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New Matilda Drabble Thread: updated Mar. 7 (Sherlock)

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Hi all! Thought I'd start a new drabble thread. It'll be heavy on post-season 4 Sherlock but I might include other fandoms. Never know with me. I'm using Garnet's awesome prompts.


Her body ached and she wasn’t sure she had the energy to make it up the stairs to her apartment. With shaking hands, Molly fumbled to get her key into the lock and finally stepped into her house and a sigh.


She groaned when she heard his voice. Of course Sherlock was hurting too, but after taking of John and Rosie for the last two days she desperately wanted just one night to herself. Her throat was getting sore and she’d sneezed several times that afternoon and, fearful she was catching a cold, she’d planned on going straight to bed. His voice had come from the kitchen and she was surprised to find him standing at the stove stirring a pot with one of her wooden spoons.

“What are you doing?”

“Making soup,” he said quietly.


It seemed to take a lot of effort for him to look her in the eye. She hated sending him away from John’s house this afternoon. If anything, he looked even sadder now.

“If John does not want me to help him, I thought it best to assist the people he will permit.”

“So you made me soup?” she asked. He nodded.

“You looked tired and like you might be—”

ahhTISHH Tishhoo!

“Bless you.” He tore a paper towel off the roll on her kitchen counter and handed it over. “I thought you might be coming down with something so—”

“So you broke into my house and made soup?”

“I was trying to show my gratitude. Not good?” he asked.

“I...yeah, it’s fine. In fact, thank you,” she said.





Finally. They were finally in a car and on their way home. Well, on their way to John’s home—Sherlock’s temporary home until Baker Street could be repaired. There was an odd buzzing noise in Sherlock’s head. How long had that been going on?

“Hey? You alright?” John asked. Sherlock glanced to his right and looked at the worn, weary face of his best friend. “Probably a stupid question,” John added. “But you haven’t really said anything since we got in the car. So…you know, are you alright?”

“I…I don’t know,” Sherlock said. He lapsed into silence and John thought that was all he was going to get when Sherlock’s spoke again—soft and thoughtful. “Nothing is as I thought it was. My childhood, the narrative of my life is full of holes. And it seems I filled those holes with lies.”

John frowned. This was going to take some time to correct.

Sherlock was about to say something else when John suddenly turned his head and sneezed into a hastily raised fist.


“Bless,” Sherlock said.

“Thanks.” John sniffed. “Sorry.”

“You’re chilled. I should have noticed,” Sherlock said, leaning forward and slipping out of his coat. He draped it over John despite the doctor’s argument that he was fine. “You spent hours in chest-high, near freezing water. You’re cold. Shut up and take the jacket.”





Greg knocked on the door and let himself in to Sherlock’s flat. He was still in his suit and came straight from the funereal. Sherlock was sitting in his chair with his eyes closed but clearly not asleep.

“How was it?” Sherlock asked.

“I saw you,” Greg said. John had made it clear that Sherlock was not welcome at Mary’s funereal but the detective still went, staying hidden behind parked cars, trees, etc.

“I needed to…” He wasn’t sure how to finish the sentence.

“I know,” Lestrade said. He took a couple steps closer. “Sherlock…are—”

heh EHshhhew! ehhSHHew!

“Bless you. You catching a cold?”

Sherlock shrugged but did take a worn looking handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his nose. Greg crouched down and pressed his hand to Sherlock’s forehead. Later Sherlock would realize that his mistake was making eye contact with Lestrade. That it was the warmth and sympathy is his eyes that pushed him over the edge. It was like the tears suddenly had a mind of their own, blurring his vision and cracking his resolve to keep his emotions in check. He didn’t have it in him to resist when Lestrade wrapped his arms around him or point out his stupidity when he kept repeating “Shh. S’alright” into his ear.

Edited by matilda3948

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I love these. :wub:

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Subtly Clashing Wishes

These are really lovely. I especially liked the first one. Sherlock caring for the people (Molly) who were caring for John and Rosie was incredibly sweet. Oh my heart... 

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Aliena H.
On 08/06/2017 at 3:56 AM, matilda3948 said:

“You spent hours in chest-high, near freezing water. You’re cold. Shut up and take the jacket.”

It's impossible that I didn't think of that as fetish material... OF COURSE John's been into cold water for hours, OF COURSE it's the best way to catch cold when you're already under stress... That was a great idea!

My favorite is the Lestrade-Sherlock, because

On 08/06/2017 at 3:56 AM, matilda3948 said:

Later Sherlock would realize that his mistake was making eye contact with Lestrade. That it was the warmth and sympathy is his eyes that pushed him over the edge. It was like the tears suddenly had a mind of their own, blurring his vision and cracking his resolve to keep his emotions in check.

was incredibly well-written and heart-wrenching.

A new drabble thread is definitely a great idea. Even more if there is a lot of Sherlock in it. (Could I ask selfishly for some Star Trek as well, just in case?:rolleyes:)

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On 6/7/2017 at 10:51 PM, MyOwnPrivateSFC said:

I love these. :wub:

Thank you! I'm so glad!

