The Science of Sentiment (BBC Sherlock x Reader)

Chapter 11: Sick

The next morning brought blinding rays of sunshine and a pleasant chill across 221B. You slowly opened your (e/c) eyes to the light streaming through the windows, snuggling deeper into the detective's familiar chest. You didn't want to get up, or at least not just yet. Sherlock continued to doze soundly beneath you. Your mind flitted back to the night you had slept in Sherlock's bed, not too long ago. You had deduced that the man was often sleep deprived, so it was no wonder he was fast asleep- the man rarely had a chance to sleep on an ordinary night.
You laid there for a few more minutes, feeling the rise and fall of the man's chest as he snoozed.
You suddenly became aware of the chilly air as an involuntary shiver ran through you. Your sinuses felt pinched, causing you to sneeze a few times.
Your sudden sneezing was enough to rouse the detective from his slumber. He stared at you lazily from his position beneath you, offering a quiet, "Good morning."
You replied with a soft "hey." Your voice came out raspy and weak. You tried to clear your throat a few times, but this action only led to a small coughing fit.
Sherlock's sleepy expression quickly turned to concern. He sat up with you on his lap, holding you close until the coughing ceased. Without saying a word, he raised a hand to your forehead, gauging your temperature.
He gave a small sound of dismay, setting you down and leaving to the kitchen.
He returned with a few pills and a glass of water. "Take these. You have a fever."
"What?" You asked groggily.
"This is my fault- I should have had you sleep in a bed last night. Perhaps it was too cold out in the living room. And then in combination with the rain-"
"Sherlock. I feel fine," you cut in.
"Don't give me that. You're burning up and it's clear you're having sinus irritation." Sherlock paused to hand you the tablets and water. You popped the pills into your mouth and swallowed them dry.
"JOHN!" Sherlock called in the direction of the hallway.
A moment later, John stumbled out of his bedroom, tying a robe over his pajamas.
"What is it?" He asked, sounding slightly disoriented.
"I believe (y/n) may have the flu."
"Oh?" John hurried over to the couch, looking you over. After a minute, he clicked his tongue in disapproval. "Yeah, you don't look so good."
You muttered a sarcastic "thanks" and John scurried off the the bathroom to retrieve some medical supplies.
You took your opportunity to shoot a dark look at Sherlock.
"What?"
"You didn't have to tell Mr. Over-protective over there." You hissed under your breath.
"He's a doctor," Sherlock replied, giving you a confused look.
"I don't need someone fussing over me, I can take care of myself."
"Don't be stubborn."
If looks could kill, Sherlock Holmes would be burned alive at the receiving end of your fiery glare.
Just then, John returned to the living room.
"Here we go," he said, pulling a few things out of a first aid kit. "Open."
You complied, opening your mouth for a thermometer.
"37.8. Not good."
"I already gave her some medication for it," Sherlock said dismissively.
John looked annoyed, but continued with his work.

It only took the doctor ten minutes to have you laying in a comfortable position with a wet rag over your forehead, numerous blankets piled over your body and a bowl near the couch in case you became nauseas.
Both men were now in the kitchen, talking in hushed voices. Though, it wasn't hard to pick up on their conversation.
"Did you talk to Greg?" You hear John say.
"Who?"
"Greg. Greg Lestrade? Come on, Sherlock."
"Oh right. Yes, I called him while you were taking care of (y/n)."
"Well?"
"He has a case. It doesn't sound very interesting. Maybe you'd be up for it?"
John lets the insulting comment roll off, passing it off as Sherlock's usual attitude. "You want me to go in your place?"
"It sounds boring," Sherlock said defensively. "Besides...someone should stay with her."
You went stiff when you realized he was referring to you.
John heaved a sigh. "Fine. But only because you're her boyfriend. Don't try and do anything stupid."
"Like what? And when did I say she was my girlfriend?"
John simply glared at his flatmate in annoyance. "It's pretty obvious, Sherlock."
The detective huffed in defeat. "Just go, Lestrade should be waiting."
John gave a small smirk of triumph before turning to leave.

When Sherlock returned to the living room, you had your face buried in blankets.
"You could have gone, you know," you say indignantly. "You've been dying for a case."
He hummed in response. "Ah yes...But I've been informed that social protocol dictates that in this situation, a proper gentleman would take care of his girlfriend."
You laugh a little, sending yourself into another small coughing fit. Sherlock looked on with concern, not really sure what to do to help you.
"Does it hurt?" He asked in a soft tone once the coughing had stopped.
"Not really," you lied.
Sherlock exhaled in displeasure, taking a seat in his usual chair.
"What would you like to do?" He asked after a moment.
"I don't know. I'm a little worn out, but I don't think I'd be able to fall asleep."
Sherlock pondered your response for a minute. "Perhaps...I could read you a story?"
He took notice of the way your face lit up at the idea, your eyes sparkling in an adorable way.
"Sure," you replied quickly.
Sherlock gave a slight smirk. He stood in front of the bookshelves, pouring over his options. "How about some poetry?" He had remembered you mentioning something about being interested in that sort of literature.
"Some poetry sounds lovely."
The man nodded and pulled a particularly thick novel from its place on the shelf. The book was layered in dust, which he quickly brushed off with his sleeve.
Sherlock pulled his chair over to be right next to the couch and opened the novel.
"'The Fall of the House of Usher' and other tales by Edgar Allen Poe," he began to read from the title page.
He then went on to the first story, while you folded yourself deeper into the mass of blankets.
"The great problem is at length is solved! The air, as well as the earth and the ocean, has been subdued by science, and will become a common and convenient high-way for mankind," Sherlock read the first lines with the eagerness of a narrator. You smiled at him, taking in every detail of his voice.
He continued, "The Atlantic has actually been crossed in a balloon!"
You giggled at the dramatic rise and fall in his tone as he read the poem.
He went on like this for another ten minutes when you could feel your eyelids become heavy. It wasn't long after that you fell into a dreamless sleep.
Sherlock read a few more pages after you had dozed off before stopping. He carefully closed the book and stood from his chair without making a sound. He walked to his room to get a few items and returned to the living room. The man scribbled a hasty note and left it on the coffee table near your sleeping form. Reluctantly, the man left the flat and hailed a cab to Scotland Yard.

(Poem: The Balloon Hoax by Edgar Allen Poe)