Sherlock Holmes (M) (First fanfiction post)

[uniquelyme]

So this is my first fanfiction post and I apologize if its not very good. I'm no writer or anything. The reason I posted this was that I found it in a folder on my computer because I wrote it around 3 years ago. I fixed it up a bit and decided to post it. Let me know what you think.

The rain bombarded the building on Baker Street. Each drop tried desperately to squeeze its way inside, seeking shelter, as if the horrible weather was even too much for the precipitation to bear.

The door creaked open and a very wet and disheveled Sherlock Holmes entered the warm house. Slowly he set about unwrapping himself from the sticky wet bundle. He stripped off his dripping scarf and pealed off his soaked coat. Emptying the water that had accumulated in his boots, Sherlock found himself standing in a large puddle. Leaving his wet garments behind, he proceeded to the kitchen to get a cup of hot tea.

Mrs. Hudson nearly dropped her tray of scones as Sherlock entered the kitchen.

“Look at you! Tracking all this water and mud about!” Mrs. Hudson scolded as Sherlock gave a tight-lipped grin, took a scone from her tray and shoved it into his mouth.

He then silently proceeded to pour himself a cup of tea from the kettle that was sitting atop the stove. Sherlock exited the kitchen and trudged up the stairs, all the while, Mrs. Hudson bickering and scolding him.

Sherlock entered his study and glanced about. It was a scattered mess. Pictures hung askew over the peeling wallpaper. Odd nicknacks and variable objects lay scattered about. The desk looked to be nothing more than a pile of documents and newspaper clippings. Home sweet home. Sherlock thought as he sat in his armchair and pulled his pipe out of his pocket. Noticing it was a bit heavy, he blew into one end, forcing water to spout from the other. Smiling, Sherlock set the pipe down on the table.

Realizing how chilly it was, Sherlock set about removing his remaining damp clothing and changing into his sleep-wear. Having found nothing better to do, he sat on his chair, tea in one hand, a book in the other. Around half-way through the second chapter Sherlock began to sniffle a bit. Not giving it much thought, he blew his nose in a handkerchief he continued to read. As he flipped another page, Sherlock could feel a steady tickle growing in his nose. He lifted his hand to rub his nose in an attempt to force the tickle into submission. For a moment he thought that it had worked when suddenly the sensation returned with twice its former intensity. He could do nothing to stop himself from jolting forward and giving in to the involuntary response.

“Heh-HETCHEW!”

Annoyed, he gave his nose another blow into the handkerchief.

“Bless you.” Called Watson from his study. Sherlock ignored the blessing and continued to absentmindedly flip through the pages of the book.

John Watson sat quietly, turning the pages of a medical book absentmindedly. Watson was an experienced medical practitioner and a close friend of Sherlock Holmes. Watson sipped on his tea and continued to flip through the medical book. He winced as he heard the heavy coughing coming from the neighboring room. He knew better than to ask Sherlock if he was ill. He wouldn’t get an honest answer. Sherlock would stubbornly refuse to admit any weakness.

So instead of bothering to question, Watson rummaged through his medicine cabinet and pulled out a small bottle of medicine. He entered Sherlock’s study where the sniffling detective was concentratedly rubbing at his nose. Watson set the bottle down on the table beside him.

“Take one-” Watson’s instruction was cut off by his friend’s sneeze.

“Heh-HURRUSHH!”

Bless you. And would you mind not interrupting me?” Watson asked jokingly. Take one spoonful every four hours.” He instructed.

“And what makes you think that I need this?” Sherlock asked defensively, shaking the little bottle.

“Nothing. I just figured it might be of some use to you.” Watson turned to return to his own study.

Before Sherlock could think of a witty response, his nose was met with a familiar sensation. The tickle started out as a mild irritation and rapidly built within his sinuses. He pinched his nostrils and tried to maintain a steady breathing pattern. With his unoccupied hand, he blindly reached around on the table for his handkerchief. Finding the square of cloth just in time, he pressed it against his nose.

“HHUPTCHEW!! Ugh...”

He brought the handkerchief down to see a mildly amused John Watson staring at him from the doorway. “Now that looked like quite a struggle.” He said with a chuckle.

Sherlock did his best to quickly cover his embarrassment. “Merely a sneeze. A simple release caused by stimulation in-”

“Bless you.” John cut him off but remained in his fixed position at the doorway.