On 6/9/2017 at 10:40 PM, Sanguine Cheerful Worrier said:

These are really lovely. I especially liked the first one. Sherlock caring for the people (Molly) who were caring for John and Rosie was incredibly sweet. Oh my heart... 

You know I always have a soft spot for Molly and she really had a rough season.

On 6/10/2017 at 9:53 AM, Aliena H. said:

It's impossible that I didn't think of that as fetish material... OF COURSE John's been into cold water for hours, OF COURSE it's the best way to catch cold when you're already under stress... That was a great idea!

My favorite is the Lestrade-Sherlock, because

was incredibly well-written and heart-wrenching.

A new drabble thread is definitely a great idea. Even more if there is a lot of Sherlock in it. (Could I ask selfishly for some Star Trek as well, just in case?:rolleyes:)

Yeah, John isn't escaping that without some more problems ;) I'll see if I get inspired to write some Star Trek. I never know what's going to strike my interest.


Today, I've got two Doctor Who drabbles (I love 12 and everything about him) and one Sherlock. Hope you like! :winkkiss: 

First Time—23

It was the first time he’d taken her to the Midnight Market since they’d arrived in Darillium and she wasn’t going to let a cold rob her of a good time. They wandered hand-in-hand through the rows of vendors and River swore she’d never been so happy. She sniffled and felt the Doctor’s eyes on her. River raised her free hand and pinched her nose, stifling a couple sneezes.

hh’ngtss! n’ktss!

“Bless you,” the Doctor said. She flipped her hair back and smiled.

“Thank you. Let’s try over there,” she said, motioning towards a different area of the market.  She was looking over a table of silver trinkets when she felt something soft drape around her shoulders. Looking up she saw the Doctor had bought a beautiful wool shawl and had wrapped it around her. “What did I do to deserve this?” she asked.

“You’ve been trying to hide the fact that you’re cold and a bit under the weather. Thought I might avoid a fight this way.”

“I knew you’d want to skip it if you thought I was sick,” she said. He kissed her temple.

“We’ve got time, River,” he said.

ehhTishh! Ehhktshhhoo!

“Bless you. Come on,” he tugged on her arm. “We’ll stop and get something to eat on our way back.”



“You know, you could have cancelled,” Bill said when the Doctor paused his lecture to sneeze again.

“Why would I cancel?” the Doctor said.

“’Cause you’ve got a cold.”

“I don’t catch colds,” he said, his breath stuttering and he grabbed his handkerchief again.


“Obviously,” Bill mumbled. “Bless you.”

Nardole came into the office with a tea tray as the Doctor sneezed again.


“Bless you,” Bill and Nardole said at the same time. The Doctor looked annoyed as Nardole stacked up his papers and spread out the tea service instead.

“So this is a ginger lemon tea that should help your throat feel better and I’m going to build up the fire a little because it’s a bit chilly in here,” Nardole said, pouring out tea for Bill and the Doctor.

“I knew you had a cold,” Bill said.

“No I don’t,” he snapped.

“So you get all prickly and grumpy when you’re sick like any other bloke then?”

“No,” he said at the same time Nardole said “Yes.”



“I don’t have the energy to quarrel with you,” Mycroft said. He’d just gotten home and found his brother sitting on the sofa playing on his phone.

“Not why I’m here,” Sherlock said, standing and pocketing his phone.

“Then what exactly do you heh…ehh…want?” Mycroft’s voice trailed off and he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, bringing it to his nose.


“Bless you.” Mycroft frowned. Sherlock’s attentiveness and, dare he say, manners since the events with their sister made him ill at ease. His behavior during the meeting with their parents yesterday was downright astounding.

“You looked like hell yesterday,” Sherlock said. “Figured it would hit you hard by tonight. Go change. I brought soup, The Maltese Falcon, and if you’re very good I’ll make you a hot toddy before you go to bed.” He may have sounded confident, but Sherlock’s eyes belied his insecurity about how his brother would react to him. Mycroft’s eyes narrowed.

“Sherlock, I don’t need—”

“You said you were too tired to fight.”


The violent sneeze caught him off-guard and Mycroft barely managed to catch it in his hands. He sighed.

“Very well,” he said. He took a few steps towards the stairs then added, “Thank you, brother mine.”

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Aw, Sherlock! I'm so proud of you! A little bit for thinking the way you did, but mostly for putting yourself out there when you were uncertain of your welcome! *gives Sherlock cookies*

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Subtly Clashing Wishes

Another lovely set. I am woefully behind in Doctor Who. I still haven't gotten to 12 yet. But I have met River and that first one was adorable. Naturally I love any Sherlock. Mycroft and Sherlock are always good for a nice drabble. You never know are they going to be nice or snarky or both. :P 

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Wonderful. So many wonderful Sherlock pieces. And Dr Who! I just caught up to the current episode of Dr Who. I've been binge watching it for a couple weeks. So yay!

