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tweedandtinsel2011-09-07 07:54 am
oxfordtweed) wrote in tweedandtinsel2011-09-07 07:54 am
Of Tap Water and Toast and Noise-Cancelling Headphones
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Character/s: Holmes, Watson
Word Count: 840
Rating: PG
Summary: Prompt on![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
shkinkmeme. Sherlock is annoying as hell when John gets ill.
Read on AO3
Of Tap Water and Toast and Noise-Cancelling Headphones
During John Watson’s very colourful career as a medical professional, he came to learn that there are two sorts of people when it comes to being ill. The sort who wanted to be waited on hand and foot, able to not even fetch a glass of water for themselves, and the sort who preferred to be left the hell alone so they could crawl under the house and die.
John Watson was squarely and firmly in the second camp.
As it was, living with the world’s only consulting detective and most over-grown six-year-old, it was only a matter of time before he picked up food poisoning from a dodgy take-away. And pick up food poisoning he did. After the second time of being sick in under an hour, he made his diagnosis, grabbed the rubbish bin from the bathroom, and all but crawled back to his room.
Twenty minutes later, Sherlock let himself into John’s room and started fishing around his pillows for items unknown.
“Sherlock,” John warned wearily. “Sherlock, piss off.”
He shoved Sherlock’s hands away from his already pounding head and made a half-hearted attempt to punch him in the shoulder. He missed, but Sherlock backed away all the same.
“Why?” John demanded.
“Oh.” Sherlock hesitated slightly, but John wasn’t paying attention. He was too busy burying his face in his duvet. “You haven’t seen my floppy disks, have you?”
John wasn’t even going to ask why Sherlock still had floppy disks, let alone why he suddenly needed them.
“No,” he said gruffly. “And why would you think I had them in my bed?”
Sherlock shrugged. “Why not?”
John picked up his alarm and threw it at his flatmate, but the cord caught it and it just crashed to the ground awkwardly. It did seem to get the point across though, as Sherlock retreated anyway.
John wasn’t sure how long he’d been asleep when Sherlock woke him again, holding a pint glass in front of his face.
“Taste this,” Sherlock ordered.
John stared at him for a long moment.
“Why?” he demanded with a heavy croak in his voice. “What did you do to it?”
“Nothing,” Sherlock insisted, managing to sound scandalised. “It doesn’t taste right, but I can’t quite work out why.”
John narrowed his eyes at Sherlock, trying to find the lie in the madness. Eventually, he gave up and snatched the glass away, ignoring the bit he’d spilt on the floor. After giving the glass a cautious sniff, he sipped it and handed it back.
“It’s tap water,” he said. “There’s nothing wrong with it, and no-one’s trying to kill you, you paranoid twat. Piss off.”
Sherlock frowned at the glass and set it on the nightstand. “You might as well keep it,” he said. “I don’t like sharing drinks.”
John wanted to call bullshit, having seen Sherlock steal his tea more often than he could count, but he just couldn’t muster the energy. He went back to sleep instead.
The next time Sherlock let himself into John’s room, he was carrying a small plate. John couldn’t see what was on the plate, but the smell of it sent his stomach lurching. He reached for the bin he’d brought into his room earlier that morning, retching into it violently. There hadn’t been much left in his stomach to bring back up, save for bile and an unpleasant taste.
By the time he looked back up, Sherlock was gone again, and a few slices of toast sat next to the water on the nightstand. John ignored the toast, drank the water, and went back to sleep.
It was dark when John stumbled blearily down the stairs in his shorts and dressing gown. He found Sherlock on the floor with his over-priced headphones plugged into his laptop. Considering the things were designed to cancel out aeroplane noises, John should have been surprised when Sherlock twisted and arched around to watch him as he collapsed onto the sofa.
“Bottom third of the door handle, my arse,” John muttered, positive that Sherlock could hear him. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re a pathological liar?”
Sherlock pulled his headphones off and frowned at John, watching him in a way that should have been uncomfortable, had John had any sanity left.
“Even so. I’ve discarded that particular menu as well as what was left over,” Sherlock told him. “And in light of the situation, I think we can both agree –”
“I don’t want to hear it,” John said, cutting him off. He already knew where Sherlock was going, gloating over how his failure to eat regular meals had saved them from both getting ill.
John especially didn’t want to hear it because he hated it when Sherlock was right about these things.
“Did you at least eat the toast?” asked Sherlock.
“No.” And then a thought occurred to John. “You’re going to be a pain in my arse when you get sick, aren’t you?”
