Observers- BBC Sherlock x Reader Chpt. 33

Hot.

That was the only thought on your mind as you stirred, shoving all the blankets off of your body and rolling to a seated position. Sherlock was elsewhere so you took the opportunity to slip out of his flat and down to your own, stumbling into your bathroom to take a cold shower in an attempt to bring down your fever. You could have just slept there with the water running over you, it was so nice, but you forced yourself out, pulling on some new pajamas before going to the kitchen.

Being sick was the worst, you decided, rubbing gently at your sore throat as you put a pot on the stove for a honey drink your mother had taught you to make years ago. You had just finished emptying almost an entire bottle of honey into the pot when your ears were met with the sound of your door being flung open, “(F/n)?”

Rolling your eyes at that fact that a genius had just called out to a temporarily mute person and naively expected an answer, you went to the kitchen doorway to level him with a glare for treating your door roughly again. He looked relieved to see you, though it was only for a split second so you could have imagined it, and you returned to the stove.

“I need to take your temperature again,” he demanded, coming into the kitchen.

You sighed with a wince as the action hurt your throat and opened your mouth, letting him stick the thermometer in before returning to stirring your pot. You were more than surprised when he wrapped his arms around you from behind and pulled you away from the stove, his lips near your ear as he explained, “If you stand over that the heat will make the reading inaccurate.”


You looked at your pot a little forlornly and then leaned back into him, might as well enjoy the contact while he was willing to give it, not to mention you were starting to feel exhausted again. That was the reaction he expected, it was safe to assume that your energy was waning and in your sick state you were less likely to question things or fall back on learned behavior that might cause you to push him away. It was an interesting little test of how you felt about him when you inhibitions were down and, in addition, he got to hold you for a short while just to see how it felt.

Sherlock leaned against the wall across from the counter, resting his chin on top of your head as you both waited for the thermometer to beep. His hands were clasped over your stomach and you fiddled with his sleeve until there came a beep, one of his hands coming up to take the device from your mouth before moving it up to his eye level, “38. Good. Better than this morning.”

You pulled away from him and returned to your task now that that was over, stirring your concoction a bit before opening your fridge to get milk. You let your head hit the freezer door when you realized you didn’t have any, of all the times you could be out of milk… of course this would be it. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow as you stood with the fridge door open and lightly banged your head against the freezer a couple of times, noting that it was pretty much empty, “There’s milk upstairs.”

You turned to look at him pleadingly and he rolled his eyes, “Would I have mentioned it if you couldn’t have some?”

You didn’t bother to glare at him, grabbing your pot with one hand and his sleeve with the other, tugging him upstairs before releasing him and setting the pot on the stove. You gave a small smile as you pulled open their fridge, exchanging it for a full grin at the eyeballs you found inside as you reached forward to poke them.

Sherlock got to you before you could, steering you away as he grabbed the milk and pushed the door shut, “No touching. Remember?”

You puffed out your lip in a pout but nodded, taking the milk from him to pour a mug and then handed it back to him so he could put it away. You took your pot and carefully poured its contents into the milk and then grabbed a spoon and went out to the couch. You sipped at your drink happily, feeling it soothe your throat, and then you reached to pull your sketchbook into your lap only to have it snatched out of your hand. You glared up at Sherlock as he moved past you, setting your sketchbook out of your reach, “Rest.”

You went limp and flailed slightly in a little tantrum, mouthing, “But I’m not tired.”

He ignored you, pulling out some old case files to look over while you ‘rested.’ You set your drink down to pout with your arms cross over your chest and then flopped dramatically across the couch, comically rolling and just being plain childish. It would have been more effective with sound you finally decided, sitting up with huff so you could continue to sip your drink.

When you were finished, you eyed him for a moment to be sure he wasn’t paying close attention and then darted out and down the stairs to your flat, locking the door behind you. Upstairs, Sherlock just rolled his eyes, going to his room to find his lock picking kit before heading down the stairs after you. When he got the door open, he found you sprawled out on the floor with a hand pressed to your forehead. You looked up at him dejectedly when he came to loom over you, mouthing, “You may have been right.”

“Of course I was,” he stated matter-of-factly, extending a hand to pull you up before ushering you back up the stairs. You immediately curled up on the couch in a ball and he tossed a blanket over you before going to sit in his chair. He was glad John was coming back soon since he was beginning to worry that what he was doing wasn’t working, not to mention his own throat was beginning to hurt a little. He dismissed the idea that maybe you’d given him your sickness, it wasn’t that bad- he probably just needed to drink more water or something trivial like that.

John came home the next morning to find you curled up asleep on the couch, mumbling something in French, and Sherlock in his chair, hands folded signifying that he was thinking. He set his things down as he asked, “What’s (F/n) doing on the couch?”

Sherlock flatly responded, “Sleeping.”

John groaned, “I meant why is she sleeping on our couch.”

“That’s not what you asked.”

He sighed, “Do you have to do that?”

“If you’d ask what you really meant I wouldn’t have to.”

John clenched his jaw and made a move towards the kitchen only to stop in his tracks when Sherlock ordered, “Go to the pharmacy and get some antibiotics.”

“What? Why?”

Sherlock finally moved from his position to look at John, “Well, as I am not a doctor, I obviously can’t. So go make yourself useful.”

“I meant why do you need antibiotics, you arsehole,” John yelled and Sherlock gave him a deathly glare as you stirred at the noise.

John looked back to you just as you blinked awake and sat up to tilt your head at him, your voice raspy as you asked, “Johnny? When did you get home?”

“Just now, Squeak.”

You hummed softly as you rolled to face the back of the couch, fully intending to go back to sleep, “Welcome home, Johnny.”

John shot a glare at Sherlock, “What did you do to her? I knew I should have come home after that bloody phone call. You promised to take care of her!”

Rolling unhappily back up to sitting, you held your head in your hands, “Quit it would you, John? It’s not his fault.”

John took one look at you and knew you were sick, coming to press a hand to your forehead, “How long have you been like this?”

Ignoring John and taking advantage of the fact you were awake now, Sherlock plopped down the couch next to you, holding out the thermometer, “Open.”

You sighed and let him stick it in your mouth as John raised a curious eyebrow at the interaction before frowning at you, “Why didn’t you call me?”

Wanting to give John an answer, you opened your mouth but Sherlock cut you off, “Antibiotics, John. Go.”

“How do you even know she needs antibiotics? I’m the doctor, remember?” John growled, moving to take the thermometer when it beeped, “38 degrees. That’s not too bad.”

“She has strep.”

You groaned as they started to argue, slipping quietly past John and going down the stairs to knock on Mrs. Hudson’s door. She pulled it open and from your exasperated look knew exactly what you needed, “Come in dear. I’ll make you a cuppa.”

“Thank you so much, Martha. They’re going at it again.” You sighed, the two of you had become fast friends and you knew you could come to her for company when things went pear-shaped upstairs.

“What about this time?” she asked as you slid into a chair at her table.

“Whether or not I need antibiotics… and how Sherlock was supposed to take care of me while Johnny was gone.”

“Oh dear… I can see why you came down. Sherlock did say you were ill but he assured me he could handle it.”

“He did… as best as he could be expected to,” you nodded accepting the cup of tea from her as she slid in across from you.

Mrs. Hudson wasn’t blind, she had seen the slightest hint of worry in that boy’s eyes when he’d said you were sick and the looks you gave him when he wasn’t looking. To her, it was obvious he cared for you and you for him but with Sherlock the way he was and your past it was a delicate situation. She was about to gently broach the subject when there was another knock on her door and she got up to answer it, revealing a distraught looking John on the other side.