Deductive Reasons (BBC's "Sherlock") - Part 3/?, Updated Feb 2

[starpollen]

I'm not very comfortable writing fanfiction, but this plot bunny got into my head and wouldn't stop until I'd written it.

This is set more than a year after Season 4.  John hasn’t moved on, hasn’t had another significant relationship, although he has been on some casual dates.  Basically, both men have reverted to the relationship they had in the beginning.  Almost. 

There will be spoilers.  Sorry; I don’t know how to avoid them.

First few parts are a little short, compared to my usual loquaciousness: the plot bunny wants to drag it out for some reason.  It’s going to be a little plotty… a little angsty… because I like it that way.    Hope you do, too!

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Part 1

If they had been in the middle of a case, John didn’t think he would have picked up on it quite so quickly.  But because it was one of the lulls - and because he was increasingly hyper-aware of Sherlock’s irritated, near-manic activity – he had noticed the subtle signs.  

Or maybe Sherlock had been too distracted to hide it.

“It’s a cold, John,” Sherlock toned in a flat, bored voice.  “A minor annoyance, rather like your endlessly useless prattle.”

“Uncomfortable, though,” the doctor offered, ignoring the insult, leaning in the door frame of the kitchen with jumper-clad arms crossed over his chest.

“Mm,” those gray-green ice chip eyes didn’t even blink as the ‘consulting detective’ measured another mysterious substance into a beaker.   The taller man’s normally pale cheeks were slightly flushed, lips dry and parted to breathe, the rims of his nostrils just the barest pink from where he’d been swiping at them absent-mindedly for the last several hours.

“You have anything to eat?” John couldn’t keep the impatient edge from his voice, knowing the answer but hoping to be surprised.

He was met with more silence.

Looking down and chuffing a short blast of a sigh through his nose, the shorter man pushed off the dark wood frame and stalked across the room to the refrigerator.  Pulling it open – holding his breath out of habit – he was not surprised to find most of the groceries Mrs. Hudson had picked up last week had been replaced by various petri dishes and containers of dubious content.  Closing the door, he let out the breath he’d been subconsciously holding. 

“Chinese or Indian?” he asked without turning around, pulling his mobile from his pocket.  And wasn’t surprised – again – when he received no answer. 

What John Watson wouldn’t give to be surprised just once by Sherlock Holmes in this particular context.

“I’m thinking a curry,” he continued to speak out-loud as he scrolled through his contacts.  “Nice and spicy.  Lots of garlic.  Good for the immune system.”

The hiss of a Bunsen burner lighting was his only reply.

“Right.”  Not looking at the table in the middle of the room where Sherlock’s long fingers were fiddling with another of his endless experiments, John walked out to the living room to stand at the window, thumb depressing the button to begin the call.  One of the perks of living in Central London was the proximity to several prime restaurants who delivered quickly.

Ten minutes later found John Watson sitting in ‘his’ chair, back to the kitchen, re-reading a medical journal article about bowel resections.  His eyes scanned the page, but he found himself at the end of a paragraph without remembering a single word.

Normally he would have gone out, maybe to the library or out to the shops, tried to get a woman’s number.  It’d been almost a month since his first failed attempt at dating after... everything... and the last couple of days he had started to get the itch to try again.  To distract himself for a while from the memory.  But he didn’t feel like it.

A few itchy sounding sniffles broke through his thoughts.  Followed by two stifled sneezes.

“h’gNXt!… h-… ch-NG’xt!… ahh.”

That small exhalation of breath at the end, low and tired, echoed in John’s ears.  Pinching the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes, the doctor pursed his lips to stop the statements that wanted to break forth.

Stop this. You’re ill.  You need to rest.  Eat.  Drink some tea.  Sleep for more than two hours at a time… 

But – as logical and scientific as Sherlock always seemed – John knew it was pointless to try.  Going back to the top of the paragraph, he set about re-reading what he'd already re-read, trying to concentrate. 

At least until the curry got here. 

Edited February 2, 2018 by starpollen

[Masking]

I love this. So in-character and so adorable and I hope there's more. <3

ETA: I see that there will be more. Is it too much to hope for Johnlock?

Edited January 28, 2018 by Masking

[MaiMai]

Eep, Sherlock!!! And you're writing it so wonderfully!

1 hour ago, starpollen said:

“It’s a cold, John,” Sherlock toned in a flat, bored voice.  “A minor annoyance, rather like your endlessly useless prattle

The sass here is incredible. What a great line

1 hour ago, starpollen said:

A few itchy sounding sniffles broke through his thoughts.  Followed by two stifled sneezes.

