thick shirt and the occasional neck garment. Sherlock, of course, was hardly without his trademark dark coat no matter what the weather was. It pleased John that he was so dutifully covered in the cold months, but he fretted sometimes about heat exhaustion when the climate took a warmer tone. Holmes ignored any admonitions directed his way, since that was his nature. And John didn’t mind so much that his voice fell on deaf ears—he had gotten used to it, over the time they had spent together.

Those many cases. The close calls. The arguing and the embracing and the awkward conversations about things either one of them sometimes hated talking about. Those moments stood out in John’s mind as he sipped at his tea, staring outside the flat window. The glass was not yet frosty, but perhaps a little fogged from the difference in temperature. It was the perfect time of year to settle in for a nice drink, a few good books, and have a comfortable evening at home in the gentle silence.

A din, sounding perhaps like a brass instrument being used as a cricket bat to something small and made of iron, came from upstairs in the flat. John sighed and closed his eyes, the steam from his tea wafting against his nostrils and lips. And of course, such an evening meant that Sherlock had to go and muck it up somehow. True, they had been without a decent case for about four days, but the doctor failed to understand why his companion fell to pieces each and every time there wasn’t something life-threatening or sinister afoot. There was such a thing as relaxation, but John would be surprised if Sherlock even knew of the word—at least in the common context.

Huffing, the veteran pushed himself to his feet, jogging up the stairs in his socks to get to the problem before it escalated. Mrs. Hudson was away on holiday with someone or another (John refrained from prying, as she had been flustered and squawky as she fled the premises), so it was up to him to keep an eye on his mysterious and often destructive friend.

It didn’t take him long to rap on the bedroom door, and then twist the knob and barge in when there wasn’t a quick enough response. He found Holmes just as he thought he would: using the welded remains of what appeared to be a trumpet to hit palm-sized metal balls as they launched from a handmade catapult. It wasn’t the exact cock-brained scheme John had been envisioning, but it was close enough. Dangerous enough, for sure. The stockier man stayed by the door, sipping gently at his tea as he watched Sherlock wind up and crack a ball across the room with his hand-made bat. The resulting noise was curiously musical, and almost deafening. John winced.

“Sherlock, what in God’s name—?”

“Hush, Watson,” he chided, eyes trained on the catapult as it self-loaded another ball. John balked at the throwing device; it looked like it was held together with rubber-bands. “You’ll disturb the reverberations.”

“I don’t care about bloody reverberations,” he snapped, taking a step back as another ball was launched. This one snapped off the brass bat and smashed through the window. The doctor sighed. “We’ll have to pay for that.”

“One cannot put a price on knowledge, John,” Sherlock said. His stare was too focused; he was too pleased with himself. He reached up and rubbed at an eye with a few thin fingers, and John merely stared, not wanting to know what this all was even about. Many a time he had pried into the man’s little experiments, and more than one time he had found himself either jaded, disgusted, or disheartened somehow. It was best to just let him be. When he started getting too flighty to eat or sleep, then Watson would bother with him.

“Right, yes,” he said, giving the scientist a small toast with his mug. “I’m off to put some Scotch in here to make it through the night.”

Holmes paid him no attention, fiddling with his catapult instead. It needed to be reloaded, recalibrated perhaps, to test another frequency. He was nearly to the point of breaking glass with sound and sound only, and when he could pin-point that exact wavelength with brass and metal, he would then understand galaxies more about noise pollution and sound as a strong force. Music was, after all, a small passion of his. Learning more about it was something interesting he could do in his free time. Too much free time, lately. His straight, regal nose wrinkled as he sniffed once. A dry, hollow sound.

John just scoffed and turned to go when a sound stopped him. It was clenched, stunted, clipped as only Sherlock could slice his words—

“Mm-…’nxxt!”

Watson turned again, eyebrows arched as he watched his friend scrub at the side of his nose with his hand, moving to the front of the appendage to palm it upwards, his eyes squinted shut. He didn’t even seem aware that he had done it, the man was so engrossed in his work. It was a split-second annoyance, and now it was over.

