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musicprincess1990 · 1 year

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Chicken Soup

I know I said I was taking a break from writing, but... I'm a goddamn liar. And this is for @mizjoely, because she's not feeling well. Hope you get better soon, friend!

~*~

"I am never ill."

Famous last words of Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective and arrogant prat. He would be forced to change his tune now, as he was currently laid out in bed, nursing a fever, a sore throat, and sinus congestion. By the tone of his texts—Baker St immediately, followed by a rare and unembellished, Please—one would have though he was dying, or at least seriously injured.

But no. Instead, Molly found him curled into the foetal position atop his duvet, a hot water bottle pressed against his temple and three empty teacups on the bedside table. He presented quite a pathetic picture, and she couldn't quite stop herself from smiling.

"Molly," he grumbled, his voice gravelly and deeper than normal. "I can feel you smiling.

She let a little giggle escape. "Serves you right, Mr. 'I'm Never Ill.'"

"Yes, yes, hilarious—" here he was forced to pause in order to cough several times, "—now, help me."

Molly perched her hands on her hips. "Say please."

One quicksilver eye opened and glared daggers at her. "I already did."

She didn't budge. "Say it again."

He huffed in exasperation, eye falling closed again, and finally said in a pitiful groan, "Please, Molly."

Satisfied, she let her hands fall and softened her smirk into a gentle smile. "Of course, Sherlock," she said softly, taking the hot water bottle, which was more lukewarm by this point. "I'll refill this, and I'll make you some tea, shall I? Maybe get you some paracetamol, if it's still in the same place?"

Another wave of coughing, then he replied, "Same place."

Without another word, Molly set to work. She put the kettle on the stove and rooted around the cupboards until she found a few bags of herbal. He'd likely make a face and some snide remark, but it was much better for a cold than Earl Gray. Then she ran the tap until the water was warm enough, then filled the hot water bottle and carried it back into Sherlock's room. He mumbled incoherently, which she took as the closest thing to a thank-you she would get.

Next, she went into the bathroom and found the paracetamol—expired, but only by a few weeks. It would do for now, but she made a mental note to pop over to the nearest Boots and pick up a new bottle for him. She'd get him something to eat, as well; knowing him, he likely hadn't eaten for days, which only exacerbated the illness. It would do him good to have something, even something small.

The kettle whined, and Molly returned to the kitchen, pouring water into the cup and letting the tea steep. Glancing through the fridge, she was happy to find a fresh lemon (I wonder what experiment that is for...). Adding a bit of lemon and a hint of sugar—she did know him, after all—she took the tea and medicine into his room.

"Up," she instructed, and he reluctantly pulled himself up into a seated position, leaning back against the headboard. Molly handed him the paracetamol first, which he immediately took, then the tea. As expected, his upper lip curled a bit, but he made no comment and sipped the steaming liquid.

"When did you eat last?" she asked.

"Can't remember," he answered before taking another sip.

"Have you got anything in?"

He raised an eyebrow at her. "You were just in my fridge, I think you'd know better than me."

Molly narrowed her eyes, but let the snarky comment pass. "That's a no, then. Think you can manage half an hour without me?"

"I shall do my level best," he deadpanned.

"Says the man who all but begged me to come to his bedside."

"I never beg."

She smiled sweetly. "Just like you never get ill?" He scowled at her, and she let out another giggle. "Alright then, I'm off to Boots, back in a few. Sleep, if you can."

"Yes, Mum."

~*~

Just over half an hour later, Molly made her way back up the stairs to Sherlock's flat, carrying a new bottle of paracetamol and a tin of soup. Chicken noodle soup, to be precise, a favourite remedy of the Hooper household when Molly was a child. She hadn't a clue how Sherlock would react to it, but it was certainly worth a go.

Peeping into Sherlock's room, she saw him fast asleep, breathing slow and steady. Molly paused for a moment, watching his chest rise and fall. Even pale and sickly, he was beautiful, like he was cut from marble. But now, with his features relaxed in sleep, there was a vulnerability to him, softening all his sharp edges. He was human, like anybody else. Best not tell him that, she joked privately, then left the room, quietly closing the door behind her.

