Home Remedy

                Imagine Your OTP is the worst blog ever, oh my god. So many ideas for fics, so I guess I'll just stick all my fics on this blog. This one is the first real fic I've finished, so I'll post it first. Enjoy! x

Imagine person B of your OTP getting sick, and person A goes out of their way to leave work and when person A gets home, they cuddle with person B.

~

                Sherlock awoke later than usual that morning. It was a usual December Saturday, where John was away at the surgery by seven in the morning, leaving Sherlock alone in the flat to sulk in his own boredom until his beloved flatmate would return. This was usually how days when John was called to work would go, because as of late Sherlock didn’t feel right going to crime scenes alone. He just couldn’t stand not having his short friend at his side, throwing out compliments every once and a while and giving his own input on the case at hand. Although this behavior used to be annoying to the detective, he now welcomed it, and missed it dearly when John wasn’t with him.

                In the same swift motion, Sherlock ripped off the sheets and sat up, seizing his phone and checking the time. It was noon. He’d slept for close to twelve hours, having gone to bed around midnight the night before after chasing a rather crafty serial robber through the streets of London in the pouring rain. Fucking weather.

                A chill went up Sherlock’s spine, and he shivered sharply. He looked at his arms and noticed they were covered in goosebumps – his legs as well. With shaking hands, he grabbed the bedsheet and put it over him in an act of heat conservation, and decided it was only logical to go put some clothes on and turn on the heat. Still shaking, he stood. The wooden floors felt like ice on his bare feet, and with one step forward he found himself toppling back over onto the bed after losing his balance. He cursed and attempted to stand for the second time, only failing once again.

                Augh, Sherlock thought, screw it.

                He threw his legs onto the bed and clutched the remaining two layers of bedsheets in his hands, throwing them over himself. He rubbed his nose, and in the reflection of his phone, he saw that it was an alarming shade of red afterward. This seemed to trigger a chain reaction – he sniffled, which then began a coughing fit so loud he was sure Mrs. Hudson had heard it from downstairs. The fit was just long and intense enough that it resulted in a headache and a sore throat, and Sherlock let out an audible moan of frustration. Fed up, he unlocked his phone and, with no one else to turn to except for Mrs. Hudson, (who was probably just about to leave to go shopping considering the time of day – 12:07, at this point,) he texted John.

                “My physical health status has decreased considerably overnight and as much as it pains me to ask for it, I need your assistance. SH”

                He sent it, and the coughing fit started again - this time with much more cursing afterward.

~

                “Wonderful,” John said cheerfully to his patient on the other end of the phone, “Well, I’m sure the swelling will stop once the ibuprofen kicks in... You took the suggested two tablets, correct? ...  Excellent. I’ll be expecting you here on the fourteenth at four thirty… Great… Okay, see you then… Bye.” He hung up the phone, took down a note about getting a prescription for Mrs. Miles, who he had just remembered he was expecting later in the week, and leaned back in his chair. While he didn’t necessarily like the toned down, calm, peaceful setting of the surgery most of the time, he didn’t hate it. He had enough action with Sherlock in his life, and although his PTSD had been almost completely cured because of it, he still needed a break from battle every now and again. Also, he enjoyed working with Sarah… for obvious reasons.

                Bzz.

                The vibration of his phone took John by surprise, but he quickly recovered and checked it.

                “Oh Jesus Christ, Sherlock…” he said aloud, surprised to see that the detective had even bothered to text him during work hours.

                “My physical health status has decreased considerably overnight and as much as it pains me to ask for it, I need your assistance. SH”

                John stared at the message in awe. Really? Sherlock was in need of HIS assistance? He understood that Sherlock probably trusted John over himself with health matters, but there was a deafening thought in his brain that maybe Sherlock was pretending he was sick just for attention. This wouldn’t be the first time, either, but John felt that this time it was genuine.

                “I TOLD you not to stay out in the rain for this exact reason. I’ll be there in 20. JW”

~

                20 minutes later, John arrived at 221B, thankful that Sherlock had texted him 10 minutes before the next bus. Thinking back on it as he walked up the steps to the flat, he’d probably planned that.

