Fic: Snow Day
Feb. 21st, 2015 10:50 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
cowboyguyFic: Snow Day
Fandom: Sherlock
Summary: Sherlock has a cold, and John and Sherlock have a fight.
Time for a snow day ficlet! I tried writing it last time I had a snow day, and didn't get to finish. Lucky me, I ended up getting another snow day four days later. Be gentle, this is my very first Sherlock fic.
“How are we today, dears?” Mrs. Hudson called from her open doorway as John and Sherlock hurried through the front entrance of the building, bringing a gust of wind and a flurry of snow with them. “I see the snow’s started already.”
“Everyone’s in a panic,” John replied, brushing snow off of his jacket and stamping his boots against the carpet. “I think we got the last order at the Jade Palace before they closed,” he said, holding up a bag of Chinese takeaway.
Beside him, Sherlock stayed bundled up in his coat and scarf, rubbing at his nose and sniffling softly.
“Oh, and Sherlock’s ill,” he added, at which Mrs. Hudson made a sympathetic noise and Sherlock protested.
“I’m not ill.”
“You sneezed all the way back here.”
“The cab driver has five cats at home. He was covered in fur. Of course I sneezed.”
“You’re not allergic to cats!” John insisted, sounding more frustrated by the second.
Sherlock merely turned and strode past them up the stairs toward the flat without a word. All day, John had noticed the signs that his friend was coming down with something, and all day, Sherlock had been stubbornly refusing to acknowledge the fact that there was anything wrong with him.
“Lovely talking to you, Sherlock!” Mrs. Hudson called after him, before turning back to John and patting him on the arm. “I’ll come ‘round later to see if you need anything, then?” she asked quietly, nodding her head in Sherlock’s direction.
John nodded appreciatively. “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.” From inside the upper flat came the distinctive sound of a loud sneeze being muffled, and John shook his head and sighed. “Better go deal with him,” he said, before hurrying up the stairs.
Inside the flat, Sherlock had already turned up the thermostat and taken off his coat, tossing it over the back of John’s favorite armchair, and was sprawled out across the sofa, staring at the ceiling.
“So,” John said, setting the bag down on the kitchen table.
“So?” Sherlock echoed, eyes flicking briefly in John’s direction before resuming his study of the patterns in the wallpaper.
“You’re not ill.” This was said in a skeptical tone as John brought dishes down out of the kitchen cupboards, setting them on the edge of the worktop next to one of Sherlock’s many experiments.
“No,” Sherlock replied adamantly, before snapping forward with a sudden sneeze. “Iiih’YIITCHSHHH! …Just a delayed allergic reaction,” he explained, before flopping back onto the sofa.
“Which is why you kept your coat on all day, even indoors,” John pointed out.
“It is winter, John.”
“And why your voice has gone all scratchy.”
“Mmm.”
“And why you’re so much less talkative than normal.”
“John, I’m sure there’s a point to all this,” Sherlock sighed, as if Watson was the one being ridiculous.
“Why can’t you just admit that you’re not well? Just for once in your life, acknowledge the fact that you’re a human being and you’re gonna get sick like the rest of us!” John demanded, staring angrily at Sherlock, who remained motionless on the sofa, eyes closed.
“Would it make you feel better?”
“YES!”
At that, Sherlock jumped to his feet, his expression somewhere between hurt and annoyed. “Fine! I don’t feel well. Now can you please stop making such a fuss about something that neither of us has any control over?” Before John could reply, Sherlock had pushed past him and disappeared behind his bedroom door at the end of the hall, slamming it shut behind him.
“Right,” John murmured to himself, realizing with a rush of guilt that perhaps he’d gone a bit too far.
An hour later, Sherlock had yet to come out of his room, and John had long since finished his own lonely dinner, watching the snow fall outside the kitchen window onto the empty street below. Behind the closed bedroom door, it had remained mostly quiet, save for the occasional sneeze or rough coughing fit.
With a heavy sigh, John pushed himself out of his chair and made his way down the short hallway, knocking softly on his flatmate’s door. There was no answer. He could feel cold air seeping through the bottom of the doorframe, which was a bit worrying, considering how warm the rest of the flat was. But it was an old building. Perhaps the heat had gone out in Sherlock’s room. Perhaps he was in there, ill and asleep and succumbing to hypothermia. Something was wrong. He was in trouble.
“Sherlock? You awake?”
There was still no answer, at least not in words, but John did hear a forceful “HiiTCHSHHH! Iiihh’TSHHHuh!” that indicated Sherlock was indeed, not sleeping, unconscious, or dead.
“I’m coming in, okay?” John turned the knob on the door and cautiously pushed the door open.
There, in front of the open windows, clad in only a sheet, stood Sherlock, looking pale… paler than usual. The detective was scanning the empty street below, seemingly oblivious to the fact that snowflakes were settling on his shoulders and in his dark hair.
“Jesus, Sherlock, what the hell are you doing?” John cried, rushing across the room to shut the windows.
Startled out of his daze, Sherlock whirled around, nearly tripping on the long sheet pooling around his feet. He blinked at John in apparent confusion for a moment before responding, “Looking for a case.”
