Intellect. (A BBC Sherlock Fan Fiction)

Intellect- SEVEN

Intellect.

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SEVEN.

'No blood in your head? I think I'd rather not know,' Amy joked.

'Oh, Ha-hah. Canb't you finbd a cure for this?' Sherlock asked desperately, adding a sneeze to the end of that sentence.

'Unfortunately, Sherlock, no. But I'm sure if you stop fussing you'll be fine,'

Amy took Sherlock's mug and washed it while the kettle boiled.

'Is thabt my mug?'

Amy nodded.

'Good. I wonb't drink my tea out of any othber mug,' he says huffily.

'Oh, for gods sakes, Sherlock, blow your bloody nose!' Amy says, frustrated, and throws him a box of tissues.

Sherlock does so, tossing the used tissue in the bin after. Now, with his nose clearer, he could speak properly. 'Much better.'

'I'll say,'

There was a silence, before Sherlock burst into his big reel.

'So, you work in a florists. You take bouts of bulimia and anorexia, one of which you're recovering from now; I have to say, they're both terrible conditions. You're an amateur artist on the side of everything. You're a domestic woman with every good intention, yet you have some evil in you somewhere- it's only natural, we all do. And yet there's something else I can't figure out about you. Maybe it's just because I can't think properly, my deductions aren't quite up to standard. God, I've gone amateur again. Mycroft'll love this,'

'H-how did you-'

'The science of deduction. Have the strangest feeling I've told you before. However, that was both a pitiable and amateur deduction of you and you must accept my apology. I'll do a better one when I'm well again. Now, where's my tea?'

Amy looked in the fridge. 'There's no milk. Why is there never any milk?'

'Amy-' Sherlock's tone was a mixture if both desperate for attention and fear, like a child scared of a clown at a circus.

'Seriously, milk is the only thing ever bought in this flat, why is there never any in?'

'Amy-'

'I'm not giving you black coffee, no matter how much you like it, you need rest not caffeine. Maybe I have some hot chocolate downstairs-'

'AMY!' that caught her attention, and brought it to the very ill Sherlock, who had thrown up all over himself, 'I appear to have vomited,'

Amy's eyes grew wide. He'd thrown up all over himself, the majority of the sofa and part of the floor. 'Are you able to move?'

Sherlock nodded.

'Good, g-go and, ah, go and change. I'll, um, I'll go and get something to clear this mess up.'

Again, Sherlock nodded, feebly stood from his position on the now unclean sofa, and slowly walked to his room in a dazed- shocked, almost -manner.

When Amy came back with the necessary cleaning supplies, she didn't even gag at the smell. She had gotten used to the smell of, unbeknown to her, Sherlock's new experiment.

Sherlock was sitting on the armchair with his knees under his chin and arms wrapped around his legs. He looked like a scared child.

'Sherlock? Have you been sick again since I left?'

'Once. In the kitchen sink. I cleaned it up a little,' he replied in a small, yet still deep voice.

'Alright, I'll go clean that up. No tea for you. Or coffee, or hot chocolate. Flat, cool liquids only. Like water or flat coca-cola,'

'Flat? As in no fizz?'

'Yes. If the drinks were fizzy, it would upset your stomach again. You and I both know we don't want that to happen again,' Amy said from the kitchen as she scrubbed at the sink. She looked to Sherlock, who still had the "frightened small boy" air about him. 'Look, you need to rest. Go to your bed and lie in it. You'll sleep and maybe feel better in the morning. Okay?' When Sherlock nodded Amy smiled comfortingly. 'I'll bring in a glass if water for you in a minute, tuck you in maybe.'

Sherlock dawdled off to his room quietly. When Amy heard the faint click of his door closing she sighed deeply.

Her day was not going to plan.

She ran the cold tap for a while, to let the water get freezing cold, scooped up the liquid in her hands and splashed it on her face. Thank God she wasn't wearing make-up today. When she had dabbed her face dry with the towel, she grabbed a glass and filled it with water, making her way to Sherlock's bedroom.

Amy knocked the door and waited. Hearing no reply she entered to see a topless Sherlock climbing into bed. She gasped, shutting her eyes in habit (it was something she did when an image she shouldn't have seen had made itself apparent).

'I'm decent, you know.'

"I'll say," thought Amy.

'Open your eyes,' Amy did as she was told and opened one sceptically. Finding there was nothing wrong with the image she now saw, Sherlock tucked up in bed with his head on a pillow and eyes closed, she opened her's fully and moved to set the glass of water on his bedside table.

When Amy made to leave, Sherlock thanked her and asked for a bucket. He was, as he said, "Not throwing up in the toilet bowl like a savage. Besides, there was a human appendix in the cistern".

This was just the first of many days of strangeness that Amy would encounter, little known to her.

But as days go, this was possibly the strangest of her life so far.

And that was saying something.

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