John was surprised. He hadn’t ever seen Sherlock sneeze before. Not so much as a sniffle, really. Colds didn’t seem to touch him, and all scents (to his knowledge) couldn’t bother him. With a nose as sensitive as his, it was a wonder Holmes didn’t have more trouble with it. But another one didn’t come, and John didn’t wish to linger, so he closed the door and left the man to his prattling. If there was another few sneezes on the forerunner’s heels, the doctor couldn’t hear them as he watched television, cooked some dinner, left some in the fridge for Sherlock, and turned in for a wholesomely early bed. He wasn’t trying to listen for them, and honestly doubted that there would be others. Sherlock wasn’t the type for weakness. Never had been.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Morning brought not only a damp and cloying chill, but also a rush of shedding leaves. They let loose from the trees like songbirds flinging themselves from the nest and into the world. John woke with a soft smile as he caught the sight from his window. He truly loved this time of year. London was always grey and gloomy, but at least it felt right during these few months. Stretching and stepping from bed, he settled into his normal routine, listening for Sherlock as he padded down the hall past his door. Trips to the bathroom and back, downstairs and back, he was unsurprised to not hear anyone stirring. It was like his flat-mate to keep odd hours: sleep all day, stay up all night. As long as he didn’t wake anyone else, John didn’t care. It had yet to take tragic turns to his health.

“hh-!...” A catch of breath from beyond a door, loud enough to be heard through the wood. “Mm-! ‘nxxt!” And then that same, pinched sneeze. John was a doctor, so he knew a sneeze when he heard one. He had been in the business for so long, he could usually tell a person by their sneeze, and sometimes predict a cold when he heard a certain wet sound to them. Those were dry, fittish. John could already tell, just by two, that Sherlock wasn’t the type to satisfy with only one little sneeze. Typical of lean-bodied stiflers.

“Nn’nxxt! Ecxxt-!” True to form, two chasers raced after the first, and John smirked to himself as he stood in the bathroom, lacing his toothbrush with paste.

“Gesundheit, Holmes,” he called from the small water-closet, beginning to rub the bristles against his teeth, meaning to wash himself clean for the day. When there came no answer, he leaned into the hallway just in time to hear a particularly vicious, “NX’gttchishh!!”

Oooo. That was only half-stifled. Barely caged away.

“You know..” John spoke around the plastic obstruction in his mouth. “You sound like you might be coming down with something.”

The door promptly opened, and there he was, looking irritable and dragged from sleep by the most insidious and annoying means of waking: the needs of the body. His dark hair, always a bit curly and messy, seemed especially out of control. Eyebrows were creased, nose crinkled as he rubbed a palm up against it and around it, like a flustered child. He looked childish, doing that.

“Don’d be ridiculous,” Sherlock sniped. “Probably just something caughd in by nose.”

Never mind the congestion, John thought to himself. He didn’t think Holmes was getting sick—or at least he hadn’t. He had only said that because he knew how to get a rise out of his old friend. Accusing him of weakness was an easy way to stab at his pride, and goad a reaction out of the stubborn, distracted man. Getting a closer look, though, John was starting to believe his rash diagnosis more and more. Holmes was definitely bothered by something, judging from the itchy nose and dry eyes. John deduced that little symptom from the ever-constant blinks and rubs Sherlock was giving them. The groggy waker didn’t give John another chance to speak on anything, and instead shooed him from the vanity, taking his place, and then turning on the sink to splash some cool water on his face.

The simple action helped take the edge off the itch in his eyes, but Sherlock’s nose would not be appeased. It wasn’t, perhaps, the act of sneezing that bothered him so much. It was the moment leading up to it. There was such an unbearably long wait between the initial itch and the actual sneeze. Maybe his next project, Sherlock thought, would be about nasal irritation and how one goes about speeding up a sneeze—it was relevant enough to him, certainly. He wore a long sleeved night-shirt (some branded, baggy thing with the logo nearly washed off that he couldn’t recall buying), and used the cuff of the fabric to scrub beneath his plauged nose.

