Johnlock Oneshots

Stomach Flu

By: tapeandblades
fanfiction.net

You're sick."

A brave approach by Doctor John Watson, very brave indeed. A blunt proposal, a sharp observation made by an obstinate practitioner. He was daring, making a statement- an accusation like that.

And Sherlock despised him for it.

"Am not," the detective countered, angrily brushing a curl away from his face in order to take a look through the microscope properly. He couldn't see through it right, it was out of focus. There must have been something wrong with the lens...

"Yes, you are. I'm a doctor. I can tell you have a bloody low grade fever."

"Nope," Sherlock said, popping the 'p'.

"Sherlock!"

"You see, but you do not observe, John. I'm hot because the heating's broken, obviously. And my cheeks are flushed because..."

"Hmm?"

"Because I'm wearing... make up."

"Nice try. And the heating isn't broken, for your information. Oh detective, who can't tell he's burning up."

"I'm not!"

"You're wrong." Sherlock seemed incredibly offended by these two words, and shot John a death glare.

"I'm not even going to reply to that." And he turned back to the microscope, brow furrowed, attempting in vain to identify some pancreatic enzyme active sites.

"Oh, nice. The cold shoulder, I presume?"

His flat mate did not deign to grace him with an answer.

"I'm dealing with a teenager," John sighed, throwing his hands up. "Fine, don't talk to me." Silence. "Oh for- Never mind." John dragged both his hands over his face. "Arrogant git," he muttered, walking away.

Sherlock heard John shuffle off, stomp up the stairs, and shut himself in his room. There was a shifting of what could only be cables, and a faint click that the detective labelled as the opening of a laptop. John was now occupied. Good.

The lanky man leant away from the science equipment, letting a breath escape in a huff. Retreating into his mind palace, he analysed his symptoms.

Fever, an oncoming pain in his lower abdomen, thickening of mucus in his sinuses, a tingling in his chest. And a rather odd churning sensation in his stomach... Mind over matter. Sherlock knew it was stupid to think that way, but he was the world's only consulting detective. His brain was superior, and his transport would not win. If he wanted his tea and toast to remain in his stomach, they would.

It was an hour later that Sherlock started to doubt his theory. Abandoning his experiment, he migrated to the sofa, falling onto it without his usual grace and taking a few deep breaths. It's at this moment that John completed his blog post, clicked 'publish' and clambered downstairs. Groaning internally, the detective hauled himself up, using the back cushions to support himself, and smiling as the doctor came in.

"You're not flushed anymore, so maybe you were right," John said upon entering, knowing full well that it was because the detective had actually paled considerably, and had adopted a grayish tinge. There was no way now that Sherlock could deny his lapse in good health.

"Of course I was right," Sherlock forced out, snapping his lips shut immediately in order to ensure that words were the only things he spewed. John raised his eyebrows, wandering into the kitchen to make some tea. While boiling the kettle, he quickly identified the nearest basin, and while the detective was occupied with controlling the nausea, subtly nudged it closer to the couch.