#day 6 cold

[raina-at]

Cold

“John.”

John shivers, chills wracking his body, and draws the blankets up to his ears. “No.” His voice is barely there, but he’s sure Sherlock heard him. 

“John.”

Sherlock’s voice is strangely doubled, over the phone and outside the bedroom door.

John closes his eyes. “No,” he says, louder, more firmly.

“John. Please.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, can you be reasonable for once in your fucking life,” John grates out between clenched teeth. Then he spends the next five minutes coughing into his pillow.

“I’m not the one being unreasonable here,” Sherlock points out when John has stopped coughing. “We’ve been having the same fight for ten years, remember? You’re sick, and I’m not allowed to take care of you.”

“This isn’t the common cold, Sherlock, this is fucking Covid. I’m not being stubborn, I’m quarantined.”

“I don’t care about getting sick, I just want to be with you,” Sherlock says, and John closes his eyes again because that’s just such a typical Sherlock thing to say. Sherlock, who loves John unconditionally and intensely, for no apparent reason, who would scoff at the very idea that he even needs a reason. John adores him, loves him, needs him, so much, and that’s why this door stays closed and Sherlock stays on the other side. 

“I know,” he mutters, sliding the phone closer to him so Sherlock can hear him. “But I care. I can’t…”

He can’t bear it. Sherlock on a ventilator. Sherlock gasping for breath. Sherlock’s eyes glazed over with fever, his beautiful lovely brain starved of oxygen…

He shivers again. What he wouldn’t give for Sherlock’s hand on his forehead, for Sherlock’s fussing about, bringing him water and tea and tissues, making him crazy by checking his temperature every fifteen minutes. He’d love to be able to warm his shaking, shivering body by wrapping himself around his hot water bottle of a husband, who’s always so warm, so warm…

But he can’t. 

“Please,” he whispers. He can’t fight any more, he’s so tired. 

“Fine.” 

He can hear Sherlock’s frustration, and he empathises. He also knows that nothing would keep him from Sherlock’s sickroom if situations were reversed, and that he’s being a gigantic hypocrite. But he’s not actually that sick. He’s coughing, and he’s running a fever, but there’s no shortness of breath, and his fever has hovered just under 39 celsius. He feels rotten, but he’ll be fine. And the horrible thing about this virus is that John has no idea what would happen if he gave it to Sherlock. Sherlock could be completely fine, or he could die. And everything in between.

“I get it, love, I do,” he says, touching the face of his phone as if that touch could translate to Sherlock. “I’m sorry.”

“I know,” Sherlock sighs. “Can I at least make you something to eat?”

John smiles at the petulance in Sherlock’s voice. “Please. I’d love that.”

“Chicken soup with dumplings?”

“Of course.”

“I’ll bake you something as well.”

John feels his eyes close and his body relax. “Make me a YouTube video. So I can watch you.” It’ll keep Sherlock busy, as well as giving John something to watch. The channel has been a godsend. The bakery is reduced to take away, but the YouTube channel has more than made up for the loss of revenue. Sherlock is more popular than ever, with the whole world stuck at home and everyone suddenly obsessed with making their own bread. 

“Will do. You’re almost asleep, aren’t you?” Sherlock’s voice is warm and fond and full of love, the kind of love John never thought he’d find and is sure he doesn’t deserve.

“I love you,” he whispers, because it’s true and because he never tires of saying it, how the words feel on his tongue and in his sore throat.

“I know. Go to sleep now. There’ll be soup and cinnamon rolls when you wake up.”

“You’re the best husband in the world, you know that?”

“I’ll remind you of that the next time I destroy the kitchen,” Sherlock says, and John can hear the smile in his voice, can imagine it on his face. 

“Oi, I’m sick. Nothing I say can be used against me.”

Sherlock sighs, exasperated. “Go to sleep. You’re stubborn and impossible, but if you don’t get better fast I don’t care what you say, I’ll chainsaw my way through this door if I have to.”

John smiles. “Threats, insults and property damage. Now I know you love me.”

“And the fact that I married you and we’ve been living together for ten years wasn’t enough?”

“Circumstantial evidence.” He’s no longer as cold as he was. The sound of Sherlock’s voice and his presence hovering outside the door are soothing, and calming, and John can imagine that everything will be all right when Sherlock is fussing and baking and being himself. 

“I’m hanging up the phone right now, and you’re going to sleep. Phone me when you wake up and I’ll bring up your soup.”

“Yes, captain.”

“You’re completely ridiculous,” Sherlock huffs and hangs up the phone. 

John mutters, “I love you too,” to the closed door and finally succumbs to sleep.