“h’gNXt!… h-… ch-NG’xt!… ahh.”

The description of the sniffles, the spellings, the sigh afterwards...everything together is just so hnnng

1 hour ago, starpollen said:

Stop this. You’re ill.  You need to rest.  Eat.  Drink some tea.  Sleep for more than two hours at a time… 

And I love John's inner dialogue here!! His doctor instincts are kicking in~

In conclusion, this is a lovely start to a fic and I'm very excited to see any more you wish to share with us!

[Spoo]

I tend to get so excited whenever I see a Sherlock fic focusing on John and Sherlock (and post series 4, at that). Love what you have so far, especially: 

6 hours ago, starpollen said:

That small exhalation of breath at the end, low and tired, echoed in John’s ears.  Pinching the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes, the doctor pursed his lips to stop the statements that wanted to break forth.

Stop this. You’re ill.  You need to rest.  Eat.  Drink some tea.  Sleep for more than two hours at a time… 

 

[AngelEyes]

This is fantastic! I like your setting and you've got their personalities down perfect.

[camillapapen]

Ohhh, one of my favourite writers and one if my favourite fandoms. Fantastic!

[starpollen]

Thank you guys so much!  One of the reasons I get so nervous writing fanfiction is that I am afraid I won't do the characters justice.  We fans can be such sticklers!  Please do let me know if I get anything wrong - I want to capture the characters as accurately as possible.  

As to the idea of Johnlock... @Masking there is part of me that wants to try to write it.  I love reading it, on the few instances when it's done well.  But one of the things I loved so much about the series (and maybe all of us did) was how there was always the hints, the innuendos, the possibilities... That was one of the things I loved most about The X-Files, and when that subtle dance was no longer part of the show... it kinda ruined it.  I'm on the fence about trying to write it, because - if it's not done well - it ruins a story.  So... I don't know.  Maybe. 

MaiMai, Spoo, AngelEyes, and camillapapen - thank you SO MUCH for your encouragement!  I really was nervous, and your comments have given me the courage to continue to post.  I'll do my best to continue to provide satisfying high-quality writing.   Please continue to let me know how you like it!  And, if you have any ideas.

Still dragging this out with short parts.  Not sure why... that's just the way it's coming, at the moment.  Hope you enjoy!

                                                                                ~             ~             ~

Part 2

It had all started the day before.

John had been woken at 3:47 in the morning by low banging thuds coming from the kitchen.  Shrugging into his bathrobe, blinking the sleep from his eyes, the doctor had come downstairs to find a whole pig carcass on the table, Holmes repeatedly punching its shoulder with a massive needle.

“I don’t want to know, do I?” he’d asked around a jaw-cracking yawn.

Jerking as if startled by the shorter man’s appearance, Sherlock had whipped his head around to stare wide-eyed, his shoulders heaving from the physical effort.  Small beads of perspiration glimmered on his skin, matting the dark curls against his brow.  His clothes were rumpled and stained, disheveled and uncaring.  But it was the smudging of purplish bruising under those piercing eyes that had John’s brows drawing together. 

Sherlock had looked… off… in a way John couldn’t exactly put his finger on. But after having lived together for so many years, he knew when his flatmate wasn’t 100%.  

Not that Sherlock himself seemed to have any clue.  He continued to flit from project to project, growing increasingly more fidgety and intense.  This was usual during a lull.  The lack of Sherlock’s one-sided dialogue that normally accompanied these periods of mania, however, had sent little warning bells going off in a distant corner of the doctor’s mind. 

Watson had made them both toast for breakfast, which Sherlock hadn’t touched.  He’d made himself a sandwich for lunch, letting the younger man fend for himself.  As the day drew on, John had noticed Sherlock making small clearing noises in his throat, followed by increasingly liquid sniffles.

“You all right?” John had asked as he was gathering up the towels for a load of laundry.

“Perfectly,” Sherlock had muttered, squinting into his microscope.

That evening, John had opened a tin of soup and poured it into two oversized mugs.  The older man had pointedly set down one of them next to Sherlock’s elbow, raising his eyebrows over the rim of his own as he sipped.  When he’d gone to bed at 11:09 p.m. – leaving Sherlock scrolling through one of his bizarre websites of selective interest – the mug had still been sitting there.  It had still been there when John had come down the next morning at 7:42 a.m. to make coffee.  

It was no surprise that Sherlock had been up all night engrossed in yet another exercise designed to keep his brain furiously engaged.  It hadn’t been the first night Sherlock hadn’t slept, nor the last.

