Work Text:
Strangely Satisfying: Cuddly
John sighed to himself on entering the kitchen. Every surface was covered with various bits of random laboratory equipment containing differing levels of the same blue-green sludge. All I wanted was a cuppa… He peeked into the kettle and recoiled at the sharply astringent stench of rubbing alcohol. At least he cleaned it out this time. Though I don’t really want to know just what he had in it that had him using alcohol to clean it out.
Three weeks into sharing this fantastic new flat had already inured John to the hazards of sharing a kitchen with one Sherlock Holmes. John wasn’t too sure that was a good thing, but he honestly didn’t much care. It’s surprising, he thought, taking the kettle over to the sink and running hot water in it. I never would have thought I could really be this… content, I think is the right word. Content with this strange, mad, fascinating life. Hard to believe that only a few weeks ago, I was having trouble seeing the point of it all. He switched the tap off and added a squirt of washing-up liquid, then began to see if he couldn’t get rid of the residual alcohol stench.
Pretty sure Sherlock’s an omega, even though he doesn’t smell like one. He’s got the body-language down pat. He swirled a dishrag around the kettle. But on the other hand, he’s bloody good at pretending. They lost one hell of an actor when he decided to be a ‘consulting detective’. On the other other hand, though – no matter how good an actor is, I haven’t really seen a beta performance of an omega that’s that genuine… John shook his head. Damn it. I'm gonna drive myself right around the twist if I keep on with the is-he-or-isn’t-he argument.
Subject change. He scrubbed a little harder at the inside of the kettle, then plopped the rag into the sink, swirled the soapy water around a few times, and then rinsed it out. Finally got the last of my stuff moved in. Glad I didn’t run into Harry yesterday – it was hard enough dealing with Clara. But it was good of them to look after my stuff while I was deployed. I'm sure whoever winds up with the house is gonna be glad it’s out of the shed.
“Dr. Watson!” a voice pulled John out of his musings and had him dropping the kettle into the sink at its urgency.
John rushed to the stairs, marveling yet again at the ease with which his leg was accommodating normal movement, then all but leapt the top five to the landing where the stairs switchbacked down to the entry hall. “Inspector Lestrade?”
DI Lestrade was standing uncomfortably in the entryway, supporting a mostly-unconscious Sherlock. “A little help, please?”
John hurried down the rest of the stairs. “My word – what happened to him?” Not only was Sherlock insensate, he was also dripping wet, and smelled like sewage and rotting seaweed.
“Daft bugger tore off after a serial burglar Gregson’s been tracking, but slipped on some ice down at the pier. Landed in the Thames,” Lestrade explained while John skidded to a halt in sock-clad feet just inches before he would have crashed into them both. “Woulda had him taken to A&E, but last time I did that, he was sore at me for months. Remembered you were a doctor, though, so…” he made a small ‘there you go’ gesture with his free hand.
“I'll take his feet,” John said, “you okay with the rest of him?”
Lestrade nodded. “No problem.”
“Okay, on three,” John said, stooping to grab Sherlock’s ankles. “One, two, three!” On the final count, they both shifted their grips and hoisted Sherlock into the air. The consulting detective let out a noise that was caught somewhere between angry, nauseous, and pained. John looked at Lestrade’s face and made a little jerking motion with his head, Lestrade nodded, and John began walking backwards, feeling his way with his heels. “Did he hit his head?”
Lestrade nodded again. “Think so, at any rate. Bit more worried about the water, though – it couldn’t’ve been much above freezing.”
“How long,” John asked, finally finding the first stair. “How long was he in the water?”
“’Bout four or five minutes, all told,” Lestrade replied.
John saved his breath for stair-climbing. Once they finally had Sherlock in the flat, they hauled him through the kitchen and into the bathroom. “Did he breathe in any water?” John asked, slowly setting Sherlock’s feet on the tile floor. At some point during the trek up the stairs, Sherlock had gone from mostly-unconscious to fully-unconscious.
“Don’t see how he couldn’t’ve,” Lestrade replied, following John’s example in setting Sherlock on the floor.
John edged around his flatmate and began divesting the ‘daft bugger’ of sodden wool and cashmere. “Did he need CPR?”
Lestrade violently shook his head. “No! If that’d happened, I don’t give a damn how pissy he’d be with me – he woulda gone straight to hospital!”
“Good to hear,” John said. “Can you get his jacket? I’m going to get the tub running and then get his shoes.”
“No problem,” Lestrade repeated, then began working Sherlock’s arms out of the tailored suit jacket.
