Martin rolled over, burying his face into the blankets. There was noise, too much noise... bothering his head...
"Is Skip gonna be alright?"
"He'll be better than fine. He'll be brilliant."
"Really, Douglas? He doesn't look so good."
"He'll ill, Arther. You don't look particularly well when you're ill, either. I would know, as I have to look at you constantly. Unfortunately for myself, I do have to live with you." A woman's voice, brisk and sharp and patronizing...
Martin groaned quietly, trying to ignore the thumping in his head. He wanted to go back to sleep... everything hurt...
"Skipper?! I think he's awake."
"Arthur, darling, shut up."
"It would be for the best if you two left us alone."
"But, Douglas, don'tcha think you ought to leave him alone, too?"
"I'm playing doctor, so I have to be here."
Martin flapped one of his hands towards the voices. "S-Stop..." he moaned, grabbing his pillow to bury his face into it. He just wanted them to be silent, to stop talking, because his head was pounding and his stomach was tying and untying itself. He knitted his fingers amongst the blankets, clenching his teeth as a chill ripped down his spine.
"Come on, Arthur. Go back to our room."
"Feel better, Skip!"
Martin flinched delicately.
"Arthur," Douglas said lowly.
"Oh, right! Sorry!" There were footsteps, followed by the slamming of a door.
Martin flinched again. His stomach flipped unkindly, and he sat up too fast, trying to fight the overwhelming urge to puke all over the hotel bed as he fought to get to his feet. Douglas was suddenly there, though, shoving a wastepaper basket into Martin's trembling hands.
"Vomit into the bin, thank you," Douglas stated idly, taking a seat next to Martin as he coughed and retched, bringing up bile and water in an unpleasant combination. "Heave ho," Douglas stated cheerfully, patting Martin's back forcefully.
He tried to stop trembling- the entire, rickety bed was shaking with his tremors- but it was to no avail. Just as it was pointless to try to blink away the stinging in his eyes, the sudden tears that had sprung to his eyes. Blinking just made them spill over and he quickly dashed them away, turning towards the far wall and squeezing his eyes shut.
"Feeling better?" Douglas asked. He sounded as if he were asking Arthur to make him tea, not as if Martin had just mortified himself.
Martin didn't know if he was making fun of him or not, so he opted to not speak. In favour of not breaking down into unwarranted tears, or once again vomiting, he just kept his mouth shut. He was trembling, though. Still trembling.
"Come on, don't ignore me," Douglas said, rubbing small circles on Martin's back. "It's just a bit of puke-"
Martin waved his hands a bit, swallowing. "Sh-Shhh..."
"Okay, it's a lot of puke."
"Douglas," Martin rasped, ignoring how warm the tips of his ears were.
"Fine, fine. Lay back down."
"Can-" Martin started, but quickly fell silent. He wasn't going to ask. He didn't like asking for things. Much less asking Douglas for something.
"Martin." Martin looked up. "What do you want?" Douglas continued.
"... Water?" Martin said. It ended up sounding like a question. His entire face was burning now, and he figured it probably would just be best to curl up under the blankets and disappear.
"I can't read your mind, Martin. You're predictable at best, but at your worst, I can't even begin to fathom." Douglas grabbed the styrofoam cup off of the nightstand, walking into the bathroom. There was the sound of water running before Douglas returned, handing the cup to Martin.
His shaking hands sent the water sploshing over the side of the cup. He gasped quietly as the cool water soaked through his shirt.
Douglas gave him a condescending look.
"I'm sorry!" Martin blurted, resisting the urge to throw his hands up or throw the cup across the room. He took a careful sip before attempting to sit the cup on the nightstand.
Douglas took it from him before he could spill it entirely. "Why are you apologizing to me?"
"Just- Just leave me alone," Martin gasped, voice breaking, rolling over onto his side and jerking the blankets over his head.
"Martin." The blankets were jerked away. Martin pulled them back. "Martin!"
"Stop fussing like a child. I don't know why you're apologizing or why you're bloody embarrassed to begin with. You know me and I know you; I've taken medical training and I've seen a lot worse, believe me. Now, don't get excited, but take off your shirt."
Martin blinked up at Douglas.
"You can't sleep in a wet shirt. You're already sick."
"Do not make me undress you, Sir."
"Fine!" Martin said quickly, fumbling with his shirt. He wanted to say that he didn't have anything else to wear, but he didn't have the ambition to actually speak it out loud. He was so tired...
His fingers finally unhooked the last button and he pulled his shirt off clumsily, dropping his head back onto the pillow wearily.
"Go back to sleep."
Even though he didn't like taking orders from anybody (he was the Captain, after all...), he didn't need to be told twice.
I adore... sick!Martin. I just do. And parental!Douglas. And, to the people following this story, sorry for the delay! Sherlock stories taking up time.
Thanks for your support! I'd love to hear your thoughts!