BBC's Sherlock ficlet: Prescriptions
Sep. 2nd, 2010 09:18 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
narcasse750 words. PG for implications of drug use.
Sherlock gets ill: John does something about it. One of those slice of life snippets that I seem to be forever compulsively writing.
Prescriptions
Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to the BBC, Mark Gatiss & Steven Moffat and obviously in the genesis of it all, to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
++++++++++
It was easy to tell that Sherlock was ill. He’d seemingly lost minute motor control, becoming inexplicably clumsy, incapable of walking past a table without accidentally knocking some small item over or lifting the kettle without it wobbling precariously in his hand. His knocking things over was obviously accidental if the surprise on his face, the vague apologetic expression and the equally clumsy attempt to set things right that followed was anything to go by. In the first instance John had presumed that the clatter of test tube frame and clamp stand was deliberate. Sherlock was much like a particularly petulant, devious child when he was bored. The surprise had been in his sudden stooping to gather the things up and his seeming inability to return them quite to their original positions. Still, John had ignored it and gone to work his early shift instead only to return just after lunch to find Mrs Hudson in a flurry over resetting the council mandated fire alarm system. Sherlock had turned on the grill rather than the oven by mistake and the lingering smoke in their living room had been testament to the results. It could have been a rather childish plea for attention, a plea by a malicious child of course but when he went upstairs John found Sherlock huddled on the sofa with the windows wide open to get rid of the smell, and when he suggested closing them due to the chill he’d been told that the air needed to be cleared first.
The next morning was an early start for John. He had a meeting to attend and then a morning clinic to cover. The meeting he could do without but the newly install management procedures for NHS Trusts demand his attendance so he had to cross the city, by tube not taxi, and reach the hospital in time to settle in for the meeting and probably buy breakfast while in transit. With that timeframe in mind it was unlikely that anyone else would be awake by the time left so it was a surprise to find Sherlock listlessly staring at the blank TV in the living room at that hour, doubly so when he noticed John’s presence and offered to make coffee. It took his clumsy fumble to catch the coffee jar that slipped from his hand for John’s nagging worry to turn into action. The coffee jar hit the floor and John quickly stooped to pick it up. He didn’t take the time to marvel over Tesco’s apparently indestructible glass, setting the jar aside in favour of abruptly taking hold of Sherlock’s wrist and examining the minute tremors of his hand. Sherlock didn’t pull away, not from John’s grasp or the suddenly penetrating gaze that demanded answers but nor did he reply. John’s expression softened at that: brusqueness would get him nowhere.
“What’s wrong?”
“Can’t sleep.” Came the quiet reply.
Sherlock’s gaze dropped to where John was still holding his wrist and his lips twitched momentarily into a wry smile. John quickly let go, a false cough covering his embarrassment.
“I... I’ll be off then.”
John deliberately didn’t look back as he hurried to grab his jacket and bag and simply get out of the room.
“Have a good day, dear.”
Sherlock’s amused voice carried down the stairs as John hurried past Mrs Hudson’s opening door. He didn’t look back to see her cheery wave either.
When he arrived home, having finished that little bit earlier than he would on a normal week, he steeled himself to face down any humour to be had at his expense: As a doctor it was his duty to do what he could to help, even if his patient was laughing at his expense. Sherlock appeared to be watching TV when he got upstairs, ignoring John in favour of something about platypus. He didn’t react to any of John’s bustle about the room or even turn his head to acknowledge his companion. Not inclined to break the silence John set the box of prescription medication down on the arm of Sherlock’s chair without a word, gratified to see Sherlock pick it up and begin to examine the dosage instructions on the front.
“Thank you.” Sherlock smiled down at the box surprisingly gently.
A week later Lestrade eyed the tablet blister pack from said box with disapproval. “You know these aren’t-“
“He’s got a prescription!” John snapped, much to Lestrade’s surprise.
Sherlock for his part just smiled his irritatingly superior smile.
++++++++++
5mg melatonin or methadone: the implication works either way, though granted tablets aren’t the preferred form of dosage for methadone and are generally advised against in the UK, baring specific circumstances.