“Confound this impossible itch!” he growled. Forcing his hands at his sides, he took sharp inhales through his nose to test the feeling. John was still in need of the bathroom, teeth half brushed, so he was privy to the scene. To him, it looked like Sherlock would rather battle with his sneezes than just endure them like any normal person.

“Pardon me,” the doctor said, pushing to at the sink so he could spit out his paste. Holmes was preoccupied and allowed himself to be forced back. His hands suddenly rose to his face, chest lifting in expectation. His eyes were serenely closed, lips parted, though his brow was angrily furrowed. A few moments of silence, then a knifing gasp.

“Hhh~!”

John’s eyes snapped up to watch Sherlock in the mirror.

“HN-piishh-!” He hitched and flinched forward, crushing his wrist against his nose, but that appeared to be only the beginning. “MMxxxhht!.. hh-hh-!.. G’ISHHUU-!.. N’ggtzchuu-!!”

They got a little more insistent, less easily contained, towards the end. John wiped his lips with his palm, watching Sherlock gently rub at his nostrils with the edge of his wrist. He studied him like he would study any one of his patients, taking inventory of the symptoms one by one, listing them into appropriate slots. He snatched some toilet paper off the roll and presented it to Sherlock, so that he might blow his nose instead of scrubbing at it with his palms and fingers.

“Come now, stop that,” John said, trying to pull Holmes’s hand from his face. Holmes at first jerked at being touched, since he didn’t care for that very much, but eventually dropped his hands and allowed himself to be examined. Of course, that didn’t stop him from sighing petulantly every so often. He didn’t like this kind of attention, especially when it could better focused on something like research, experiments, or even searching for a case. Anything that wasn’t keeping him optimally occupied was a waste of time. Then again, John himself wasn’t always a waste of time. He was a good friend, even though Sherlock didn’t like to openly admit it.

“Now, then,” John conceded, running his fingers beneath Sherlock’s neck. Testing the glands. They didn’t seem to be swollen. “Throat bothering you at all?”

“D’negative,” Holmes grumbled. His eyes flicked up to the ceiling, tipping his head back just slightly to sniffle. He held the tissues in his hand, but still hadn’t blown his nose. Performing such an action with John this close to his face seemed uncouth even to him. “Remi’d be why this is dot a waste of timeb?”

“You should know. I’m checking your gla—”

“I dknow whad you are doing, but whad I’b aski’g is… oh, bloody hell!” He was reduced to blowing his nose, since his consonants were so hopelessly degraded by the ever-coming congestion. John smirked, since he could tell that Sherlock was definitely crankier than was usual. Then he frowned as Sherlock once again reached up to rub at his eyes. When he reached up to stop him, the man dodged him, tissue still tented around his straight nose.

“Don’t touch me,” he snapped. His voice was clearer, but his tone still had the flat quality that spoke of some swelling in his nasal passages. The sigh he emitted as he crumbled up the tissue-paper was annoyed, and partially exhausted. John could only smile. He was fairly certain of what this was, but wanted to be sure.

“Stop being such a child, come along,” the doctor said, and using the edge of his fingers, he tipped Sherlock’s chin up so he could get a look at his nose. There was good lighting in the bathroom, so one glance at the interior of the nostrils—raw, narrow, and obviously irritated—confirmed his suspicions. Holmes put some distance between them, stepping back, but by then John didn’t need any more observation.

“John,” he said, using the heel of his hand to push up against his nose, eyes squinched shut against the agitation in his sinuses. “We must talk about your personal space issues.”

“Allergies.”

The nose-rubbing paused. “Pardon?”

John crossed his arms, leaning back against the cream-colored wall, slightly scuffed from slammed doors or shuffling bodies. “Allergies.” His tone was encouraging. “You have them.”

And the nose-rubbing continued. “Nonsense,” he said, straightening himself and giving into a mammoth sniffle. His expression told of his distaste at the suggestion. He had never had allergies, and while he understood that such things could come about at any time-…well, Sherlock didn’t like confessing to a weakness. He preferred to have no weaknesses, and if it were logically possible, would endeavor to correct all of his flaws with science.

