AN: Hi! I couldn't resist doing a third whump upload. This second one is, as you probably gleaned from the summary, a bit of a crack fic, but I couldn't help it. My head needed a break from the usual angst (I love it, don't get me wrong, but moderation in all things…) Ok, for those of you who don't know much about general fanfic slang (and the Sherlock fandom does have quite a different flavour to the rest, though that does you credit!) crack means something senseless, hopefully funny, slightly farcical and deliberately quite unbelievable.
Essentially it's a bit of a romp into the absurd, a word hiccup. But for goodness sake, it's not supposed to be in canon, so please please don't tell me about all the reasons it couldn't work. I know. This isn't serious. It's just fanfic. So relax, smile, and let the insanity wash over you.
About the story, well, like a few other writers, I thought it was about time Sherlock's disregard for vital bodily processes caught up with him, and in the process I could write mad, fluffy hurt/comfort and whump. Naturally, I couldn't resist. Plus, frying pans are the best weapons in the world, as anyone who has seen Tangled will tell you.
DISCLAIMER: Astoundingly, I still don't own Sherlock. I do still own all my original characters and ideas, so no stealing.
Ok, so this set in between series 1 and 2. It's not canon, that's just to give you an idea of timing and where the characters are with each other etc. Ok? Good.
There were times, Sherlock decided, fighting off his attacker with a handy mop, when John being at the surgery really was a major inconvenience. He'd put off having a serious conversation with the doctor about it for months, but really, it was about time he realized that the commonwealth could snivel for all he cared, Sherlock needed his faithful sidekick to blog about him, do the menial work (like cooking) and help him fight murderous psychopaths. If he had to, Sherlock was even considering telling the good doctor that he wasn't sure how he'd managed without him.
Sherlock leapt onto the coffee table as his attacker pressed forwards, an Iraqi man with a clear flair for the dramatic, what with the sword, cape and leather boots. At first Sherlock thought he'd come from a fancy dress party; an assumption which was dismissed when the stranger promptly tried to stab him.
By now, Sherlock had been backed into a corner, and short of jumping out of the window, he saw no particularly easy avenue of escape. He spun his mop, jabbing into the attacker's chest hard before he realized that so much rough wool would do very little in a fight to the death. Rolling his eyes, he twisted the wood to stop another heavy strike from the sword. Wood chips spat into his face and he eyed his makeshift weapon critically, swiftly estimating that he had about three minutes before it splintered under the impact of his opponent's superior tool.
Abruptly, he looked up, making his eyes go wide, dropping his lower jaw in an appropriate expression of surprise and pointing behind the man's shoulder, shouting "look!"
The man spun, and Sherlock rolled his eyes before kicking him in the shins and digging the wooden end of his mop into his stomach. He skipped back into the centre of the flat and it was at this point, as his opponent spun to face him with renewed fury in his dark eyes, that Sherlock felt a wave of dizziness wash over him. Clumsily, he blocked as the other man brought his sword down, but a second later pain sizzled over his arm as a swift, deep cut was made there. Sherlock grit his teeth, nostrils flaring as he tried to regain his composure, but it was surprisingly difficult when the room kept tilting one way and another.
Another nick, this time to his side, and then Sherlock was tripping over the coffee table and landing heavily on the ground, taking a neat whack to the head which he resented; all the brain cells he'd just lost! And normally his spatial awareness was excellent. He scowled in annoyance, trying to get up and realizing quite suddenly that he couldn't. The strength had faded from his limbs and a thin, cold, sick feeling was rushing through him. Sherlock gave a growl of frustration and tried again to leap to his feet. In response, his big toe twitched.
His attacker was standing in front of him now, raising his sword high, and Sherlock watched him steadily, resentfully. What a dull way to die.
It was at this point that a frying pan swung, apparently out of nowhere, at the back of the attacker's head. Bone and metal made contact with a heavy thud and a sharp crack, and the man fell promptly to the ground. Standing behind him, both hands clutching her frying pan, was Mrs. Hudson. She glared down at the caped, would-be assassin, then put her hands on her hips.
"There. That'll teach you to go bullying my Sherlock."
Sherlock blinked. He wondered if his landlady knew that the man was unconscious and probably couldn't hear her. He wondered at what point he became 'her' Sherlock. Then he had to re-focus on the reason for his body's break down. He didn't feel any change in temperature, so it was unlikely he had a fever. Probably wasn't ill then. He could have been poisoned, but that seemed unlikely, he'd experienced the changes before collapsing, and before that he'd only been with John…Hmm, actually, John had said something to him this morning about being in danger of collapsing, they'd had an argument…
Tutting, Mrs. Hudson knelt down next to him, fighting past her sore hip, quickly checking the cuts bleeding through his dressing gown. "Don't worry dear, the wounds aren't too deep, you'll be fine. Though I suppose I ought to call John. Would you just go sit on the sofa? I'd help you but I don't think it'd be much use." She stood, painfully and got out the blackberry Sherlock had bought her, hitting speed dial.