-----

Took me six whole days before I got out the Bakers, aren't you proud of me? ;-)

I wonder if I can hit every single one of my AUs in this challenge. If the challenge for tomorrow is what I think it's going to be (I still protest my relative innocence, by the way, no matter what @totallysilvergirl says) then I'll check another one off the list.

Anyway, tags that might or might not work under the cut as always, please let me know if you want to be tagged or untagged.

@calaisreno @jrow @peanitbear @meetinginsamarra @helloliriels @keirgreeneyes @jolieblack @weesi @thegildedbee @salmonsown

[incognitopolls]

We ask your questions so you don’t have to! Submit your questions to have them posted anonymously as polls.

[bloobydabloob]

Happy day 3 of DirkJake week.

Today’s theme was “Retro / Decades”… I am not sure if I even understood the theme right but I did them as like 50s greasers. For the decades part. Yeahh

[lazylittledragon]

Feel free to ignore if this is intruding but I remember you posting about dealing with caffeine addiction and I hope you're doing ok <3 Addiction is really hard to deal with so I hope everything is going alright for you!

!! thank you for checking in <3333

i haven't cut it out completely (i really don't think i'd be able to) but i'm still doing much better, i've cut down from 6 shots per cup to only 2. i've also changed my sleep/eating habits so now i don't feel like i need the caffeine as much because i just don't feel as shit anymore.

it's been very nice :3

[lisbeth-kk]

May Prompts

Today's prompt is: cold. (Apologies in advance for waving a cheery goodbye to the cold for a while, before it was brought back)

The Luckies Girl in the World (chapter six)

Summary: A visit to Sherlock's parents bestows Rosie with a pet name.

Six Years Old

I never found it weird that Papa called me Watson. It was his name for me, but some of my friends, teachers and apparently Sally Donovan, found it to be heartless and cold. 

They all failed to discern the amount of affection and warmth in his voice when he addressed me as such. There was nothing cold about it.

Papa also used endearments like my heart and my precious girl, but only in private, which made them feel even more special. I never heard him call Dad anything but John, though he had a dozen different ways of saying Dad’s name.

***

Papa gave me a new name a warm summer day when I was six. We were visiting his parents, which I adored, he not so much. That’s what he claimed, anyway, but I saw how fond he was of them. They didn’t have that strong bond I had with my parents, but it more than sufficed, and Dad made up for it by being his wonderful self. Natural, friendly, helping in the kitchen and doing some of the heavier gardening for my grandmother.

Papa and his father had one particular interest in common. Bees. My grandfather had several beehives, and the first thing Papa did when we arrived, was to pester his father about the creatures he found so endlessly fascinating. Papa’s father was a patient man and answered all his questions meticulously. 

Until then, I hadn’t been allowed near the hives, but this time, Pops, as I called him, had a surprise for me. My very own beekeeper suit, long gloves and a gigantic hat with a protective veil.

Papa was just as excited as me when I’d dressed myself, and the three of us walked into the garden to inspect the beehives. Not after Dad had taken endless pictures, though.

“Fascinating, aren’t they?” Papa murmured in my ear when Pops lifted out one of the frames where bees crawled around and buzzed.

I could only nod in agreement, because I couldn’t get my eyes off them. The hexagon pattern, the delicious honey they produced, their colour, how organised it all was.

At dinner that night, I told Dad all about my bee adventure, helped by Papa and Pops. When Granny served her famous honey cake with toasted almond flakes on top and vanilla ice cream for dessert, my day was complete.

“Is the honey from Pops’ bees?” I asked hopefully.

“Oh, yes, Rosie,” Granny answered. “Your Pops wouldn’t allow any other honey inside this house. Besides, it’s the best honey for miles.”

Pops squeezed her hand, and I sighed happily when I was granted a second slice of cake.

***

After that day, Papa started to call me by another name. Not that he discarded Watson altogether, but it was mostly limited to when he reprimanded me, so I guess it turned out to have a chillier effect on me in the end. 

When he first used the new name in Dad’s presence, I could see tears form in his eyes.

“Bee,” Dad whispered. “What a beautiful and fitting name.”

“Indeed. You like it, don’t you?” Papa asked me.

“I love it,” I stated. “I’ve never had a pet name before, have I, Dad?”

“Not as such, love,” Dad agreed. “Do you want me to come up with something too?”

“Only if you want to. You call me love and sweetheart all the time in addition to my name, so it’s fine,” I told him.

“A rose by any other name would smell as sweet,” Papa recited.

“You and your Shakespeare,” Dad teased.

“Well, it is a nice quote, though I think an originally Danish saying, also used in Norway as far as I know, describes what I’m thinking about even better,” Papa retorted.

“Can you translate it into English?” I asked expectantly.

“Of course, Bee,” Papa replied. “A dear child has many names.”