“I’m certain I inhaled debris as I slept and my body is simply doing what is engineered to do,” he said. “Quite well I might… add.” His sentence wavered as his nostrils twinged, teased by something unseen. His nose scrunched, and he squirmed it once to try to itch at it without touching it. Each time he sniffed, desperate to relieve the tickle, it only grew more potent. Just a fluttering at the back of his nose, omnipresent and only breaths away from a sneeze. John smirked at the sight but looked away quickly to give Sherlock some space.

“Mmmm-…nn-!... n-hh-! H’xtt!!”

For something that had taken so long to come upon him, it seemed a pitiful release. John snorted at it, half-smiling. “Don’t tell me that’s all you’ve got, after all that—”

The doctor didn’t have to wait long for another snatching inhale, and then an allergic volley that he directed into a nearby towel. “Ittishh—mppishh—hghishh!—ISH!” And that was just one single breath. A ragged inhale. “Hhhh~!....nixshh—t’ishhh!—ishh—ishhuuu!”

John had been expecting more than one, but a fit of nine in less than one second per sneeze seemed rather extreme. They were quiet fits, so it was possible that Sherlock had been suffering at this level since last night, but judging from the equally surprised expression on the man’s face, John doubted it.

“Still think it’s nothing, then?” John asked, smile gone from his face. Sherlock took a few marshaling breaths, sniffling into the towel before looking up. Then promptly snapping back down for a delayed but powerful, “Mmph’ISHH!” Afterwards, he rubbed an eye on his forearm with a bleary sigh, feeling that it was too early in the morning for such a hearty exertion.

“Quide,” Sherlock said. John was not sure if the word was, “Quiet” or “Quite.” Either way, it was a conversation terminator and a stubborn refusal to admit to something that was becoming more and more obvious. But neither one of the men was comfortable or used to coddling the other, so John just left it at that.

“Fine, then,” the doctor sighed. “I’m off to the street market this morning, and you’re welcome to come along if you’re feeling up to it.” John liked sampling the fresh fruits and vegetables they offered once a week, all of it fresh and most of it reputable. Plus, the weather was very chilly and clear to him in the mornings. What John honestly didn’t know was that the pollen count was also the highest at this time. He didn’t have allergies, and while he was a doctor, he had never had the time or interest to read up on them very much.

As John turned to the sink to wash up, and then go get dressed in his room, he listened to Sherlock strenuously blow his nose in the corner of the bathroom. It was a chore, it sounded like, but John didn’t give a comment on it. After turning to leave, he paused at the door when Sherlock said his name.

“I’ll come along,” he said, voice clipped and a bit flat with lingering congestion. “If only to prove to you that I am capable.”

“Hey, hey, you don’t have to prove anything to me,” John said with a grin, holding his hands palm out. “You do that enough as it is, with all your wacky invention rubbish and snobby detective skills—”

“Try not to flatter me, John.”

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The walk to the market was only a bit windy, and mostly chilly, but head-clearing for John. For Holmes, not so much. Just minutes out of the door, he was crinkling and wrinkling his nose as if he had something caught in it. Every few moments the detective would rub at it with his wrist or the heel of his hand, until the nostrils were a tinted rosy color. By the time the market was in sight, Sherlock was sniffling every few seconds to keep the mucus in. Unwittingly, he was also snuffling up quite a bit of ragweed pollen. It was in the air, prevalent around this area at this time of year. Unfortunately, the always-stoic Sherlock could not yet feel the effects of the irritants. His nose was so stuffy and swollen from the night before, it would take a thick load of the particles to get him going.

And by then there would be too much up in his nasal passages for him to even think about stopping for a while. As they neared the tables of food, the venders calling out their prices and rarities, John rubbed his hands together.

“Ahh,” he sighed. “I think we’ll be eating good for the next few days. How much money do you have on you?”