Wish I hadn’t mumbled whatever it was and gone back to sleep when he woke me at oh-dark-thirty this morning. Mightn’t have wound up taking a dunk in the river if I'd been there, John thought while spinning the taps. He glanced over to see that the DI had made short work of shucking Sherlock’s jacket and button-down. “I've got a kit in the bottom drawer of my desk upstairs – can’t miss it, has the universal first-aid cross on it. Run and grab it, please?”
Lestrade sprinted in the direction of the stairs. While the tub filled, sending steam into the air, John quickly finished removing Sherlock’s trousers, socks, and pants. The whole sodden pile of gunk-encrusted cloth he left in a mound near the door. John was carefully examining his flatmate’s skull when Lestrade returned with the kit. He handed it to John and said, “Um… You didn’t say right or left, so I pulled the wrong one on the first go. I gotta ask – you got a license for that Browning?”
John rummaged in the pack for his penlight. “Yeah,” he said. “I do. If you really want to, I can even show it to you – but I want to make sure Sherlock’s not going to die on us first, alright?”
“Yeah – don’t get snippy. Just had to ask, is all. They’d yank my good policeman status if I didn’t mention it.” Lestrade let out a huff of air that was one part irritation, two parts amusement, and six parts worry. “So, is he?”
John checked Sherlock’s pupils. Equal and reactive – good sign. That heat beginning to bake through the chill, though – that’s not such a good sign. “Seems to be just a goose-egg. Nothing serious. However, he’s definitely got a fever. Could be a reaction to the hypothermia,” he said, moving back around to his feet. “Help me get him in the tub.” Lestrade stepped fully into the room and helped John hoist Sherlock into the bath. “But it could be something else. D’you know if he looked unwell before his dunk in the Thames?”
Lestrade shrugged as John turned off the tap. “Don’t really know for sure – the case he was helping out on wasn’t one of mine. Only reason I was even there at all was because I'm his unofficial ‘handler’, so-to-speak. It was supposed to be my day off. I got there all of two minutes before he landed in the river…” Lestrade trailed off, then added, “But he did sound a bit hoarse.”
“Can you find out if there was anything else? I need to know if this is just the cold, or if he’s managed to catch something.” John’s focus was aimed entirely at his flatmate. He grabbed the glass off the back of the sink and set to getting river mud out of Sherlock’s hair.
Lestrade didn’t say anything for a long moment, so John glanced over at him. He had his phone out and was dialing. A heartbeat later, he hit a final button and lifted the mobile to his ear. “Gregson? It’s Lestrade… Yeah, I know… No, just a bump, but… I dunno – you’d need to ask his doctor… Okay, just a mo’,” he held the phone away from his mouth and asked John, “He gonna be able to give a statement tomorrow?”
John shrugged and grabbed his own bottle of three-in-one off of the tub ledge; Sherlock’s own shampoo was snugged an a basket hung from the showerhead and was definitely out of reach for the moment. “Don’t know. If the temp is just because of his dip in the river, I don’t see why not. If it’s something more serious, however, I'm going to say ‘no’.”
Lestrade returned to his phone call. “Don’t know,” he said. “Listen, did Sherlock look ill to you before he landed in the river?” John worked extremely carefully over the rising knot on the back of his flatmate’s head while keeping one ear on Lestrade. “Yeah, no, that’s not typical, not even for Sherlock… I know… Okay, see you tomorrow.” Lestrade disconnected the call and returned the phone to his pocket. “Sounds like he wasn’t feeling well beforehand, but doing his damnedest to make people believe otherwise.”
John let out a sigh. “‘Daft bugger’ was spot-on, then,” he grabbed the water glass and set to rinsing the soap from Sherlock’s hair. “Dunno what he was thinking – he rarely sleeps, barely eats… He might as well have put out a welcome mat for every germ there is.” He finished up with getting his flatmate cleaned up. “Hand me that towel, would you?” John gestured to the rack next to the door while tugging the plug from the drain.
Working together, John and the DI managed to get Sherlock dried off, dressed in a pair of pajama bottoms and a t-shirt, and tucked into bed. “You need help with anything else?” Lestrade asked, hovering in the doorway to Sherlock’s bedroom.
John pulled out a handful of supplies from his kit and shook his head. “Don’t think so –” he started to say, then cut himself off. “Actually, if you’re offering…?”
Lestrade nodded, “What d’you need? Run to Sainsbury’s?”
“Not exactly,” John replied, digging into the very bottom of his pack. Good thing I never really reorganized this mess. Might’ve gotten rid of this. He came up with a small bundle of sterile-wrapped items he’d nearly forgotten he owned. He pulled on a pair of exam gloves, then unwound the rubber tourniquet strip from around the assorted other things. With the ease of practice – Granted, this isn’t something I've had to do myself in quite a while, but some things you just never forget – John tied the tourniquet around Sherlock’s bicep and sought out a vein. “He’s got more scarring than I thought,” he muttered.
