A/N: First time writing for this fandom (which I ADORE). Fluffy fluff and H/C because I can. Un-beta'd- no time for that, bro. So, review if you like, don't if you don't want to. Swears.
Unoriginal plot is unoriginal.
Disclaimer: Obviously, I own nothing but this laptop. All characters and everything belong to ACD, and Moftiss.
John Watson felt monumentally shitty.
The day had started out a couple of levels down from bad; the good doctor had awoken groggily, and to an empty bed- only diluted sunlight dampening the room. Sherlock, of course, had been up for a notable amount of time: and after John had managed to talk himself down from staying in bed, and dragged heavy limbs (and a heavier head) down the stairs, he found Sherlocks early morning hadn't been completely idle. In fact, far from.
A large bowl had been set upon the table top (the usual intricate experiments had found a home in the lounge- John could see them, sitting smugly in his chair) and it was about three quarters full with dark amber liquid. Suspiciously fleshy looking objects drifted around in the sickly solution- John had no desire to study the suspected body parts up close.
However, the body parts weren't even the biggest issue in 221B this morning. Oh no, far from.
Next to the bowl, about 40 used tea bags were sprawled sloppily over a torn bin bag.
John stared. There weren't any words he could think of to say. He searched his mind for the closest match to 'Are-you-a-4-year-old-and -what-the-hell-have-you-done-with-my-bloody-tea-and-please-tell-me-those-things-were-never-living'- he came up blank. He also noticed, with a horrible roll of his stomach that he actually felt quite sick. It was probably the fingers (as John had decided that's what they were).
"John, we're out of tea."
That. Was. It.
"What the hell, Sherlock? There better be a good reason for this, and it better save the lives of multiple people- because if not, goddammit, I'll..."
He ran out of steam, and dropped his face to his open hands, rubbing at his eyes- trying to wipe away that niggling ache. There was no point in finishing the sentence. It would only have been an empty threat.
The detective looked slightly abashed- but quirked a small smirk. "I can assure you, John, this is of high importance. I'm testing the toxicity of tannin. Now, hurry up. Lestrade has a case." With that, the man had strode out the room, smug smile displayed over his body.
John groaned, and leaned on the table, slumping to the side. He really could do without Sherlock being in this particularly arrogant mood- he really was starting to regret getting up. With the type of long suffering sigh that only someone that knew one Consulting Detective could utter, John resigned himself for a morning on crime scenes.
10 minutes later, John joined Sherlock at the door in what was probably more layers than necessary for June; and together they exited the house. Sherlock thankfully didn't notice (or more likely did- but just didn't comment) on Johns inappropriate dress- or his subtle shivering, and frankly uncoordinated gait. Well, he was bloody freezing.
And so, Sherlock hailed a cab- and now they were sat- Sherlock engrossed in his phone, and John trying to keep his head from falling back onto the seat behind. He exhaled slowly, shoving his shaking hands into his lap, and clenching his jaw to control the violent trembling that had decided to drill itself into John's flagging form. He closed his eyes for a second- but quickly opened them when dizziness lashed quite viciously out. He probably should have stayed in bed, and he was definitely quite ill. Alas, he was here now. Better to push the feeling away. Help Sherlock.
Sherlock glanced over at John, something akin to concern glazing his eyes. "Are you feeling quite alright, John?" he asked, tenor tones dancing in concealed worry for his doctor.
"What? Oh, erm, yes. Yes, fine." John answered hurriedly, sitting up a little straighter; making sure to straighten out his face. Best to minimise the outward signs. He couldn't be sure how Sherlock would take his state of health- somewhere in between (and including) dismissing him immediately, or turning the cab around and sulking for the rest of the day. John definitely didn't need the fuss.
As long ad he could manage the rest of the day.
The cab eventually pulled up onto their destination- a mercy, as John was sure the air conditioning would kill him (although he was slightly worried about the coat of sweat he had gained throughout the drive). Sherlock briskly snapped notes from his wallet and into the drivers hand with practiced perfection; John just focused on stumbling out of the car without acquainting himself with the pavement. Sherlock was already halfway to the now familiar Police tape- and so the vetran allowed himself the time to amble up to the crime scene slower. Maybe the headache would disappear by sheer force of will.
It didn't, as it turned out. The sun beating down on what had turned out to be a hot morning, the front garden of the house was awake with a host of police, forensics, other humans, and Anderson- who was telling a fed up Dimmock about the perks of his new coat (which was dark green and hideous). Very loudly. John groaned as Lestrade strode up to him, smiling much too happily. This wasn't going to be easy. John smiled at the DI politely as he approached. "John! Good to see you, nice day, isn't it?" he chatted, glancing up at the sky. John wandered what had got the man in such a happy mood. He hoped Lestrade would spill quickly; he really just wanted to suffer in silence until he was needed.
