Work Text:
Rest and Paracetamol
January 2019
“I’m gonna get yoooouuuu!” John cooed, as he chased Rosie around the sitting room on his knees. As she toddled around, she giggled and shouted, “Daddy silly!”
“Did you just call me silly? You just wait until I catch you! I’m gonna tickle your belly! You better run! You better ruuuunnn!”
As they made their way around the coffee table for the sixth time, Sherlock bellowed from the kitchen, his neck still tilted towards the table, eyes looking through his microscope, “John? What do you want for dinner tonight? I’ll call for a takeaway.”
At that moment, John had been making hissing noises. “I’m a ssssssilly sssssnake! I’m gonna bite you!” Rosie squealed with delight and made the turn around the edge, but John lifted his head reflexively to look toward Sherlock as he’d spoken to him. John’s head smacked into the table.
“Ow!!! Fucking hell! Shit!”
Rosie was still giggling until she turned around and saw her father’s face. Her lips began to pout and her eyes immediately became wet.
“Daddy?”
Sherlock leapt from his chair and stumbled into the sitting room as his chair tumbled over to the floor behind him. He was skidding on his knees as he slid to John’s side.
“WHAT’S THE MATTER? WHAT’S HAPPENED?” Sherlock yelled.
“I’ve bumped my head, is all. Can you make sure she’s all right? I really don’t want her to get all worked-up over this.”
They both looked to Rosie and saw the face of a lost little girl. “Oh, Rosamund. Your Daddy is okay!” She didn’t appear to believe Sherlock.
“Can you take her in the kitchen and give her a biscuit to calm her down and bring me an ice pack when you’re done?”
Sherlock reacted quickly and scooped Rosie up from the floor. He wiped her face with his knuckles and kissed her nose. “How about one of Mrs. Hudson’s chocolate biscuits?” At the mention of a biscuit, John’s current condition was forgotten. She sniffed and nodded her head as she laid her head against Sherlock’s chest. Such as the disposition of a two year old.
John was sat on the floor rubbing at the back of his head with his left hand. He could already feel the knot forming there.
Once Sherlock had Rosie sufficiently calmed down, they both returned to the sitting room, an ice bag in Sherlock's hand. He passed it to John and asked,
“Are you all right? Really all right?”
“Just a bump. Lemme get the ice on it here and you keep an eye on me for concussion symptoms, okay?” He turned to face his daughter.
“I’m okay, bee. See?” He pulled a silly face to make her laugh. It worked.
Two hours later, while eating takeaway on the couch, John and Sherlock were watching telly while Rosie absentmindedly missed putting noodles in her mouth.
“Are you feeling all right?”
“Just keep an eye on me and make sure I don’t present with any concussion symptoms.”
“John. You already said that. A few hours ago.” Sherlock's jaw immediately set itself.
“Did I?” John was decidedly confused. And becoming visibly distressed by the look on Sherlock's face.
It was nearing eight o’clock, Rosie’s bedtime.
“John, I’m going to skip her bath tonight and get her ready for bed. I’ll be right back.” Sherlock left the sofa and lifted Rosie from her high-chair. He took her into the kitchen and wiped off her face and hands, then took her upstairs to change her into her pyjamas and read her a quick story. Sherlock was usually the one to put her down at night. His voice would lull her to sleep; usually without having to even finish one book.
He reemerged to the sitting room twelve minutes later to find John, glassy eyed, holding chopsticks in his hand with no noodles attached.
“John? What’s the matter?”
“I’m not sure. I feel a little weird. Nauseated.” John shook his head to clear his muddling thoughts and immediately regretted it. “Sherlock. What’s going on?”
Sherlock's eyes went wide. He moved further into the sitting room and sat beside John. He took his left hand. “You banged your head while playing with Rosie two hours ago. You don’t remember?”
John looked confused. “I don’t think I do. I’m not really sure.” It was then that John gagged. He dropped his chopsticks on the table and brought his right hand to his mouth and pressed against it. Sherlock let go of John’s left hand as John raced to the bathroom. Sherlock was right behind him as John fell to his knees in front of the toilet and forcefully vomited up his dinner. Sherlock placed a hand on John’s back, slowly rubbing in comforting circles.
“I’ll get you sorted, John. Just give me a moment.” Sherlock used his other hand to look up ‘concussions’ online to see what he should do.