Sherlock gets ill: John does something about it. One of those slice of life snippets that I seem to be forever compulsively writing.
Prescriptions
Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to the BBC, Mark Gatiss & Steven Moffat and obviously in the genesis of it all, to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
++++++++++
It was easy to tell that Sherlock was ill. He’d seemingly lost minute motor control, becoming inexplicably clumsy, incapable of walking past a table without accidentally knocking some small item over or lifting the kettle without it wobbling precariously in his hand. His knocking things over was obviously accidental if the surprise on his face, the vague apologetic expression and the equally clumsy attempt to set things right that followed was anything to go by. In the first instance John had presumed that the clatter of test tube frame and clamp stand was deliberate. Sherlock was much like a particularly petulant, devious child when he was bored. The surprise had been in his sudden stooping to gather the things up and his seeming inability to return them quite to their original positions. Still, John had ignored it and gone to work his early shift instead only to return just after lunch to find Mrs Hudson in a flurry over resetting the council mandated fire alarm system. Sherlock had turned on the grill rather than the oven by mistake and the lingering smoke in their living room had been testament to the results. It could have been a rather childish plea for attention, a plea by a malicious child of course but when he went upstairs John found Sherlock huddled on the sofa with the windows wide open to get rid of the smell, and when he suggested closing them due to the chill he’d been told that the air needed to be cleared first.
The next morning was an early start for John. He had a meeting to attend and then a morning clinic to cover. The meeting he could do without but the newly install management procedures for NHS Trusts demand his attendance so he had to cross the city, by tube not taxi, and reach the hospital in time to settle in for the meeting and probably buy breakfast while in transit. With that timeframe in mind it was unlikely that anyone else would be awake by the time left so it was a surprise to find Sherlock listlessly staring at the blank TV in the living room at that hour, doubly so when he noticed John’s presence and offered to make coffee. It took his clumsy fumble to catch the coffee jar that slipped from his hand for John’s nagging worry to turn into action. The coffee jar hit the floor and John quickly stooped to pick it up. He didn’t take the time to marvel over Tesco’s apparently indestructible glass, setting the jar aside in favour of abruptly taking hold of Sherlock’s wrist and examining the minute tremors of his hand. Sherlock didn’t pull away, not from John’s grasp or the suddenly penetrating gaze that demanded answers but nor did he reply. John’s expression softened at that: brusqueness would get him nowhere.
“What’s wrong?”
“Can’t sleep.” Came the quiet reply.
Sherlock’s gaze dropped to where John was still holding his wrist and his lips twitched momentarily into a wry smile. John quickly let go, a false cough covering his embarrassment.
“I... I’ll be off then.”
John deliberately didn’t look back as he hurried to grab his jacket and bag and simply get out of the room.
“Have a good day, dear.”
Sherlock’s amused voice carried down the stairs as John hurried past Mrs Hudson’s opening door. He didn’t look back to see her cheery wave either.
When he arrived home, having finished that little bit earlier than he would on a normal week, he steeled himself to face down any humour to be had at his expense: As a doctor it was his duty to do what he could to help, even if his patient was laughing at his expense. Sherlock appeared to be watching TV when he got upstairs, ignoring John in favour of something about platypus. He didn’t react to any of John’s bustle about the room or even turn his head to acknowledge his companion. Not inclined to break the silence John set the box of prescription medication down on the arm of Sherlock’s chair without a word, gratified to see Sherlock pick it up and begin to examine the dosage instructions on the front.
“Thank you.” Sherlock smiled down at the box surprisingly gently.
A week later Lestrade eyed the tablet blister pack from said box with disapproval. “You know these aren’t-“
“He’s got a prescription!” John snapped, much to Lestrade’s surprise.
Sherlock for his part just smiled his irritatingly superior smile.
++++++++++
5mg melatonin or methadone: the implication works either way, though granted tablets aren’t the preferred form of dosage for methadone and are generally advised against in the UK, baring specific circumstances.