“A case?” John repeated.
“Yes,” he said, stifling a sneeze against the back of his sheet-covered hand.
“What, out the window?”
“You took my laptop,” Sherlock accused, though his laptop was in fact right on the table in the sitting room where he’d left it. Despite the chill in the air, a bead of sweat trickled down the side of his face, and John suspected that his fever had gotten much higher in the past couple of hours.
“There’s nothing going on out there,” John tried to reason with him, moving closer to his friend.
“Don’t be ridiculous. There’s always something going on.”
“Sherlock, the whole of London is shut down because of this snow, so believe me when I tell you, there’s nothing going on.” As he talked, John reached up to gauge Sherlock’s temperature with one hand, steering him gently towards his bed at the same time. “Now, why don’t you lie down and get some rest, huh?”
“Don’t need to rest, need to work,” Sherlock tried to insist, even as John sat him down on the edge of the bed and guided his feet up off the floor. There were no blankets on the bed, just a couple of pillows and the sheet that Sherlock was currently wrapped up in. How he slept comfortably was a mystery to John – or whether he slept at all, sometimes.
“No, right now I think you need to rest. You stay there, I’ll be right back.” With that, John hurried out of the room, only to return a few moments later carrying a large beige blanket, a box of cold medicine, and a bottle of water. Setting the other supplies on Sherlock’s messy nightstand, he shook out the blanket and draped it over his friend’s skinny frame.
Sherlock instinctively gripped the blanket tighter around him, releasing his grasp on the sheet as his long fingers ran over the soft material instead. “What’s this?” he murmured.
“Microplush,” John explained, tucking the blanket up around him.
Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. “Mycroft… plush… --what?” he echoed.
“Never mind,” John chuckled. “It’s soft, and it’s warm. Just promise me you’ll stay here and get some rest, and not do anything stupid like standing in front of open windows when it’s freezing out. You’ll catch your death doing that.”
Sherlock sniffled, rubbing distractedly at his nose. “…Think I already have done.”
“Good thing you’ve got me then, huh?”
“Good thing, Dr. Watson.”
Fandom: Sherlock
Summary: Sherlock has a cold, and John and Sherlock have a fight.
Time for a snow day ficlet! I tried writing it last time I had a snow day, and didn't get to finish. Lucky me, I ended up getting another snow day four days later. Be gentle, this is my very first Sherlock fic.
“How are we today, dears?” Mrs. Hudson called from her open doorway as John and Sherlock hurried through the front entrance of the building, bringing a gust of wind and a flurry of snow with them. “I see the snow’s started already.”
“Everyone’s in a panic,” John replied, brushing snow off of his jacket and stamping his boots against the carpet. “I think we got the last order at the Jade Palace before they closed,” he said, holding up a bag of Chinese takeaway.
Beside him, Sherlock stayed bundled up in his coat and scarf, rubbing at his nose and sniffling softly.
“Oh, and Sherlock’s ill,” he added, at which Mrs. Hudson made a sympathetic noise and Sherlock protested.
“I’m not ill.”
“You sneezed all the way back here.”
“The cab driver has five cats at home. He was covered in fur. Of course I sneezed.”
“You’re not allergic to cats!” John insisted, sounding more frustrated by the second.
Sherlock merely turned and strode past them up the stairs toward the flat without a word. All day, John had noticed the signs that his friend was coming down with something, and all day, Sherlock had been stubbornly refusing to acknowledge the fact that there was anything wrong with him.
“Lovely talking to you, Sherlock!” Mrs. Hudson called after him, before turning back to John and patting him on the arm. “I’ll come ‘round later to see if you need anything, then?” she asked quietly, nodding her head in Sherlock’s direction.
John nodded appreciatively. “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.” From inside the upper flat came the distinctive sound of a loud sneeze being muffled, and John shook his head and sighed. “Better go deal with him,” he said, before hurrying up the stairs.
Inside the flat, Sherlock had already turned up the thermostat and taken off his coat, tossing it over the back of John’s favorite armchair, and was sprawled out across the sofa, staring at the ceiling.
“So,” John said, setting the bag down on the kitchen table.
“So?” Sherlock echoed, eyes flicking briefly in John’s direction before resuming his study of the patterns in the wallpaper.
“You’re not ill.” This was said in a skeptical tone as John brought dishes down out of the kitchen cupboards, setting them on the edge of the worktop next to one of Sherlock’s many experiments.
“No,” Sherlock replied adamantly, before snapping forward with a sudden sneeze. “Iiih’YIITCHSHHH! …Just a delayed allergic reaction,” he explained, before flopping back onto the sofa.
“Which is why you kept your coat on all day, even indoors,” John pointed out.
“It is winter, John.”
“And why your voice has gone all scratchy.”
“Mmm.”
“And why you’re so much less talkative than normal.”
“John, I’m sure there’s a point to all this,” Sherlock sighed, as if Watson was the one being ridiculous.