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Hi all! Been traveling and not writing much but I do have this "too short for a story" but "too long for a drabble" Sherlock thing...so I'm putting it here :razz: Featuring sick!John, caring!Sherlock, and season 4 spoilers. Hope you like :hug: 


Sherlock realized the problem as he approached John's front door. He could hear Rosie wailing even from outside. When John had sent him a desperate text saying he needed help at the house Sherlock didn't quite know what to expect. He opened the door and the sound of the baby's shrieking tripled in intensity. John was waiting for him and before Sherlock even had a chance to take his coat off, John was putting Rosie in his arms.

"I've tried everything. I don't know what else to do," John said. "I just can't." John looked terrible, sleep deprived, pale, frustrated, and like he might have been crying too. Before Sherlock had a chance to do anything, John took his coat off the peg and left the house, leaving a crying baby and a bewildered detective behind. Sherlock looked down at the red faced, angry little baby and decided to tackle one issue at a time.

"Okay, Rosie. Come on," he said, still staring at the door where John had just staged his dramatic escape. He did all the things he could think of: changed her, tried to feed her, got her a frozen toy in case she was teething, but nothing soothed her. "Stubborn little human," Sherlock said, bouncing her in his arms and pacing the length of the living room. Since he was out of ideas, Sherlock talked out loud as he took in the state of John's flat. "You're father's been under the weather, hasn't he? It's not nice to give him a hard time when he doesn't feel well. Look, there are tissues and empty tea cups on every surface. Now I know what you're thinking, maybe he was just crying or cleaning up after the unreasonable amount of drool you seem to produce, but observe the evidence." He shifted the baby to the other arm and gestured to the side table. "A thermometer and bottle of cold medicine. You don't know this yet, but Joh—your father must be fairly ill to resort to taking medicine. Probably not a great idea to be wandering around the streets in his condition, but I can see how easily you could drive a man to madness." Rosie was settling down and kept her eyes trained on Sherlock's face. He continued his monologue regarding John's ill health (physical and emotional) as he walked through each room, pointing out the evidence to the youngest Watson. It took almost an hour, but she finally nodded off. Sherlock kept at it for another ten minutes just to be safe. He had just lowered the sleeping baby into her bed when he heard the door open. While normally not a religious man, Sherlock said a silent prayer that Rosie didn't wake up. He grabbed the monitor and gently closed the door behind him. 

He followed the sound of John’s muffled coughing. Sherlock stood awkwardly in doorway to the kitchen. He wasn't sure what he was supposed to do now.

"How did you finally get her to stop?" John asked.

"I doubt it was anything I did. Likely she finally just cried herself out."

"I know the feeling," John mumbled. The worry lines on Sherlock’s face deepened. “I’m sorry. “I didn’t know who else to call and…huhNGSHHoo! huhEHSHHoo!

“Always glad to be a last act of desperation,” he said. John looked up ready to apologize and was relieved to see Sherlock smirk. Now assured that he hadn’t hurt his friend’s feelings, John slumped into a chair at the kitchen table, resting his head in his hands.

"Can't even get my own daughter to stop crying," he said. "What kind of father am I?"

Sherlock pulled up a chair. John's despair could always get him off the sidelines. "You're just having a bad day, John. A bad few days I'd say based on the look of things."


“Bless you.” Sherlock got up and took some paper towels off the kitchen counter, then resumed his seat. John nodded and tore off several, his breath already growing shallow again.

huhgnSHHHHH! HuhPTSHHHooo!

Sherlock restrained himself from asking the half dozen questions buzzing through his brain. There would be time for that in the morning. Instead he reached over and put his hand on John’s forehead.

“You’re running a fever.”

“Yeah,” John sighed.

“Why didn’t…” He caught himself before finishing the question but John finished.

“Why didn’t I call you sooner?”

Sherlock nodded, not completely trusting himself to talk. He thought he and John had made progress—that his friend would ask for help long before reaching the state he was in but he wasn’t so sure now.

“It happened so fast,” John said with a sniffle. “I thought I was okay but then Rosie had a few bad nights and I got sick and…it was fast.” Sherlock nodded. That seemed reasonable enough. “Next time I won’t wait until it’s so bad,” John added.

Finally satisfied, Sherlock went to the bathroom cabinet and got the sleeping pills John had been prescribed after Mary's death (barely touched) and some pain relievers. He put the pills on the table next to John and got him a glass of water.

"I don't like those," John said, nodding towards the sleeping pills.

"You need sleep."

"I heh Uhh…need…huhhTSHHHoo! HuhhKSHHOOO! huh…ehh…HuhhSSSCHHHOOO! Ugh. I deed to be coherent if my daughter needs me in the middle of the night."

"I'm not going anywhere, John." Sherlock thought that was obvious, but apparently not based on the look on his friend's face. 


"What are godfathers for?"