There was silence for a moment while Sherlock tried to move, eventually managing to roll onto his side and barely stopping the bile that rushed up his throat. He frowned, cataloguing this new symptom along with the others. It was something blindingly obvious, he was sure, but he'd probably deleted the information as irrelevant at some point.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Hudson was putting on her landlady voice. "John Watson, I don't care how many patients you've got left to see, Sherlock needs you and if you don't come here right now then I'll come over there and get you myself." A pause, a change in the tone of the voice on the other end. "Well of course he needs you, you're a doctor, you're his best friend." The pitch and volume rose. "Well, I thought saying he needed you would be enough, but if you must know, he got in a sword fight with some funny looking man. Don't worry too much, I don't think it's life threatening, but Sherlock has two nasty looking cuts and he doesn't seem capable of standing by himself." There was a beep and Mrs. Hudson turned to look at Sherlock, who was still on the floor. "He hung up on me! Not that I mind, I suppose that means he's coming."
Sherlock nodded, then winced a little. He'd all but forgotten about his meeting with the coffee table. Gingerly he threaded his fingers through his hair, exploring the bump. There was a little blood but nothing much. He withdrew his hand, wiping his fingers on his dressing gown. Mrs. Hudson helped him lean against the sofa, fussing over him like a mother hen.
"Oh my dear, you do look peaky, would you like a cup of tea?"
Sherlock declined with a slight shake of his head, and Mrs Hudson tutted before bustling into the kitchen to put the kettle on. Sherlock tried to move again, and was rewarded by a pathetic little shiver in his abdomen. A few minutes passed, during which Sherlock counted the seconds in order to stave off the looming boredom and then John burst through the door, still wearing his white coat, eyes wild. Almost immediately his gaze fixed on Sherlock, and in three steps he was at his friend's side, checking him over and examining his wounds. As John continued his medical assessment of Sherlock's state, his expression gradually morphed from accentuated concern to irritated exasperation. The detective lazily raised an eyebrow, unable and unwilling to do much more.
John rocked back on his haunches, heaving a sigh. "Sherlock, when was the last time you ate, and what did you have?"
Sherlock pursed his lips. How tiresome. Rapidly, he whisked through his short term memory. Nothing there. He thumbed through the newest files of the last few days. Still nothing. He'd been busy until today. He went a little further. Ah! There it was, when he'd been on the Roggia Case. "An apple, nine days ago." John brought a hand to his face, jaw clenching. His voice was strangled when he replied.
"And when did you last drink?"
"A cup of coffee, yesterday evening." Sherlock was able to give a prompt reply this time, he hated what dehydration did to his head.
"You don't even know why this bothers me, do you?" John's voice was drenched in condescension and disbelief. Sherlock wrinkled his nose, his pride bridling at the tone. Annoyed, he tried to force himself to stand, dragging knees up to his chest through sheer force of will, and ignoring the sweat beading on his brow. His best friend watched with a resigned, affectionate patience. Standing, John rested a gentle hand on Sherlock's shoulder, giving a gentle squeeze. "You stay here. What you need is porridge, or something like it. Fibre, and energy, and sustenance. You're malnourished, you great fool."
Ah! Realisation flooded Sherlock's brilliant mind and he gave himself a mental kick in the behind, rebooting the files he had stored on the maintenance of his personal organic transport system. It may be useful in future, since he personally had no plans in terms of reforming the habits that had done him well enough up till now.
When John got to the kitchen, pressed a cup of tea into his hand with a warm smile. "Thankyou for coming so quickly dear, I thought it was best to get a professional opinion." John chuckled warmly.
"It's not a problem Mrs. H, you know I'd have come anyway." Together they wandered back into the lounge, and John crouched next to the body of Sherlock's attacker. "Thanks for the tea by the way. Blimey, that's one heck of a head wound, what'd you do Sherlock?"
"It wasn't me." Sherlock's deep voice was rich with dry humor.
Mrs. Hudson, behind John, giggled – actually giggled, and patted him on the back, smiling sweetly when he turned to look at her in frank astonishment. "Best be getting back downstairs dear, I've a cake in the oven. The frying pan's on the sofa, in case you be needing it."
She hobbled away on her dodgy hip, humming cheerfully to herself. John examined the stranger's skull again before going back to the sofa and helping Sherlock get up and sit on it. Setting down his tea, and glancing over Sherlock's wounds again, he resolved to deal with them in a moment. For now though, "Mrs H with the frying pan? Seriously Sherlock?"
The detective gave him a look, stormy eyes laughing silently as he pulled on an expression of mock indignation. "John, she's my landlady. Did you expect any less?"
Good old Mrs Hudson, you've got to love her, Sherlock clearly does. I know this was pretty random, but hopefully it made you smile, writing it did so for up in the whump, 'Confession', a tag on to 'Futility.'
Thankyou for reading,