A Soldier's Blog

8th July 2011

Post reblogged from functioning sociopath with 7 notes

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exarmykitten:

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exarmydoctor:

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exarmydoctor:

“Right, then.” John sighed to himself as he haphazardly balanced a plate of biscuits, two mugs of tea, some dissolving cold tablets, and a blanket for good measure up the stairs and into the flat. Mrs. Hudson had been so kind as to give him some of the biscuits she’d just bought, only four of five, but it would definitely do. He struggled with the doorknob loudly for a bit, even coming to the point of cursing at it, before resigning and setting the plate down to unlock it. “Didn’t need to open the door for me, Sherlock, I was fine getting in!” He shut it rather crossly with his foot. 

He set the precious objects on the kitchen table (after gingerly clearing some space with his elbow; was that a human ear?), and turned on his heel to search for the consulting detective. “Come on, then, Sherlock, I’ve got your tea. Two sugars and gloriously fingerless.” Adding some sugar to his own, he sat down at the kitchen table and began to get the tablets ready, poking them out from their little metallic confines and setting two on the table. The information on the back said 12 and up, two tablets, and while he could certainly act much younger, Sherlock would need adult potency.  

The last thing Sherlock wanted right now was John helping him. He was Sherlock Holmes, the Sherlock Holmes, and he sure as hell didn’t want John around babying him. Yes, maybe he was being a bit cocky, thinking he could take care of himself. With the state he was in, sore throat, fever, chills, it really was for the best if he had someone around to take care of him and make sure he didn’t do something characteristically stupid such as going a day without eating and instead refreshing their website’s page continuously in hopes of someone coming to him in need of assistance. Hearing the muffled sounds of John finally back from his trip, footsteps, him fighting with the door, and cursing, he rolled over so he was facing the back of the sofa with a groan of annoyance in response to all the noise.

Finally John had entered, with an irritated accusal of Sherlock’s usual lack of assistance, to which Sherlock gave no response. Feeling miserable as ever, he forced his limp body off of the couch as he was told - a rare moment of obedience only because he was far too tired to put up further argument - and dragged his feet until he seated himself heavily in his usual chair at the table. Still having the energy to scowl at the sight of the medicinal tablets, his cold glare faded momentarily as he visibly winced in response in the pain of his sore throat. It was going to be a long night.

And the last thing John wanted right now was a grumpier-than-usual Sherlock Holmes whining about how sore his throat was and then spitting in the face of medicine, so it pleased him when the other complied, no matter how grudgingly. A small laugh struggled to leave him when he saw how absolutely dead to the world his flatmate looked thanks to a common cold.

“Can you sit up straight so it goes down right?” No, scratch that. The last thing John wanted was a grumpier-than-usual Sherlock Holmes dying because he refused to sit up and not choke on the bloody tea. “All the way, you’ll survive.”

“All right.” He brushed the pills into his palm and worked them to be sitting in between his left index finger and thumb. Shifting back, his hand raised towards Sherlock’s face and the other one went to pick up the stirred tea. “Open up, take the pills, drink the tea. Make sure to drink the tea, it won’t help if you take them dry since you haven’t got anything in you. Which is why you’re also gonna’ chase this tea with a biscuit.” 

It was quite strange how Sherlock, who had survived so much in order to catch such dangerous criminals, was such a miserable wreck all because of a cold. Hearing John’s instructions, which should be simple enough to follow, he groaned in irritation and sat up as straight as his aching body would allow. This whole situation was just terrible for him, he felt so weak and miserable and all he wanted to do was curl up on the couch and sleep all day, but he still absolutely refused to admit that it was all his fault. Depriving his body of sleep and food because of eagerly waiting for a new crime to solve had been a stupid decision, and he refused to believe that this was the outcome of that stupid decision. He was Sherlock Holmes he didn’t make stupid decisions, he had John to do that for him.

A look of defiance on his face, he stared at the pills before him, before hastily taking them from John’s hand and stuffing them into his mouth, washing them down quickly with a fast barely-there sip of tea because his throat hurt like hell so he wasn’t going to be able to swallow them dry (but he would if he could just to prove John wrong). Sherlock said nothing, he refused to thank John despite how helpful he was being merely because he didn’t want his help anyways. “Not hungry,” he grumbled. The biscuit looked repulsive and he honestly had no appetite. Reaching for the mug of tea, he took another drink, looking stubborn as ever. He’d taken his bloody medicine and was willing to drink the tea, but he didn’t plan on budging on the subject of the biscuit.

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Source: exarmykitten

8th July 2011

Post reblogged from Am I or are the others crazy? with 18 notes

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Source: hiddlybatch