"Yes, it is, isn't it? How're you?" he asked, distracted, focusing on trying to hide his shivering. Greg seemed not to notice, glancing back toward his colleges, before continuing. "Good, actually. Mycroft's back from..." Greg stopped, grinned. "Well, wherever the hell he went." he finished, and for the first time inspected John properly, frowning slightly. "You alright, mate? You're really pale."
John tried a reassuring smile- but he was fairly sure it was more alarming. Oh well. He had to prioritise, and not being sick over Greg's shoes seemed more important.
"Yeah, no... I mean, I'm fine- just tired, Sherlock had me-"
He was cut off from his fumbling excuses by an indignant shout. "John! I need your medical opinion! Anderson, shut up. Nobody here is concerned."
John groaned inwardly- not sure weather he was happy at escaping an awkward situation, or annoyed at being summoned closer to a dead body. As he started unsteadily over, he decided on the second. The victim must have been dead a while- it was really starting to smell. He joined Sherlock, and kneeled (kind of fell onto his knees) next to the body, snapping on a pair of Latex gloves. He inspected the woman, mid thirties, asthmatic. Bump on her head, couldn't have killed her. There was a bluish tint to her lips. He rolled up her sleeve. Track mark- badly bruised. Forced.
He observed all this quickly, clamping his jaw against his rolling stomach, and ignoring the greying at the edges of his vision. He stood quickly (too quickly, he felt like he had just got off a bloody round-about), staggered a little, steadied himself. Sherlock was fortunately too distracted with Anderson to notice this little slip up. John closed his eyes, composing himself as best he could. Quicker they did this, the quicker he got home.
"Suffered mild... Mild head trauma, but it wasn't en... Sorry, enough to kill her. There is evidence on her arm of an injection, not self inf... Inflicted and certainly not professional... And her lips... Her..." John stopped, swaying. He brought a hand up past his chattering jaw, to rub at his eyes. Sherlock had finally turned to John, drawing himself out of his deductions to ask why his information had stopped. "John? John, what's wrong?" So, Sherlock had noticed, then. The thought was strangely important to John- and he tried to look at the detective- but he could only see like someone hadn't focused a camera properly, and Sherlock's voice was distant and muzzy. Sherlock looked alarmed, and John felt the man put an arm on his shoulder. "John, tell me what's wrong."
"I don't... I mean, oh god..." John muttered, and then his legs weren't there, and he pitched forward, and lost consciousness.
Sherlock stepped forward and caught the smaller man under the armpits- in equal parts confused and alarmed. John's apparent unwillingness to stay upright had attracted the attention of a few, already. Lestrade hurried over, having seen John fall, and Sherlock shot him a very rare, very desperate look. "Shit." the DI muttered, as he helped Sherlock to drag John's limp form a little further away from the dead body.
"Stupid! It was apparent he didn't feel well, almost inevitable. Should have known..." Sherlock muttered, as he dropped down to the good doctor's level, dragging the man's upper body onto his lap, checking his pulse and putting the other hand on John's burning forehead. Lestrade, crouching himself, repeated the latter action- frowning profusely. "What's wrong with him? Shall I call an ambulance?" Lestrade questioned, watching in concern.
"No, no. No hospitals. He just needs to wake up, and we can go home." he told Lestrade, frowning down and stroking the older mans hair. The detective inspector couldn't help a small smile: it was rare to see Sherlock being so caring- public displays of affection weren't really his thing.
"John. John, love." Sherlock called in hushed tones, giving the man a little shake. John's eyes thankfully fluttered open; encouraged by more gentle words from Sherlock.
"Sher... oh god." John murmered, and lurched weekly forward. Sherlock, being the super genius that he (so obviously) was, had apparently already predicted this, and helped John to sit, leaning his torso to the side. John scrunched his face into a funny shape, and proceeded to throw up everything he had eaten yesterday. And the day before, seemingly. Finally, he seemed to still, and Sherlock carried on stroking his back, in little round circles.
"Lestrade, taxi- If you would be so kind." Sherlock near ordered, because John had gone floppy again, and Sherlock could hear him muttering about Anderson's coat.
"I'll drive you, this should warrent a break." Lestrade said with a sympathetic smile, glancing at his (very flashy- Mycroft shouldn't be so obvious) watch. Sherlock just nodded his thanks, and threaded a hand around John's back, and another around the poor doctor's knee's, picking him up like a sleeping child.
John groaned at the movement, and turned his sicky face into Sherlock's shirt. Absolutely fantastic. John sick. he detective made himself look away from the mess of his shirt, and hurried toward the police car.
Many hours later, when 221B was filled with the melody of a drugged up (and thankfully back to being hot in just the one sense) John Watson snoaring, and Sherlock was safely wrapped around his doctor, the detective allowed himself a small smile. He should really stop leaving his experiments in the fridge- they were evidently not safe. However, the fact that one doctor had happily eaten his latest one (on the presumption of it being Marmite, obviously) would not be mentioned again.
No, Sherlock thought, John really never need know.