Also available on AO3

(@s in the replies)

[sbnkalny]

I will not hesitate to fUcking kill u *downs an ice cream

[ymeisli]

Codywan Week Day 6, Prince/Knight

@codywanweek

if you recognize codys outfit its because i stole it from louis xiv 🤭🤭 it just felt fitting

[walder-138]

When I played Black Ops Cold War for the first time with my dad neither of us even MADE the assumption that Bell was brainwashed. We made the collective decision that Bell had severe PTSD from Perseus and the Vietnam War, which made them unfit for service and repress memories. Which made us think Master Chief was a fucking jackass for exploiting Bell’s trauma like that. I didn’t know until Adler stuck the giant-ass needle into their eye. Looking back it was pretty damn obvious, especially with the theme of the series.

[episodes-without-incident]

11/2/2023:

6 episodes since Drawfee last referenced Cats (2019)

5 episodes since Drawfee last referenced Everytime We Touch (2005)

[ionamalachite]

everything is improved while listening to the killers

[a-whole-lot-of-things]

I GOT THE LOVEJOY VINYL LETSGO!!

[projectpeak]

Genderbent

Genderbends are hard for me, because most of the time people just give the characters short hair and a different body type and I mean yeah that works but dang Plus, considering Siber is already pretty androgynous it was kinda hard so I just gave them a mohawk lol. kinda rushed this one

[songofsaraneth]

thought to myself "maybe there ARE things to do out here in the boring suburbs in winter since I don't have time to transit all the way to/from the city the next few days" and looked up things to do in the larger town next to mine. and number 7 on the list is just Go To Kohls, so, so much for that plan

[egginfroggin]

Month of Emmet Day 7: Train/Subway

In which Emmet plays with his little sister, and Iris expresses murderous intent towards toy trains.

The fic can be read here on AO3, or below the cut here on Tumblr.

<prev, first, next>

Have a good day!

“What’s this?”

     Emmet looked up at the little six-year-old, who was inspecting a piece of track like it was a particularly difficult arithmetic problem. He brightened.

     “That is a junction,” he said. Glancing down at the snaking wooden tracks around them, he found the end of what had been put together so far. “Here – if you put it in here,” he gestured, and Iris scooted over to put it in place with a dull clunk, “then you can have two routes.”

     “Is that what this bit is for?” she asked, wiggling the lever poking out the side of the junction piece.

     “Yep! That is the switch. It changes which set of tracks the train will travel down.”

     Iris hummed, cheri-berry-red eyes shining. She turned back to the box of railroad pieces and started rooting around for more pieces to connect.

     Emmet looked around at what the two of them had already built. It wound around Drayden’s living room floor, the coffee table moved out of the way for maximum space in which to exercise creativity. He smiled – he and Ingo used to play with these when they were little, but it had been years since then. Now, with Iris being brought into their family, plenty of older toys he hadn’t seen or even thought about in ages had been dragged back up out of the past for her to play with.

     It was verrrrry nostalgic.

     “Do both of them need to connect?” Iris asked, bringing his attention back to her. Her little hands were full of pieces, long and short, curved and straight, and she had a look of chaos in her eyes.

     “Technically? No. Realistically? Yes. It would be verrrrry bad if one were to end in a dead end.”

     “But what if I want to send Thomas over an edge?”

     He blinked.

     “That would be mean.”

     “He made his choice,” she said, trading one piece for another.

     “And you want it to be his last?”

     She came back over, shuffling on her knees, and plopped a piece down.

     Ingo poked his head into the room before she could respond, telling them that lunch was ready.

     “Our little sister is a murderer,” Emmet said to him, watching Iris lay down the tracks following only one set of rails at the junction. The other led to nothing, only the abyss of the living room rug.

     “So I heard,” his twin said as she finished putting down the tracks and went back over to the box. His eyes turned to the tracks, as did Emmet's. "And so I can see."

     “What’s this?” They both looked back to Iris, who was now holding up a piece of wood that was decidedly not a track. It was longer than it was wide, square-shaped and with notches cut into the corners a little ways from one end.

     “… That is a whistle,” Emmet said.

     “I thought Uncle Drayden hid those,” Ingo said.

     “So did I.”

     “So, do I just blow into it?” Iris asked, and did just that before they could protest. The sound it made was piercing, as close of an imitation of a train whistle as anything made of wood could produce, and loud as could be with how enthusiastically she blew on it.

     They could hear Drayden heave a sigh in the kitchen, and a distinct mutter of, “I thought I hid those,” that his beard did nothing to muffle.

[isaksbestpillow]

happy easter 🐣

[catastrothy]

I want to empathize with your stinky girl shower-phobia but: completely alien, sorry. Shower is Very Temperature and I do not want to leave it.

yeah that’s fair, most of the time i really enjoy showers but sometimes i feel like a cat forced to bathe u feel