Sherlock didn’t answer, and ignored John by putting on his headphones.
At least the flat was quiet for once.
Character/s: Holmes, Watson
Word Count: 840
Rating: PG
Summary: Prompt on
shkinkmeme. Sherlock is annoying as hell when John gets ill.Read on AO3
Of Tap Water and Toast and Noise-Cancelling Headphones
During John Watson’s very colourful career as a medical professional, he came to learn that there are two sorts of people when it comes to being ill. The sort who wanted to be waited on hand and foot, able to not even fetch a glass of water for themselves, and the sort who preferred to be left the hell alone so they could crawl under the house and die.
John Watson was squarely and firmly in the second camp.
As it was, living with the world’s only consulting detective and most over-grown six-year-old, it was only a matter of time before he picked up food poisoning from a dodgy take-away. And pick up food poisoning he did. After the second time of being sick in under an hour, he made his diagnosis, grabbed the rubbish bin from the bathroom, and all but crawled back to his room.
Twenty minutes later, Sherlock let himself into John’s room and started fishing around his pillows for items unknown.
“Sherlock,” John warned wearily. “Sherlock, piss off.”
He shoved Sherlock’s hands away from his already pounding head and made a half-hearted attempt to punch him in the shoulder. He missed, but Sherlock backed away all the same.
“Why?” John demanded.
“Oh.” Sherlock hesitated slightly, but John wasn’t paying attention. He was too busy burying his face in his duvet. “You haven’t seen my floppy disks, have you?”
John wasn’t even going to ask why Sherlock still had floppy disks, let alone why he suddenly needed them.
“No,” he said gruffly. “And why would you think I had them in my bed?”
Sherlock shrugged. “Why not?”
John picked up his alarm and threw it at his flatmate, but the cord caught it and it just crashed to the ground awkwardly. It did seem to get the point across though, as Sherlock retreated anyway.
John wasn’t sure how long he’d been asleep when Sherlock woke him again, holding a pint glass in front of his face.
“Taste this,” Sherlock ordered.
John stared at him for a long moment.
“Why?” he demanded with a heavy croak in his voice. “What did you do to it?”
“Nothing,” Sherlock insisted, managing to sound scandalised. “It doesn’t taste right, but I can’t quite work out why.”
John narrowed his eyes at Sherlock, trying to find the lie in the madness. Eventually, he gave up and snatched the glass away, ignoring the bit he’d spilt on the floor. After giving the glass a cautious sniff, he sipped it and handed it back.
“It’s tap water,” he said. “There’s nothing wrong with it, and no-one’s trying to kill you, you paranoid twat. Piss off.”
Sherlock frowned at the glass and set it on the nightstand. “You might as well keep it,” he said. “I don’t like sharing drinks.”
John wanted to call bullshit, having seen Sherlock steal his tea more often than he could count, but he just couldn’t muster the energy. He went back to sleep instead.
The next time Sherlock let himself into John’s room, he was carrying a small plate. John couldn’t see what was on the plate, but the smell of it sent his stomach lurching. He reached for the bin he’d brought into his room earlier that morning, retching into it violently. There hadn’t been much left in his stomach to bring back up, save for bile and an unpleasant taste.
By the time he looked back up, Sherlock was gone again, and a few slices of toast sat next to the water on the nightstand. John ignored the toast, drank the water, and went back to sleep.
It was dark when John stumbled blearily down the stairs in his shorts and dressing gown. He found Sherlock on the floor with his over-priced headphones plugged into his laptop. Considering the things were designed to cancel out aeroplane noises, John should have been surprised when Sherlock twisted and arched around to watch him as he collapsed onto the sofa.
“Bottom third of the door handle, my arse,” John muttered, positive that Sherlock could hear him. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re a pathological liar?”
Sherlock pulled his headphones off and frowned at John, watching him in a way that should have been uncomfortable, had John had any sanity left.
“Even so. I’ve discarded that particular menu as well as what was left over,” Sherlock told him. “And in light of the situation, I think we can both agree –”
“I don’t want to hear it,” John said, cutting him off. He already knew where Sherlock was going, gloating over how his failure to eat regular meals had saved them from both getting ill.
John especially didn’t want to hear it because he hated it when Sherlock was right about these things.
“Did you at least eat the toast?” asked Sherlock.
“No.” And then a thought occurred to John. “You’re going to be a pain in my arse when you get sick, aren’t you?”
Sherlock didn’t answer, and ignored John by putting on his headphones.
At least the flat was quiet for once.
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crawl under the house and die
Yep! :D
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