Wink Murder

Sherlock Holmes was many things, but his sharing nature was not something he was known for, and for good reason. Despite that, he did know there were some things that were better when shared with his dear friend John Watson. (His own genius, for example, was too great a burden to bear all on his own.) The two bachelors shared many other things - books, meals, their evening scotch - things that even Sherlock had little to complain about. Unfortunately, when John picked up a cold or cough it was inevitable that at some point Sherlock would come down with it too. So much for altruism.

He'd been so careful this time. From pulling his scarf up over his face when they had to be in close proximity, to spiking his own tea with vitamin supplements (and John's, when he wasn't looking), he'd been sure he would outsmart it this time. But no. As it turns out, even the great Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes could not outwit the common cold.

John, having weathered it all rather well with a strong immune system, was feeling much better. Sherlock took this as the gravest of personal insults, retiring to the couch with a box of tissues and a blanket. There, he huddled in a ball of tangled limbs and misery, silent except for the occasional pitiful sniffle. He barely emerged even for the cups of tea his flatmate brought him as an apology.

John set down one now; and a limp, pale hand emerged from the misshapen lump, feeling around until it curled around the handle. He watched the pathetic display with mild amusement.

"Not feeling any better then?" he inquired pleasantly, as Sherlock unfolded himself just enough to sip his tea. All he got in return was a red-eyed glare and a disparaging sniff. John took the hint and backed off. He wasn't offended by the lack of gratitude. Or at least, he was used to it by now.

Actually, it was quite peaceful in the flat with Sherlock indisposed. For once there was no one shooting holes in the mantelpiece, or ordering him around, or squirreling questionable things away in the back of the fridge for him to find later. Sure, he felt obligated to stick around to make sure the overgrown toddler didn't starve to death, but the peace and quiet was a welcome change.

He could catch up on his blog, he realized, remembering the stories he had been putting off typing up for days now. He left his friend to his self-pity and shut himself in his room, where he settled himself at his desk and flipped his laptop open.

He decided to start with the case of the murder at the speakeasy. He frowned, trying to cast his mind back to how it all started. Normally he would avail himself of Sherlock's near-photographic memory when he needed something clarifying, but he had no intention of disturbing the other man's bed rest. Well, couch rest. He'd just have to try to concentrate...

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It all started with a late night visit from Lestrade. Sherlock remarked on his presence as soon as they heard footfalls on the staircase leading to their flat. There came three knocks at the door, and when it was clear Sherlock wasn't about to get up and answer it, John sighed and did so instead.

"He's got a case for me," said his friend, rather smugly. It was a change from the gloomy mood he'd been in all day, as he had grown bored without a case and was even more unbearable to be around than usual. John bit back an acerbic reply and opened the door.

He was right, of course. Standing in the hallway was Lestrade, who did indeed have a case for him. Judging by the grim smile on his face, it was exactly Sherlock's type. John let him in, although it felt a bit like sending him into the den of a particularly peevish dragon.

"What do you want?" he demanded, not getting out of his chair but crossing his legs and tilting his head back so he was still somehow looking down at his nose at the DI.

"Well, you texted me telling me to bring you a case, so, I've brought you a case." Lestrade produced his phone from his pocket and held it up. On the screen was a photograph of a very round-looking man lying on his back, his face a grotesque mask of agony. "This fella keeled over and died at a bar downtown just a couple of hours ago."

"A man of that size dropping dead is hardly a mystery, Lestrade," Sherlock snapped. "Did your people even try with this one?"

Lestrade shrugged. "He's got no history of heart problems in the family, and his wife says he was healthy as could be up until today." He glanced in John's direction, but the doctor made a noncommittal noise in his throat. He'd finished work for the day, and had long ago learned his lesson about trying to push Sherlock into taking a case. "And then there's this." Lestrade reached into his jacket and took out a folded flyer, which he handed to the detective.

"Charlie & the Moonbabies," Sherlock read aloud. "One night only, at the Starshine Speakeasy. Oh. Jazz." He tossed the flyer back to Lestrade and waved his hand dismissively. "Not interested."

"What?" John couldn't help but interject. Sherlock ignored him.

"It's swing, actually," Lestrade said, casually. Too casually. He made a show of patting his pockets and heading very slowly for the door. "Ah well, it'll all come out with the autopsy, anyway. Probably just a coincidence that the band was singing about murder when it happened." There was a pause, but as he went to step over the threshold, Sherlock's voice stopped him.

"Wait." In a flash the detective had thrown on his coat and was grabbing his scarf from the back of his chair. The sight of him striding towards the door galvanized John, who shot out of his chair, grabbing his own jacket from its hook.

"Oh, you're coming?" Lestrade suppressed a smile and carefully avoided eye contact with John.

"Naturally," came the response, without a hint of irony.

They had just stepped out of the door when Mrs Hudson waylaid them in the stairwell, her keys rattling in her hand.

"Sherlock! I was just about to-" she began, but cut off abruptly and sniffed the air wafting out of the flat. "Sherlock, have you-"

"Not now, Mrs Hudson. I'm on my way out." Sherlock gave a curt nod and slipped past, followed by John and Lestrade, who shot her an apologetic look. Mrs Hudson watched them go with suspicion. There was definitely the smell of cigarettes hanging in the air, and she had a sneaking feeling it hadn't come from the doctor or police inspector.

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John glanced up. He could have sworn he heard his name, but he had been so in the zone he'd lost track of his surroundings. He paused, hands on the keyboard, until Sherlock's voice feebly calling his name reached him through his bedroom door. He considered ignoring it, but figured the other man wouldn't be speaking to him unless it was important. He got up wearily and stuck his head around the door.

"Yes?" he inquired. Sherlock looked up at him miserably from the couch, his eyes watery and red, his face paler than usual. John couldn't help but feel a surge of pity for the man.

"Could you pass me my laptop?" he croaked. John's eyes swiveled to the computer in question, sitting on the table a mere couple of feet from the sofa, and his fountain of goodwill dried up as suddenly as it had started.

"Sherlock, you're not bedridden. You have a cold."

"Which is your fault," the detective reminded him. John bit back a reply, but stalked over to the table, grabbed Sherlock's laptop and set it down none-too-gently on his lap. "Happy now?" he said. Sherlock just handed him a folded piece of paper.

"Could you also go and buy some things for me?" John closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

"Right now ?"

"You can use my card. My wallet's in my coat." Sherlock gestured in the direction of his coat, folded over the back of a chair. His tone made it sound as though he were doing his long-suffering friend a favour . John wordlessly unfolded the paper and headed over to retrieve the wallet, but paused with a frown as he scanned the list's neatly itemized contents.

"Vitamin C supplements, two 32 packs of paracetamol, kiwifruit, kale and chilli peppers ?"

"Kiwifruit, kale and chilli contain far more Vitamin C than-"

"-Than oranges, yes, I know, I know," John interrupted, before he could start on one of his infamous tsunamis of data. "I'll be back soon."

True to his word, one hasty trip to the shops later John returned with Sherlock's requests in a carrier bag, which he dropped at his invalid friend's feet with a thud.

"Here," he said. "Just don't try to take all those drugs at once. Please? It's my day off." he waited patiently until Sherlock nodded to show he'd heard him, and then with a sigh of relief hurried back to his desk in case he started making more demands.