“I assure you I am not ill.” Sherlock said indignantly. “I must be allergic to-”

“No need to explain to me. No one said anything about you being ill. And especially with something as undignified as a mere head-cold.” Watson mocked.

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest but once again Watson spoke first. “Even so, perhaps some rest would do you good. Goodnight.” With that he headed back to his study.

Once Watson had gone Sherlock eyed the little bottle of medicine suspiciously. For a brief moment he considered talking some. No. He thought. I refused to be ill. Sherlock set the bottle down and continued reading.

In truth, however, Sherlock felt awful. His head ached and his nose was stuffy. He felt cold, even though the house was rather warm.

Sherlock stood to light a fire in the fireplace. The act of standing made his body ache in protest. After lighting the fire he plopped into bed and resigned to a fit of coughing.

............................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................

Sherlock awoke to bright daylight shining through the curtains and a small tube-like instrument in his mouth. He opened his eyes to discover a thermometer between his lips. Startled, he spit it out immediately and sat up to find Watson sitting on a chair beside his bed.

“What on earth do you think you’re doing?” Sherlock asked, his voice coming out raspier than he would have liked.

“Checking your temperature.” Replied Watson picking up the thermometer from where it now lay and examined it.

“I will ha- have- Huh- HUPTCHEW! I will have you know that I am in perfect health. HESHHEW!” Sherlock managed in between sneezes.

“Of course you are.” Said Watson trying not to smile at his friend’s stubbornness. “You simply have a fever, that’s all.”

Watson set the thermometer down and handed Sherlock a spoon full of thick reddish liquid. Sherlock looked at it with distaste.

“You expect me to consume that foul looking mixture?” Sherlock asked, pulling his head away from the spoon lingering before him.

“Yes.” Watson replied plainly.

Sherlock looked at John’s expression to see if he was serious. “Are you sure you’re not the one who’s fevered? That concoction looks positively dreadful.”

“As do you.” Watson replied simply.

Sherlock considered the statement and continued to protest. “Bu-” He hadn’t even made it halfway past the first word of his argument before Watson, seeing the opportunity, had shoved the spoonful of disgusting medicine in his mouth. Before Sherlock could spit it out Watson’s hand was firmly pressed against his mouth.

“Swallow.” The doctor demanded firmly.

Sherlock complied. He shuddered as the thick liquid slid down his throat. Watson removed his hand. Sherlock coughed a couple times and cleared his throat and looked up at the doctor, who had a smug little grin on his face.

“Now, rest. I’ll have Mrs. Hudson make some soup and I’ll bring it in to you later.”

For once, the detective did not protest. He settled for a dissatisfied glare in the direction of his friend.

“Thank you.” He offered grudgingly.

“What was that?”

“You heard it the first time. Don’t make me say it again.”

Watson smiled. “Your welcome, Sherlock.” And with that he turned to leave.

[rodakemopetojoen]

This was delightful to read, I love the way you captured Holmes's dislike for showing weakness, and your writing fits nicely into the Conan-Doyle style! Thanks for sharing this, it was wonderful

[Juto]

I could so easily imagine Benedict Cumberbatch as the sick Sherlock! Please do more of these if you can. It was a joy to read.

[Seniorstatus14]

I loved it!!!! That was fantastic!!! It reminded me of the book Sherlock more so than the show, but I can also easily picture Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman playing these parts.

[SleepingPhlox]

Eh, you really sell yourself short when you say you're no writer. This was lovely and descriptively well written. Also, I agree with the other commenters that said this fits really well in with the book style. I'm far more familiar with the books than any of the TV/film adaptations and prefer the original setting, and this very much read like it fit into the original setting, which I enjoyed. I hope this is the first of many fiction posts!

[Naraya]

Lovely. I was trying to fathom whether or not it was RDJ's Sherlock or Benedicts?

[AngelEyes]

A wonderful Doyle version of Sherlock. I am a huge BBC Sherlock fan (understatement) but some good vintage Arthur Conan Doyle versions are always a pleasure. I like Holmes and Watson's banter. Wry humor true to the original.

“No need to explain to me. No one said anything about you being ill. And especially with something as undignified as a mere head-cold.” Watson mocked.

And I love Sherlock waking up with a thermometer in his mouth. LOL

Would love to read more in the future!

[squealofapproval]

That was an amazing piece of writing! You captured the characters brilliantly! I just... Wow! That was good!

[Sharpie]

This was really cute! You're writing's very witty and John was especially in character.