John's posture instantly relaxed. He'd never say it out loud but he was terrified that the moment he was left alone with the baby, she'd start screaming again. Sherlock opened the prescription bottle and took out a sleeping pill. 

John took it and pushed himself up from the table with a yawn.

"Thank you," he said quietly. "for coming when I called and for taking care of Rosie and I both.”

John’s voice broke and Sherlock pulled him into a hug. These gestures were getting easier and it seemed to make them both feel better in these overwhelming moments—and there had been far too many of those moments in the last few months.

"You're doing fine, John. This is an anomaly—every experiment is entitled to the occasional anomaly. It doesn’t mean anything’s gone wrong.”

“Parenting’s not an experiment,” John mumbled.

“Of course it is. Longitudinal study. Very small sample size.”

“You’re mad, you know that?” John said.

“That’s just the fever talking.”

John yawned again, deeply this time, and Sherlock nodded towards his bedroom.

“Go to bed. I’ll take care of the little monster if she wakes up,” Sherlock said.

“Thanks.” John made it three steps before sneezing violently into the bend of his arm.


“That doesn’t mean you have to be intentionally loud!”

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I've been rather remiss in my commenting as of late.  I must do better.  These are all quite lovely.  I've of course enjoyed your Sherlock and Mycroft interaction, but I also really love your 12 and Bill one. :heart: 

This last Sherlock and John one. . . . oh my heart.  But I did have to laugh at this: 

17 hours ago, matilda3948 said:

“That doesn’t mean you have to be intentionally loud!”


I look forward to more lovely pieces.   :) 

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Subtly Clashing Wishes

Yup. I've walked in John's shoes. "Monster" is right Sherlock. :lol: 

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Johnnnnn. :cry:  Being a single/widowed dad is excruciatingly difficult, and I can only imagine how many times he's broken down from it, the poor thing. I really do love your post season 4 Sherlock. He's so lovely and supportive. :wub: 

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So bittersweet and well written. I especially loved this little exchange:



Parenting’s not an experiment,” John mumbled.

“Of course it is. Longitudinal study. Very small sample size.”

“You’re mad, you know that?” John said.



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Thanks for the sweet comments!! :heart:  I'm glad you liked. :D 

Tonight I'm posting Sherlock and Doctor Strange.


Sherlock watched John toss and turn in his sleep. This was all his fault. How was he going to set things right? John said he’d forgiven him but he didn’t understand how that was possible.

“It’s possible because he’s John,” Mary whispered in his ear. “He’s forgiven you but you need to forgive yourself. You did just what I asked, in dramatic fashion as usual. You went to hell and saved John Watson. It’s time to start letting yourself heal. You know I’m right, Sherlock. Now wake up. He needs you.”

Sherlock startled awake and took a deep breath. John. Right, check on John. The doctor was even more restless than before. Sherlock pressed his hand to John’s forehead—fever was up.

“John? John, wake up.” He shook the doctor’s shoulder until John bolted awake. “It’s alright, John. You were having a nightmare.”


“With Molly tonight. You’re sick so Molly’s looking after her.” This was now the fourth time Sherlock had explained this to his ill friend. Every few hours he’d wake up shaken and looking for his daughter.


Sherlock felt his stomach drop. That was new.

“Never mind,” John said. “I know. I was just…just confused for a moment.” He rested his head in his hands. Sherlock frowned but didn’t say anything; he got the cold medicine off the bedside table to prepped another dose for his friend. John suddenly shuddered with a massive sneeze.


“Bless you. Here.” Sherlock put the box of tissues on John’s lap. The doctor grabbed a few just before his body was wracked with another violent sneeze.


“Bless you, John.”

“Thag you.”

“How are you feeling?”

“TehhhEHH HuhAHHHKTSSHHHHoo! Ugh. Terrible.”

“I’m sorry, John” Sherlock said. John looked at his friend—he’d been camped out in that chair by his bedside all night and it showed.

“It’s okay,” John said quietly. He downed the medicine and leaned back against his pillows. “It really is okay, Sherlock,” he said as he fell back to sleep.

“It really is,” Mary whispered to him as Sherlock fell asleep.



Steven blinked slowly and the ceiling of his room came into focus. He heard the Ancient One’s voice to his left as she turned his head towards her.

“You’re finally awake,” she said. “How do you feel?”

His brain was working incredibly slowly and his mouth was dry and hot. Steven tried to ask what had happened but a sharp pain his throat cut him off and he coughed instead. The Ancient One lifted a cup of water to his lips.

“What happened?” he rasped.

“I left you on Mt. Everest. Briefly,” she added. “You got yourself back, but you’ve been ill for the last two days.”


“Blessings. Here,” she handed him a handkerchief. “Now lay back down. Your fever’s still too high.” Steven pulled the blanket up to his chin, a shiver wracking his body. The Ancient One put a wet, cool cloth on his head.

“You’ve stayed with me for two days? he asked.