“Yeah,” Lestrade said. “Those drugs busts weren’t always to look for evidence he’d swiped.”
“I know,” John replied, glancing up at the DI. “Can you grab my phone for me, please? It should be sitting on the table next to my chair in the living room – the reddish chair, not the black one.”
“Sure,” Lestrade replied, turning on his heel. While he was out of the room, John scrubbed the area he’d picked out at the crook of Sherlock’s elbow with an alcohol swab. He wrinkled his nose at the stench. Thought I got rid of that for today. Next, he stripped the protective wrapping off of a butterfly needle and a vacutainer. Lestrade returned just as John was sliding the needle into Sherlock’s arm. “Jesus,” the DI groaned. “D’you have to do that now?”
“Yes,” John’s tone was matter-of-fact. “How else am I supposed to find out if this is viral, bacterial, or fungal?”
“Fungal?”
John set the vacutainer in place and watched as it filled, switching it out for a second one once it was full. “Yes, fungal. He was doing something a week or so ago with mold. Mold’s a type of fungus.” When the second vial finished filling, John undid the tourniquet and slid the needle out. He re-capped the needle, then wrapped it up in the discarded packaging. I'll find a sharps box for it later. John quickly collected the rest of the mess and tossed what he could in the bin sandwiched between the side of Sherlock’s bed and the nightstand.
“Here’s your phone,” Lestrade said, handing the gadget to him.
“Thank you,” John replied, then scrolled through his contacts. “Mike?”
“John! Pleasure, as always. How’re things with Sherlock?” John could hear Stamford shuffling some papers around.
“Overall, rather well,” John replied. “But specifically not so good today. Can I ask a favor?”
“Ever and always,” Mike replied, punctuating his comment with a slurping noise that told John he was indulging in yet another cup of his favorite coffee. “What did you need?”
“Sherlock’s managed to make himself ill,” John said, returning to his kit and retrieving a digital, wrist-cuff-style sphygmomanometer. “Don’t know with what, not just yet, but he also managed to take a dip in the river earlier today. Didn’t do him any favors.” He slipped the blood-pressure cuff around Sherlock’s wrist and turned it on.
“I can imagine. And he’s refusing hospital, right?”
“Yeah,” John agreed. “So, if you could gather a few things for me, I'd be appreciative.” After Mike’s affirmative reply, John quickly listed what he thought he’d need that he couldn’t easily get from the local chemist’s, then said, “I'm sending someone over to pick it up. DI Lestrade. Should be there in about half an hour or so.”
“Have him meet me in my office,” Mike said.
“Will do. Thanks, Mike.” John disconnected the call, stuck his phone in his back pocket, then read the BP-readout. He grimaced at the numbers.
“What’s wrong?” Lestrade asked, sounding more worried than he had thus far.
“Nothing serious – just his pressure’s a little low,” John replied, removing the cuff. He lightly pinched the skin on the back of Sherlock’s hand – making the man mumble incoherently – and let out a breath when it didn’t immediately snap back into place. “Likely just a bit dehydrated.” John traded the BP-cuff for his stethoscope. After listening to both heart and lungs, John returned it to his kit. “Doesn’t seem to be pneumonia or bronchitis, at least.” He felt along Sherlock’s jaw. “Hmm…”
“‘Hmm’? That good or bad?”
“Just a ‘hmm’,” John replied, reaching for a paper-wrapped tongue depressor and his penlight. “Think I know what this is,” he said, propping Sherlock’s mouth open and peering into it with the light. “Yeah, looks like I was right.” John could easily see the distinctive white speckles on the back of his flatmate’s throat.
“What is it?” Lestrade sounded like he was beginning to lose his temper.
John quirked an eyebrow, but didn’t turn around. Why’s he sound like a frustrated parent? “Probably strep throat,” John said, tossing the used bit of wood in the bin. “Still wanna have the tests run, just to make sure, but I'm certain that’s all it is.” He grabbed the thermometer from amidst the other various bits and bobs contained within his kit and snapped a disposable tip into place. He brushed aside Sherlock’s hair and hit the button once the device was settled in his ear. The machine beeped, and John let out a low whistle. “Damn – thirty-nine-point-two.” John tossed the ear-tip cover into the bin.
“That’s rather high, isn’t it?” Lestrade asked, still sounding rather like a worried dad than a casual coworker.