John came up for air and wiped his lips and chin. “Sherlock. I think I’m okay. This is normal for concussions.”
“I’m going to go get you some more ice and get you to bed. It says here to...”
“Sherlock! Where’s Rosie?”
Sherlock took a deep breath to try to relax. “I put her to bed about fifteen minutes ago. She’s fine. Let’s worry about you right now, shall we?” With that sentiment, John vomited again. Sherlock got on his knees beside John and ran his fingers through John’s hair and then up and down his neck while he was bent over the toilet. Sherlock reached for a flannel from the nearest towel rail and wiped the sweat that had accumulated along John’s hairline. He kissed John’s nape.
“I’ll get you sorted, for once. It’s my turn now.”
Once they determined that John was finished, Sherlock got him a glass of water so he could rinse out his mouth. When that was accomplished, Sherlock gathered him into their bedroom and sat John down. He undressed him gently, leaving him in pants and a vest and got him under the covers. He went back into the loo and retrieved the large glass of water, filled it back to the top. He also grabbed the bottle of paracetamol from the cabinet above the sink and went back into the bedroom to give them to John. “If you think you can keep this down, you should take a few of these and have at least half of that glass of water. The four websites I consulted said to get you properly hydrated, give you some paracetamol, and get you rest. You lie down and I’ll go get some more ice for you.” Without waiting for a response from John, he turned and scurried down the hallway to the kitchen
Upon his return, Sherlock noticed that John did as he was advised. ‘Good. He remembered what I told him to do. That’s very good. He’s fine.’, he thought to himself. He removed his own clothes, got in beside John, and adjusted the flannel wrapped around the ice bag. He laid back and pulled John to him; laid John’s head on his chest and pressed the ice bag gently to the back of his head and held it there for him.
“You sleep a bit now and I’ll wake you in a few hours, see how you’re doing.” He held the bag with his left hand, his right hand in John’s hair. It was so soft. John’s hair was a comfort to Sherlock all of the time, but especially right now. Caring for someone else has not been Sherlock's forte for most of his life. He was trying to be better.
“Thanks, sweetheart. Love you.” managed John as his eyes fluttered shut, his eyelashes brushing against Sherlock's cottony vest. Sherlock continued his gentle care and pressed a kiss to the crown of John’s head. He held him as he slept.
He woke John three hours later and made John finish the glass of water and swallow down two more paracetamol. He asked him the day of the week and the current name of their country's monarch. He didn’t know the answer to either question; he was just watching John as he answered. Complete confidence in his voice. That was good enough for Sherlock. He left for a few minutes to refill the glass and get some more ice. He resumed his position underneath John in their bed and let him sleep against his chest once more.
Two hours later. “Can you see my finger? Follow my finger?”
“Can I see your finger? You mean that long, thin, pointy thing that looks like an icicle? Yes, Sherlock, I can see your finger. Even when you move it side to side, and especially when you come closer and move it away. Going cross-eyed hurts concussion sufferers, by the way.” John is lying on his back now, Sherlock looming above him.
“It said on a website to make sure the sufferer was able to answer basic questions, to test visual cognition, to make sure they rested and had ice applied to the injury.” Sherlock looked frazzled and a bit sad.
John’s face fell for a moment. His anger dissipated immediately when he was able to recognize the emotions playing out on Sherlock's face.
“Thank you for taking care of me. And Rosie earlier. You’ve been wonderful.”
“How would you know? You’ve been asleep.” Sherlock was pouting now.
“How do I know? Hmmmm. That’s easy. I know who I am. I know where I am, and why I’m here. And most importantly, I know who YOU are. You’ve got me, right?”
“Always.”
“That, right there, is how I know you’ve been great. Because you’re you. And we’re us.” Sherlock collapsed on John then, giving in to finally being on the other side of the pressure he’d placed upon himself. The situation had turned a corner. A positive one.
Sherlock pushed his forehead against John’s neck and inhaled. John’s arms went around his back and pulled him close. “I’m supposed to be taking care of you.” Sherlock admitted.
“We take care of each other, remember?’
“I’m not sure. Do you?” ribbed Sherlock. John pinched him.
“Sherlock?”
“Yes, John?”
“Can we stop talking now? I have a headache.” Sherlock laughed against John’s neck until sleep pulled them both down into its sweet depth.