errantcomment | The Solstice Suite: Part Three

Title: The Solstice Suite: The Sniffles and Sherlock.
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Pairing: Gen, UST if you tilt your head ~~and squint.~~
Rating: G.
Word Count: 660
Summary: Gonna try and do a fic a week based around the weeks leading up to Christmas for our two favourite boys. If you have any particular requests, go for it, I'll try to work it in.
Notes/Warnings: Fluff, basically. Based on my kick-ass cold last week.

Part One: Baking
Part Two: Cold Fingers

The thing about living with someone, John reflects one particularly foul week in November, is that you get to see a side of them that no one else does. All the little human moments. Take Sherlock Holmes, for example. He’s got a cold. And no case. He’s lying the on the couch, miserable, wrapped up in his dressing gown and a patchwork quilt that usually lives on John’s bed (Harry sent it to him, used to be their grandmother’s). John loads him up on Lemsip, and forces him to eat some of Tesco’s finest chicken soup. Kleenex mounds around him on the floor and mugs and a couple of bowls litter the floor and table. His voice croaks and he’s runs a fever, but by the third day, John wonders how many other people in the world are privy to the fact that when the world’s greatest consulting detective has a cold, he’s frankly a bit of a baby.

“My head hurts. I’m bored. I’ve run out of tissues. Has Lestrade called? I’m bored. The television is dull, this book is ridiculous. Can I have a cup of tea? My throat hurts. You’re a doctor, why isn’t there a cure for this yet?” All punctuated by sniffs and deep hacking coughs. On the fourth day, after a long shift at the surgery, John goes into the kitchen while the kettle boils. He can hear Sherlock in the next room, tossing books off the shelf in displeasure with one hand, no doubt clutching the blanket round him with the other, despite a roaring fire, and knocks his head gently against the wall a few times.

“Read it, dull, know the ending, banal… John? John!” He pauses to blow his nose. The nose of the world’s greatest consulting detective goes ‘bfnurt’. John looks for comfort from the ceiling.

“There’s still flour on the ceiling,” He remarks, not really expecting an answer per se, more a diatribe on the failings of the bookshelf, the flat and the world in general. He realised a long time ago that when Sherlock’s in this mood, it’s not the words but the tone that matters.

“What are you blithering about? Where’s my phone? I heard it go off, but I can’t find it…” Sherlock sniffs pathetically (in his mind, John bounces his teaspoon off his flatmate’s head) and scrubs his nose with a balled-up tissue as he looks about him, lifting a few random objects as if the phone will magically appear under one of them.

“It’s here,” John retrieves it from a flower-pot and flips through the new message. “It’s from Lestrade. There’s a case. He’s sending a car, but Sherlock, I don’t think-,”

“What?” Sherlock yelps and runs past John, shedding the patchwork quilt on the floor as he goes. He comes back in the next moment tucking in his shirt. Apart from a redness round the nose, he looks every inch the professional genius. Then he ruins it by coughing, a lung-deep sound exacerbated by his old smoking habit. When he’s done, he sits on the couch looking exhausted.

“I don’t think you can go to a crime scene today. It’s cold out, and you’re already sick,” volunteers John, not trusting himself to look up, folding the quilt carefully.

“Nonsense, I’ll be fine.” Sherlock slips on his shoes and retrieves his keys from the mess on the coffee table. Lestrade knocks a few minutes later, and Sherlock wraps himself in his coat, apparently completely fine, tucking his scarf round his neck, checking his pockets for his gloves. He’s even tidied some of the mess of tissues into the bin.

“I’m still not sure-,” John says (without particular rancour) as he follows Sherlock out the door.

“What you’re not sure of could fill several large books, I’m sure,” Sherlock gets into the waiting car without a look back. John grins to himself as he shuts the door to 221B Baker Street.