“Of course. It’s my fault you’re ill,” she said.

“Being out in the cold doesn’t make you sick,” he mumbled.

“Not specifically, but exposing you to the elements when your body was already vulnerable was shortsighted,” she said quietly. He cracked an eye and looked at her.

“You feel guilty.”

“I do.”


He groaned and rubbed his throat. The Ancient One frowned and readjusted his blanket.

“Don’t feel guilty,” Steven said. “The lesson was worth it.”


Two days later and Steven’s fever finally broke. Approximately two minutes later he was restless and out of bed. His body ached and he was sneezing and sniffling but he desperately needed to get out of his room. He shaved, brushed his teeth, and got dressed, making sure to put several handkerchiefs in his pockets. Steven walked the halls enjoying the fresh air. He leaned against a railing overlooking the courtyard where they practiced sparring. A breeze ruffled his hair and Steven got out a handkerchief and dabbed his nose, sniffling and clearing his throat.


The sneeze stopped suddenly at the bridge of his nose leaving him stuffed up and frustrated.

“Are you sure you should be out of bed, Mr. Strange?” The Ancient One came up beside him and held out a small cup. He started to reach for it but suddenly brought the cloth back up to his face, turning slightly away from the woman to his left.

heh HUHH… huhh huhIHHSHHHH! huhKTSSHHHHH!!

“Blessings,” she said.

“Thag you.” He blew his nose and felt the tickle go away for the time being.

“I needed to stretch my legs and get some fresh air,” he said in answer to her earlier question. She nodded in understanding and offered him the cup of tea again.

“You looked deep in thought. I didn’t mean to interrupt you, just wanted to bring you—”

“Stay,” he said, surprising both of them. He wasn’t sure when the Ancient One’s presence shifted from weirdly intense and able to see through his ego, to stable and, dare he say, soothing but it had happened. She stood next to him and took a deep breath, enjoying the beauty of the moment. Steven took a drink of tea and nearly spit it out. He choked it down, sputtering, and coughing. “What on earth is that?” he finally asked. His eyes watered from the bitterness.

“Tea. A little honey. It will help clear out your sinuses.” She took the cup out of his hand just as he began to sneeze.


“See? It’s working already,” she said.

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Just Sherlock drabbles today :) 


The door to the ambulance slammed shut and she assessed what she was dealing with.

“Moooollly! I knew you’d come!” Sherlock drawled, flopping onto the stretcher.

“Of course I came. Now what the hell have you done to yourself?”

“Just following directions,” he said. She didn’t know what to make of that but got to work examining him. Everything she did made her more worried. His vitals were all over the map, nothing functioning as it should. She warmed her stethoscope in her hand and went to listen to his chest when he grabbed her hand, halting her.

“Sherlock, what—”


“Bless you,” she sighed. “Done?”

“M’nose itches,” he mumbled, rubbing the appendage back and forth with a harsh sniffle.

“Maybe you have cold,” she said. “Although that’s the very least of your concerns at the moment and I have no idea how you’d be able to tell given the absolute appalling state of your health.” She listened to his lungs and was relieved that at least one major organ didn’t seem to be struggling.

When she finished she sat on the little bench normally reserved for paramedics. She reached over and took Sherlock’s hand.

“Look at me,” she said. Molly swallowed the lump in her throat. “I know you’re hurting, Sherlock, but this has to stop. It has to stop right now.”

hehKTSHHew! Tshhhew!KTSHHH!

“Bless you. I’m serious, Sherlock. You are going to die. And soon if you don’t stop.”

“I’m not going to die. I know exactly what I’m doing,” he said.

“Then explain it to me because right now all I see is a friend who’s going to be dead in a month.” A few tears escaped and rolled down her face and she brushed them away with an angry swipe of her hand. Sherlock sat up and coughed into the bend of his arm. Maybe he did have a cold underneath the drug induced haze. It took him a moment but he gathered his thoughts and focused on Molly.

“It’s going to be okay, Molly. This isn’t just some reckless bender. I have a plan,” he said.

“A plan?”

“Yes, and we’re in the last stages of it so I need you to trust me. Please.”

He stared at her until she nodded, more tears dripping down her face. He wiped them away and kissed her forehead before laying back down on the stretcher.

“I need you to be angry when the ambulance stops,” he said.

“Oh, not going to be a problem,” she said. He smirked just before bringing both hands up to his face.

hehKTSHHeew! ehhTSSHHew! heh Ehh…hehhTSHHHeew!

“Bless you.” She handed him a tissue and got one for herself, drying her eyes and taking a deep breath. “Promise me you are not going to end up on a slab in my morgue.”

“I promise.” The ambulance came to a halt. “Now then, Molly, time to pretend to be angry with me.”