But the throat-clearing noises had turned to dry coughs by 9:16 a.m.  Then, the sneezing started.

“ih-nxt!... hk’NXcht!  …ahh.”

Every fifteen to twenty minutes, like clockwork.  Always two, always stifled.  Always with that low exhalation of breath at the end.   But Sherlock had refused to slow down his frenetic activities.

John had tried to ignore it, though it went against every ounce of his doctor’s training.  But it was the appearance of the handkerchief – at 11:24 a.m. – that had clinched it.

“You’re sick,” John had observed, though it sounded suspiciously more like an accusation.

Sherlock had flicked his ice-gray-green gaze briefly at his flatmate, giving his nose a discreet swipe with the white cloth before tucking it back into his pocket. 

Newspaper still suspended over his lap, John had stared at the detective’s profile, illuminated by the glow of the laptop.  “Well?”

The clacking of computer keys hadn’t even paused. “…well… what?”

“You’re not going to answer me?”

“You didn’t ask… a question.” The low reply was soft, distracted.  And maybe a little hoarse.

John stared at the back of that curly head for a long moment.

“Fine,” Watson had snapped the paper, raising it to block the sight of his stubborn best friend. 

Edited March 6, 2018 by starpollen

[AngelEyes]

12 hours ago, starpollen said:

Newspaper still suspended over his lap, John had stared at the detective’s profile, illuminated by the glow of the laptop.  “Well?”

The clacking of computer keys hadn’t even paused. “…well… what?”

“You’re not going to answer me?”

“You didn’t ask… a question.” The low reply was soft, distracted.  And maybe a little hoarse.

John stared at the back of that curly head for a long moment.

“Fine,” Watson had snapped the paper, raising it to block the sight of his stubborn best friend. 

Poor John. Stubborn Sherlock. Love it!

[Shamaël]

On 29/01/2018 at 0:17 PM, starpollen said:

One of the reasons I get so nervous writing fanfiction is that I am afraid I won't do the characters justice.

Don't worry, you write the characters absolutely perfectly. The interaction between them is really spot-on and I'm sure that's how it happened after Mary's death.

On 28/01/2018 at 8:29 PM, starpollen said:

Pinching the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes, the doctor pursed his lips to stop the statements that wanted to break forth.

Stop this. You’re ill.  You need to rest.  Eat.  Drink some tea.  Sleep for more than two hours at a time… 

John's point of view is really well done. Concern and irritation.

On 29/01/2018 at 0:17 PM, starpollen said:

“Well?”

The clacking of computer keys hadn’t even paused. “…well… what?”

“You’re not going to answer me?”

“You didn’t ask… a question.”

... And the dialogues between John and Sherlock are very close to what they are in the best moment of the series. The fact that Sherlock is the sneezing character is just like icing on the cake! Thank you for this beginning, I really hope you'll continue this fic!

[starpollen]

It was now after 5:00 in the afternoon, and Sherlock had barely done so much as sit down all day. His dry lips were parted to breathe, eyelids a little droopy, shoulders just the barest bit hunched.   Yet he ignored all attempts at conversation or food or rest, intently focused on keeping his mind engaged until they got a case.

“I’m BORED, John!” Sherlock had snapped at the suggestion that they go to the new exhibit at the science museum.  “Do you really think I would want to queue up with a crowd of illiterate, unwashed plebeians and shuffle from glass box to glass box looking at the equivalent of 4^th grade science fair displays?  That. Is not. The WORK!”

“What, and punching pigs with syringes and, and-and growing… twelve different kinds of mould in the fridge and--… pouring over midget bestiality websites… THAT qualifies as The Great Work?”

“There’s a possible connection between achondroplasia and erythrism in Tibetan mountain goats, which – as a doctor – you might possibly find of interest, were you capable of understanding the subtlest of complexities.”  Those cool, ice-chip eyes cut to him for a long moment.  “Which, obviously, you are not.  So why don’t you take yourself off to the little science museum, Doctor.”  His eyes drew back down to the microscope.  “It's on your level.  Elementary.”

John had stared at him, pursing his lips.  Then, after a long moment, he murmured, “Just because you’re coming down with a cold, it doesn’t mean you have to be a git.” Then John had stalked away, throwing himself into his chair and picking up the remote.  

The droning sound of daytime television echoed off the papered walls.

After a few minutes, Sherlock had come to sit opposite him in silent apology.  But not even the usual ‘crap telly’ had been able to tame the taller man’s restlessness.  After twenty minutes of finger drumming and knee bouncing, he’d stalked into the kitchen on long legs and picked up a beaker.