While he slept, Molly spent some time tidying up the flat, though she took care not to disturb the flasks and petri dishes in the kitchen. As she did, she got a call from Mrs. Hudson, thanking her for looking in on Sherlock while she was away. She was in the lake district with her sister, due back in a week or so, and Molly wished her a nice holiday and ended the call.

Not long after, she heard Sherlock stirring, and went to put the soup on the stove, along with a fresh kettle. Soon, she took another cuppa and a bowlful of soup in on Mrs. Hudson's usual tea tray.

Sherlock's brows pulled together as she set the tray on the bed beside him. "What's that?"

"Soup," she answered. "And you're going to eat it."

He stared at the soup for several seconds. "How?"

Odd question, she thought. "Well, you take the spoon and—"

"How did you know?"

"I... know what?"

His throat convulsed as he swallowed hard. "Never mind. I'll eat it. Bit difficult to do so in bed, though." He stood carefully, sniffling and coughing as he carried the tray back into the kitchen.

Molly watched closely, curious and confused by his reaction. What had he meant? How did she know what? Know to bring him soup? For God's sake, she was a doctor, even if her patients were already dead when she saw them. And he knew that, so that couldn't be it... so what was it?

"Are you going to stand there staring at me all night?"

Her face flamed and she shook herself. "Sorry, just... thinking."

"Always a good thing to do," he said with a hint of a smile.

Molly watched him for another few moments, mustering the nerve to ask him, then finally did so. "What did you mean, Sherlock?"

His hand stopped, holding his spoon in midair, but he didn't look at her. "Nothing," he mumbled.

"Liar."

Now he did look at her, seemingly stunned that she'd called him out, but to his credit, he didn't keep lying. He set down his spoon, eyes following it, and it was several seconds before he spoke again.

"The last time I can remember being ill," he began, "I was six years old. My parents were on holiday, Mycroft was at school, and I was spending the week with my grandparents. I was miserable, thought I was going to die—ridiculous, obviously I wasn't, but to a child who didn't yet know better, it seemed likely." Sherlock took a breath. "I woke in the middle of the night in hysterics, and... my gran brought me a bowl of chicken noodle soup."

Molly smiled. "Your gran sounds lovely."

His ears turned pink. "If you breathe a word of this to anyone, I will... I don't know what I'll do, but it won't be pleasant."

She snorted a laugh. "Mum's the word. So, is that why you reacted like you did? You thought I knew about your gran somehow?"

Sherlock self-consciously rubbed the back of his neck. "It... wasn't my most rational moment."

"Well, you're ill," she pointed out. "No one's mind is ever perfectly clear when they're ill. Not even Sherlock Holmes."

His eyes flew up to meet hers, dancing with humour. "So I'm only human?"

"Afraid so," she said with a smile. "Now, eat up. I don't want a single drop left of that soup."

"Yes, Mum," he quipped again, but did as he was told.

When he was finished, Molly set his emptied bowl in the basin, then refilled his hot water bottle for him as he shuffled back into his room. He was already curled up under the covers when she brought it to him, eyelids beginning to droop.

Without thinking, Molly brushed his curls back from his forehead and pressed her palm against his heated skin, in order to see if his fever had lessened any. Then, realizing what she'd done, she froze, her eyes only slightly wider than his. "I-I'm sorry, I know why I did—"

Molly's words suddenly caught in her throat. She had been about to jerk her hand back and make a hasty retreat, but she'd barely moved an inch before his fingers closed around her wrist. He studied her hand for a moment, then pressed his lips into her palm, sending jolts of electricity up her arm. And when he looked back up at her, she wished more fervently than ever that he wasn't so ill.

"Thank you, Molly," he murmured, his thumb softly grazing her pulse point. "When I'm rid of this blasted cold, I'd like to show you just how grateful I am." His lips ticked up in an impish smirk. "And I promise never to call you Mum again."

Well. How the hell was she supposed to respond to that?

"Just go to sleep, Sherlock," she hedged, and moved to take her hand back, only to have his grip on her tighten. "Sherlock?"

"Stay," he insisted. "Please."

Molly hesitated, partly because she knew the chances of her getting "this blasted cold" were already fairly high, and would be even higher if she stayed. But mostly, she was afraid this show of affection from him was only because he was delirious with fever and exhaustion, and that he'd scorn her once his mind was clearer. It didn't matter, though; clearly, he was determined not to let her leave.

