docwithablog | storyline one.

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[ Sherlock's a pitiful sight, really. It's not just the bucket of vomit next to the bed or the sweat-drenched sheets or the way the muscles of his leg are visibly contracting beneath his skin, although it's all of that as well, it's how he's obviously battling his mind, too and in this state, not even the great Sherlock Holmes -- or perhaps especially not him, stands much of a chance against that level of brain activity. Undoubtedly the reason he shot himself up in the first place. John gets it, he just doesn't understand (you see, but you don't observe), does he? Why a man of Sherlock's intellect won't acknowledge how unhealthy and frankly unattractive this entire circus is, though maybe the answer is staring him right in the face. Who bloody well knows.

They're both idiots.

Nevertheless, Sherlock's an idiot who, regardless of severe pains, can give him one look and still see in what phase of recovery he is which is more than you can say for most people, John's sure. Managing a smile, mostly a tug at the corner of his mouth, he shrugs and glances towards the bathroom, deciding that they need to do something about that face of his. He's sweating himself in the eyes, must be irritating and although John can't, for the fucking life of him, actually relieve him of much, he can ensure that minor annoyances don't add to his discomfort, yes. ]

I'm fine. [ He walks over to the door leading to the bathroom, sliding it open and keeping his voice raised so it carries over while he moves inside. ] Still on leave until next Wednesday, though. [ He fills a basin with warm water, pulls down a stack of cloths and returns to the bedroom, putting it all down next to the sick bucket that he will probably need to empty before he leaves. Add it to the list of things he absolutely wouldn't do for anyone else and you got to wonder why he bothers with Sherlock... ] I called in some excess holiday. Also, normally I'd leave you to the nurses, but you're stuck with me in this case. My sincere apologies.

[ He leaves the first cloth to soak for a couple of seconds before wringing it and carefully applying it to Sherlock's brow. He doesn't rub or dab or anything, knowing the man's nervous system is basically shot right now. ]

Edited 2020-04-18 08:25 (UTC)

[ Teeth grinding together, he tries to shut out John's movements in the room - into the bathroom - water, basin, cupboards (yeah, his brain doesn't shut down, it just isn't happening) - with a groan, he's about to turn on his side just to do something with the restlessness currently coursing through his body when John comes back. He looks up, eyes narrowed from pain, just in time to see a cloth coming for his face. He blinks hard, a mixture of tears and sweat running down his cheeks in response. Disgusting. Oh, it's just - so - nasty.

Then, John finally presses the cloth - warm, thank God, and the water's lovely and clean - against his brow. He gasps, his fingers twitching as his skin explodes from the sudden onslaught of stimulation, neurons firing uselessly, like his body's in a panic. It hurts, yes, but it's also... the water's nice. John's proximity smells like him and it comes through the haze of sickness and sweat as clearly as if he'd been sniffing his shirts. Again. Anyway. He breathes in, breathes out, the cramp in his leg growing fainter. It'll be back soon enough, of course, but right now he'll take what little pockets of calm he gets, thanks. ]

I've had worse. [ He shuts his eyes. Speech takes effort. ] Nurses. I'd rather have you.

[ It's quite honest and quite raw, the words themselves and this whole ordeal. Tomorrow, no doubt, he'll regret not locking his bedroom door to keep the other man out because this amount of vulnerability cannot be taken back, it'll take root and set precedence. Deal with that later, he thinks as another cramp starts up in his left foot, bending his toes obscenely upwards. He bites his lower lip and flexes his foot, then gives up and lies back, waiting for it all to go away. ]

Edited 2020-04-18 08:48 (UTC)

[ While Sherlock thrashes about some at the onslaught of a new cramp, John leans down and wrings the cloth in the lukewarm water again, droplets running down his fingers and dripping onto the floor. I'd rather have you, he said, quite earnestly, too and although Sherlock's a good manipulator, more than anything he's also at his core very unfiltered, so it's probably even true. The tug at the corner of John's mouth from before returns, spreads into a slightly wider smile. Raising an eyebrow at the other man as he settles back down again, obviously just resigned now to the ebb and flow of pain -- making John's fingers absolutely itch, he presses the cloth to his forehead once more, lifting and pressing in a small row of touches downwards over his brow, eyes, nose. ]

Good. [ Anything else would require extensive help from Mycroft and considering how Sherlock's dealt with this on his own until now, that would under any circumstances be a bad, bad idea, you'd assume. Either he's fucked up his brotherly duties before or he's never tended to them, either or. And neither scenario would surprise John much, let's be real. Nor impress him. ] Because we're working on a restricted budget here.

[ Smile fading again, he focuses his attention on Sherlock's temples, washing off his hairline slowly while leaning in over him, reaching up with his other hand to push his curls out of his face. They're sticking to him. And now they're sticking to John's fingers and he is kind of just brushing them back a bit. Slowly, softly.

Lovely, but let's not think too much about that. ]

storyline one.

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