“H!—NXch! -- … TSX’ch!  - ahh.”

The stifles were becoming more fierce, the coughs increasingly frequent.

Which brought them to the current moment.   Waiting for curry to arrive.

The doorbell rang.  John heaved himself up and jogged down the steps to retrieve the bags from the delivery person: Sherlock’s favorite curry from Sherlock’s favorite place.  Designed to tempt the younger man into sitting down for two seconds together and hopefully eating a full meal.  Ideally being full enough to feel drowsy and fall asleep for a few hours afterward.

 “Got your favorite,” John called out as he searched the cupboards for any clean plates.  Any at all… “Tandoor House.”

He heard footsteps, then the sound of a door closing.  Finding a plate and pulling it down, he heard the first sweet notes of Sherlock’s violin.  Bracing his arms against the counter, John hung his head and sighed.  Once Sherlock started playing, it could be hours before he stopped.

Mrs. Hudson and John both tried to monitor Sherlock’s eating habits: left to his own devices, the detective usually just didn’t remember. 

Mrs. Hudson was the one who made sure there was fresh food in the house, and John had several delivery places on speed dial.  Sometimes the two men would come home at the end of the day to find a savory pudding or roast cooling on their stove.  Once a month Sherlock would start shouting the house down when Mrs. Hudson cleaned out their fridge and replaced his experiments with fresh fruit, vegetables, and sandwich-stuffs.  There was always milk for tea, a loaf of bread, and some tins of soup.  John ordered take-away for them at least three nights a week.

But the last two days…  The already-lean man had consumed two cups of coffee each morning and two or three cups of tea throughout the day… but nothing else.

John had seen this behavior before: it wasn’t unusual for Sherlock to neglect his ‘transport’s’ needs when on a case.  But it didn’t usually happen during a lull; that was when both men could rest and rebuild their strength. Even if a lull did frustrate Sherlock’s mind with its idleness, it was generally good for his body. 

But something was niggling at John about this time.  Something was different.  He just couldn’t figure out what.

Sucking in a deep breath, John raised his head and began to dish up rice and curry on the plate just the way Sherlock liked it.  Grabbing a spoon from the drawer, the doctor took the bowl in his other hand and made his way to the closed door of his flatmate’s bedroom. Sliding the spoon into the dish, he turned the knob.  It wasn’t locked.

Sherlock had his back to the door, facing the silver music stand that was positioned in front of the window.   His pencil was in his teeth, fingers moving slowly across the instrument’s slender neck.   And sniffling.

 “Dinner’s here,” John nudged the door open, striding forward and setting the plate of curry down on top of a stack of books.  Reaching around Sherlock’s slim waist, he closed the sheet music.  “You need to eat something.”

“Later.”  Long fingers reached to open the pages.  They were stopped by a hand closing around his wrist.

“No.  Now.”  

The two men stared each other down. Both jaws were set, both sets of eyes unblinking.  Until...

 “H’ipsSHhh-HH!- rr’TSHieu!”  Aimed into the crook of an arm, hand still holding his bow.

“God bless you,” John supplied with a curt nod.   Reaching for the plate, he extended it out with one arm.  “Have a curry.”

Edited February 2, 2018 by starpollen

[AngelEyes]

Awww. I love how determined John is. And Sherlock can be such a stubborn child!

[Shamaël]

9 hours ago, starpollen said:

“It's on your level.  Elementary.”

 I LOVE this line. Just... perfect. (Not nice, of course, but I love it.)

9 hours ago, starpollen said:

After a few minutes, Sherlock had come to sit opposite him in silent apology.

"Silent apology". Yes, it defines Sherlock very well.

9 hours ago, starpollen said:

Later.”  Long fingers reached to open the pages.  They were stopped by a hand closing around his wrist.

“No.  Now.”  

I really like John's determination to help his stupid friend getting better... And I can't wait for the next part!

[camillapapen]

Lovely lovely lovely! So happy to see you are continuing with this.

[matilda3948]

I don't know how I missed this story. It's so great!! Characterization is spot on and sick Sherlock is my most favorite thing.

[lsbn]

Awww this is great!!!!!!!!!! So well-written - I can't wait to read more!!!

[beatlelover22]

On 2/2/2018 at 0:20 AM, starpollen said:

“God bless you,” John supplied with a curt nod.   Reaching for the plate, he extended it out with one arm.  “Have a curry.”

Oh my gosh... this part just got me!! John is such a sweetheart ugh <3