“Why can’t you just admit that you’re not well? Just for once in your life, acknowledge the fact that you’re a human being and you’re gonna get sick like the rest of us!” John demanded, staring angrily at Sherlock, who remained motionless on the sofa, eyes closed.
“Would it make you feel better?”
“YES!”
At that, Sherlock jumped to his feet, his expression somewhere between hurt and annoyed. “Fine! I don’t feel well. Now can you please stop making such a fuss about something that neither of us has any control over?” Before John could reply, Sherlock had pushed past him and disappeared behind his bedroom door at the end of the hall, slamming it shut behind him.
“Right,” John murmured to himself, realizing with a rush of guilt that perhaps he’d gone a bit too far.
An hour later, Sherlock had yet to come out of his room, and John had long since finished his own lonely dinner, watching the snow fall outside the kitchen window onto the empty street below. Behind the closed bedroom door, it had remained mostly quiet, save for the occasional sneeze or rough coughing fit.
With a heavy sigh, John pushed himself out of his chair and made his way down the short hallway, knocking softly on his flatmate’s door. There was no answer. He could feel cold air seeping through the bottom of the doorframe, which was a bit worrying, considering how warm the rest of the flat was. But it was an old building. Perhaps the heat had gone out in Sherlock’s room. Perhaps he was in there, ill and asleep and succumbing to hypothermia. Something was wrong. He was in trouble.
“Sherlock? You awake?”
There was still no answer, at least not in words, but John did hear a forceful “HiiTCHSHHH! Iiihh’TSHHHuh!” that indicated Sherlock was indeed, not sleeping, unconscious, or dead.
“I’m coming in, okay?” John turned the knob on the door and cautiously pushed the door open.
There, in front of the open windows, clad in only a sheet, stood Sherlock, looking pale… paler than usual. The detective was scanning the empty street below, seemingly oblivious to the fact that snowflakes were settling on his shoulders and in his dark hair.
“Jesus, Sherlock, what the hell are you doing?” John cried, rushing across the room to shut the windows.
Startled out of his daze, Sherlock whirled around, nearly tripping on the long sheet pooling around his feet. He blinked at John in apparent confusion for a moment before responding, “Looking for a case.”
“A case?” John repeated.
“Yes,” he said, stifling a sneeze against the back of his sheet-covered hand.
“What, out the window?”
“You took my laptop,” Sherlock accused, though his laptop was in fact right on the table in the sitting room where he’d left it. Despite the chill in the air, a bead of sweat trickled down the side of his face, and John suspected that his fever had gotten much higher in the past couple of hours.
“There’s nothing going on out there,” John tried to reason with him, moving closer to his friend.
“Don’t be ridiculous. There’s always something going on.”
“Sherlock, the whole of London is shut down because of this snow, so believe me when I tell you, there’s nothing going on.” As he talked, John reached up to gauge Sherlock’s temperature with one hand, steering him gently towards his bed at the same time. “Now, why don’t you lie down and get some rest, huh?”
“Don’t need to rest, need to work,” Sherlock tried to insist, even as John sat him down on the edge of the bed and guided his feet up off the floor. There were no blankets on the bed, just a couple of pillows and the sheet that Sherlock was currently wrapped up in. How he slept comfortably was a mystery to John – or whether he slept at all, sometimes.
“No, right now I think you need to rest. You stay there, I’ll be right back.” With that, John hurried out of the room, only to return a few moments later carrying a large beige blanket, a box of cold medicine, and a bottle of water. Setting the other supplies on Sherlock’s messy nightstand, he shook out the blanket and draped it over his friend’s skinny frame.
Sherlock instinctively gripped the blanket tighter around him, releasing his grasp on the sheet as his long fingers ran over the soft material instead. “What’s this?” he murmured.
“Microplush,” John explained, tucking the blanket up around him.
Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. “Mycroft… plush… --what?” he echoed.
“Never mind,” John chuckled. “It’s soft, and it’s warm. Just promise me you’ll stay here and get some rest, and not do anything stupid like standing in front of open windows when it’s freezing out. You’ll catch your death doing that.”
Sherlock sniffled, rubbing distractedly at his nose. “…Think I already have done.”
“Good thing you’ve got me then, huh?”
“Good thing, Dr. Watson.”
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Date: 2015-02-22 09:38 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-02-22 10:32 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-03-01 03:13 am (UTC)I loved John being frustrated with him (i.e. "You're not allergic to cats!" LOL) I loved John becoming more curious and pushy as the fic went on. John in doctor mode around Sherlock is one of my favorite things ever. It's like having built-in hurt/comfort.
And I loved Sherlock so sick and feverish that he'd actually stand there with the window open, thinking in his muddled mind that it was a brilliant idea. Also, of course, I'm a fan of anything involving microplush blankets. Adorable, confused!Sherlock Mycroft plush? heehehee
But what I loved the most were the little British in character moments/lines. Like “Lovely talking to you, Sherlock!” and “…Think I already have done.” And soooooooooo many of John's lines were SO JOHN. His "Right" and every exasperated exclamation and command--I could hear it all in Martin's voice so clearly. You got him down PERFECTLY!
I can't wait to read more Sherlockfic from you in the future!