Sherlock, preoccupied with the wetness in his nose, merely sniffled. “Mm? Whad?” He was fishing out a handkerchief to dab his nose with, and after a moment, his brain processed John’s question and spit something back at him. “Oh. Dot enough for adything you wand to buy. I’b dot spendi’g buddy ond a’dy—bloody hell-!”

He turned to blow his nose, and the doctor just sighed and looked back at the food-spreads. While John was in the midst of haggling, Sherlock felt a peculiar sensation begin in his nose, just at the back, where his nostrils dumped into the back of his throat. It felt like it could be a blooming cough, but when it tipped forward, he knew it most certainly wasn’t. Oh, no. He hadn’t felt it before, but he could feel it now. A thickness against his nasal walls that pickled and fanned, impossible to ignore. He had never felt something so potent, and so urgent, before.

Sherlock staggered back from the sensation, unable to even keep himself from giving an audible, “Ehhhehh—” of preparation. And it didn’t stop there. The tickle only expanded, fluttering into all areas of his nose. He crushed a fist beneath his nose, rubbing up and out, and then scrubbing at the tip to subdue it. But the aggravation was deep in the inside, not anywhere near the surface. No matter how much he rubbed, how fervently he itched—there would be no quelling it. And that made him more frustrated than anything else.

“Dammit—…hehehhh-…” It tugged at him, and Sherlock—the man never surprised by anything—was stunned that this tickle was pulling audible exhales from him. The inhales were breathy and silent, hitching up, and his exhales were soft but vibrating sounds of torture. Holmes was a smart man, despite his stubbornness and need to be right. Outside in the air, he could plainly see the golden specks dusting along the sidewalk and trees, sprinkled on the vendor’s stands. Slathered on the food itself. Dancing, sticking to the inside of his sensitive nose. It was like an invasion.

“hhh-…hehhh…” Another silent inhale, and a stuffy, tickly exhale. There was nowhere for him to escape, no place where there wasn’t some kind of pollen conquest. John, who had heard the last wavering exhale, glanced behind at Sherlock. The sight was evidence enough: the lean, tall man with moist eyes, twitching pink nose, handkerchief hovering uncertainly, and an irritated look on his face. Not just a look of nasal agony, but one of intense and utter revulsion. As if the act of sneezing repulsed him so much, he loathed to even engage in it. John wasn’t surprised, since the oncoming attack looked like a nasty one.

“Uh, oh,” the doctor said.

And if that were the trigger, Sherlock felt the tingling crystalize to a point, and jab him right in the sweet spot. “hh-! HH-!!” The tickle was enormous, and his nose was desperate to have it out. A terrible, pregnant pause. Sherlock’s face stretched into one of agonized, but hopeful expectation… And then,

“Aiiishhii-!!” That one tore from his throat, and sent Sherlock bending double, handkerchief doing nothing to dampen the sound. This first sneeze parted the floodgates. “H’gishh! ISH—hh—ishh!!...MPHISHH!”

People were beginning to stare at the angular man who was thrown forward with each violent sneeze. A couple of the nearby vendors looked disgusted. This was a place of fresh and exposed food, after all. They didn’t need someone with a cold infecting everything. John nervously smiled to the faces turned their way, then slipped over to Sherlock and placed his hands on his shoulders. He started to steer his suffering friend back to the house.

“All right,” he sighed, smiling slightly. “Shopping day is over now.”

“Hhkkishh!—n’shehh!—mmpishh!—idzihh…ihh-!..GISHYUUU!”

Even though John didn’t specialize in allergies, he knew that they could be exhausting. Growing up, he had suffered through some hay fever during the spring time, and he remembered being too exhausted to do anything but lay in bed when the pollen was especially bad. He could feel Sherlock’s muscles tense with every sneeze; by the time they got home, he would bet the stubborn detective would be ready for a shower and a nap.

Sneeze after sneeze, gasp after gasp. Sherlock wasn't even trying to stifle them anymore. They seemed to come in sets of four or five, and then a break. But only a short one. By the seventh set in many minutes, John was concerned.