                “Sherlock?” he called out, opening the door to the living space. It was just how he’d left it this morning: both of the flatmate’s soaking wet coats thrown on the coffee table after neither of them felt like putting effort into hanging them up, an empty cup of tea and a half-eaten piece of toast with strawberry jam that John had placed on the arm of his chair and forgotten about after checking the time and realizing that the bus was scheduled to come sooner than he had thought, and a closed door to Sherlock’s bedroom at the end of the hallway. Without hesitation, John knocked on the door and allowed himself in. Inside, he found Sherlock, curled up on his bed with sheets in a bundle around him, shivering and looking more dazed than John had ever seen him.

                “Hello, John,” said Sherlock, not moving his eyes from a certain spot on the wall. “Glad you followed the text I sent you.”

                “Of course I did. You’re never sick.”

                “I used to get sick rather often,” he mentioned, “but now I can’t hardly remember the last time I was.”

                “Do you need anything?”

                “There’s some acetaminophen in the top left hand cupboard above the sink, and some tea to take it with would be lovely.”

                “You couldn’t get it yourself?”

                “Although you may not believe it, I actually tried more than once to get up and get it but I failed every time. I wouldn’t have bothered you if I couldn’t do it myself, and you know that.”

                “Okay, you’re right,” John agreed, shoving his hands in his pockets and shifting his weight back and forth between his heels and his toes. “Need anything else while I’m up?”

                “Er, not that I can think of,” said Sherlock. John nodded and headed out the door, but immediately Sherlock called after him again. “Wait! Turn on the heat, and bring more blankets in.” John stepped back in the room and walked closer to the bed. He knelt down and placed the back of his hand on the detective’s forehead, as though he were a mother checking their child for a fever.

                “Nope, no heater for you. I’ll bring in a few blankets, but you’re burning up more than you think.” He stood and walked through the flat into the kitchen, where he found the cold medicine (it was already opened, but the cap was stuck tightly, which proved that Sherlock obviously hadn’t used it in a while) and he boiled some water for tea. While he was waiting, he brought in two extra blankets and another pillow, since Sherlock had a habit of only using one – and how John knew this information, he had no idea. When the water was boiled, he poured it into a travel mug just as a spilling precaution, and ripped off two acetaminophen tablets. He put the tea bag in while he was walking to Sherlock’s room.

                “Thank you very much, John,” Sherlock said, taking the tea first and then the tablets, putting them to his side. He had situated himself with the extra pillow and was now sitting up in his bed with blankets all around him, breaking out in a cold sweat because of the raging fever that had escalated in the brief time John was gone. Sherlock popped open the tablets and took both of them down in a single swig of tea, puckering his face with discomfort momentarily as he swallowed – another habit that John had picked up on – and set the tea off to the side.

                “So I have the rest of the day off from the surgery, so if you need anything else…” John started walking out the door, but Sherlock stopped him once again.

                “John, it’s still freezing in here.”

                “Well, I’m not turning the heat on, because you’ll burn up way more than you already have, and we don’t have any blankets left. What do you expect me to do?”

                “You could…” (Sherlock thought about it, and then looked back up at John again,) “… sit with me, if you like.”

                “I…” John stuttered. “I guess I could.”

                “Please?”

                “Well…”

                “Please.”

                “Fine.” John climbed onto the bed, and noticed that it was a rather firm mattress but was also unbelievably comfortable. He laid down at Sherlock’s covered feet, only finding himself feeling awkward and eventually moving right next to the detective, where he set his head on the bare mattress, and eventually Sherlock’s forearm.

                “John…” Sherlock said, unsure.

                “Oh, yeah, Sherlock?”

                “… You’re comfortable, yes?”

                “Mhm.”

                “Good. That’s all that matters.” He grinned out of the side of his mouth and reached for a book that he kept underneath his pillow. The two sat there in a comforting silence for a few minutes, Sherlock reading quietly and John staring at the ceiling and eventually at Sherlock, but he soon drifted off to sleep, for he hadn’t gotten very much the night before. Upon noticing this, Sherlock chuckled, almost touched that John was trusting enough of him to fall asleep so quickly, and brushed some hair off the doctor’s face with his free hand. He watched his relaxed face contently, and smiled. He felt so much better now that John was here.