That was the third abhorrently loud sneeze from John in ten minutes. Sherlock sighed and rolled his head from one side to the other. John was sick—another thing to add to the list of things for Sherlock to feel guilty about. After the disaster at Sherrinford Sherlock had expected to sleep soundly (even if it was on John’s sofa) but he couldn’t settle his mind down and ended up spending the night pacing, replaying the previous day, and periodically checking on John. The doctor had slept soundly and Sherlock was equal parts relieved and jealous.


John shuffled into the living room with a wad of tissues pressed to his nose, eyes barely opened enough to see where he was going. He paused and put one hand on the wall to steady himself as he doubled over.


“Bless you,” Sherlock said. John grunted and continued to the kitchen. Sherlock trailed behind and said, “There’s tea and coffee. Wasn’t sure which you’d want.”

John looked at his friend and cocked his head.

“Did you sleep at all?” His voice was thick with congestion, dulling his consonants and forcing him to sniffle wetly. Sherlock shook his head.

“Not yet.”

To his surprise, John didn’t reprimand or lecture him—just gave him a little smile and got two mugs down from the cabinet. Both men opted for coffee needing the extra caffeine to face the day.

“I’m sorry you got sick,” Sherlock said quietly. John shrugged.

“I think coming away from yesterday with nothing more than a few bumps, bruises, and a rotten head cold counts as a win,” he said, taking a sip of coffee. “How are you?” Sherlock seemed to genuinely consider how to answer the question.

“Too soon to say, I think. I clearly need to rethink…nearly everything.” He ran a finger around the rim of his cup.


“Bless you, John.”

“Thags. Ugh, my head feels full of wet cement.”

“You should take a hot shower and go back to bed for a few hours.”

“I need to pick Rosie up—”

“I’ll get her.” John was about to insist when Sherlock added, “It will be good to see her.” There was something in the tone of his voice and the downward cast of his eyes that told John this wasn’t just a ploy, that Sherlock would genuinely feel better seeing the little girl. So when he felt the prickle return to his sinuses he decided not to fight his friend on it.

“Alright. Thahhh…huh thanks mate...huhhAHHTSSHHHHOOOO! huhhRAHNGKSSHHHHOOO!

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Aliena H.

Matilda, you always write wonderful things and I love, love, love your Sherlock headcanon for EVERY character, and the way you insert your stories in the general timeline of the series. Thank you so much for those drabbles! I've got a lot of catching up to do on the forum and it's great to read your writing, as usual. I must confess that picturing your Dr Strange's drabbles with Cumberbatch's voice was also... well... interesting. :blush:

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These were all great. The one with Sherlock and Molly was a little heartbreaking. But perfect.

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Subtly Clashing Wishes

I enjoyed them all, but I particularly liked the last one. Was there any doubt John would have ended up with a terrible head cold after sitting in all that water? No, I didn't think so. But Sherlock's desire to go get Rosie himself was so sweet. Nothing better than holding a baby when you can't sleep. I swear those critters give off sleepy fumes. He'll be out in 5 minutes, max. 

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A little lighter today :razz: Sherlock looking after his people.


Sherlock flounced into the DI’s office.

“I need a case, Lestrade,” he said. The weary detective looked up from his paperwork; his appearance even gave Sherlock pause—skin pale and sickly, rheumy eyes, and a fiery red nose. Before he had a chance to answer, he ducked his head into the fistful of tissues clutched in his left hand, smothering a series of wet squelched sneezes.

huhGNSHH! SNGshhhoo! K’GTsschhh!

Sherlock sat down in the chair across from Greg’s desk and pressed his fingertips together resting  them just below his lips—thinking pose.

“Haven’t got any cases,” Lestrade snuffled.

“Don’t need one. Currently trying to solve the case of the idiot detective inspector.”


“Bless you. For example, why is he slogging through paperwork instead of making use of his sick leave?”

huh Huhh—huhNGKTSHHoo! Lestrade didn’t even have the energy to roll his eyes. Just grabbed fresh tissues from the box on his desk.

“Why has he not availed himself of the services of our mutual friend, Doctor John Watson?”


“Not even a cup of tea in sight.”

huh Uhh…NGK’SHHH!

“Oh, for God’s sake! Get up. We’re leaving.”

“Sherlock, I’b—”

“Making gurgling noises no human being should make. I know. That’s why we’re going to see John first and then I’m taking you home.” Sherlock stood up and got Lestrade’s coat off the rack by the door even though Greg was still sitting at his desk looking more than a little dazed. His head was splitting, he knew he was running a fever, and for the life of him he could. Not. Stop. Sneezing.

HUHSNGshhhoo! huh…uhh…K’GTsschhhoo! huhGNSHHHOO!

“Bless you.” Sherlock came around to Lestrade’s chair, closed his laptop, and picked his car keys up off the desk. “Come on, Greg. I’ve told John we’re on our way so get up.”

The older man scrubbed at his nose and stood up, a little wobbly. It hadn’t been a great idea to come in that morning but the fever hadn’t come on until after lunch and now he was really feeling awful.

“Thags, Sherlock,” he mumbled.

“You’re still an idiot,” Sherlock said, handing Greg his jacket.