“Good grief, Sherlock,” he said, putting a hand to Sherlock’s back to keep him steady. “When I thought you were allergic, I never thought this allergic…”

Holmes was muddling through a break at the moment, his handkerchief hopeless at this point. He clenched it with one hand, periodically swiping his nose with it. Whenever he was try to use a coat sleeve to rub at his eyes, John would reach and gently dissuade him. The air was cool, but it did nothing for Sherlock’s warm face. It were as though he could feel every last inch of pollen dust blown against his cheeks, and worse, his nose.

“Id justd won’d stob…” Sherlock was clogged worse than a gummed storm drain, and his bleak observation sounded pitiful in that voice. Slowly closing his puffy eyes, he tilted his head back, dragging one long, wheezing breath-…

“IiiiIIESHHH!!” Before staggering forward with a monster of a sneeze, and then straightening up for an encore. “ISH—gi’hSHH!—mmphshhh!!—ISH!ISH!!—hehh-.. hehii-.. II’PSSISHHH!!-uhhhh…”

The moan on the last one told John that yes, Sherlock would most definitely want a shower and some down time when they got home. First-time allergy sufferers always underestimated the sheer power of an allergic reaction. It was easy to watch people sneeze and itch, but when until Sherlock knew first-hand what it felt like, he had no idea what they went through.

“This iz a bizerable indventiond of the humand body…”

Sherlock’s weary and angered tone amused John, but he tried to keep from grinning for his friend’s sake. It was lucky the market wasn’t terribly far from the house, and that their apartment was in a more urban area, where there was less plant-life. His eyes fell to Sherlock as he sneezed once more.

“Ehhhnn’ishhhuhh!!...ISH—ISHH—shhuhhh!...ugh-…”

At least they were abating. John gave Sherlock a few pats on the back. “I’ll pick up some antihistamines from the drug-store after we get home.” When Sherlock just snuffled in response, sounding resigned, John could only smile.

About time he complied to something.

/end~~

[Jorm]

What on earth do you mean, not so good with his character? NONSENSE! Nonsense, I say! This was excellent, absolutely spot on for both John and Sherlock. Ungf! The way you write the sensations of an allergic reaction and the sneezes it brings is... there are no words. Sherlock isn't the only one who needs a (cold) shower now. XD

[Dusty15]

Nonsense indeed! This is great! (and I'm totally flattered by your shout out!) Never be afraid to post Sherlock stuff- you're good at it! :-D I very much enjoyed this

[tma]

Mmmmmm.....

This was so good! The description was absolutely delicious. As a person with late sumer allergies... I thought that way that you described the allergy feelings were perfect!

Thanks so much!

[matilda3948]

Awesome! I loved this! I think you got the characterization down perfectly.

[VoOs]

It’s a slightly pitiful offering in comparison to what you gave me, but here it is anyway xD. I was actually trying to read some of the best authors on the forum who write BBC Sherlock (like AppleBlossom, Dusty15), but alas, I can’t match them x’DDD. I’m not so good with his character, but here’s hoping~~

I can only echo what others have already said - what on Earth are you talking about, 'no good with his character'? Your characterizations are spot-on! I really, really love your style of writing, and your descriptions of the fetishy goodness are ridiculously sexy. All that irritation, emotional and physical... Unf. So, so lovely. I'm a blushing, giggly mess over here. >/////< *fans self*

Thank you so much for this. My day week has been made. :heart:

[SterlingSilver]

Guysssss~!! >///<~! *huggles everyone* Thank you so much for your encouraging words-! Confidence restored, most definitely!!

I'm so, so glad everyone liked it, and especially glad you liked it VoOs!! <3 :3

[Purple]

Oh wow, this is amazing. Where do I begin? The details, for one. GOSH, your attention to detail is good... And the characters are both SPOT on!

The spellings? GUH. X__O <3

the situation? GAHH!! *_____*

The fits?

[Always]

Oh BlackScatter, wow wow wow wow wow! This was unbelievably amazing, and not to mention sexy. The way you described the irritation and the fits was amaaazing. Well done!