John nodded once, and said, “Yes, it is. Not quite dangerous levels, not yet, but it could easily get that way.” He returned the thermometer to his kit, exchanging it for a battered memo book. John spent nearly a full minute scribbling down a list, then flipped to a new page and jotted a quick note. Tearing both pages, he handed them – along with the two vials of blood – to Lestrade. “The second note’s for Mike, make sure he gets it along with the blood – he’ll make sure the right tests are run. On your way back, would you stop off somewhere and pick up the stuff on the first page? My wallet’s on the desk upstairs – there should still be a twenty in it.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Lestrade replied, tucking the vials and note into his coat pocket while scanning the list. “I've got it.” He folded the list neatly in half. “Just one last question before I go…”
“Yeah?”
“Who’s ‘Mike’ and where can I find him?”
John let out a small chuckle. “Sorry,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “Dr. Mike Stamford, microbiology prof at St. Bart’s. His office is pretty easy to find, it’s exactly two floors above the morgue.”
After Lestrade left, John headed to the bathroom and retrieved the bottle of paracetamol he kept in his shaving kit. He shook two out of the bottle, then returned it to its place. John sat the pills on the sink for a moment, long enough to wash out the glass, then filled it with cold water. Grabbing the pills and the glass, he returned to Sherlock and laid a hand on his flatmate’s shoulder. “Sherlock?” he tried to wake him, shaking his shoulder. “Come on, Sherlock – you need to wake up.”
“Mmuph?” One bleary eye cracked open. “Tired,” Sherlock grumbled, his voice sounding like he was gargling gravel.
“I know,” John sympathetically said. “But I need you to take some paracetamol.” Sherlock wrinkled his nose in protest, but didn’t reply aloud. Instead of arguing – sore throat or no – he simply held out a lethargic hand.
A moment later, Sherlock winced his way around swallowing both pills and half the glass of water before burrowing into his pillow. “No, don’t go to sleep just yet,” John said. How is it he looks like a little kid? He did, too – like an overgrown six year old that had tried too hard to ring in the New Year, only to pass out just as the countdown began.
“Mmuph?” sounded slightly more humorous when filtered through a feather pillow.
“D’you think you’ll be sick?”
The same collection of muffled consonants accompanied a slow head-shake.
“I know your throat’s sore – you’ve got a fever, too – but do you feel anything else? Stomachache? Sore muscles?”
“H’dak.”
Headache, right. “Goose-egg from when you fell in the river,” John explained. “Any blurry vision with that?”
Another slow head-shake.
“D’you think you could eat something? Soup, maybe?”
A head-shake and a subtle wince.
“Maybe later, then,” John sighed.
“K’d.”
“Pardon?”
Sherlock turned his face so that it wasn’t completely buried in his pillow. “Cold,” he croaked, sounding altogether pathetic and defeated.
John stroked his fingers through Sherlock’s still-damp hair. “I'll be right back with another blanket.” He was as good as his word and returned in moments with the quilt his grandmother had made – the one that had found a home across the back of the sofa. Sherlock had shifted to the middle of the mattress, cocooning himself within his duvet. He looks like an éclair, John thought. A giant, slightly burnt éclair. The duvet was a dark brown, which contrasted strongly with the bits of skin that stuck out at either end: a bit of his jaw, the rest of his head either covered with hair or buried under the pillow, and his feet. John tried tugging the blanket down to cover said feet, but they twitched out of reach with a muffled, “Nummph.”
“Okay.” John tucked Gran’s quilt around his flatmate, making sure not to touch his feet, and settled himself on the edge of the bed. “Better?” he asked, taking care to keep his voice quiet.
“Ss’l k’d.”
Still cold. John smiled to himself and took a deep breath, idly wishing Mrs. Hudson hadn’t gone off to visit her niece in Aberdeen for the week. I could do with a strong cup of tea right about now. The thought flickered and died all in the same breath as John suddenly realized something. Omega. I can actually smell him now. Something very much like sandalwood and night-blooming jasmine emanated from the human éclair to his right. Underscoring these very pleasant scents was a hint of something sour, however. Sickness, John knew. He rearranged himself so that his back was up against the headboard. “C’m here, then,” he murmured.
The burrito-wrapped consulting detective wormed around, eventually landing so that his head was – still buried under the pillow – resting in John’s lap, with the rest of him lying parallel against John’s side and legs. John reached under the quilt and duvet and rubbed comforting circles on Sherlock’s back.
It wasn’t long before Sherlock fell asleep.
When Greg Lestrade returned from his John-sent errands an hour later, he found them both snoring softly. Quietly, he sat the box from Dr. Stamford next to John’s kit and the bags from Sainsbury’s just on the other side of where he estimated John’s feet would land when he woke and got around to getting out of bed. “Take care of him, doc,” Greg whispered, tiptoeing out of the room.