“I think you’re huh—UHH! uhh hh’GKNSHHooo! right.”

“I always am.”



How long could a baptism possibly last? Molly thought to herself, pressing a finger to the underside of her nose.  The church was beautiful, surprisingly traditional ceremony but Molly was loving every minute of it. Well, she was until the incense was lit—sharp and smoky, her eyes were beginning to water and her nose was starting to run. She could blame both of those symptoms on emotion but if she started sneezing (which she would soon), it would be a different matter entirely. She felt something brush against her hand and glanced down to see the Sherlock had discreetly put his handkerchief within reach. She gratefully took it and wiped her nose. Molly could barely focus on what the priest was saying as the irritation in her nose was about to reach critical mass. Just when she thought she couldn’t hold back the sneezes for another second, the ceremony came to a close.

“Side door to your left,” Sherlock said quietly, putting a hand on the small of her back and steering her away from the group.

“Hey, where are you two going?” John said. “We’ve got to take pictures yet.”

“We’ll meet you out front,” Sherlock said over his shoulder. John looked at Mary who just shrugged.

The fresh air washed over her and Molly took a deep breath. She held the handkerchief a few inches from her face, breath stuttering.

“Thank you,” she said. “Couldn’t have laahhh lasted another ahh moment.”

Ahhktshhoo! Tschhoo! Ktschhoo! Tshhhoo! ahTISHHoo!

“Bless you,” he said. “I told you we should have left sooner.”

“Whehh ahh Ahh…when?”

“I was texting you.”

ahhtishhh! ktshhhoo! KTSHHHoo! AhhhKSHHHoo! TishhhOOO!

“During the baptism?”

“When else would I have done it?”

Ahh…ah ah ahhtschhooo! TISHHoo! hahKTshhh! Ahh ahh ahhKTSHHoo! Ktschhhoo!

She blew her nose fiercely and shook her head.

“Wow. That stuff really got to me,” she said, blotting her eyes. “I’m gonna look all drippy for pictures.”

“You like fine—nice,” Sherlock said. “Your hair is still…undisturbed and your eyes are…red and teary but you’ll look like an unreasonably emotional doting godmother.”

“Oh, thanks for that.”

Edited by matilda3948

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Aliena H.

The first one is perfect. I love Sherlock's concern and care for Lestrade. (Generally, it's the other way round, it's nice to read something different.)

17 hours ago, matilda3948 said:

“Sherlock, I’b—”

“Making gurgling noises no human being should make. I know.

:D:D:D Sherlock is always so... thoughtful and caring. (With Molly too. "Your eyes are... red and teary"...?!?)


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Subtly Clashing Wishes

Lovely double feature of Sherlock caring for his friends. Enjoyed them both. :) 

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I rewatched The Final Problem on Netflix last night, so reading the sick!John drabble felt highly appropriate. :lol: I love your descriptions and, like Aliena mentioned above, I enjoy how the drabbles themselves are inserted into the timeline. Also, Gregggg. My precious Papa Bear. :wub: 

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These were wonderfully written keep up the good work.

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On 7/17/2017 at 9:55 PM, matilda3948 said:

Sherlock flounced into the DI’s office.

He does that exactly. Flounce. LOL


On 7/17/2017 at 9:55 PM, matilda3948 said:

“Oh, for God’s sake! Get up. We’re leaving.”

“Sherlock, I’b—”

“Making gurgling noises no human being should make. I know.

Love this!


On 7/17/2017 at 9:55 PM, matilda3948 said:

“I was texting you.”

ahhtishhh! ktshhhoo! KTSHHHoo! AhhhKSHHHoo! TishhhOOO!

“During the baptism?”

“When else would I have done it?”

Oh Sherlock!


On 7/17/2017 at 9:55 PM, matilda3948 said:

“You like fine—nice,” Sherlock said. “Your hair is still…undisturbed and your eyes are…red and teary but you’ll look like an unreasonably emotional doting godmother.”


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Hi all! Tonight I've got one Doctor Who (11th and sick Amy), one Spiderman Homecoming (sick Tony), and (of course) one Sherlock (Mycroft and sick Sherlock).


“Come along, Pond—things to do, aliens to see!” the Doctor called.

Amy came shuffling into the console room looking like she was still half asleep. She walked straight to the Doctor and thumped her forehead against his chest with a groan.

“Head hurts,” she said.

“You alright?” the Doctor asked, leaning her back so he could see her face.

“No! Just told you I have a headache.”

“What else?”

“Sleepy. Nose itches. Throat hurts.”

“Oh dear. Amelia Pond, what have you done now?” he teased as he felt her forehead for fever. “Say ‘Ah.’” She opened her mouth.


He gave her a quick head to toe scan with the sonic while Amy rubbed her nose back and forth with the palm of her hand.

“Yes, well, I’m sorry to report—”


The Doctor winced and rubbed his ears as though he’d just been in the middle of a major explosion.