Taking a deep breath, Molly seated herself on the edge of his bed. "I'll stay until you've fallen asleep, but I can't stay all night. I've got a cat at home, and no pyjamas with me. Besides, I don't fancy being ill myself."

He sighed in defeat. "Fine. But you'll be back in the morning?"

"Well, someone has to take care of you," she teased. "Clearly you can't be left to your own devices."

"Hilarious."

"And true," she pointed out. "Where would you be if I hadn't turned up?"

His eyes, half-lidded and drowsy, landed on hers as he whispered, "I'd be lost without you, Molly Hooper."

Oh.

He was serious... completely serious. Hope, the likes of which she had never felt before, swelled within her chest as she watched him finally surrender to sleep. Did he really mean... was it possible that he...? Well... there was only one way to find out. She would ask him in the morning.

That hope lingered as Molly tiptoed out of the room and gathered her things. She was half tempted to stay the night after all, up in John's old room, but decided against it. If she stayed, she would spend the whole night listening for him, waiting anxiously for the conversation they needed to have. No, she needed to leave, for her own sanity as much as her literal health.

She looked in on Sherlock one last time, though, unable to resist lightly running her hand through those curls once more. Sherlock sighed contentedly, but didn't wake.

"Until tomorrow," she whispered, then made her way back home.

~*~

Uh, this was supposed to be silly and fluffy, but it turned into a whole thing... and there's gonna be a part two. I'll post this on Ao3 in the morning (well, the later morning, it's 1:00 AM now), then part two will be up as soon as it's finished.

Yep. I'm a goddamn liar. I can't stop writing to save my life. 😄 Get well soon, MJ!!

#for mizjoely #this just sort of happened #part two coming soon #sherlolly #sick sherlock #sherlock is a human disaster #molly hooper is a bamf #molly takes care of sherlock #he really would be lost without her #these two idiots in love

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northbndtrain · 2 years

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A question, whether canon (if you think they had undeclared feelings in canon) or AU, who had deeper feelings for the other - Uhtred or Alfred ?

I like your posts and answers <3

Thank you so much for the compliment! I love talking about these two!

And, argh, this is difficult...I think they both had extremely deep feelings for the other.

But if you are forrrrrrrrrrcing me to choose...

I'll go with Alfred's feelings for Uhtred being on a little bit of a different level. Maybe not necessarily a deeper level (especially by the end, where they’re both crying together all over Alfred’s books), but I think Alfred, being older and wiser than Uhtred, is just more aware of their relationship and its consequences earlier on than Uhtred is.

I mean, because these two very different men loved each other, extraordinary things happened.

And I think Alfred was aware of that potential earlier than Uhtred was aware of it. I actually just rewatched episode 102 for a gif set I am going to post soon, which reminded me of their very different demeanors during their first meeting. Uhtred almost comes off as flip at times (because what he really wanted was to see the king), but Alfred is already studying Uhtred closely and saying things for the express purpose of seeing how Uhtred reacts. Which makes sense of course because that’s who Alfred is, the smartest guy in the room, the master manipulator, “the bastard thinks,” etc. But my point is that from that first meeting, he already sees the potential for Uhtred to be of some consequence in his larger plans -- he’s already thinking deeply about Uhtred in a way that’s not really returned and won’t be until Uhtred grows up a little.

And even when Uhtred does grow up, I don’t think it's a huge leap for him to eventually come to love the king he is faithfully serving. It was a decidedly bigger leap for Alfred to love a man who’s really just one of his warriors. And a pagan warrior at that! But we know he did love him in a way that was obvious to others like Young Ragnar as early as Season 2 (maybe before that, but it’s been awhile since I’ve seen most of the earlier stuff, so I don’t have anything in my head right now except the Young Ragnar quote).

In other words, Alfred had more to get past in forming their relationship than Uhtred did. But he did it because he saw something compelling in Uhtred, and that started on that day they met.

That's why I like the scenes where Uhtred gets caged so much. We see Uhtred looking annoyed while Alfred smiles back in the direction of the cage. He's already so taken by Uhtred that he allows himself a small moment of distraction right before a very important battle.