“Oh shut up,” Amy mumbled. He got a handkerchief out of his pocket and handed it over. “So what’s wrong with me?” she asked, her nose still buried in the white fabric.

“You’ve got a cold. Nothing alien, just ordinary, human rhinovirus.”

ehh heh ehhAHHYISHHHeew!

“Bless you.” Amy winced and rubbed her throat. The Doctor put a quick kiss on her temple and then grabbed her hand. “C’mon. Back to bed with you.”



Tony Stark’s voice came through over the remote Iron Man that had just saved Peter’s butt from another potentially deadly situation.

“Kid, I swear—”

“I know, I’m sorry, Mr. Stark but it was technically a local problem. And I technically was on the ground, so when you think about it, I didn’t really break the rules.”

An odd crackle came over the speaker in the Iron Man suit, almost like feedback, before Tony responded.

“Technicalities aren’t going to keep you alive.”

“Is there something wrong with the audio, Mr. Stark? You sound kinda funny.”

“No I don’t. Now get home, Parker.” Peter hopped up with an eager smile.

“You mean I’m not in trouble?” he asked.

“Not today. Just…be more careful.”

“I will, I promise! Thanks Mr. Stark!”

Tony tossed the control pad aside and leaned back against the sofa with a rattling cough. Pepper walked in with cup of tea and a bottle of NyQuil.  She sat next to him and ran her fingers through his hair.

“Everything alright?” she asked.

“I swear, Pep. I’m gonna end up killing him myself.” She laughed and handed him a few tissues, noticing the way his nose was twitching. She knew how much Tony cared for the teenager and worried about his safety. At the moment, however, she primarily concerned about the grown man sitting next to her.

huhIHHSHHH! HushhISHHoo!

“Bless you. You sound awful,” she said. He nodded and blew his nose.

“I’m so hoarse Parker could hear it in the audio. Even the correction software couldn’t completely fix it.” Pepper gave him a sympathetic look. Tony had been down with some kind of cold or flu bug for nearly a week. The fact that he wasn’t fighting her tooth and nail to leave the house was a testament to how poorly he was still feeling.

huh Huh…huh huhRAHHsshhooo!

“I’m calling the doctor tomorrow,” Pepper said.

“I’m fi—Huh…hehRUHHSSCHHOOO! Gross. I’b fide.”



Mycroft felt a little bubble of worry as he watched his brother shivering in his sleep. He reached over and pressed his hand to Sherlock’s forehead.

“You’re on fire again,” he muttered, getting up and going into the bathroom. He grabbed the bowl of water and flannel he’d used to bring down Sherlock’s fever a few hours ago and returned to bedroom. He rang out the cloth and placed it on Sherlock’s forehead, causing the younger man to whimper in his sleep. “I know, brother mine. I’m sorry,” Mycroft said softly. Sherlock slowly stirred and, after a moment, blinked up at his brother.

“What—” it was little more than a whisper since his voice had completely given out the previous day.

“It’s two in the morning and you were burning up with fever,” Mycroft explained. Knowing exactly what Sherlock’s next question was going to be, he continued. “You’re at my house because John’s at a conference and you’re too ill to be on your own…and that dreadful sofa at Baker Street always hurts my back when I try to sleep on it.” Sherlock’s lips quirked and Mycroft rewet the cloth and blotted the sides of Sherlock’s face. It was quiet for a few minutes until Sherlock suddenly pushed his brother’s hand away, raising a hand to his face. The sneezes that followed were strong and wet, but the laryngitis made them also sound painfully strained and wheezy.

hehhshhh! ehhSHHH! Ehhtssshhhh! SHHHHH’TSSHHH!

“Bless you, brother mine. Here you are.” Mycroft extended a handful of tissues and, when he was ready for it, a glass of water. Sherlock nodded and leaned back against the pillows.

“Don’t feel good,” he rasped.

“I know, little brother. Close your eyes and you’ll feel better in the morning.” Another fever check revealed that Sherlock was no longer roasting for the time being. “Do you remember that holiday we took when you came down with bronchitis?” he asked. Sherlock shook his head.

“Was Eurus there?”

“No. It was after she…” he wasn’t sure how to finish. After she was taken away? Was committed? Tried to burn the family to death? “It was after she left,” he said. “You were so sick but still wanted to go swimming every day. You could only play for about ten minutes before you were coughing and wheezing and completely exhausted again.” Sherlock’s eyes drifted shut as he listened to his brother’s low voice. “By midday you were worn down and feverish and we’d spend the afternoon kipping and reading books. Our room faced the coast and we could hear the waves when the windows were open. You didn’t seem to mind being sick and I was certainly content to stay indoors. I think Mummy had to go into town and buy more books at least three times that week.” Mycroft smiled at the memory—little Sherlock wrapped in a heavy quilt and curled up against his side as he read out loud. Never took long before he’d fall asleep. He glanced at the grown man in front of him. “Hmm. Still doesn’t take long.”

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